The Devil Will Come Read Online Free Page B

the Pope’s slumped body from the wheelchair onto the rug and Zarilli was kneeling over his one and only patient.
    ‘It’s his heart,’ Zarilli mumbled. ‘There’s no pulse. I fear—’
    Cardinal Diaz cut him off. ‘No. He’s not dead! There’s time to administer Extreme Unction!’
    Zarilli began to protest but Giaccone cut him off and issued sharp orders to Fathers Bustamante and Diep who hurriedly fled the chapel.
    Aspromonte whispered to Diaz, ‘Under the circumstances, you can omit the prayers, even the Misereatur, and proceed to the Communion.’
    ‘Yes,’ Diaz said. ‘Yes.’
    Both Giaccone and Aspromonte helped Cardinal Diaz lower himself next to the Pope’s body where he knelt and said a silent prayer.
    The Pope’s secretaries ran back in with a tray of communion wafers and a red leather bag. Diaz took one of the wafers and said in a clear voice, ‘This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to His supper.’
    The Pope was unable to respond, but Aspromonte whispered what he would have said, ‘Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.’
    ‘The body of Christ,’ Diaz intoned.
    ‘Amen,’ Aspromonte whispered.
    Diaz broke off a small particle of wafer and placed it into the froth inside the Pope’s mouth. ‘May the Lord Jesus protect you and lead you to eternal life.’
    Zarilli was on his feet now, looking mournful, ‘Are you finished?’ he asked Diaz. ‘It’s over. The Pope has passed.’
    ‘You are wrong, doctor,’ the old cardinal said icily. ‘He’s not dead until the Cardinal Camerlengo says he’s dead. Cardinal Aspromonte, please proceed.’
    Everyone dropped back while Aspromonte took the leather bag from Father Diep and extracted a small silver mallet engraved with the Pope’s coat of arms.
    He fell to his knees and gently tapped the Pope’s forehead with the mallet, ‘Get up, Domenico Savarino,’ he said, using the name that the pontiff’s mother had whispered to him as a child, for it was said that no man would remain asleep at the sound of his baptismal name.
    The Pope remained motionless.
    Another tap. ‘Get up, Domenico Savarino,’ Aspromonte said again.
    The room was quiet.
    He tapped the Pope’s forehead with the mallet for the third and last time. ‘Get up, Domenico Savarino.’
    Aspromonte rose to his feet, crossed himself and loudly proclaimed the awful words: ‘The Pope is dead.’
    ‘The Pope is dead.’
    This time the words were uttered by a man speaking into a mobile phone.
    There was a pause and a deep exhalation. The man could almost hear the relief flowing from the other’s chest. Damjan Krek replied, ‘During Pisces. As predicted.’
    ‘Do you want me to proceed?’
    ‘Of course,’ Krek said sharply. ‘Do it tonight. Tonight is the perfect time.’
    As the man walked calmly through the Piazza St Pietro, he knew that K was correct. Tonight was the perfect time. As word of the Pope’s death spread within the Vatican, laity and clergy alike scurried to say a prayer in the Basilica, then rushed to their desks for the onslaught of work.
    The man was toting a black nylon bag, the kind used to shift tactical gear. If it was heavy no one would have known. Like those of a modern Atlas his prodigious shoulders looked like they could shift any weight. He wore a dark blue business suit with a small enamel pin in his lapel, his usual attire on most days. He was not handsome but his lean angularity and midnight hair turned heads quickly enough; he had always done well with the ladies.
    Instead of heading up the stairs of the Basilica he veered toward a non-public door leading to the Sistine Chapel. He picked up his pace and heard the night air whistling through his clenched teeth. He felt the SIG pistol lying tight against his heart and the Boker folding knife against his thigh. At the door, a Swiss Guard in ceremonial dress stood stiffly, bathed in floodlight. The