The Templar Concordat by Terrence O'Brien Page A

same wet, pulpy mess. The Pope was gone, shredded by the blast at the very instant he held Catholicism’s most sacred symbol above his head. The Vatican Security Chief who tried to throw a blast blanket over the Pope was too late, and lay unconscious and bleeding behind the marble altar, saved by that same blanket.
    Callahan had just entered the doors of the Basilica when the explosion exited at an expansion rate of 26,500 feet per second. The blast picked him up and hurled him through the portico and down five steps until his face painfully crunched against something hard. Ibrahim’s oxygen bottles had burst into thousands of tiny shrapnels, and jagged metal shards mixed with the explosive ripped along the blast path. One small piece grazed his head.
    Mancini and the guards behind Callahan were below the level of the top step and were sheltered from the blast. They drew their weapons, ran in the front doors, and aimed pistols inside the church, scanning for secondary attackers following the bomb with bullets. Nothing. They were ready to engage the enemy, ready to protect the people in the Basilica, but the enemy had left the building. With no targets in sight, they holstered their guns and moved into the destruction.
     
    *     *     *
    Callahan tried to stand after the blast, but the ground kept moving. Each time he tried to stand, the ground moved again and he’d fall back. Why are those people running? Is mass over? Is the Pope finished? What about that bomb guy in the wheelchair? They shouldn’t run like that. Someone might get hurt. He tried to stand again and pushed up on both feet. Where did my gun go? Did the Hashashin take my radio? I’m supposed to protect these people. Is that smoke coming out of the church doors? I should call the fire department. They’ll know what to do.
    His head felt very large, and everything sounded very far away. The ground moved again and he fell forward. Maybe if I just lay here for a few minutes to clear …
     
    *     *     *
     “Bishop? Bishop? Bishop Santini, can you hear me?”
    Santini was dreaming of paper. All the pages of the books were blank. Blank? Where were the words? A library with blank pages?
    “Bishop, can you sit up?”
    The paramedic from the Carabinieri helped him sit. Then it all snapped back into focus. The fat man, Hammid, the gun, and the nun all rushed back. The medic helped him to a comfortable reading chair in the great hall.
    “Can you remember what happened, Bishop? Our strike team found you unconscious and handcuffed to that table.”
    Strike team? Why was a strike team in the library? “Why, we were robbed. A man with a gun, and he had a nun hostage, a nun with a tattoo of a frog on her ankle. Have you found her? I was handcuffed to the table and then they stuck me with a needle. Did you catch him?”
    “Bishop, you are the only one we have found here.” He shook his head. “No nun. No tattooed frog. You should rest.”
    The paramedic was stuffing his kit back together.
    “Pardon my haste, Bishop. Please consult your personal physician as soon as possible. But I think you can understand I have to get back out there. The strike teams aren’t finding any injured inside the buildings, and I can be more useful out there.”
    The strike team returned to the room, and the commander told him the library was safe and clear. He said they didn’t have time to look into the theft, but he would personally report it to his superiors. They couldn’t stay with all the problems outside.
    Santini was puzzled. “What are you all talking about?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t know. Of course, you’ve been in here.”
    When the paramedic told him what had happened at St. Peter’s, at the mass where he should have concelebrated with the Pope, where everyone on the altar had died, where he would have died, he felt immediate relief, guilt at feeling relieved, then nausea at the guilt. Was he lucky, or was he damned?
    That meant he was