They passed high over the Tiber River and neared the circular hulk of brick and limestone at the end of the bridge. Carver spotted Via della Conciliazione — where they had stayed until Nico’s abduction — to the left. At the far end he could see the massive dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Vatican Palace, the seat of power for one billion Catholics worldwide.
Soon they stood directly in front of the imposing structure. At the top, a bronzed Archangel Michael drew his sword. Circular battlements were perfectly positioned to defend attacks from land or water.
A brown circular ditch stood where a moat had once encircled the structure. Carver imagined the carnage that had ensued when the Goths had come with an attack so fierce that the Roman soldiers had been forced, out of self-defense, to push priceless marble statues down upon them.
Castel Sant'Angelo had begun as a tomb for the Emperor Hadrian in 135 AD. Over the years it had morphed into a prison with an interior courtyard reserved for executing scientists and heretics. During World War II, Sebastian Wolf himself had been briefly imprisoned here.
No one bothered to search their packs as they entered. Callahan had been right. For a place holding so much priceless art, security was amazingly light. The palace, of course, would be another story.
Apostolic Palace
Heinz Lang’s lip curled into a sneer as he entered his office. He paused at the door as he took in the vision of Father Callahan sitting behind his desk, surrounded by the portraits of Ignatius of Loyola, Francis Borgia and Everard Mercurian.
Carver stepped out from behind the door and shut it, caging the wizened Vatican Intelligence chief in his own office. Lang spun around at the speed of a much younger man, his black vestments swirling with his movements.
“Your Excellency,” Callahan said, “allow me to introduce Blake Carver.”
Lang did not appear to be intimidated. “Agent Carver,” he said, “I had a feeling our paths would cross eventually.”
Seven stepped out from a shadow at the other end of the room, where she held a loaded Beretta. The shapeless black cassock hid her feminine curves.
“And may I introduce my counterpart,” Carver said. “Seven Mansfield.”
She slid the hood back, revealing her face. Lang’s face filled with disgust at the sight of a woman in clerical clothing.
“Your revulsion is nothing compared to the way I felt yesterday,” Callahan said.
“Oh, Father!” Lang mocked. “Did you have an unwanted house guest?”
“Judging by the sound suppressor screwed onto the end of his gun, he didn’t drop by to chat.”
“You give me far too much credit,” Lang objected. “When it comes to creating dangerous enemies, you are hardly in need of my help.”
He went to a sitting area at the far end of the room with a billion-dollar view of St. Peter’s Square at night. He rested his bones in a purple-upholstered chair, picked up a decanter emblazoned with the Society of Jesus emblem, and poured a crystal chalice full of Chianti.
“I would offer you one, Agent Carver, but I understand you always decline alcohol. An unfortunate result of your Mormon upbringing, no doubt. And on the other hand, puritanism is a habit Father Callahan would be wise to pick up, given his legendary weakness for drink.”
Carver joined him, sitting in another of the purple chairs. “If wine is the secret to your longevity,” he said, “Maybe I should reconsider.”
“Oh, the Vatican is full of spritely old goats like me. The secret to a long life, as far as we are concerned, is plenty of walking, prayer, and yes, wine. Fortunately, the Vatican grounds offer plenty of opportunities for all three.”
“Which makes your high-risk activities all the more perplexing.”
“Must we play riddles? Out with it.”
“From what I’ve seen, membership in the Black Order seems to diminish one’s lifespan considerably.”
The former Jesuit chief sipped his Chianti, focusing his eyes on Carver. “You need to get your history straight, Agent Carver. Pope Alexander VII dissolved the Black Order in 1655. He was a man of great reform. He sought to cleanse the empire of its brutality and prejudice, and by most accounts, he made remarkable progress.”
“Until they were called to reform,” Carver countered. “After Napoleon invaded Rome, he took the pope and the Vatican Archives to France. Their return two years later was said to have been brought about by relentless guerilla attacks by Black Order operatives.”
“Friars.”
“What?”
“The original operatives of the Holy Alliance and its more specialized units were Jesuits. Those who fought to return power to Rome in the time of Napoleon were friars, acting independently, ready to sacrifice their lives in Jesus’ example for the glory of God.”
“You’re suggesting this was an organic movement, acting independently from the Vatican.”
“Precisely.”
“But even a rogue order must have a leader with connections. When did they recruit you? Was it that first trip to Paris, when German Intelligence had discovered that the ossuary had been right under their noses the whole time?”
The corners of Lang’s mouth turned up slightly. “Impressive. Even if you don’t quite have all the pieces figured out.”
“Or maybe they recruited you even earlier. The Black Order was waiting for you in Notre Dame, weren’t they? Someone had tipped them off.”
Lang set the crystal glass on a wooden coaster. He went to a shelf, where he took up an angel figurine that looked, as evident by its imperfection, homemade.
“When I was 10 years old,” he said, “Just before Christmas, my mother was decorating the house. One of her hobbies was making crafts out of clay, and she had recently finished making new figurines for the Christmas manger. She had spent several days perfecting them. In our tradition, the angels were the first to appear, and the baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph and animals were not typically put out until the days and weeks after Christmas, according to the biblical calendar. But that year she was so proud of what she had made that she put them out early. That night, a high-ranking party member from the Ministry of Propaganda, with whom my father did business, came over for dinner. The moment he saw the new clay pieces, he was outraged. Deeply put out by them, he was. My mother asked our guest whatever was the matter. He told her that the figurines did not look Aryan enough.”
Lang turned, handing the clay angel to Carver. Apart from a chipped wing, the angel felt smooth in his hands.
“My father, of course, apologized,” Lang continued. “He asked my mother to kindly put the manager away, but our guest was still not satisfied. He ordered her to smash the figurines into pieces. My father, who probably feared losing the man’s business, quickly retrieved a mallet from the shed. My mother refused, and so he did it himself. The wise men, Joseph, the Virgin, the baby Jesus. All destroyed into a thousand broken bits. The angel you hold in your hands now is all that remains of the original set.”
Father Callahan swung his feet up on Lang’s desk. “Touching. I almost cried.”
“The next day, a package was delivered from the Ministry. New Virgin, Joseph and baby Jesus figurines. They were all blonde. As a little boy who had worshipped both Jesus Christ and Adolf Hitler, I was devastated to realize that the two prominent forces in my life were at odds. I decided that I would have to be very careful from then on. But I knew that my loyalties rested with God. So I confided in one of my Jesuit teachers, Father Leo Kruger.”
“And Kruger was Black Order,” Carver said.
Lang nodded. “A descendent from the original line, apparently. And even then, he knew the Gestapo was watching him. He taught me the old ways.”