The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,45

make it—

She parted her jacket and revealed the silver astrolabe in her lap. She had taken it from the case while running for the tree line and hidden it in her coat. Her specialty was behavioral science, mostly dealing with primates, but it applied here, too. She knew in the heat of the hunt that the enemy would pursue Joe. It was instinctual behavior of a predator spiked on adrenaline to chase running prey.

So, she had turned that to her advantage.

Still, the knowledge did nothing to assuage her guilt.

She took deep, gulping breaths.

I’m sorry, Joe.

13

June 23, 5:30 A.M. CEST

Castel Gandolfo, Italy

Gray crossed the barricaded square. Ahead rose a four-story yellow building with shuttered windows and a set of massive wooden doors. The portico marked the entrance to the Pontifical Palace, the pope’s private summer home. When the pontiff was not in residence, it also served as a museum.

Though that was not true today.

After last night’s attack, the palace had been converted into a fortified bunker. The entire picturesque village of Castel Gandolfo—with its cobblestone streets, souvenir shops, and tiny cafés—was locked down. Military vehicles were parked along the quaint streets. The barricaded square was patrolled by gunmen in body armor and helmets. They were part of the Gendarmeria Corpo della Città del Vaticano, the Vatican’s police force, assigned not only to investigate crime but also trained in counterterrorism. Like Vatican City proper in Rome, the hundred acres of the summer palace were not Italian territory but belonged to the pope.

Gray and Seichan had their identifications examined at two checkpoints. They had been patted down and electronically wanded at the barricade.

When they reached the tall portico doors, a man in a dark blue blazer waved them closer and asked for their papers again. From his cold countenance and the firm muscles bulging against the tailored Italian fabric, he was military, too. He was flanked by a matching pair of men, all of them wearing radio earpieces. Gray also noted the Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine guns half-hidden under their jackets and the holstered SIG P320 pistols, along with radio earpieces.

Despite the lack of their usual uniforms of Medici blue, red, and yellow, Gray knew who these loyal soldiers were. Swiss Guards. But not the regular patrols. Only the most elite of these Swiss soldiers were allowed to serve incognito, the equivalent of the pope’s Secret Service.

As Gray waited with his arms crossed, he stared across the square. Dawn already glowed rosy to the east, though the sun was not yet up. Even with the small army gathered here, his eyes searched for any threat. He drew in deep breaths, anxious to keep moving. These constant roadblocks grated on him. It had been an interminable flight here, followed by the long drive from the air base.

Seichan touched his arm. “He’ll be okay,” she said, zeroing in on the source of his agitation.

While en route, Gray had been getting regular updates on the search for Kowalski. No body had been found where his teammate had been ambushed. Only blood and machine gun shells. Even now, scuba crews scoured the dark green waters of the nearby volcanic lake, looking for a body.

Finally, the guard passed back their identifications. “I am Major Bossard,” he said with a stiff Swiss accent. “I will be your escort. You will not leave my sight while on Vatican land. Follow me.”

He led them through the doors into the heart of the Pontifical Palace. They were brusquely marched along marble-lined halls, past the busts of popes, and through a luxurious greeting parlor with plush antique furniture. Gray noted velvet ropes marked off several areas, evidence that tourists were herded through these same spaces.

But he wasn’t here for a tour.

Bossard finally led them through a set of doors to a wide balcony that overlooked a meticulously manicured hedge maze. The grounds here were larger than Vatican City, covering not only the palace and its gardens but also a small forest that hid an ancient Roman amphitheater, and a seventy-five-acre dairy farm.

A table had been set to take advantage of the garden view.

Three people pushed back and stood from the remains of a breakfast and greeted them.

Maria Crandall rushed forward and hugged Seichan. “Thank god you’re both here,” she said breathlessly.

Father Bailey came and shook Gray’s hand. His eyes showed no twinkle of amusement now, only a grim determination. “I certainly agree with Dr. Crandall’s statement.”

Monsignor Roe stayed at the table and nodded to them. The older priest had shed his formal