The Psalter (47 page)

His Holiness sat in his chair in front of the Altar of the Apostle. Wisps of white hair showed beneath the Papal miter. His aged hands trembled as he spread out sheets of paper on his lap and began to read his homily. “As we begin Lent, a time of prayer and repentance,” he spoke into a microphone, “let us remember not only the symbol of ashes, for
you are dust, and to dust you shall return
, but also that Lent is a season of penance.”

The imam rose from his chair on the outside aisle and walked forward as the Pope’s voice filled the basilica over the sound system. One of the
sanpetrini
blocked his approach. “You again?
Signore
, take your seat.” The imam tried to step around, but the usher barred his path once more. “Please. I must insist.”

“I also insist.” The imam put his hand into his woolen overcoat and grasped the handle of a polymer-framed Glock pistol. He pulled the gun out and jammed the barrel into the usher’s ribs. “Walk in front of me and no sudden moves.” Blood drained from the usher’s face as he turned. The pistol prodded his back.

Plain-clothes
Gendarmeria
in black suits spied the two men walking up the side aisle toward the altar and moved to intercept them. Heads from all over the basilica twisted and necks craned to survey the commotion. His Holiness glanced up once, but continued to read.

One of the police ordered the imam, “Drop your weapon.”

“I think not. Ask the congregation to leave. Let no innocent person be injured by what happens here.”

“Are you crazy?” The policeman raised his voice.

The imam pulled out the cell phone from his pocket and flipped open the cover. “I would rather say that I’m committed.”

The
sanpetrini
spoke to the officer in a shaking voice. “Do what you have to do. I’m not afraid.”

“No one’s going to get hurt,” the officer said.

The imam waved the gun at the officer. “Let’s hope you’ll be reasonable.”

The policeman edged forward, challenging the imam. “Just drop the gun and let’s be done with this nonsense.”

“I have a bomb!” the imam hollered, and the threat echoed off the stone walls.” Women screamed and thousands of congregants jumped up, knocking over chairs. A panicked herd stepped over one another, elbowing and shoving. People ran and pushed their way to the double doors at the front of the basilica. The stronger charged for the exit while the elderly and young faltered against the irresistible human flood. They fell one by one, trampled beneath the rampaging herd. A middle-age man bent to pick up a child and grasped him in his arms as he was driven by the torrent toward the narrow escape at the doors.

The Defender of the Faith signaled the cardinals, and they surrounded the Pontiff. Keller opened a small gate at the altar of Saint Peter and motioned the Pope down steps that descended into the crypt. Cardinals who had sworn to protect the Vicar of Christ with their lives followed. Then Cardinal Keller shut the gate and turned to guard the small barrier with nothing to defend the path but his body and his faith.

The Swiss Guard captain led Del Carlo, Father Romano, and Lieutenant Moretti through the Vatican Museum to the priests’ entrance of the basilica. Entering by the glass door, they spotted the group of officers surrounding the imam. The old imam held them at bay with the pistol and a silver cell phone.

“Don’t go near him,” Del Carlo shouted. “He has a bomb, and we don’t know where it is.”

Black-suited police edged back as Del Carlo approached the cleric. “Let the man go. You don’t need him anymore.”

“You’re right,
Colonelo
, provided you know what I’m holding.”

“I do. Where’s the bomb?”

The imam laughed. “After our little conversations and the warehouse fireworks, do you believe I’ll tell you just like that?”

“I think you should stop while you can.”

“And you’ll let me go? Police are dead, and you’ll release me if I stop?”

“We can work something out.”

“You’re offering a deal?” Turning to Father Romano, he glowered. “This is your fault. The sacred books were hidden for a reason, and they’re meant to stay that way. It’s not for you to unearth them. It’s for Allah alone.”

“Do you know where the scrolls are, the original scriptures?” Romano was compelled to ask.

“Of course, but you’ll never get them. They’re the true words of a Prophet, preserved so one day His message might be revealed. But in His time, the Mahdi’s time, not yours.”

“And yet you would destroy them?”

“No, I’m here to make sure you don’t find any more.”

“But if they’re the Word of God, they should be available to everyone.”

“For what purpose? So you can forge them into what you think they should be? That’s not the will of God. His words must remain uncorrupted.”

“How do you know these things?”

“This is the commission given us a thousand years ago, to protect the words of a Prophet. It’s a task we shall perform until the days of justice, when God reveals his will.”

“Who charged you with this?”

“Our ancestor, a true Emir. We have sworn a holy vow to him, and we shall keep our word.”

“How do you know it’s God’s will?”

“Enough, priest! Save yourself if you wish, but no one will stop me from what I’m sworn to do.”

Del Carlo’s radio squawked, and he could hear rotors from the Carbinieri helicopter over the speaker. “We’ve spotted something,
Colonelo
,” the voice said through the radio.

“What is it?”

“It’s difficult to see, but it looks like cans are strung around the dome,” the officer in the helicopter reported,

“The dome,” Del Carlo said to the imam. “You are going to blow up the basilica?”

The imam raised the automatic pistol and pointed the barrel at Del Carlo’s face. “You owe me a debt.” The police tensed and aimed down the sights of their weapons.

“No.” Del Carlo held up his hand. “Don’t shoot.”

The officers hesitated then lowered their guns. The imam walked by Del Carlo, still pointing the pistol. “But the payment will not be required just yet,” he said in the colonel’s ear. He passed between two guards, turned, and stepped backward until he was sure no one followed. Another about face, and he walked toward the altar.

The imam appeared unabashed, like a tourist gazing at columns and sculptures and art, oblivious to the threat around him. However, Romano’s heart leaped into his throat. Pascal and Isabelle stood between the imam and the altar. Behind them, Keller had stationed himself with his arms folded across his chest.

Romano bounded over a row of chairs and vaulted the aluminum rail. He ran for the group while shouting at the imam, “Don’t harm them. Let them pass.” Then he yelled to the three, “Run!”

Isabelle grabbed Pascal’s arm and dragged him away, but Cardinal Keller held his ground, rigid, facing the smiling imam who pointed the Glock. “You’re a brave man.”

“I’m a man of God,” the cardinal said.

“As am I.” The imam pressed the green call button on the cell phone.

Out on the dome’s ledge, an artificial tone from a silver phone chimed. An electric current raced along wires attached to a fuse. Dozens of cola cans filled with unstable gel exploded, rocking the cupola and sending plaster and brick plunging to the marble pavement. Romano shoved Isabelle and Pascal to the statue of Saint Helena, down a stairway leading to the crypt. Wreckage crashed to the floor. The steel chain that held the double-shelled ceiling together buckled and rippled. The egg-shaped structure struggled to stay in place. Then, in the very center, the spire atop the dome plunged like an iron lance. Bricks and plaster followed, imploding as they descended toward the ground like a thundering wave.

For a microsecond, the imam smiled, looking up at the mass of projectiles rocketing down on the bronze altar and on them. Keller lunged with all his aging might, diving and sliding on the marble floor. Plaster and bricks rained on the imam and the cardinal, entombing them in a burial mound of rubble.

The plummeting dome thundered down upon the altar of the Apostle and spread on the pavement stones, sending up clouds of dust. Police, ushers, and hundreds of congregants were knocked down, choking and gasping. Those nearest the destruction lay dead, crushed by bricks and falling columns, debris, and the great chains that had held the cupola in place. Agonized cries filled the basilica as the injured and dying writhed in pain.

Romano lifted his head off the floor and shook it. Plaster powder that burned his eyes and choked his throat drifted to the ground. Iridescent light shone through the gaping hole in the roof and diffused through the billowing cloud of dust. It emitted a luminescent glow, as though the church had become radioactive. Statues had been toppled from their pedestals, and marble columns lay on their sides. Debris had been strewn everywhere.

The spire that crowned the dome had crashed on top of Bernini’s canopy, and three of the pillars were gone, disappeared underneath a mountain of rubble. Yet one remained standing like a stout, misshapen trunk supporting what was left of the canopy. It seemed like a cross fashioned from a twisted tree on a hill of destruction. One word pounded in Romano’s brain:
Golgotha
.

44
Petrus Romanus

The Pope pulled against the cardinal who held his arm. “Your Holiness,” the cardinal pleaded. “We must take you to safety.”

“Let me go,” the Pope said. “There are those who need us. They need me.”

“It’s not safe.”

“We have to tend our flock, to provide comfort and aid where we can.” The Pope wrested away his arm. “Find a stairway that’s not blocked,” he said.

The Vicar of Christ stepped from behind the statue of Saint Helena, which had somehow escaped the devastation, and onto the floor of the basilica. Sorrow and grief gripped his heart in a vice. He surveyed the destruction as the dust settled enough to view the mayhem and pandemonium. Cries from the injured assailed his ears and he craved to cover them, yet resisted. Instead he choked a prayer, “Please God, grant us the faith to bear this.”

Police and rescue workers cleared a path at the front door and the first stretchers were carried in as emergency technicians flowed into Saint Peter’s, carrying medical bags. “Holiness,” the cardinal called from behind, “help is here. Now will you come with us?”

“No.” He spied a figure on the ground in front of him, a dazed man covered in dust and large flakes of plaster, struggling to rise. The Pope hurried to him and grabbed an arm with both hands, helping him to stand.

“Holiness,” the man said trying to kneel, but the Pope held him up.

“Thank God you’re safe, Father Romano.”

“You…you know who I am?”

“Obviously,” the Pope smiled. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not hurt, Holiness.”

“Good, then let me lean on you and help me get to the pile of rubble over the Apostle’s altar.”

“It’s unstable, Holiness.”

“Do you believe it’s foolish and would be a risk?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, my son, great risks must be taken. Of course you know that, don’t you? People are hurt, many have died, and more will today. I would soothe their fears if I cannot ease their pain. If they look upon the symbol of their faith, they’ll take heart and be comforted. Isn’t that worth the risk?”

“Yes Holiness.”

“Then help me.”

Romano steadied the Pope as they stepped around bodies of priests and parishioners. They scrambled up the hill of bricks and stone and plaster which had once been Michangelo’s magnificent dome, but was now a dusty, barren mound save the remaining pillar that supported what was left of Bernini’s canopy. They slipped and slid, holding on to each other for balance until they came to the base of the bronze column.

The Pope turned to face those in the congregation who had not escaped: the injured and dead as well as the emergency personnel who rushed to help. Spreading his arms, he said a prayer beseeching God to take pity on the faithful. At that moment, the clouds outside separated to let a brilliant ray of sunlight beam through the gaping maw atop Saint Peter’s.

His Holiness seemed ablaze in glory as beams of light reflected off his pure white robe. The dying and the broken and those who labored to save them turned to gaze at his brilliance. Cries of pain and pleas for help softened for a moment as a vision of faith renewed their hope. Heartened, rescuers returned to their work and victims heaved a collective sigh as though come what may, God’s mercy was with them.

From the shadows within the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, a lone figure stepped over the dead and dying, ignoring pleas as he moved with purpose toward the mound of rubble. Pulling a Beretta from his overcoat, Rashid al-Ansar extended his arm, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The pistol recoiled in his steady hand.

The Pope staggered as a burning pain seared his side. Loose bricks gave way and he fell at the base of the cross. A crimson spot grew on the gleaming white robe. Romano dropped to his knees beside the Holy Father. The Pope gasped for breath, and Romano put his hand underneath the Pontiff’s head to cushion it from the rubble.

Another shot rang out, and a spark flashed next to Romano’s face. A sliver of brick struck his cheek and drew blood. Rashid scrambled up the mound. He tried to aim the Beretta as bricks shifted beneath his feet. Romano could only watch in horror as the assassin climbed ever closer. Rashid held the deadly Beretta, ready to strike. Hate blazed in his dark eyes as Romano rose to face him, maneuvering his body between the killer and the wounded Pope.

Del Carlo strained to kneel over an unconscious Lieutenant Moretti. He unsnapped the strap on Moretti’s shoulder holster and slid out his service automatic. He broke into a limping trot toward the mountain of rubble. “Move, Father!” Del Carlo shouted, running forward, looking for an opening to shoot.

Rashid smiled and lifted the pistol. He touched the barrel to Romano’s forehead and squeezed the trigger. A powder-caked hand rose from the rubble and grabbed Rashid’s ankle, pulling him down. The shot went wild as Rashid fell, sliding down the mound. The man tumbled behind him. An avalanche of bricks and plaster followed in a wave as they rolled over and over. The dust-covered man, white from head to toe, landed on the bottom. He gripped Rashid’s pistol hand. Rashid jerked free. He cocked the hammer and pointed the gun.