The city slept while the bells of St. Peter's Basilica dragged out twelve slow chimes.All across the Eternal City, other bells answered, tired and late.
St. Peter's Square lay deserted. Only the distant hush of a passing car echoed under the colonnades.
Far from there—where Via Aurelia meets Viale del Vaticano—a man on a motorcycle with a sidecar waited, smoking to calm his nerves. Black turtleneck. Black leather jacket. Hidden from any curious eyes—if there were any—he kept a weapon ready to sing if the moment called for it.
But tonight's little opera was meant to play silently.
He kept his gaze fixed on the corner of the wall where it split the boulevard like a ship's prow. His name was Hans Schubert.
At last, a dark figure appeared atop the wall. Hans flicked the cigarette away and moved to the base of the masonry.
"Careful," Hans whispered. "Take it slow."
The fugitive peered down, spotted Hans, then the street, then the drop into the little ravine beyond, lights glimmering in the buildings across. Vertigo pricked his gut. He crossed himself, hefted the backpack, and began to descend.
"Easy… piano, piano," Hans murmured. "Plant your feet… that's it."
The fugitive trembled. He was an old man with silver hair, shivering in the night. He eased his weight off the wall—then hung, dangling. The backpack dragged him down, too heavy to maneuver.
"Come on, carefully," Hans said.
"I'm trying," the old man hissed through his teeth.
He reached for another hold—then the weight yanked him. He clung in panic, sweat running cold down his brow.
"I can't," the old man said.
"What?"
"I can't," he said louder.
"Brace your feet on the wall," Hans urged.
"It's slick," the old man muttered. "Damn it—why did I ever approve that restoration project?" he growled at himself. "I'm too heavy… especially with this pack."
Hans exhaled, steady. "Alright. Try to climb back up—and throw me the backpack."
The old man tried—just as the screws holding a pole began to give. The pole tilted. The rope tightened. The old man jolted.
"Oh no," he groaned.
Hans swallowed. "What's wrong?"
"The pole won't hold!"
"Pole… what pole?" Hans blinked.
"The one I tied the blasted rope to!" the old man snapped—adding a string of Hungarian-German curses.
"You didn't use the anchor ring I set?" Hans said, aghast.
"I couldn't find it—damn it! I hurried and tied it to the pole!"
Hans clapped a hand to his head. "That's a camera!"
"Shit," the old man said. "Now what?"
"Try to descend!"
He tried. The pack hauled at him.
"I'm going to fall!" he yelped, panic rising.
"Oh, hell," Hans said. "We'll do this together, Holy Father!"
"Don't call me that, you idiot!" the old man snapped.
Hans breathed in. "Sorry… Saint László—I mean… Lazlo. Find a ledge for your feet and lock the rope. Once you've got that—"
Lazlo found a nub of brick, edged down a few centimeters, then another—his right foot slipped as the brick crumbled. He slammed back against the wall, dangling.
"Damn it! Now what?" he gasped.
"Good question," Hans muttered. "Listen. Find another place for your feet."
Lazlo groped for purchase, finally fixing on something and holding.
"Can you take off the backpack?" Hans asked.
"What do I look like, sunbathing on a terrace? Of course not!" Lazlo barked.
Hans squinted up. "Alright. Do this: feed the rope slowly and feel for footholds."
"Easy for you to say."
"Holy Father—"
"I said don't call me that!"
"Fine, Lazlo. Do as I say. Rope. Footholds."
"I'm sick of your damned footholds!"
Lazlo inched the rope down, fumbling for support along the old wall.
"That's it," Hans coached, eyes tracking every movement.
A jerk. Then another. The pole finally gave way.
Lazlo dropped—Hans lunged—Caught the old man and his heavy pack hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Lazlo hit the pavement with only scrapes.
"What the hell do you have in here?" Hans wheezed, hauling the backpack off him.
"Books!" Lazlo snapped.
Hans opened his mouth to retort—A crunching clatter from above froze them both.Then whistles. Alarms shrieked from the Swiss Guard barracks.
"I think… we should go," Lazlo suggested.
Hans dragged him to the sidecar, stuffed him in, and started tucking a blanket over his legs.
"Forget the blanket!" Lazlo barked. "Go—gyerünk, gyerünk!"
Up on the wall, Swiss Guards rushed in with flashlights and dogs. They saw the fallen camera pole, then two shadows mounting a motorcycle below.
"Halt!" a guard shouted.
Hans kicked off, tearing up Via Aurelia.
"Damn it, we're made!" he growled. "They'll alert the city any second!"
"To whom, exactly?" Lazlo asked. "Please—are they going to file a report to arrest a Fugitive Pope?"
"They can't?" Hans said.
"Of course not," Lazlo shot back. "But Wozny won't be pleased. He'll send mercenaries after us soon enough."
Hans weaved through the sparse traffic.
"Careful, kid!" Lazlo yelped as they slipped between two cars.
"Sorry, Holy Father," Hans blurted.
"Enough with that," Lazlo snapped. "What's the plan? North or south?"
"Head for the coast," Hans said, eyes on the road. "I've prepped a boat. We'll cross to Sardinia. I have contacts in the mountains who can hide us."
"Are you insane?" Lazlo barked. "I'm not boarding some tin can to cross the sea. The last time I got on a boat was in Venice on a courtesy tour and I nearly threw up."
"But Father—"
"No. There must be another plan. We go north—Austria, then Bavaria."
"By then the mercenaries will be on alert and every exit closed. Let's go south," Hans insisted. "We're easier to trap up there—"
"Then go east," Lazlo said. "Pescara. We can take a ferry to Istanbul."
"Father… the lines are suspended after the coup."
Lazlo raked his fingers through his hair. "Stop. Stop!"
"They'll catch us if we do," Hans warned.
"I need to think," the old man said.
They pulled into Pineta Sacchetti—dark, empty. In the distance, the dome of St. Peter's rose luminous, baroque details glittering against the night.
"So what's the plan?" Hans asked.
"My only plan was run," Lazlo admitted.
Hans folded his arms, eyes on the glowing dome.
"I've got it," Lazlo said. "We drop off their radar. I'll think on the move."
"Drop off—how exactly?" Hans frowned.
"We head to a suburb. We hide there."
"I'd take back roads to the mountains," Hans said. "Hole up—"
"And freeze? In this weather? It's going to rain," Lazlo said. "No. We find a proper hideout."
Hans narrowed his eyes and rolled back onto the road. Lazlo touched the inside pocket of his jacket to make sure the case was there. He pressed his lips thin and watched the street.
Father Santiago Manacapuru, camerlengo to Cardinal Karol Wozny, walked along Via Ottaviano, footsteps ringing on wet pavement as he headed for the Ottaviano–San Pietro metro station.
He could have stayed in a spartan but comfortable room within the Vatican walls—he was, after all, part of the administrative body of the pontifical offices—but Santiago preferred an apartment in the center of Rome. Public transport was a small price for privacy.
Black suit. White collar. Tall, rail-thin, a long face and large dark eyes that hinted at keen intelligence and patient restraint—hallmarks of his kind. He was a vampire from the Amazonian jungles.
He reached the station and started down the steps when his phone buzzed. The Swiss Guard captain. Not good.
He answered, listened, then turned back toward the Vatican.
By the time he arrived, the captain and several guards were waiting at the entrance.
"Are you certain?" Santiago asked as they crossed the parking lot toward the administrative building.
"As reported," the captain said. "He slipped past every security measure."
"How did that happen?" Santiago asked.
"He had help from inside—one of our elite sergeants," the captain said grimly.
Santiago pinched the bridge of his sharp nose. "This is… not good."
They went to the apartments of Cardinal Karol Wozny, who was at that moment fast asleep in a high four-poster bed rich with baroque carvings. He snored contentedly, clutching a teddy bear, one plump finger pressed to his lips.
Urgent knocking rattled the door. One carved mahogany leaf swung open and in swept the camerlengo with a detachment of Swiss Guards.
Santiago approached the bed and gently roused the prelate.
"Your Excellency," he said softly.
"What? WHAT?" the Cardinal mumbled. "Is it morning? Where's my breakfast?"
The camerlengo glanced at the guards; the guards glanced at each other. Santiago cleared his throat, voice calm:
"Your Excellency, it's three in the morning—and we have a crisis."
The Cardinal yawned and hauled himself upright. "What the devil is it?" he grumbled at the assembled party. "Can't a man sleep? This had better be worth waking me—" He wagged a finger, clutching the bear tighter with his other arm.
"The Pope has fled," the camerlengo said.
The Cardinal froze—mouth open, wagging finger suspended in midair, teddy bear strangled in his grip.