the Scavi, a necropolis hidden under St. Peter’s Basilica. It had been unearthed in the 1940s at the instigation of Pope Pius XII during a search for the tomb of St. Peter himself. Since then, the site had been left largely untouched—partly out of reverence, and partly for the more pragmatic reason that it was directly below the magnificent bronze baldachin of St. Peter within the basilica, and further excavations ran the risk of damaging the foundations. Agnelli must have discovered the passage during his explorations of the catacombs—and now he had his own private emergency exit into the Vatican.
That thought spurred her back into action. She clambered over the ruins to a low opening in one wall. Drifting dust motes told her that Agnelli had squeezed through the gap not long before, dislodging chunks of crumbling plaster. She followed with more care, emerging in a narrow brick-lined passageway. Holes in the walls led to other ancient chambers, including St. Peter’s tomb, but Nina’s concern was something of more recent construction. A doorway led to a flight of metal stairs, heading upward. Between the necropolis and the basilica were the Vatican grottoes: the tombs of the popes.
Nina pounded up the stairs. A sound reached her—the low echoes of many voices speaking in hushed reverence. The Scavi was only opened for a handful of visitors each day, but the tombs above were a destination for pilgrims from all over the world. At the top, a door was swinging closed. She flung it back open and rushed through.
Agnelli had clearly been through here—several people on their way to view the nearby Clementine Chapel were staring in shock down a hallway, having just been barged aside by the fleeing Italian. Nina added to their outrage by following suit. “Excuse me! Sorry,” she called out as she ran down the hall, weaving among the visitors.
Agnelli was leaving an audible trail of protesting voices. She followed it, emerging from the hall into a larger and more spacious section of interconnected chapels and shrines. This part of the grottoes was much busier: the tomb of John Paul II, a recent and highly venerated pope, was situated within.
Nina slowed, scanning the throng of pilgrims. Where was Agnelli? Trying to blend in with the crowd—or using them as cover to escape?
A woman’s cry told her it was the latter. She saw an elderly lady in black lying on the pale marble floor, her companions still reeling. Agnelli’s path was as clear as a ship’s wake.
“Let me through!” Nina shouted as she ran after him. Even giving a warning, she still had to sweep an arm ahead of her like a snowplow to push past the startled mourners—until a shriek of “Pistola!” told her that someone had seen her gun.
The chamber erupted into chaos, frightened people scattering in all directions. Nina cursed. She had briefly spotted Agnelli’s distinctive haircut over the crowd—now it was lost again in the confusion.
A man called out ahead. From his authoritative tone he was clearly a member of the Vatican’s staff, trying to restore order. A woman shouted behind her; Nina’s Italian was limited, but she knew enough to pick out capelli rossi—red hair. Two attendants in dark uniforms swung in her direction, yelling “Scostare, scostare!” as they pushed people out of their way.
Nina ducked lower, angling away from the guards into the milling mass. She could no longer afford to be polite—if she were caught, by the time she explained the situation Agnelli would have escaped.
A broad set of steps ahead. She jumped them, almost slipping on the marble as she landed and careering against a burly man. The gun was snagged from her grasp by his camera strap and clattered to the floor. Shit!
No time to stop and pick it up. All she could do was keep running. Another glimpse of Agnelli. He was heading along the right side of the new room, passing the tombs set into the alcoves along it.
He rushed into one of them. Nina glanced back. One of the guards had tripped on the steps, bowling over a tourist as he fell. His comrade was lost to sight behind a knot of panicking people.
She reached the alcove, home to a stone sarcophagus, and charged through the doorway behind it. Ahead was a museum, archaeological discoveries from beneath the Vatican on display behind glass. No time for sightseeing; she continued to chase Agnelli through the rooms. He now had something in his hand—a phone, she realized.
Who was he calling?