They allowed him to pass with a simple nod.
“We’ve still got some time before Da Vinci’s opens for lunch,” Angie said. “Let’s go inside St. Peter’s. I’d like to see it again.”
They had to go through metal detectors to enter the church, but everything that could set one off had long before been taken from them, so they proceeded with no trouble.
From the moment Angie crossed the portico to enter St. Peter’s, she was awed, as always, by the sheer size of the structure. The marble-and-gold-filled church was so massive that the people standing under its dome looked about a foot tall. The tomb of St. Peter was directly under the dome, but many other Popes and saints had been laid to rest in the basilica, both on the main floor and in grottoes below it. The body of Pope John XXIII was in a glass case for all to see. Many chapels lined the side walls, and statues were everywhere. Those placed on the walls were actually larger than the ones at ground level, to lessen the perspective of the height of the building. At the top of the walls, circling the entire church, were the words Jesus spoke to Peter, beginning Tu es Petrus . . . Each letter was six feet tall.
Angie didn’t walk toward the main altar, but immediately turned to the right. Before her, surrounded by a crowd and safely behind bulletproof glass ever since some madman attacked it with a knife, was Michelangelo’s Pieta.
Although she had seen it many times, she was transfixed for a long moment by the beauty of the Virgin Mary, her face that of a young woman, her clothes heavily draped, holding the body of her dead son across her lap. Angie had heard all the criticisms—Mary was depicted as too young, her body too large—but she understood what Michelangelo was doing in creating a face of serenity, acceptance, strength, and innocence.
Yet, even as Angie stood mesmerized by the beauty before her, something felt wrong. She turned her head slightly, half expecting to see the goateed man lurking near once again. He wasn’t there, but the feeling continued.
She drew in a deep breath, and turned all the way around.
The priest jumped back into the private staircase to the basement. He was still panting from his dash through the lower chambers and up to the public church area as he watched the two women. Earlier, the expression on the younger one’s face confirmed that she’d recognized him from Da Vinci’s.
Was it an accident, or had they tracked him here? In the restaurant last night he’d heard bits and pieces of their conversation as other diners left and the two finished the bottle of wine and got a little louder. Also, they probably hadn’t realized that another American was nearby and could understand their rapid-fire speech.
He’d been shocked by their conversation. From now on he had to be more careful.
Piccoletti stepped back into the shadows when the younger woman turned. She and her sister whispered together, their big brown eyes scanning the crowd and the massive church. He didn’t move, quite sure they wouldn’t spot him behind this pillar. When Bruno called last night to tell him about the Americans asking about him, he didn’t want to believe it.
Something elemental filled him as he watched Caterina Amalfi Swenson make her way from the church. His breathing quickened and he almost followed, but then stopped to cautiously eye the people around him. He had to be careful. He’d worked too hard for this, and far too long.
His mind raged against all that was happening. Against all that had gone wrong. He had to fix it. He would fix it, and no one was going to stand in his way.
His hands clenched in fury. “Why the hell are you here, Cat?”
Chapter 15
“Who’d kill an old lady like that?” Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara put his morning coffee on his desk, hung his suit jacket over the back of his chair, and rolled up his sleeves. “Who’d they think she was going to hurt? They could have threatened her, sent
“We’ve still got some time before Da Vinci’s opens for lunch,” Angie said. “Let’s go inside St. Peter’s. I’d like to see it again.”
They had to go through metal detectors to enter the church, but everything that could set one off had long before been taken from them, so they proceeded with no trouble.
From the moment Angie crossed the portico to enter St. Peter’s, she was awed, as always, by the sheer size of the structure. The marble-and-gold-filled church was so massive that the people standing under its dome looked about a foot tall. The tomb of St. Peter was directly under the dome, but many other Popes and saints had been laid to rest in the basilica, both on the main floor and in grottoes below it. The body of Pope John XXIII was in a glass case for all to see. Many chapels lined the side walls, and statues were everywhere. Those placed on the walls were actually larger than the ones at ground level, to lessen the perspective of the height of the building. At the top of the walls, circling the entire church, were the words Jesus spoke to Peter, beginning Tu es Petrus . . . Each letter was six feet tall.
Angie didn’t walk toward the main altar, but immediately turned to the right. Before her, surrounded by a crowd and safely behind bulletproof glass ever since some madman attacked it with a knife, was Michelangelo’s Pieta.
Although she had seen it many times, she was transfixed for a long moment by the beauty of the Virgin Mary, her face that of a young woman, her clothes heavily draped, holding the body of her dead son across her lap. Angie had heard all the criticisms—Mary was depicted as too young, her body too large—but she understood what Michelangelo was doing in creating a face of serenity, acceptance, strength, and innocence.
Yet, even as Angie stood mesmerized by the beauty before her, something felt wrong. She turned her head slightly, half expecting to see the goateed man lurking near once again. He wasn’t there, but the feeling continued.
She drew in a deep breath, and turned all the way around.
The priest jumped back into the private staircase to the basement. He was still panting from his dash through the lower chambers and up to the public church area as he watched the two women. Earlier, the expression on the younger one’s face confirmed that she’d recognized him from Da Vinci’s.
Was it an accident, or had they tracked him here? In the restaurant last night he’d heard bits and pieces of their conversation as other diners left and the two finished the bottle of wine and got a little louder. Also, they probably hadn’t realized that another American was nearby and could understand their rapid-fire speech.
He’d been shocked by their conversation. From now on he had to be more careful.
Piccoletti stepped back into the shadows when the younger woman turned. She and her sister whispered together, their big brown eyes scanning the crowd and the massive church. He didn’t move, quite sure they wouldn’t spot him behind this pillar. When Bruno called last night to tell him about the Americans asking about him, he didn’t want to believe it.
Something elemental filled him as he watched Caterina Amalfi Swenson make her way from the church. His breathing quickened and he almost followed, but then stopped to cautiously eye the people around him. He had to be careful. He’d worked too hard for this, and far too long.
His mind raged against all that was happening. Against all that had gone wrong. He had to fix it. He would fix it, and no one was going to stand in his way.
His hands clenched in fury. “Why the hell are you here, Cat?”
Chapter 15
“Who’d kill an old lady like that?” Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara put his morning coffee on his desk, hung his suit jacket over the back of his chair, and rolled up his sleeves. “Who’d they think she was going to hurt? They could have threatened her, sent
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