Chapter Text
Nightfall descended upon the Vatican in waves. First as a deepening chill that seeped through the arches of the open loggias, and then as curtains of pounding rain. The water bled into the crevices of the worn cobblestones, pooling into puddles of murk that caught the tawny glow of the incandescent streetlights on Via Sant’Anna. Marring the path ahead, toward the motorcade, toward the Cortile di San Damaso. Seeping into his shoes.
“Keep up, Schild!”
Andreas huffed. Tadeo never really liked stragglers.
He pulled his jacket around him with one hand. Wool, worsted-weight. Standard and appropriate for any other night on close security detail. Except this one, it seemed. Even his umbrella did little to protect him from the onslaught. Not much could when the wind decided to pick up.
“We’re not even late, Deo,” Martinas chimed in just to his left, the younger guard maneuvering to avoid the growing puddles underfoot.
“If you want to get soaked, that’s fine by me!”
A gust of wind caught Klaus’s umbrella, the dark nylon fabric straining against the gale, before turning it inside out with a hollow metallic snap.
“Ugh!” Klaus shook out the battered thing, folding the disjointed bits into the dangling fabric and tucking the umbrella under his arm. “Think they’ll cancel?”
Andreas angled his own umbrella toward Klaus, offering whatever cover he could.
“Not a chance,” Will said at their right. “The Holy Father’s toughed out worse. Remember Lampedusa?”
Andreas wasn’t on assignment for that one, though an island in the Mediterranean sounded pretty great right about now.
“He likes to suffer,” Tadeo called back. “It’s very Jesuit of him!”
“He’s not a Jesuit though…” mumbled Martinas.
Tadeo didn’t argue the point. Or maybe he hadn’t heard Martinas over the deluge. Despite the discomfort, at least the cold and the wet acted like a shot of adrenaline, jolting Andreas awake. On three hours of sleep, it was the best he could hope for to avoid nodding off on his feet.
The convoy waited just ahead. Five vehicles instead of the usual three. And one motorcoach to accommodate the visiting Cardinals and Bishops who came to attend the celebrations of Holy Week. Though given the weather, Andreas wasn’t sure how many would opt to participate in this outdoor event. Even the headlights struggled to cut through the downpour.
Andreas and the others jogged the last few steps, collapsing their umbrellas as they neared. The rain lashed at his face in earnest now. He reached for the door of the last vehicle, shaking water from his jacket as best he could while Klaus slid into the back seat. Andreas followed, pulling the door shut.
The tinny drum of rain pattered against the roof of the car, joining the low purr of the idling engine.
Andreas reached for his radio to do a quick channel check—when his hand found empty air.
Belt—nothing.
Jacket pocket—nothing.
Really?
He patted his other pockets, knowing already it wasn’t there.
“Gopferdammi,” he muttered under his breath.
Klaus looked over from scrolling through his phone. “What?”
Damn it damn it damn it.
“My radio...” Andreas exhaled and swiped a hand over his face. “I left it at the barracks.”
Klaus’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
Andreas pushed the door back open, rain soaking his shoulder. He jogged to the lead vehicle where Tadeo had begun to load equipment into the trunk.
His mouth felt dry. “I need a spare radio,” he averted his gaze. “…forgot mine.”
Tadeo straightened, his grey eyes giving Andreas a look that said everything about what he thought of that. Tadeo sighed, reached into the equipment case and tossed him a DP 3441.
Andreas caught it on reflex.
“Bring it back after the shift, and don’t forget.”
Andreas nodded, clipping it to his belt, and threaded the earpiece under his collar.
“Thanks.”
He jogged back through the rain, sliding into the vehicle beside Klaus.
“You’re lucky he didn’t send you back to the barracks,” Klaus said, not looking up from his screen. The blue light of the phone casting shadows across his face. “He’s in a mood tonight.”
“It’s the schedule,” Andreas said. He leaned his head back, feeling the dampness of the water in his hair slide down onto the heated leather seats. “I’m just the one stupid enough to forget my gear.”
Klaus locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket, turning to look at Andreas.
“It’s been a long day. And we’re all tired, but after what you’ve been through? I’m surprised you’re still talking in complete sentences. Just get through tonight. We’ll grab lunch tomorrow—after you sleep. Deal?”
“Deal,” Andreas said with a slight smile, leaning his head against the cool glass, as they waited for their charge and his entourage to descend from the steps of the Apostolic Palace.
He hoped, at least, that the Holy Father had gotten some rest.
—
“Hey.”
Andreas felt a tap on his shoulder. He groaned, curling away from it. Burrowing deeper into the warmth of the leather seat. His cheek against cold glass.
Another tap.
He folded his arm to his chest.
“Andreas,” Klaus hissed, giving his shoulder a shove. “We’re here. Look alive.”
His eyes cracked open. The world a smear of orange torchlight refracted through rivulets of water streaking down the window. Fogged by condensation. The shadows danced across his lap.
He grimaced, wincing at the crick in his neck from the angle he’d been sleeping at. He felt the impression of the leather edge of the car’s window sill against his cheek.
Andreas glanced at his watch when his earpiece crackled to life.
“All units prepare to dismount and secure the perimeter.”
Tadeo.
Klaus straightened, and touched his earpiece. “Copy.”
“Copy,” mumbled Andreas, hoping that the sleep in his voice didn’t bleed through the comms.
A chorus of ‘copy’s from the rest of the team followed.
Klaus glanced at Andreas.You ready? His eyes almost seemed to ask.
Andreas gave a tight nod. And with that, he opened his door.
The cold hit him first. Then came the sound—the growing clamor, scattered applause and cheers from the faithful as they saw the motorcade doors swing open. They knew their Holy Father would emerge soon.
Andreas stepped onto the slick pavement, his boots finding purchase on the uneven stone of the forum. Through the hazy night air, he saw hundreds of pinpricks of light. Pilgrims holding candles cupped in their palms. He had to give it to them, it was a feat to see that they had managed to keep them burning against the damp, braving the less than ideal conditions. Many wore those colorful, disposable ponchos found at every tourist kiosk this side of the Tiber—forming a shivering mosaic of neon yellow, clear blue, and translucent white. Pushing against the crush barriers, phones out, hoping to catch a picture-perfect moment of the Vicar of Christ under the illuminated ruins of the looming Colosseum above. It seemed the Lord had decided to show a measure of mercy tonight, reeling in the earlier tempest into a steady, persistent drizzle.
Will and Martinas were already in position ahead, flanking the papal vehicle. Andreas moved to his assigned spot on the left rear, the cold air snapping his focus into place. Klaus mirrored him on the right.
The front passenger door of the papal vehicle opened. Commander Müller emerged, his presence tightening the air around the motorcade. He didn't just look at the crowd, his gaze swept the scene with precision, measuring distances and scanning the sea of the faithful. He gave a slight nod, almost to himself, and touched his earpiece.
“Clear.”
Tadeo got out of the idling vehicle from the driver’s side. He reached for the handle of the rear door, and opened it.
A hush seemed to ripple through the gathered faithful.
The Holy Father stepped out.
He wore a heavy, double-breasted white wool coat that glowed against the charcoal backdrop of the night. A most holy ghost. It looked warm, and sturdy enough to repel the rain, but as the camera clicks and light from the pilgrims' candles caught his face, Andreas felt a pang. The man, Vincent, looked tired. Fragile. He had deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes, a reminder that he had wept only hours before, in public and behind closed doors. He carried more than just the weight of Holy Week on his shoulders.
The Pope raised a hand to acknowledge the growing applause and shouts of joy. Even soaked and in this miserable weather, the gathered cheered for him.
Viva il Papa!
Ti vogliamo bene!
Above the barriers, the Cardinals and Bishops rose from their seats as the Holy Father approached the steps to the raised platform overlooking the Colosseum and the Arch of Constantine, shaking hands and blessing as many of the faithful as he could, as they reached out for him. Andreas scanned over the many faces, of the men, of the women, of a few brave children, that had decided to stand here, for who knows how many hours, for the chance of being within feet of the leader of the Catholic church. Martinas and Will stood at each back corner of the canopy, off to the side, blending into the shadows in their dark, tailored suits. Tadeo and Müller formed a loose, protective arc at the base of the steps, as the Pope ascended, his hand gripping the railing wet with rainslick. Klaus and Andreas followed close behind, scanning the perimeter once more before they took their marks alongside the rest of the protection detail. Once at the top, the Pope surveyed the assembled clergy. Even from here, Andreas could see him steel himself before stepping forward to begin the greetings.
Lawrence stood toward the back, flanked by Cardinal Bellini and a fretful-looking Monsignor O’Malley. Nearby, a cluster of Cardinals spoke in low, jagged half-whispers that carried over the rhythmic patter of the rain hitting the canopy over their heads.
“What happened to the Holy Father’s secretary?” A visiting Cardinal that Andreas didn’t recognize asked another. “Nice fellow. Young. I haven’t seen him all week.”
Ah yes, Andreas remembered him. But—
“Lawrence ran him off months ago,” another Cardinal, one of the members of the Curia murmured. “After he leaked private information to the press.”
Exactly. A security risk.
The first Cardinal spared a glance toward the Holy Father. “It must be nice having a loyal guard dog.”
A third voice quipped in. “Their devotion to each other is singular. They’re never apart.”
“Well, I heard the Dean has tendered his resignation,” another Cardinal said.
Murmurs rippled through the clergy.
The Cardinal let out a coarse laugh. “So much for a loyal dog, you would think he’d know how to sit and stay on command!”
Andreas saw it happen.
The Pope’s hand froze mid-gesture. His smile remained—the papal mask held firm for the cameras and the crowds—but hurt flashed in his eyes. Hurt and indignation for his Dean.
He turned to the Cardinal in question—
But Lawrence had heard them, too.
The Dean stepped forward. “Your Eminences.”
His voice didn't rise, but it had a particular crisp cadence to it that cut through the murmur of the clergy like a razor.
The Cardinals turned.
“I must correct any misunderstanding,” Lawrence said. “His Holiness and I have a strictly professional relationship. We are colleagues, not friends. We have both toiled for the good of the Church, and my duty is first and foremost to the Holy See. Any suggestion otherwise is deeply inappropriate, and undermines the work we had done.”
The small cluster of Cardinals fell silent.
“I served at the Holy Father’s pleasure, and my time here has run its course. Nothing more.”
O’Malley’s eyes widened a fraction.
Bellini grit his teeth.
And Andreas watched the Holy Father’s face fall.
For one terrible moment, the mask cracked. He flinched. Taken aback. His hand trembled where it rested against his side.
Then a bishop that Andreas didn’t recognize stepped forward from the opposite side of the platform, smoothing a hand over his damp vestments.
“Your Holiness,” he said, his voice bright and unaffected by the tension hanging under the canopy. “What a blessing to be here with you tonight.” He looked out at the crowd below. “Thank you for allowing us to share in this sacred observance.”
Andreas watched the visible effort it took, the fractional second where the Holy Father’s shoulders squared and the jaw set, as the mask of his office slid back into place.
“Your Excellency.” Vincent’s voice was gracious, though it carried a slight, brittle reediness. “The blessing is mine. Thank you for braving this weather to join us.”
He took the Bishop’s hand. He even managed a small, hospitable smile.
Andreas felt a knot tighten in his chest. It was a masterclass in performative duty. Vincent stood there, playing the role of the shepherd, as if his heart hadn’t just been dissected by the one person he adored most.
Andreas shifted his gaze back to Lawrence. The Dean had already retreated. Hands clasped, face a blank slate of marble. He looked like what he had claimed to be. A colleague, a professional.
Nothing more.
—
The procession formed under the starless sky.
Andreas took his position at the rear of the elevated platform, with Klaus opposite of him. The cold had seeped through his waterlogged jacket, settling deep into his bones. He flexed his fingers, trying to keep the blood flowing, trying to stay awake.
He scanned the crowd. Hundreds of candles flickered, little pinpricks of light in a sea of undulating darkness, small flames cupped against the evening’s rainfall, which had petered off into a drizzle.
Wilhelm Mandorff walked to the podium, off to the side. He adjusted the microphone, clearing his throat.
“Forty days have now passed since we began our Lenten journey, with the imposition of ashes. Today we lived the final hours of the earthly life of our Lord Jesus, where from the cross he cried out, ‘It is finished’.”
“We have gathered in this place,” he said, gesturing out toward the piazza, “where thousands of people have suffered martyrdom for Christ, to walk this Via Dolorosa in union with those on the margins of our societies. With displaced refugees, with the victims of war, of famine, and especially the children that suffer through these atrocities.”
The Holy Father, seated on his papal throne, closed his eyes, bowing his head, hands clasped together in prayer.
“May we also keep those that, even now, are enduring their own persecution, in our prayers. Those that are victims of our narrowmindedness, our institutions, and our laws… our blindness, and our selfishness, and especially our indifference and hardness of heart.”
Bellini gave Lawrence a pointed look.
“May the cross of Christ, a means of death, but also of new life, light our path forward, toward mercy, toward forgiveness, and toward grace. May it guide us in our darkest hours, and may it remind us that God has not abandoned us.”
He allowed the words to settle over the faithful.
“Tonight, the meditations for the Stations of the Cross have been written and will be recited by Sister Maryim Nader, director of the orphanage at the Little Sisters of Charity in Grottaferrata.”
Andreas saw the Holy Father look up, toward the last of the steps.
A woman of slight build ascended from the base of the stairs. She wore a grey habit and matching veil. And yet despite her humble garments, she looked regal. While the few wisps of hair which had escaped from her veil had streaks of grey in it, she had to be no older than her late forties, or early fifties. Andreas couldn’t tell.
“Sister Maryim served alongside His Holiness during his pastoral work in Kabul,” Mandorff continued. “Her meditations tonight are a reflection on the suffering of refugees and children of war. Those who, even now, walk their own Via Dolorosa in our world.”
She stopped at the papal throne.
The Holy Father looked up at her. And rose.
Sister Maryim reached out, and Vincent grasped her hand with both of his.
It was a complete breach of protocol. And the murmurs and shifting from the clergy said as much, too.
Andreas watched the exchange. A look passed between them, an unspoken something, of a past that extended far beyond their offices, or their work. A deep friendship, perhaps. The sister gave him a minute smile. Her eyes, the color of amber, taking him in, filled with understanding, and sadness.
The Holy Father inclined his head, and managed a half-smile.
She squeezed his hand once, then released it. The Pope sank back into the cushioned throne as she continued to the podium, and archbishop Mandorff stepped aside.
Her hand found the microphone, lowering it, adjusting it to her height. She looked at the Holy Father, who gave her a nod, then out to the crowd.
“The First Station,” her voice rang out clear and firm. “Jesus is condemned to death.”
The voices of the Schola, just off to the side of the platform, rose into the night, the Gregorian lament permeating the air.
‘Stabat Mater dolorosa, iuxta Crucem lacrimosa, dum pendebat Filius…’
Sister Maryim began to recite the stations. Her lilting voice carried through the Roman night.
“In refugee camps across our world, children wake each day condemned by borders they did not draw, by wars they did not start, by powers that have decided their fate for them. Like Jesus before Pilate, they stand alone. Abandoned. Not understanding why love has grown cold, or why the hand that once held theirs has let go…”
The stations progressed. The second, third, fourth. Sister Maryim’s voice rose and fell with each.
Andreas could begin to feel the exhaustion pulling at him. The debt of sleep finally claiming its dues. And it would not wait, would not care, that he still had a duty to uphold. The words and the lamentations began to blur together—
“…bearing crosses from broken promises…”
The fifth station. Sixth. Seventh.
‘Pro peccátis suae gentis, vidit Jesum in torméntis, et flagéllis súbditum.’
Andreas’s eyelids felt like lead. He tried to fix his gaze on a specific point. The Arch of Constantine, or the glint of a camera lens, but the 'Stabat Mater' and Sister Maryim’s voice wrapped around him like a warm blanket he couldn't push off. His knees threatened to buckle, and he hoped Klaus, or worse, Müller, wouldn't notice.
‘Eia, Mater, fons amóris, me sentíre vim dolóris fac, ut tecum lúgeam.’
The tenth. Eleventh.
‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’
Andreas let his gaze shift between the Pope, and his Dean.
Neither man looked at the other. Not for the rest of the night.
—
He didn’t fall asleep on the car ride back.
Somewhere between the aching cold and the wet jacket clinging to his shoulders, the discomfort of the evening had tempered the dregs of sleep that pulled at the edges of his consciousness, at least for now.
They disembarked at the Cortile di San Damaso without incident, and after the nightshift had picked up the Holy Father from the courtyard at half-past eleven, the remaining clergy and security detail dispersed. The visiting prelates to the Casa Santa Marta, and the guards, off to the barracks.
Finally.
The sergeants took a shortcut through the inner corridors, which would save them a couple of minutes from walking through the rain. And though Andreas felt his mind still humming on the last vestiges of adrenaline before an inevitable crash, his body had begun to shiver, lagging behind the rest by several lengths. He removed the earpiece, the wet coil clinging against the side of his neck. Right. He’d need to return the radio before—
“It’s ready,” he heard, just off to his left.
He turned toward the sound, but saw no one, nothing. Just an empty corridor.
Yeah, he needed sleep. Like, now.
He unplugged the earpiece from the radio, wrapping the coil around itself, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
“—No, we need to test it one more time,” another voice said.
Test what one more time?
He slowed to a stop. Swaying, just a bit. Looking off into the far corridor.
“It’ll hold for tomorrow,” said the first.
Tomorrow... Andreas took a step toward the voices.
“We’ll have eyes on the basilica.”
Now that stopped Andreas cold. And it had nothing to do with the weather. No one, save for the Swiss Guard, should have eyes on St. Peter. Unless they were a part of the Gendarmerie? But that didn’t make sense, what would they test—
“Where are you going?”
He almost jumped.
“Klaus,” Andreas said under his breath. How did he not hear him approaching? “I’ll be back in five minutes. I need to check something.”
Klaus looked over his shoulder, toward the corridor, shooting him a warning look. “Andreas, don’t—”
“Five minutes.”
He turned right before Klaus could protest, moving through the dim passageways, hearing footsteps ahead.
They heard him, they must have. Andreas quickened his pace, following the sound deeper into the wing.
There. Through the archway, he caught sight of two figures in black cassocks heading toward a metal door, emblazoned with a prominent yellow triangle and a lightning bolt inside it. ALTA TENSIONE, the sign said. HIGH VOLTAGE.
They heard a door slam down the corridor.
One of the men turned to look toward where the sound came from, the one with the key card in hand.
Him.
The same priest from earlier, from the Chrism Mass, from the gardens.
“Stop!” Andreas’s voice rang out in the empty corridor.
The priests turned, and Andreas got a clear look at his face. Mid-forties, dark hair, ordinary features that would blend into any crowd.
But the other…the other…
“Can I help you?”
“Father…” Andreas’s eyes locked on the younger man. “You shouldn’t be here. Your credentials were revoked.”
His light brown hair had been dyed black. And it was long, longer now, curling past his ears, combed to the side. And those blue eyes that he remembered, crystalline, the color of ice, were hidden behind dark contacts. Ambitious, young. A climber. Though he looked gaunt now, he must have lost at least 10 kilos since he had seen his last. Like an underfed wolf looking for carrion. Andreas sifted through his mind for his name, Rafael…Degas? No, Degas was a painter. Emmanuel Dumas….no, it started with a ‘G’, he was almost certain. Gabriel?
Was it Gabriel?
How far have you fallen.
“Are you sure? You seem lost,” the younger priest said.
Spare me.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his credentials, and flashed his badge.
“Pontifical Swiss Guard. Show me your credentials. Both of you, now.”
He sighed, reaching into his cassock. “Of course.” He produced a laminated ID card. The other priest followed suit.
Andreas took both cards. The photos matched their faces. Their current faces. The credentials looked legitimate, with a hologram, proper formatting, the Vatican seal. It was even the right thickness.
But he knew. He knew.
This wasn’t his name, it couldn’t be. He remembered the shape of it, and it wasn’t this. He doubted that the other priest’s name was real, too.
“These are forgeries,” Andreas said. “Good ones, I’ll give you that. But they’re fakes.”
“Sergeant, you look unwell.” The older priest’s voice took on a note of faux concern. “Perhaps you should sit down,” his eyes narrowed. “Before you get hurt.”
The fuck.
“No, I’m calling this in.” His hand found the radio on his belt.
The older priest’s eyes widened the moment Andreas reached for the radio. The priest seized Gabriel by the shoulders and slammed him against the door, wrenching the young man’s wrist hard against the metal frame.
Gabriel cried out, cradling his wrist, sliding down the floor, as stunned as Andreas.
“Aiuto!” The older man shouted, “Help! He’s attacking us!”
Andreas started forward, then stopped himself.
Don’t touch them. Don’t give them anything.
“Alt! Gendarmeria!”
Two officers rounded the corner, hands on their sidearms, taking in the damning scene. Andreas standing over Gabriel, who had slumped against the door, black cassock spilling around him, cradling his wrist. The older priest standing between them, looking terrified.
He wasn’t a priest. He couldn’t be. No way that he was a priest.
“This man, he grabbed Father Biancheri, and slammed him against the door!”
“No, that’s not what happened,” Andreas held up his hands, backing away. “I didn’t touch him. He did that. He—”
“Hands where we can see them, now!”
One of the officers kneeled down next to Gabriel, examining his wrist.
Andreas stood there, clutching the two forged IDs, the only evidence he had, which now looked like stolen property.
“Check their credentials,” Andreas said, one hand raised, the other handing the two cards to the standing officer. “They’re not who they say they are.”
“This is ridiculous,” the older priest said. “My name is Emiliano Acosta, and I work under Monsignor Olena at the Directorate for Infrastructures and Services.” He glared at Andreas. “Call him, if you like, but I suspect he won’t appreciate being woken at this hour.”
The officer nodded, examined both cards. Flipping them over, checking the holograms, holding them up to the light, comparing the photos to the priests’ faces.
“And I’m visiting from a parish in Aosta,” Gabriel lied, clutching his wrist. That was going to bruise, for sure. “Father Luca Biancheri, at your service.”
After a long moment, the officer looked up. “These appear legitimate.” He handed both credentials back to their owners.
No.
“They’re not,” Andreas insisted. What on earth could he say to get through to them? “You need to check the system. He was the Holy Father’s personal secretary until he was terminated.”
The older priest, Emiliano pointed a trembling finger at Andreas. “No, you are just an insane, mad man. And this, this—pazzo—has been stalking me since yesterday! Since last night, all the way to the gardens!”
“So it was you, in the coveralls?”
The priest, Emilliano, took a step back. “What? No, no, no, I was wearing this,” he gestured downward to his black cassock. “As you see me,” he turned to the officers. “Please, this man is unwell.”
The officer stepped forward. “Sergeant, did you follow this priest into the gardens last night?”
“Yes, but he was wearing—”
“So you admit to following him?”
“He looked suspicious during Chrism Mass, at the Basilica!”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been following him since yesterday morning’s mass?”
“What? No!”
The second officer stepped forward. “I remember you…”
Andreas scanned the man’s face, his build, his…oh, shit.
“You were wearing the oxfords last night. To go for a run, apparently.”
“Yes,” because what else could he say? He had been caught in a lie.
The officer's hand was on his arm now. "Sergeant, this is the second time in two days. You need to come with us."
"Check their credentials again. Please. That man isn’t who he says he is. Look at the maintenance logs, the disabled failsafes—"
“Go ahead and check whatever you need to officer,” said Emiliano, confident.
Why weren’t they afraid?
The officer nodded. "Your names have been noted. We'll look into everything," the officer turned to Andreas. "But right now, you need to come with us."
"Tomorrow," Andreas's voice cracked. "They're planning something for tomorrow—"
"I don't want to press charges,” Gabriel spoke up. “He’s a poor boy that clearly needs help, not punishment."
Boy? We’re practically the same age! The magnanimity of it made Andreas's stomach turn.
“Please escort the sergeant to headquarters.”
The gendarmes flanked Andreas. One of them, who Andreas recognized from joint training exercises, looked apologetic.
They lead him down the corridor. Andreas caught a glimpse of Klaus, frozen at the far end.
"Klaus!" Andreas called out. "It’s the secretary! The one that was fired! Tell them—"
But Klaus didn't move. He just stood there, eyes wide, shocked, as Andreas was led away.
A sickening realization curdled in his gut. He had no tangible proof, but he knew a foul plot would come to pass tomorrow.
And he’d just lost any ability to stop it.