Turning to lead them in, Father Brimm said, “Probably thirty minutes. Not long, because he has to do the entire canonization ceremony on the square.”

“I need to use the bathroom. Really bad.”

Exasperated, Father Brimm said, “You should have gone outside! There’s no bathroom in the basilica.”

Jacob said, “There’s one right over there. Near the bag-check station.”

Father Brimm looked, seeing no sign. He said, “How do you know?”

Jacob said, “Tour book. Let him go. It’ll only take a second.”

Father Brimm shook his head, clearly aggravated, then said, “Hurry up. We’re late as it is. Your Mr. Fulbright is really taking liberties with this.”

Carlos said, “I need to go too.”

Father Brimm threw his hands in the air and said, “What on earth! Go, go.”

They scampered away, and Father Brimm said, “Come on. I’ll go back and get them. I need to get you to your seat before we’re locked out.”

They passed through another phalanx of civilian-clothed protectors, and entered the basilica. Jacob saw the expanse of space and was once again taken aback. It was huge. Well, that didn’t adequately explain the assault on his eyes. It was more than that. A warehouse is huge. This was much greater than an expanse of steel and Plexiglas. It was the most exquisitely crafted thing he had ever entered. Unlike any church he’d ever imagined.

Stretching for multiple football fields in all directions, every inch was handcrafted marble and painted art. He’d seen the space in pictures and virtual tours, planning exactly how they would attack, learning all he could about the papal altar and the seating arrangements from past ceremonies, but the reality was more than he’d imagined.

Father Brimm pulled his sleeve, saying, “Come on, come on. Time later to sightsee.”

In front of the papal altar were about one hundred chairs, all in a row, and all currently occupied. Father Brimm led him down the right side, past monuments and chapels, waving his badge in the air to various security men. They reached a spot midway up, four seats empty in the middle. He pushed Jacob forward, saying, “I’ll bring your friends. If they don’t show, it’s because it’s too late.”

Jacob nodded, squeezing past the other boys, all dressed in suits. All looking at him in disdain. He didn’t care.

He sat, feeling his anxiety grow, waiting on his friends. There was a stirring from the left side of the basilica, and an entrance of prelates, moving in solemn stride. He began to think it was too late, when he saw movement to his right. Carlos and Devon shuffling through the line of people to their seats. Father Brimm stood on the outside, sternly looking on.

They sat next to him, both of their right hands hidden. He merely glanced at them, and they nodded, eyes soulful but their courage resolute.

So they’d managed to do it. Managed to emplace the blasting caps in the sockets and connect the detonators to the tubing running down their sleeves. They were now walking bombs.

He exhaled and a stir began in the audience. The Holy Father came forward, walking with an easy grace and smiling. Far back, almost hidden, Jacob saw the security men. Keeping their distance because of the solemnity of the ceremony, but there nonetheless. Swiss Guards on the right, and Vatican police on the left.

The Holy Father mounted the papal altar, then stood for a moment, surveying the audience. He said a few words, but Jacob was too far back to hear. Everyone bowed their heads and he realized it was a prayer. He copied, hearing the audience murmur a liturgy. They raised their heads, and the Holy Father said a few more words, then came down from the alter, taking a seat in the center chair of a row placed in front of the confessional at the base of the altar. The first line of boys stood, walking up to him one by one, each kissing his ring and moving aside.

Like a snake uncoiling, the line moved forward. Quicker than he’d imagined, their row stood up. Jacob looked at Carlos and Devon.

“It’s time.”

90

Omar crossed the bridge for Tiber Island, moving at a leisurely pace. He checked his watch, seeing he still had at least forty minutes before he would attack. He knew the Israelis were on to them, knew they understood an event was imminent, but also fully believed they had no idea where.

He honestly didn’t care if he killed a single soul, but knew he would have to in order to convince the authorities the attack had occurred. An explosion on an empty street wouldn’t do it. No, someone would have to die. Probably a great many someones.

The pope’s ceremony was set for 10:00 A.M., which meant the receiving line would be around nine thirty. All he had to do was set the explosives off before that time, and he could think of no better place than in the line of cattle trying to enter the Roman Colosseum. A hundred people or more, all waiting to feel the sting of his vest.

Omar walked past the obese, slovenly infidels, some taking pictures and others just sitting on benches because they were sick of dragging their bellies through the street. He couldn’t wait to make them taste fire. He foresaw a glorious future. The Islamic State was on the rise, and he intended to be a leader of it.

Passing across the island, he realized he couldn’t cut straight to the Colosseum, but instead would have to bypass the massive Roman Forum, adding time to his journey. He took a left on Via del Teatro di Marcello, picking up his pace.

*   *   *

Racing down the road in our little Fiat clown car, bouncing back and forth from Brett’s attempts at avoiding traffic, I was having a hard time holding the phone to my ear, but at least I was in the shotgun seat instead of crammed in the back. Not that it would have been a big deal now, since only Aaron was back there.

I said, “So you got someone to meet us? Someone who can get us in?”

Kurt said, “Yeah, I think so. You have to remember, this is going through cutouts. They think you’re Department of State, so don’t go Neanderthal on them. We still have the cover to think about.”

“Sir, really. We’re toting weapons, and we’re going to storm the shit out of that place. Can this guy coordinate with their security?”

“Yeah, yeah, they think you’re from the diplomatic security service for the ambassador. You can have the guns, but you don’t get the asshole attitude.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking. Only, “That’s fine. Where are we meeting him?”

“Right on Saint Peter’s Square. He’ll be standing by with an American flag on a stick.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No. Best we could do. There are about ten thousand people in that square.”

“We’re coming around the circle now. Did you get the word to the Vatican?”

“Yeah, we did, but it was slow. The ambassador is supposed to have a Vatican representative with him, but I’m not sure how much got through. They know there’s a threat, but that’s all I’ll promise.”

“Great.”

I saw a policeman waving us over and said, “We’re here. Gotta go.”

I hung up, telling Brett to pull over. I boiled out of the car and said, “I’m with the Department of State Bureau of Diplomatic Security. Looking for the US ambassador, because we’ve had a threat against our embassy.”

In no way did I want to mention a threat against the pope. That would guarantee I went nowhere. The cop’s eyes went wide, and he said, “I donno, I donno.”

On the outskirts of the square, outside of the barriers, I saw someone waving a US flag. I said, “That’s my contact. You can follow me, but I’m going there.”

Brett and Aaron exited, and we started walking, the cop talking into his radio. I saw he was Italian police, which meant he wasn’t part of the Vatican.