pointed at the tables.
“That’s his seat,” one of them said.
Empty.
Stamm and Stephanie came up beside him.
“Slippery thing, isn’t he,” Stamm whispered.
“I assume there’s another way out?”
“Behind the altar. Stairs up or down, both will lead you into the museums. They’re entirely closed for the conclave, the exits are manned by armed security. I can alert them to move in.”
“No. Let me go get him. Maybe we can contain this within the museums. Keep the guards on the exits so Gallo can’t leave, but alert them. They have radios?”
Stamm nodded. “Cardinals are not supposed to leave the museums. They are under seal.”
“I get it. So if he tries, have them detain him. How about the cameras in the museums?”
“Off during the conclave to preserve privacy. Which also helps keep this contained.”
He got the message. Stamm would like to keep them off. “I’ll find him.”
“Do that. I would prefer not to issue an apprehend order for a cardinal of the church.”
“He’s not a cardinal.”
“He’s worse. I’m relying on your abilities and discretion here, Mr. Malone.”
“Cotton can handle it,” Stephanie said.
Stamm gestured and one of the uniformed Swiss Guards hurried over. Cotton watched as the guard removed a radio that had been attached inside the costume, along with a small mike and earpiece.
Stamm handed them over.
“Go get him.”
* * *
Pollux descended the stairs to a gallery filled with paintings, sculpture, and graphic art. All modern. Contemporary. Ugly. He kept moving, turning left and heading for an open doorway, entering the old Vatican library. He passed through three rooms then found the famed Sistine Hall, which stretched some sixty meters ahead. Seven pillars sheathed with frescoes divided the ancient space into two wide aisles. The walls and ceiling were all colorfully decorated and gilded, furnished more like a reliquary than a library. Mosaic tables filled the spaces between the pillars and supported an array of porcelain vases. More tables displayed other precious objects under glass, similar to the knights’ archive at Rapallo.
He kept moving through the Sistine Hall, passing one pillar after another. He hated leaving the Constitutum Constantini, particularly after all he’d endured to find it. But there was no time to retrieve it from his room.
His freedom was now at stake.
He heard no one either behind or ahead of him. Malone would surely come in pursuit, but the American would have to decide if his quarry had gone up or down after leaving the Sistine.
He could only hope that Malone chose wrong.
* * *
Cotton fled the Sistine and hurried down a long corridor that led into the Apostolic Palace and a staircase.
Two, actually.
One up. The other down.
Where to? Good question.
He chose up and hopped the stone risers two at a time, exiting into a room filled with biblical allegories on the ceiling and obligatory frescoes on the walls.
“I’m upstairs,” he said into the mike clipped at his shoulder.
“Then you’re in the Room of the Immaculate Conception,” Stamm said in his ear.
A glass case stood in the center. He gave it a casual glance and noticed ornamented volumes dating to the 19th century dealing with, sure enough, the Immaculate Conception.
“Leaving there and entering a small room housing tapestries,” he said.
“The Apartment of St. Pius V,” Stamm added.
He passed through and entered the incredible Gallery of Maps. This place he knew about. Over 350 feet long, a straight, unobstructed line from one side of the palace to the other. The overhead vault was decorated with white and gold stuccos populated by people, coats of arms, allegories, and emblems. But the walls were its claim to fame. Enormous colorful panels alternated with the bright exterior windows. Forty maps all total, together depicting topographically the entire Italian peninsula of the 16th century. Eighty percent accurate. Remarkable given the state of cartography at the time.
“I’m in the map gallery,” he said. “There’s no one here.”
He ran down the marble floor. Out the windows, to his left, he caught glimpses of the Vatican Gardens with fountains and trees rising toward the observatory. On the right was an inner courtyard, with an enormous splashing basin, empty of people. Cameras were everywhere. All off, according to Stamm. He was on the third floor, more galleries and halls beneath him and on the other side of the building, beyond the courtyard. Those electric eyes might be needed.
“The exits remain manned,” Stamm said. “No one has reported anyone trying to leave.”
“I’m at the end of the map gallery,” he said into the radio. “There’s no way to go from here across to