lightning. The prop continued to bite the water. Their pursuer was coming ever closer, but still loomed a couple of kilometers away.
He pointed to the right. “Head toward shore.”
“You’re thinking the grottoes,” Chatterjee asked.
“It’s the only shelter we’ve got. If we hurry, we might be able to disappear into one without being seen. But you’re going to have to get close for us to be able to see.”
He checked his watch, the hands illuminated in the darkness.
12:20 A.M.
Another day had begun.
Which brought the conclave ever closer, now less than twelve hours away.
This was way beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Granted, he’d defied the Holy See with his outspoken dissension, but that was vastly different from men trying to kill him. Genuine fear surged through him, an unusual feeling. Never once had he feared the pope or the curia. Regret? Definitely, he’d felt that. Nobody liked to lose.
But this was nothing like that.
His eyes focused through the night, searching for an opening in the towering cliffs. Lightning continued to flash at regular intervals, offering a few precious seconds of clarity.
“There,” he yelled, pointing ahead. “A grotto. I saw it.”
“I did, too,” Chatterjee said.
They rounded another point, the bow headed toward a small bay, homing in on the spot he’d seen in the last flash. Ill-tempered squalls kept scuffing the wavetops white. Another lightning bolt exploded overhead and he saw they were headed for an arch in the limestone wall, the entrance formed by a craggy arc of rain-sheered rock, a curtain of rivulets pouring down to the sea.
The powerboat was momentarily out of sight, which allowed them time to find the dark chasm in the cliff wall. Chatterjee navigated to the archway and they passed beneath the waterfall that spilled down across the opening. Kastor’s clothes were soaked, the dghajsa puddled with water. Now, though, they were sheltered by a roof of stone, the grotto beyond calm to the night. During the day, combined with sunlight and the surrounding chain of rock, the water would reflect the phosphorescent colors of the submerged flora forming shades of blue and green. Tonight there was only black.
“There’s a ledge,” he called out, seeing its outline in the blackness.
Chatterjee eased to it. “Get out.”
He stared back at the Indian.
“Get out,” Chatterjee said again. “Stay out of sight. I’ll divert them.”
“Let’s stay together.”
For some reason he did not want to be alone.
“You’re going to be pope. I’m hired help. Now get the hell out of this boat and let me do my job.”
He hopped onto the limestone, the ledge perched just above the surface. He heard the dghajsa’s outboard rev and the craft sped away, deeper into the grotto, toward the exit on the far side. From beyond the entrance he heard the roar of the powerboat, drawing closer, its engine a steady drone above the wind and rain. Chatterjee slipped back out into the storm.
Then a new sound invaded the monotony.
Rat, tat, tat.
Gunfire.
More fear swept through him. He’d never felt more helpless. A need to withdraw came over him. He stared into the blackness and saw an even darker splotch. A cave? He carefully inched his way across the rough rock, slippery with seawater, and saw he was half right. Not a cave, more a tunnel. He knew most of them came to a dead end. He headed inside. This one drained into a small chamber hewn from the rock.
More gunfire could be heard.
He recalled the caves he’d explored as a child, most decorated with stalactites and splash deposits. Sometimes even crude paintings from antiquity. Hard to know if this one came with any of that. He sat on the wet limestone, breathing evenly, gathering his strength. He dared not give way to panic and forced his mind to behave.
What a predicament for a prince of the church.
He backed himself against the wall, his head pounding like a piston.
Once again he felt like Paul, who also supposedly found refuge in a Maltese cave. Paul was not one of the original twelve, but an apostle nonetheless. A servant of Christ who experienced a sudden, startling revelation that set him apart from others. He gained a reputation for bucking the law. His fate was sealed by writing letters to the Romans, Galatians, and Corinthians. He recalled the words from Acts about the viper on Malta. How the locals said, No doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he has escaped the sea, yet justice does not allow to live. But Paul shook off the bite of