in the sudden wash of light. Livia slipped on her sunglasses and fixed her hat. “Be casual,” she instructed, and stepped through a low archway into the Vatican Museum’s Galleria Clementina.
Thomas Kelly alternately beside and behind her, Livia wove through crowds of shuffling tourists, keeping up a hurried but informed commentary on the paintings, statuary, and artifacts they passed. She was a private tour guide steering a visiting priest through the treasures of the Galleria Clementina and then into the Museum of Pagan Antiquities, behind in their schedule but still focusing on the art as they rushed. No one seemed to notice them, not even the security guards strolling casually, protecting the art while not alarming the tourists. One of those officers was Noantri, a man Livia recognized. They exchanged the tiniest of nods. Could she count on him to stop the clerk if it came to that? She wasn’t sure; best not to chance it.
The clerk, of course, had found his way through the passage and was on their trail. He was two rooms behind them; Livia easily picked his footsteps out. Unlikely that he’d risk a confrontation in this crowd. He’d follow them, waiting for his chance. She heard him speed up as she and Thomas Kelly maneuvered through the crush of people and started circling down the bronze spiral staircase. As they reached the bottom, he took the first steps down. The same thick crowd that slowed them would hinder him, but still he’d be no more than a few seconds behind when they burst out into the bright, crowded piazza.
Burst they did, and as Livia feared, alarms began to shrill and clang when the notebook in her bag crossed the Vatican’s threshold. Cardinal Fariña’s parting gift, the new security system; she’d known it was a risk. Quick-walking beside her, Thomas Kelly blanched.
“Fifty people came out when we did.” She spoke low, keeping a merry smile, not looking at him or changing pace. “Forty-five of them look more suspicious than a middle-aged lady tour guide and a priest. Just stay with me.” Ignoring the alarms and the security guards now running through the crowd, she clasped Father Kelly’s arm again and took off striding past the gelato and torta carts.
Camera-draped tourists flowed through the piazza, swarming after colorful umbrellas and pennants on poles. They circled water- and trinket-sellers like feeding fish. At the curb, buses disgorged them and, more importantly, waited in patient lines to scoop them up again.
“What are you—”
“Shhh.” Livia scanned the crowd. The visored Taiwanese would do them no good, and the Americans were just arriving, but beyond, a group of mixed Europeans—Italians, Poles, and a gaggle speaking Greek—were loading onto a bright blue bus. “Come.” When they were close to the bus she slowed, waiting until the guide turned away to answer the inevitable question from the inevitable guidebook-thumbing tourist. “Now!” she said, and hopped onto the stairs and into the bus. The engine was already running. She moved through to the back, smiling at her fellow passengers as though they’d been together for days on this whirlwind tour of Italy. She’d found a seat and was looking through the window when Thomas Kelly dropped beside her.
“Are you crazy?” he demanded in a whisper.
She turned to him with a smile. He was red-faced and sweating. “You’re a tourist,” she said quietly. “Act like one.”
He dropped his voice. “Give me the notebook.”
“I will. I will, and you can replace it in the Library. But we need it first.”
“Need it for what? You can not just do that.” He was spluttering sotto voce. “Who are you?”
“A historian, as you are. We can’t talk now. Wait until we get where we’re going.”
“No. Give me the notebook or I’ll call the police.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will!”
The harried guide climbed the stairs. The driver left the door open for the last of the straggling
Thomas Kelly alternately beside and behind her, Livia wove through crowds of shuffling tourists, keeping up a hurried but informed commentary on the paintings, statuary, and artifacts they passed. She was a private tour guide steering a visiting priest through the treasures of the Galleria Clementina and then into the Museum of Pagan Antiquities, behind in their schedule but still focusing on the art as they rushed. No one seemed to notice them, not even the security guards strolling casually, protecting the art while not alarming the tourists. One of those officers was Noantri, a man Livia recognized. They exchanged the tiniest of nods. Could she count on him to stop the clerk if it came to that? She wasn’t sure; best not to chance it.
The clerk, of course, had found his way through the passage and was on their trail. He was two rooms behind them; Livia easily picked his footsteps out. Unlikely that he’d risk a confrontation in this crowd. He’d follow them, waiting for his chance. She heard him speed up as she and Thomas Kelly maneuvered through the crush of people and started circling down the bronze spiral staircase. As they reached the bottom, he took the first steps down. The same thick crowd that slowed them would hinder him, but still he’d be no more than a few seconds behind when they burst out into the bright, crowded piazza.
Burst they did, and as Livia feared, alarms began to shrill and clang when the notebook in her bag crossed the Vatican’s threshold. Cardinal Fariña’s parting gift, the new security system; she’d known it was a risk. Quick-walking beside her, Thomas Kelly blanched.
“Fifty people came out when we did.” She spoke low, keeping a merry smile, not looking at him or changing pace. “Forty-five of them look more suspicious than a middle-aged lady tour guide and a priest. Just stay with me.” Ignoring the alarms and the security guards now running through the crowd, she clasped Father Kelly’s arm again and took off striding past the gelato and torta carts.
Camera-draped tourists flowed through the piazza, swarming after colorful umbrellas and pennants on poles. They circled water- and trinket-sellers like feeding fish. At the curb, buses disgorged them and, more importantly, waited in patient lines to scoop them up again.
“What are you—”
“Shhh.” Livia scanned the crowd. The visored Taiwanese would do them no good, and the Americans were just arriving, but beyond, a group of mixed Europeans—Italians, Poles, and a gaggle speaking Greek—were loading onto a bright blue bus. “Come.” When they were close to the bus she slowed, waiting until the guide turned away to answer the inevitable question from the inevitable guidebook-thumbing tourist. “Now!” she said, and hopped onto the stairs and into the bus. The engine was already running. She moved through to the back, smiling at her fellow passengers as though they’d been together for days on this whirlwind tour of Italy. She’d found a seat and was looking through the window when Thomas Kelly dropped beside her.
“Are you crazy?” he demanded in a whisper.
She turned to him with a smile. He was red-faced and sweating. “You’re a tourist,” she said quietly. “Act like one.”
He dropped his voice. “Give me the notebook.”
“I will. I will, and you can replace it in the Library. But we need it first.”
“Need it for what? You can not just do that.” He was spluttering sotto voce. “Who are you?”
“A historian, as you are. We can’t talk now. Wait until we get where we’re going.”
“No. Give me the notebook or I’ll call the police.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will!”
The harried guide climbed the stairs. The driver left the door open for the last of the straggling
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