don’t have a fat ass. Well, it’s not huge or anything. I mean, I work out. Kind of. When I have the time . . .’
The distraction did its job, the encroaching panic retreating. Looking ahead, she saw a faint glimmer of light marking the tunnel’s end. It was mostly obscured by the silhouetted form of Agnelli – who as she watched pulled himself out and disappeared.
Her anxiety returned, but now for a more concrete reason. Agnelli might be waiting in ambush at the top of the shaft. She slowed as she drew nearer, listening intently. Nothing. Had he already fled – or was he preparing to smash a brick down on her head?
She hesitated a foot short of the exit . . . then scrambled through as quickly as she could.
No stones dashed out her brains. Agnelli had already left the softly lit chamber. It appeared to be an archaeological excavation, crumbled walls having been dug out of the pale brown soil. But there was no indication that the dig was an ongoing project; instead it seemed frozen in time, as much a part of history as the ruins it had unearthed . . .
Nina suddenly knew where she was.
Beneath the Vatican, uncounted tombs and burial chambers dated back as far as Imperial Rome, layer built upon layer over centuries. The passage from the Brotherhood’s maze of archives emerged in 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 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 upwards. 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 between 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 snowplough 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,