The Three Most Wanted Read online

  “Where’re we heading?” I asked Bane, as we sauntered along as though we hadn’t a care in the world. We must be quite near the historic center of the city; no acting ability required to stare at the magnificent buildings. “I think Gino was going to phone them. We may not have long at all.”

  “We probably don’t. He may call them before he even realizes we’ve flown the coop, and even if he finds out first—if he’s stupid enough to think he can do a deal with them he’ll likely try to salvage what he can by letting them know we’re in Rome and headed for the Vatican. We have to get in. Somehow, we have to get in right away.”

  We rounded a corner and there, on the skyline, towered a familiar dome. My heart constricted.

  “There it is. Saint Peter’s...”

  Jon’s head rose. “You can see it?”

  “Yes. We’re so close.”

  We picked up our pace, still making sure to gawk around a lot, and soon we reached the Vatican wall, an immense, ancient thing, the top festooned in tens of kilometers of very modern razor wire and dotted with CCTV cameras. Several meters away from the base ran a painted white line overlooked by regular guard towers, all sheltering machine guns and EuroArmy soldiers.

  “Absolutely no way in here,” muttered Bane. Not that we’d expected one.

  “What about the contact procedure Father Mark gave us?” I asked.

  “Be at the statue at three o’clock and do the thing with a newspaper. But it’ll be out of date and by three o’clock I’ve a hunch every street in this city will have checkpoints.”

  We carried on walking as we talked, mingling with the crowd and keeping well back from that white line. It was common knowledge in the Underground that in Rome, “crossing the white line” was the local euphemism for suicide; it was the favored method in this city.

  Sweat trickled down my backbone, though the sun wasn’t high yet. A clock ticked deafeningly in my head. Had Gino and Luciano come to blows? Was Luciano on his way back to Milan with a flea in his ear? Had Gino picked up the phone yet? Lord, what do we do? We’re stumped!

  We reached St. Peter’s Square, invisible behind the high concrete wall built and manned by the EuroGov, broken only by two sets of massive steel double gates. They stood open—it was late enough that the tour buses had started running. A sign stood beside the embarkation point.

  The Forbidden Square: The Official Tour

  Enter the Vatican Free State itself!

  View the Forbidden Square from the safety and comfort of a EuroGov-approved tour bus.

  100% SAFE—100% SECURE

  The one and only official tour!

  Ệ300 per person

  The only tour, period, hence the jaw-dropping price.

  Bane stared at the sign, his foot tapping as though he too, heard that clock ticking in his head. Was Gino even now speaking to the EuroGov? Trying to hammer out a deal before revealing what he knew?

  A tour bus waited by the embarkation point, partly full. Bane crossed to the signboard and picked up a leaflet, returning to where Jon and I stood, apparently admiring what little we could see of the square through the gates.

  “They go every half hour until ten, then every ten minutes,” he told me in English, holding it so I could read it too. A whole lot of stuff about how secure the bus was—yeah, because people really thought the Vatican State would open fire on them! Anyone with even one brain cell knew the buses sported triple-locked doors and bulletproof glass to keep people from getting off.

  “How would we get out of the bus, Bane?”

  “I think we can do it.”

  He pulled out his wallet and counted the money inside. Seven hundred Eurons. Oh no. If none of the SpecialCorps were the richer for it, what money Jon and I had been carrying was ash.

  “We’re two hundred short,” I muttered.

  Jon took a breath.

  “If you say ‘leave me,’ I’m going to hit you.” I didn’t look up from the cash.

  “So am I,” said Bane.

  Jon let the breath out again and said nothing. Bane’s foot tapped even harder. My heart raced. Time was running out. In cold reason I couldn’t be sure, but I was. Bane could feel it too.

  Bane pulled out his phone. Checking for other ways in? There were no other ways. Only tunnels we couldn’t get to. Oh… he was polishing the screen on his sleeve and blowing dust from the keyboard. He saw me watching him. “This is worth fifteen hundred Eurons. Perhaps we can get, say, seven hundred for it, in cash…”

  “Where, Bane? We don’t dare go in a pawn shop.”

  He bit his lip. We couldn’t just go up to people and offer to sell them an expensive omniPhone for half its value in cash. How d’you spell “suspicious,” again? But every other stitch and scrap we possessed wasn’t worth more than fifty Eurons put together.

  A rather stealthy movement to one side...

  A young Italian in a leather jacket was approaching along the side of the buildings. Eyes on us.

  “Hi,” he said in Esperanto, seeing he was observed. “Nice phone, Signore.”

  Bane shrugged casually. “Thinking of getting a new one, actually. Like to buy this one?”

  “How much?”

  “One thousand.”

  The Italian guy scoffed in the time-honored manner of bargainers the world over.

  “Too much, Signore. It is not a new model now. Nice phone, still, but not new. I’ll give you five hundred. Then you go on the Vatican tour, si?”

  My heart climbed to my throat, juddering there as that sense of imminent dread increased by the second, as did my conviction this guy suspected more than he let on. But what was he? Resistance? Underground? Sharp-eyed local sympathizer? Genuinely pursuing a bargain? EuroGov informer?

  “Thinking about it, yeah,” drawled Bane. “Don’t want to trek off to a cash machine and seeing I was going to get rid of this anyway… Can’t take less than eight hundred, though.”

  Well below the phone’s value. Unlikely this guy would buy Bane’s pretence of being stinking rich and ridiculously lazy.

  “I have only five hundred in my wallet, Signore. You will have to take it or leave it.”

  Bane was trying not to scowl. To give up our sole remaining asset for so little… yet if we didn’t have two hundred Eurons very soon, it’d all be moot. “That’s really not very much.”

  The Italian reached into his pocket and Bane’s body tensed—he simply took out a wallet and opened it to display a one hundred Euron note and a pair of two hundred Euron notes. He was telling the truth. He removed a handful of cards and held out the wallet enticingly.

  “Five hundred. I give you this…”

  He’d left one card in place. Blue and yellow. His ID card. Bane and I were both staring, we couldn’t help it. He suspected… a lot. No one would offer an ID card to a normal tourist. I looked down at the leaflet in my hand; searched for the small print. There, in black and white.

  TOUR EXEMPT FROM SMALL TRADERS EXCEPTION TO IDENTIFICATION ACT.

  ID MUST BE SCANNED WITH PAYMENT.

  Of course. You had to scan your ID, same as in a shop.

  Bane read over my shoulder—his eyes flicked to the Italian’s face. For once Bane’s black hair and slightly dark skin did him a favor. The young Italian was clean-shaven. With the beard… Bane’d pass for him on a cursory inspection. They never looked at the picture in shops, anyway. Bane drew in a deep breath, his jaw tightening. In my head a voice shouted, hurry, hurry, hurry…

  “Why not?” Bane shrugged. He flipped open the back of the phone and removed his omniSIM, tucking it securely in a pocket, then held the phone out and exchanged it for the wallet.

  “Grazie.” The Italian pocketed it. “Enjoy your tour.” Off he walked.

  Bane transferred the money and the card to his own wallet, dropped the other in a nearby bin and swallowed hard. “Come on, let’s do this before I have time to think about it.”

  Before he had time to wonder if the young man’s ID might be compromised—was he
Resistance or criminal, and the ID useless to him? No, surely he was Underground or concerned citizen—or greedy citizen—or even a more decent member of the Resistance—who’d recognized us and realized our dilemma? He’d got a good phone out of it and if he meant us well he’d proceed at a very leisurely pace to the police station to report his wallet—and ID—stolen.

  If he didn’t mean us well—we’d be caught when we used the card. Bane was right, better not to think about it.

  He went on, “Okay, what we’ll do is… No, they’re about to go, come on…”

  We hurried across the street, for the bus had just started up, and climbed on.

  “Hi.” Bane deliberately dulled his English accent but didn’t attempt an Italian one—an Italian wouldn’t speak in Esperanto. “Three for the tour, please.”

  “Nine hundred.” The driver didn’t take his eyes from his newspaper.

  Bane took out the money. The driver probably would look up when he put it through the slot in the bulletproof glass... I wound myself around Jon and hid both our faces in a passionate kiss. Could see the driver out of the corner of my eye and he didn’t glance at Bane at all, thoroughly distracted by me and Jon. Bane calmly inserted the ID card into the reader without being asked, as though buying his groceries, and for a second I forgot to move my lips against Jon’s.

  Peep.

  One happy cardReader. Oh, Lord shower blessings on that Italian guy! Bane took the card out and I went back to kissing Jon.

  “Bit of a waste of money taking those two in there, isn’t it?” smirked the driver.

  I think Bane rolled his eyes.

  “Tell me about it.” He took the tickets from the machine. “Thanks. Come on, you two…”

  Catching Jon’s arm he towed him down the aisle. Still quite a few free seats this early in the day—he pushed me and Jon into one and sat opposite. Jon and I detached casually and leant forward as though to look at the leaflet. Other people were chattering and the engine would cover any seditious talk.

  “Okay, here’s the plan…” Bane broke off and scowled at Jon. “Quit looking so happy, Jon! My temper’s not that good!”

  “It’s not good at all.” But Jon considerately assumed an expression suitable for a morgue and Bane managed to bring his mind back to the matter at hand.

  “Right. According to the leaflet, the bus cruises halfway round, stops at the base of the basilica steps for five minutes, then cruises back out. While it’s stopped, Jon and I will start arguing. I’ll pull the knife and the driver will come out of that locked cab to break it up. Margo, you’ll be right by the cab admiring the columns and you’ll catch the cab door and stop it closing. I’ll persuade the driver to leave us alone, and we’ll climb out the driver’s door. Okay?”

  “What if the driver just leaves us to it?” asked Jon.

  “Next question,” said Bane grimly.

  “Are you sure we’ll be able to get out the driver’s door?” I asked.

  “If he can get out, we can. If he’s actually locked in here with us… next question.”

  “What do we do once we’re off the bus?” asked Jon.

  “We run as though all the hounds of hell are behind us.”

  “Run? You’ll have to leave me...”

  Bane and I smacked him on the head pretty much simultaneously.

  “Ouch. Okay. Run like hell. Got it.”

  The bus doors closed. The locks engaged. Clunk-click. Clunk-click. Clunk-click. All safe and secure from the evil Underground. The bus moved forward, travelling across the white line and through the gates.

  The colonnades of St. Peter’s Square—actually a circle, of course—appeared around us, curving and graceful. My eyes followed the ancient Roman obelisk towering in the centre, up, up, up… then went to the front windscreen as the basilica drew nearer and nearer.

  I was looking at a church. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Not a church building. A real church. Our Lord was in there, safe in the tabernacle, and people went in there and openly worshipped…

  The bus drew to a halt. Further away from the steps than ideal—a line of immense steel bollards set into the ground prevented any tour bus—or EuroGov tank or troop carrier—approaching too close. Up the center of the steps ran a ramp…

  “Aim for the ramp,” I murmured to Bane. “It’ll be easier for Jon.”

  “Yeah, and the bus will provide a bit of cover in the center, at least for a few moments.”

  I moistened my lips, managing not to turn and look at the machine guns over the gates. But everyone turned as a deafening noise penetrated the bulletproof glass.

  Screech…

  The ‘in’ gate was closing, slowly and most definitely not silently.

  “Well, folks,” said the driver on the intercom, “No more tours today if they’re closing the gates—some sort of security alert, I imagine—you just made it. Five minutes—take your pictures.”

  I let out a long breath. Sweat was soaking through my t-shirt. Had Gino told them? No going back now.

  “Margo,” said Bane softly. “Go.” I love you, said his eyes, but I might attract a bit of attention if I kissed you after that little show with Jon…

  “Love you,” I mouthed. Getting up, I drifted to the front windscreen. Hopefully no one would notice not one of the three of us had a camera of any kind. I gawped around, trying for ditzy rather than terrified.

  “It’s none of your business!” roared Bane, springing from his seat.

  Jon leapt up as well. “None of my business?” he bellowed back. “You had your hand on her… I saw you!”

  Typical. Boys. Well, they’d probably manage to be pretty realistic about it.

  “I didn’t see her objecting!”

  “That’s not the point!” Feeling his way along the seats with his stick, Jon backed carefully down the aisle as though afraid of Bane. “You’re supposed to be my mate!”

  “You don’t own her!”

  Jon groped momentarily for some response rather more inflammatory than agreement.

  “Knock it off, you two,” said the driver over the intercom.

  “She’s mine, you just keep your hands away from her!” Jon managed at last.

  “Are you telling me what to do?” The knife appeared in Bane’s hand. People gasped and screamed, fleeing to the rear of the bus.

  “Hey,” yelled the driver, “put that down!”

  “Well, are you?” Bane advanced on Jon with what certainly appeared to be lethal intent.

  I hovered in position, ready to grab Jon and pull him back if he seemed likely to stumble onto the blade. From Bane’s watchful eyes, he was conscious of the danger.

  “She’s mine!” said Jon with apparent recklessness. “Mine, get it?”

  “Shut up, you stupid boy!” came from the intercom.

  “I’m going to gut you, you arrogant…” Bane made a noisy lunge, Jon knocked his arm aside with his stick and the driver came scrambling out of his cab.

  “Drop it, lad, or you’ll be in for it, I mean it! There’s cameras on here, y’know. Hey, what are you…”

  He turned as I grabbed the door to the cab. Then he sucked in a sudden breath and held it, eyes bulging, as Bane’s knife tickled his throat.

  “Please don’t move, I’ve absolutely no wish to hurt you,” said Bane, with rather cold sincerity.

  “Fools! You’ll be shot…”

  “We’ll take our chances.”

  Door wedged open with someone’s bag, I drew Jon after me into the cab, my blood racing. It was possible to get out, the driver had as good as said so! I found the handle and turned it. The door opened. I eased it open just far enough to slip out, then talked Jon out.

  “…step down, big step…” I hung onto him as he half fell out. “You’re down. Come on, Bane.”

  Hearing the name, the driver’s face went white. He spun around, and stared at my forehead. “Bane... Oh no, no, no…”

  “Oh, uh... Yeah, this is for your own good...” Bane’s arm wen
t back, his grip on the knife shifted and he struck the driver hard on the jaw with the haft.

  The man crumpled to the ground—dazed or unconscious, either way the bruise would prove him an unwitting victim of our wiles. Bane sprang over him, scrambled past the driver’s seat, jumped down beside us, and pulled Jon’s other arm over his shoulders. “Drop the stick, Jon, okay? Let’s go…”

  We ran. We ran as I’d only once run before, racing across a sandy exercise yard towards a small wall gate in the Facility. My chest heaved and my lungs burned. My legs were like lead—I drove them on. It was all Jon could do to keep his legs moving and not be dragged between us.

  Uphill. Oh Lord, why does it have to be uphill? The basilica towered above us, higher and higher as we tore up the slope. Silence from behind: the guards hadn’t seen us, perhaps intent on closing their gates; my back prickled with horrible anticipation…

  Gasping for air, my limbs shaking with exhaustion, the strength was going out of my legs, leaving them jelly-like. A bit further, a bit further—there was the top of the steps, just ahead; the portico beyond, nice strong, wide, bulletproof pillars… Closer, closer…

  Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…

  A hail of bullets sprayed across the ramp beside us, flying stone struck my face. Closer, closer, closer…

  We flung ourselves behind the columns, gasping. The machine guns fell silent

  After a few moments, a small door in the center of the enormous ones moved, just slightly. A shockingly cheerful voice called, “Ready when you are…”

  Bane didn’t hesitate. “Go…” he wheezed, dragging us forwards.

  We stumbled out into the open, carried halfway in that first mad rush. It was dark in the portico’s shadow and we were almost there, almost…