Pope's Assassin Read Free

the day, to say nothing of the night.
         My Father, protect Your servant, Ernesto prayed, kneeling on a mar ble flagstone. He made the sign of the cross unhurriedly, shut his eyes, and prayed. There was nothing more to do.
        Shadows still trembled on the walls in an ever more frenetic rhythm, matching the pounding of his heart. Reaching a certain height, they stretched out gigantically, and despite Ernesto's closed eyes and a moment of apparent calm, his heartbeat accelerated in his chest for what would be the last in his life. He knew it. He remained kneeling on the marble flagstone, which protected the rock that had borne the weight of Christ. But Ernesto wasn't thinking of this. In his final moments, he needed some inner peace.
        He felt breath down the back of his neck.
        "Good evening, Father," the killer whispered next to Ernesto's left ear, as if he didn't want to disturb the souls wandering through the sacred place. An inhuman coldness, almost lifeless. He got no response, obviously. "I want to ask you a question," the intruder explained. "You may choose to answer or not."
    He waited a few moments for this to sink in.
    "Where is it?"
        It was not the question he expected. Terror filled his veins. He knows, he thought without saying a word. O h, my God. He knows. How is it possible?
        "Who are you?" He tried to buy himself some time. Sweat damp ened his face.
        A blow struck on the back of the neck, pushing him forward. He steadied himself on the marble flagstone, a few inches from the fl oor.
        "Don't answer a question with a question. Where are your man ners, Father?" the tall man asked, raising his voice.
        "Who are you? Who are you looking for?"
        Another blow. "Again? You all have a very limited repertoire."
         You all? H e knew of their existence? Ernesto opened his eyes. He would do everything to protect the secret, but he failed . . . completely.
        He felt a cold object press into the back of his neck. Lifeless, with out will. The most faithful servant.
        "You have ten seconds. Use them well."
        Who was he?
        Nine. How could he be so well informed?
        Eight. Someone had betrayed them?
        Seven. The Status Quo had been broken. From this moment on, it would be every man for himself.
        Six.
         Protect our beloved Roman Catholic Church, which does everything for Your honor and glory.
        Five. I give myself to You, my Father.
        Four. I serve You at all times.
        Three. A tear slid down his face.
        Two. I die in peace.
        One. He leaned over with both of his sweaty hands on the sacred flagstone and shouted,"Forgive him, Father. He knows not what he—"
        The bullet robbed him of the rest of the words. He saw shadows dancing on the walls before collapsing heavily on top of the marble flagstone. Finally he danced with them. He saw and heard nothing more.

3

    T he less one knows, the more one believes. It has always been that way and will be until the end of time. Today, commonly known natural phenomena that can be easily explained with the effi ciency of science, such as thunder and eclipses, were once considered the anger of God, an omen of the world coming to an end. Believers knelt at every altar, appealing to Saint Barbara, Saint Christopher, and others to intercede with the Creator, Our Lord God, Allah, Jehovah; each one choosing an offering to placate the ire of the god, whoever He was. In earlier ages, intercession came through other saints and gods, now lost in the sands of time, forgotten forever. And the world just kept turning, as we know today, with no interest in the beliefs of those who inhabited it.
        Nor did these beliefs matter to the man descending twenty steps, firmly gripping the handrails on each side. Age had not been kind to him. Deep wrinkles were etched in his face, like scars from a whip, reminders of past troubles.