Wisps of smoke trailed all around them, some of it drifting down around the floats of the beached airplane and out over the river. “Unless he gets to a hospital, he is going to die.” Akurgal ignored the blood dripping from his own torn ear where the bullet had clipped him, but there was no ignoring the wounds to Cornwell’s shoulder and right side. There was blood everywhere, and the blood on the Englishman’s side was dark and arterial—probably from his liver.
“Dear Christ, get me out of here,” whispered Cornwell, his eyes pleading, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
“Come with me,” said Rogov to Akurgal. The two men walked down to the beach and looked back up toward the trail. He kept his voice low. “If we take him back to Bartica, not only will we have to answer awkward questions about how he was shot, but we will lose Holliday and any chance of finding Fawcett’s treasure.”
“He will die if we leave him here,” Akurgal said.
“He might die anyway,” said Rogov. “We cannot wait on this forever.”
“No,” said Akurgal. “This is true.”
“Then we are agreed?”
“Yes.”
They went back up to Cornwell. The bleeding was even worse now, but he was still conscious.
“What are you doing?” Cornwell groaned as the huge Turk gathered the much smaller man into his arms. He took him thirty feet or so down to the edge of the river while Rogov, following, rummaged around in his pack.
“Taking you to the hospital, of course,” answered Akurgal. “Mr. Rogov has to prepare the aircraft for you.” He laid the injured Englishman down in the mud and stood back.
Rogov screwed the TROS Diplomat-II suppressor to the HK P9S from his pack and shot Cornwell twice in the face. His nose and mouth disintegrated, and the back of his head blew out into the mud. Together Rogov and Akurgal dragged the body into the water and pushed it into the current.
• • •
Cardinal secretary of state Arturo Bonnifacio Ruffino sat at the long table in the conference room of the euphemistically and somewhat evasively named Institute for the Works of Religion—popularly and more accurately known as the Vatican Bank—and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t quite a typical ceiling for a bank; in fact, most shareholders in an ordinary bank would have tossed out the CEO for wasting so much money on a space with such a poor location. The Vatican was housed in the Apostolic Palace in a building that once served as a jail for heretics and other nonsecular prisoners. Fast-forward several hundred years, and the ceiling of what was now used as a conference room was a good runner-up to the Sistine Chapel for exuberant decoration.
A single gigantic allegorical painting stretched across the ceiling, showing the Virgin Mary somewhat improbably wearing a papal tiara and holding a model of a church. Another holy lady offered the mother of Jesus a gold plate laden with crowns, a gold chain and an honorific decoration. In the background, Neptune emerged from the sea on a chariot, while in the foreground a snake wound its way through a patch of mushrooms.
The cardinal could figure most of it out, all except the mushrooms. The only time mushrooms appeared in the Bible was in Exodus when manna from heaven was being described, but a snake in the manna? It didn’t seem like much of an allegory.
The marble table was almost as ornate as the ceiling—intertwining vines and snakes, women carrying vases and floral motifs. It was twenty feet long, seven feet wide and was actually a leftover slab of flooring from the Siena Cathedral. Around the table were thirteen men, including the president of the Vatican Bank, the vice president and the chief financial officer, as well as accountants and members of the cardinal’s oversight committee. There was a fourteenth chair at the far end of the table reserved out of respect for the Holy Father, but as far as anyone knew he’d never occupied it.
“So, Cardinal Ruffino, how
“Dear Christ, get me out of here,” whispered Cornwell, his eyes pleading, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
“Come with me,” said Rogov to Akurgal. The two men walked down to the beach and looked back up toward the trail. He kept his voice low. “If we take him back to Bartica, not only will we have to answer awkward questions about how he was shot, but we will lose Holliday and any chance of finding Fawcett’s treasure.”
“He will die if we leave him here,” Akurgal said.
“He might die anyway,” said Rogov. “We cannot wait on this forever.”
“No,” said Akurgal. “This is true.”
“Then we are agreed?”
“Yes.”
They went back up to Cornwell. The bleeding was even worse now, but he was still conscious.
“What are you doing?” Cornwell groaned as the huge Turk gathered the much smaller man into his arms. He took him thirty feet or so down to the edge of the river while Rogov, following, rummaged around in his pack.
“Taking you to the hospital, of course,” answered Akurgal. “Mr. Rogov has to prepare the aircraft for you.” He laid the injured Englishman down in the mud and stood back.
Rogov screwed the TROS Diplomat-II suppressor to the HK P9S from his pack and shot Cornwell twice in the face. His nose and mouth disintegrated, and the back of his head blew out into the mud. Together Rogov and Akurgal dragged the body into the water and pushed it into the current.
• • •
Cardinal secretary of state Arturo Bonnifacio Ruffino sat at the long table in the conference room of the euphemistically and somewhat evasively named Institute for the Works of Religion—popularly and more accurately known as the Vatican Bank—and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t quite a typical ceiling for a bank; in fact, most shareholders in an ordinary bank would have tossed out the CEO for wasting so much money on a space with such a poor location. The Vatican was housed in the Apostolic Palace in a building that once served as a jail for heretics and other nonsecular prisoners. Fast-forward several hundred years, and the ceiling of what was now used as a conference room was a good runner-up to the Sistine Chapel for exuberant decoration.
A single gigantic allegorical painting stretched across the ceiling, showing the Virgin Mary somewhat improbably wearing a papal tiara and holding a model of a church. Another holy lady offered the mother of Jesus a gold plate laden with crowns, a gold chain and an honorific decoration. In the background, Neptune emerged from the sea on a chariot, while in the foreground a snake wound its way through a patch of mushrooms.
The cardinal could figure most of it out, all except the mushrooms. The only time mushrooms appeared in the Bible was in Exodus when manna from heaven was being described, but a snake in the manna? It didn’t seem like much of an allegory.
The marble table was almost as ornate as the ceiling—intertwining vines and snakes, women carrying vases and floral motifs. It was twenty feet long, seven feet wide and was actually a leftover slab of flooring from the Siena Cathedral. Around the table were thirteen men, including the president of the Vatican Bank, the vice president and the chief financial officer, as well as accountants and members of the cardinal’s oversight committee. There was a fourteenth chair at the far end of the table reserved out of respect for the Holy Father, but as far as anyone knew he’d never occupied it.
“So, Cardinal Ruffino, how
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