Shout in the Dark

This book was written in 2000 (although not published in the USA until 2005), and reflects the political, religious and international situation at that time. The story has not been updated, and therefore still takes place in 2000 (The Present). The only changes I have made in this North View Publishing 2015 edition are minor edits and small additions that make some things clearer, but do not change the plot or update the technology in any way. It is important to realize that it wasn't until later that websites like Facebook (2004) and Twitter (2006) became available to subscribers throughout the world, allowing users to spread information quickly and widely.

Although low resolution digital cameras were available in 2000, cell phones (also known as mobile phones) had no cameras, and were purchased for making phone calls -- when there was a phone signal. Frustratingly, for many of us today with our smartphones, getting a reliable signal when we need it can still be a problem!

The quotations in Observations, by Hermann Göring and Josef Goebbels from 1935 and 1936, are genuine, translated here from the German, as are the teachings of Adolf Hitler referred to later in the book. The quotations from the writings of Eusebius (260-340 AD) are taken from Eusebius of Caesarea Church History Book VII, Chapter 18 -- a genuine historical document..

Christopher Wright

2015

Observations

My Führer, we are unable to display our loyalty and affection to you through words. Our people, our whole nation, feel strong and happy because in you there has risen up not only the Führer of the Nation, but also the Savior of the Nation.

Hermann Göring, Reichstag President, Nuremburg 1935

The Führer appealed to the good instincts of the masses, not to the bad. His speech was like a magnet, drawing the blood and iron that still existed in the people.

Josef Goebbels, Reichsminister for Propaganda, 1936

Untold millions throughout the world know deep down that there is an intriguing and compelling personality behind the face of Adolf Hitler. Germans and non-Germans alike have been won over by the greatness that shines out from this man.

Josef Goebbels, Reichsminister for Propaganda, 1936

The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying, Hail, O king of the Jews! And they struck him in the face.

St John's Gospel, chapter 19, verses 2-3

I believe there is a plan for revenge that will ensnare the innocent as well as the guilty. A darkened web of evil. I beg you, Holiness, pray for the innocent.

Josef Reinhardt, Vatican Security Services

Chapter 1

Rome

THE DARKNESS SEEMED heavy, oppressive in the summer heat that filled the city that night. Marco held Anna tightly, as though afraid of losing her.

Marco Sartini, she scolded with a giggle, it's late and we have to get to the Metro.

Three men had been following them in the dark as they walked along the Via Sistina, towards the long flight of stone steps down to the Piazza di Spagna at the foot of the hill. Anna jumped in fright as one of the men threw a beer can noisily across the street. The group began to jeer at the embrace. Their language sounded like German.

Ignore them, Marco said. We're nearly at the station.

One of the men came closer and called out something that Marco did not understand. Then, "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"

Marco pretended not to hear.

The man raised his voice. "Lauter sprechen! All right, do ... you ... speak ... English?" he demanded.

A little, Marco volunteered warily.

This woman is Italian?

Yes.

That is good. Italian women all want one thing. He laughed loudly as he lurched forward and grabbed hold of Anna's arm, smirking. How would you fancy the three of us tonight, pretty woman?

As Marco tried to wrench the man off, the two men watching hurried forward and pinned him by the arms, holding him back.

Suddenly Anna kicked out, taking her captor by surprise. She ran quickly across the street, reaching the top of the Spanish Steps and the long descent to the piazza far below.

Marco heard her fall, the sudden stop of clattering shoes on the stone steps, the yell of enjoyment from her pursuer. He twisted violently in the hands of the two men holding him and they threw him to the ground. He lay there stunned, slowly becoming aware of the sound of a vehicle coming along the Via Sistina. It was a late night carabinieri patrol, but the vehicle drove past before Marco could stand up or even call out.

He dragged himself painfully to the top of the steps beneath the tall church of the Trinità dei Monti. The men had gone. He slid down one step at a time to where Anna lay sprawled, her long black dress pulled up to her waist. The men must have reached her as she lay defenseless. A small crowd was already running up from the Piazza di Spagna -- to watch, if not to help.

As he crouched helplessly beside the bright red pool forming in the dust around Anna's head, it seemed that a great stillness had fallen over Rome. He screamed a silent scream, pressing her hand to his lips. The smell of Anna's perfume would stay with him for ever.

The three men had returned to shout more abuse, more taunts from the stone balustrade where the Via Sistina overlooked the steps. Then they were gone.

Bastards! Marco shouted. You've killed my wife! He laid his head on Anna's stomach. O, God, and our baby.

A gust of wind caught one of the empty beer cans and sent it rolling across the broad sidewalk of the Via Sistina, towards the top of the steps. It tumbled over the edge, hitting each step in turn as it fell. It stopped where Marco knelt. He jumped to his feet and hurled it back to where the men had been standing.

Bastards like you deserve to die, he yelled into the blackness.

The Present

Chapter 2

Six years later

(The Present)

Rome, Piazza Venezia

Morning

TELL ME, FATHER Marco, do you believe in the devil?

Marco Sartini put his arm round Old Savio's shoulder. The unexpected question from the homeless man disturbed him. Asked the same thing yesterday, during the thunderstorm, Marco guessed he might have felt a shiver of fear at the probability -- the certainty. Today, wearing casual clothes with his new clerical collar, he smiled and tried to make a joke of it.

What do you want, Savio: a full theological answer? They often exchanged greetings by the roadside, but never had the questions been as deep as this.

The devil used to live in Europe, Father.

Marco looked at the man in surprise. Old Savio was sleeping rough somewhere near the remains of the Foro Romano. As usual he felt in his pocket for a few coins, aware of the deadness in Savio's eyes. You mean Hitler?

Hitler, Mussolini. The old man coughed vigorously. The devil Mussolini used to preach to us from the window over there. He cleared his throat and drew a soiled sleeve across his mouth. Then the unwashed hand waved towards the drab brown building of the Palazzo Venezia, with the single balcony extending over the sidewalk. Bony fingers caught hold of Marco's arm.

I believed him, Father. The old man coughed again, his eyes streaming. I was a Koch Fascist. You can't understand it today. I had a friend. There, that surprises you -- an old man like me with a friend. He continued to cough as he tried to laugh at his own humor. We raided churches in the war. Stole the gold and silver. My friend wanted forgiveness. He even went to work for Canon Levi. That sort of thing wasn't for me. Not then. But now? Yes, I want forgiveness now.

Marco wondered why Old Savio was wearing a coat on a day as hot as this. Filthy coats seemed to be part of a uniform for beggars, winter or summer. He remained silent as the sun blasted down on the busy piazza, overlooked by the glaring marble Vittoriano, the gigantic white wedding cake. Ruins and opulence, this was Rome, his home. Yes, long ago Germans had occupied the city -- until the Allies arrived with their tanks. The 1940s. A different century. A different millennium. School history had touched on it; his grandfather occasionally had some story to tell.

It was strange to think there were so many people still alive who had been involved in the wartime cruelty. Families, married couples like his grandparents, caught up as innocent victims. Men like Old Savio here, willingly taking part. There had been no neutrality. A few experts in European history said it could happen again, as immigrant workers took the jobs of those who could claim a national identity going back for generations.

You're right, Savio, there were many devils in the war.

Old Savio's grimy hand pinched more tightly. "But do you believe in the devil, Father?"

The only cloud in the sky started to pass across the sun as the old man spoke, and Marco fought back the feeling that this could be some sort of ill omen. Having lived through the Nazi occupation, Savio should know the answer to his own question from personal experience.

Marco nodded. Yes, I believe in the devil. I believe in Satan.

But Old Savio was becoming agitated. It wasn't only gold and silver we stole. We took holy relics. Important relics.

How important, Savio? Marco noticed the deep veins showing through the ingrained dirt on the man's scarred face.

Important to the faith, Father.

Marco laughed. Surely faith is more important than any relic.

It was a clever answer. No, it was stupid. Even as he spoke he felt angry with himself. It might have been a good answer on an exam paper at the seminary, but it was a pathetic response to a confused inquirer in the street. He reached out and touched the old man; hugged him for a brief moment. The people passing by turned their eyes away, deliberately, in embarrassment.

Marco looked up, and in black outline against the bright sky he could see the balcony on the side of the Palazzo Venezia. He could imagine Mussolini standing, arm raised in salute while the crowd in the piazza yelled and clapped and shouted in hysteria. Television sometimes showed film clips. Old Savio must have stood here with the crowds. Other priests had lived in those times of shame.

The relic they're showing on television tonight, Father. Old Savio pulled at his coat as though Marco had untidied it with his touch. They say it could shatter the Christian Church.

Marco shrugged. I doubt it. The Vatican only found it recently -- on a dusty shelf. Then he grinned in an attempt to lighten the situation. I hope it isn't one you stole. I've been invited to join the studio audience at TV Roma!

Old Savio gripped him again anxiously. No, not that one. But I stole a lot of things. Can I have forgiveness, Father Marco?

Marco ignored the plea. I wish I could have found that relic. Imagine presenting the Vatican with a discovery like that.

It used to belong to Canon Levi -- years ago, before the neo-Fascists murdered him. My friend ran around for him in Vatican Archives, fetching and carrying heavy books. He had to leave when the Canon was killed. I'll bet you didn't know Canon Levi had a secret daughter. Old Savio smiled slyly. About your age, she'd be. Maybe the two of you should get together.

Marco shook his head, but returned the smile briefly. Canon Levi was now just a name from the past.

Old Savio coughed loudly as he tried to laugh. The affair cost Canon Levi his job in the parish. That's why they pushed him into Archives. Had to get him out of public view to save a scandal.

The car appeared from nowhere, its tires screaming on the polished road surface. It was coming too fast for the bend into the Piazza Venezia, and the driver was clearly in trouble. In a moment of panic Marco Sartini could see exactly what was going to happen. He put his hand out to grab hold of the old man, to pull him to safety.

Old Savio glanced up but ignored the approaching Alfa. Help me find forgiveness, he whispered urgently.

Marco tugged at Savio's jacket, gripping the filthy threads between his fingers as the car mounted the sidewalk. The sleeve was torn from his fingers with the impact.

As a crowd gathered, Marco bent over the lifeless form. He must pray for peace for Savio's soul. He felt a rush of tenderness and lowered his head to Savio's chest. A stench of urine and unwashed clothing rose from the hot ground, making him want to turn away, but he rested his head on the body. Rejected in life, Savio would not be rejected in death. Something had been on the vagrant's conscience from the war.

Marco Sartini spoke into the blood-soaked ear. You wanted God's forgiveness, but I ignored you. Forgive me. And he began to cry.

The driver of the rusting Alfa, scarcely more than a boy, stayed in the car and stared out at the bloodstained corpse. For a moment it wasn't Old Savio on the ground, it was Anna, and he was crouching helplessly by her side in the darkness on the Spanish Steps. A terrible reminder of Anna's death six years ago had returned to haunt him.

Marco jumped up and strode towards the driver, his tears quickly forgotten. "You stupid fool! He wrenched open the door and grabbed the kid by the shoulders. As he dragged him from the seat he began to shake him furiously. You've killed that old man."

As he spoke, he realized that this must be the most useless start in the priesthood anyone had made. Perhaps his jeans and casual clothes were an attempt to conceal his new role in life. Why else had he used it as a disguise for his clerical collar? Until this moment he'd not realized just how much grief and anger there was still inside. Bitterness even now that burned towards the drunken gang who had killed his wife.

Leave him, Father. The smelly old fool's dead, a woman shouted from the small crowd. We've already phoned for the emergency services.

Marco turned to the terrified kid from the Alfa who was being sick in the gutter. I'm sorry ... sorry I shouted at you. Here, wipe your mouth with this.

He passed over his handkerchief and recalled Savio's unanswered plea. Help me find forgiveness. Why had the man left it so late? Seminary never prepared you for real life. Today should have been a time of meditation, of preparation for the coming years of service in the Church. Three years of theological training, of hard work, and what answer had he been able to give an old man?

The war was long over, but evil lived on. Evil was a great survivor. He stared down at Savio.

My name is Father Josef Reinhardt. Where is your parish, Father, Father...?

Marco was closing Old Savio's eyes and looked up in surprise as someone tapped him on the shoulder. Father Marco. Marco Sartini, he responded quickly. An elderly man wearing clerical black had come forward from the chattering crowd. I don't have a parish yet, Marco explained, realizing with relief that experienced help was at hand. I'm due to start at my first one next month.

Do I take it that you are only just ordained, Father Marco?

He nodded. I entered the priesthood late.

Father Josef Reinhardt shook his hand, and the hold was warm and comforting. You seem to be coping well. I will let you speak to the paramedics, Father Marco. Perhaps we can talk for a few minutes when this is over.

Could you please tell me...?

But the old priest was already on his way back to join the people watching.

Marco shook his head as he hurried back to the body of Old Savio. An ambulance had just arrived. You're wrong, Father Josef, he called back over his shoulder. I didn't do well. This man wanted forgiveness. I didn't help him. I wasn't listening. All I did was talk about relics.

A carabinieri siren wailed in the Via dei Fori Imperiali. The full emergency services were on their way. This patch of instant death would soon be swept and hosed clean. Marco shook his head slowly. And things had been going so well lately.

Chapter 3

Rome

Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore

Afternoon

JOSEF REINHARDT shifted uneasily at his desk. What would his colleagues say if they could see the hesitation? That old Father Reinhardt, the fearless Nazi hunter, was reluctant to sacrifice a young priest? This was foolishness indeed. With a steady hand he drew a circle of red, like a sentence of death, around the name he had just written on the paper. Marco Sartini, a priest with a declared interest in relics. It had surely not been chance that had allowed them both to meet for the first time this morning.

The traffic in the Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore disturbed his concentration and he went across the room to press the old window firmly shut. The mixture of car engines and frantic horns still penetrated the thin glass, making it vibrate. Reinhardt felt helpless as he returned to his desk and fingered the heavy cross of rosewood and silver hanging from his neck. His was an agonizing decision. But surely the loss of Sartini's life was nothing compared to the consequences of failure. A fascist Shrine of Evil. It must be prevented, even if it meant the destruction of what could be the most powerful relic held by the Church. And the loss of Sartini's life.

The name inside the circle of red ink glared up at him in piercing accusation. Sartini, a young man unknown to these forces of evil. The innocent dying to save the world. The old man smiled grimly. It was hardly a new concept -- it was the cornerstone of the Church.

Like Pontius Pilate at the trial of Jesus, he had the power to grant freedom -- or order crucifixion. The sudden awareness of this fact gave him no pleasure. Reinhardt reached for the telephone. The Holy Father must be informed of the choice of Sartini immediately.

"It is not a question of if I see the Holy Father today, Vittorio, it is a question of when. Reinhardt sighed, aware that he was raising his voice to the Holy Father's private secretary. Immediately," he added, with no hint of apology.

As he waited, Reinhardt stared thoughtfully at the confidential staff folder on his desk. Would the Vatican turn its eyes away -- again -- and allow the fascists to change the face of Europe? Marco Sartini, age twenty-nine, and only recently ordained. There was a suggestion that Amendola had tried to block the ordination. This was, perhaps, not surprising. Reinhardt allowed himself a smile as he read Cardinal Amendola's prim wording in a letter of objection that he had wanted put on record: Sartini, a young man who once had a certain reputation with the girls.

He continued through the notes. Here was a choirboy who had walked away from the Church at thirteen. Wasted teenage years, a succession of young women, then a stable, happy marriage to Anna Sartini. Anna Sartini, killed six years ago in Rome while being chased by a group of drunken tourists late at night, only two years into the marriage. Reinhardt turned the page. Marco Sartini a widower at twenty-three: a secondhand car salesman, drug user, and survivor. He shook his head wearily.

Vittorio, please be as quick as you can. The matter is extremely urgent. He closed his eyes and tried to remain patient. It was clear from Berlin that the neo-Fascists were about to mount a display of worldwide importance. Did someone have eyes on the Vatican's newly rediscovered relic? As in the years leading up to the war, the people of Europe could again be drawn and then seduced by exciting promises from a powerful leader.

"Thank you, Vittorio, this evening at the Pope's private suite. Yes, you may indeed assure the Holy Father I will not be wasting his time."

He picked up the email that his contact in the civilian security services had intercepted and decoded. It was being sent by the neo-Fascist ADR movement in Berlin to their base in London. Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung. The encryption was minimal. The group seemed to be getting careless.

INTERCEPTED EMAIL COMMUNICATION

The Russians have agreed to sell us the two fragments that they claim are from the skull of Adolf Hitler. Please arrange for our colleagues in Oxford, England, to prepare for DNA testing. I am confident we can prove that the Russian fragments are from the same person as the larger, but partially burned portion of the Führer's skull already in our possession.

Although these three pieces are obviously insufficient to allow us to reconstruct a complete head of the Führer, I have commissioned an internationally famous artist to create a life-size bust of great realism, using a skilful blend of bone and clay.

We will one day be able to put the bust of the Führer on public display, possibly in Berlin -- for the glory of the ADR and the unity of the pure people of the world.

*

The Vatican

Evening

JOSEF, IT WOULD be most unwise to stop TV Roma's live broadcast on the relic tonight, and probably impossible. They are a powerful organization, and could cause us considerable harm with adverse publicity if we let them down.

The Pope's serious expression turned to an embarrassed smile. Please sit down, Josef, he continued. You make me uncomfortable as you pace the room. This carpet is three hundred years old, and since we began our talk I do believe you have added at least a decade of wear!

Josef Reinhardt sat down reluctantly. He had been pacing the deep red carpet for almost thirty minutes. As head of Vatican Security Services I should have been consulted on the security of this relic from the start, he protested. You should not risk lending it to TV Roma. Not even for five minutes. Reinhardt stood up, realized what he had done, and sat down again.

Then you know something, Josef? the Pope continued.

There is a German organization, Holiness. Reinhardt chose his words carefully, attempting to cause maximum impact. It is led by a man who uses the code name of Phönix. I have seen some of the neo-Fascist ADR's intercepted emails, and it appears they have managed to collect three fragments of Hitler's skull. They intend to embed these fragments into a bust of the Führer and display it in Berlin.

The Pope shook his head in distaste. I cannot imagine such a thing. Surely a display of Hitler would be illegal.

Rebuilding the head of Hitler may not be a criminal act in itself, Holiness. The Führer's effigy is legally on display in waxworks around the world.

But a shrine, a place where racial hatred is taught, would not be allowed by the European constitution.

Never underestimate the power of the neo-Nazis, Holiness. I am sure they have a plan to circumvent the law.

Tell me, Josef, what size are these fragments?

Reinhardt took his pen from the inside pocket of his black jacket and made a rough sketch of a man's head on a sheet of notepaper on the desk. Two of the fragments go here ... and here. He indicated two jagged patches each the size of an egg just above the forehead. And a much larger piece containing the left eye socket and cheekbone goes here.

The Pope glanced at the drawing before turning away. He swallowed. What makes you think that people would flock to see fragments of this man's skull?

Reinhardt sighed. The Church has used such a device for centuries, Holiness. What draws the people to the site of a saint's burial? Is it the marble statue? Or is it a glimpse of the bones?

The Holy Father reflected on this for a moment. But the bones of the saint are good, and the bones of the Führer are surely evil.

Reinhardt nodded. Some would say that goodness and evil depend on the viewpoint of the onlooker.

The Pope managed a smile. Goodness is absolute, Josef, and well you know it. But what is the link between this sickening object and our first century bronze head of Jesus Christ?

There may be no link. Reinhardt tried to move his shoulders but his body felt trapped by the luxurious padding of the large armchair. In spite of his age he preferred standing -- and pacing.

Josef, you must not try to deceive me. Tell me what you know.

He nodded slowly. I have heard that one of the ADR fascist team is marching to a different tune. Reinhardt was aware that he had the Holy Father's full attention. An ADR man is boasting in private that he will give Europe an experience the Church has never been able to offer. I can think of only one way he could achieve this.

By using the bronze head of Christ? The Pope thought for a moment, weighing up the prospect. Impossible. The fascists lost their opportunity in the war. He sighed noisily. But I can see the power it would have given them had they obtained it in the nineteen thirties. They would have remodeled the facial features. The nose especially. Christ's supposed Aryan ancestry would have been falsely proven. Do you remember how German artists subtly changed the paintings on the walls in Schleswig cathedral in the nineteen thirties?

Lothar Malskat was to blame for that. And the Feys, of course. I was only a boy at the time. Reinhardt jumped to his feet and walked the length of the room. Then he turned. The neo-Fascists could destroy the peace in Europe with their pernicious magic. He strode to the darkened window. But when I first warned the Vatican, my voice was received in silence. He tried not to make his words sound like an accusation, but suspected he had done exactly that.

The Pontiff nodded. A lone voice crying in the wilderness? He smiled fleetingly. You, a man with a lifetime of danger; a one-time member of the Hitler Youth and a supporter of the Nazi Party? I regret I can find little enthusiasm within the Vatican for a battle with neo-Nazis in the new millennium.

At times like this I feel powerless, responded Reinhardt bitterly. I met Adolf Hitler personally. The German Führer came to our house to see my father several times in Berlin. The man was obsessed with the occult. He frightened me. But a greatness shone out from him that I cannot explain. Yes, a bust containing parts of his skull would have a fascination, even for me. But it is the bronze head of Christ that would provide an even greater attraction to the world.

The Pope smiled reassuringly. Then we can rejoice that it is safe with us here at the Vatican.

Safe in the Vatican, but will it be safe at TV Roma?

You are over-reacting, Josef. The news you have brought me this evening is only from one source -- the contact you have in the secular anti-terrorist group in Rome. Do you consider this man's intelligence reliable?

He believes a splinter group of the neo-Fascist ADR movement could be planning to shake our little set-up to its foundations -- within days. Reinhardt shrugged. Those are his words, Holiness, not mine. A Church with a membership of more than a billion. Our little set-up!

The Pope held his hands open, and the sweeping folds of white gave Reinhardt a little of the comfort he desperately needed. There was no smile now. Tell me, Josef, as head of this 'little set-up', what do you want me to do?

Reinhardt had his back to the window and the view of the empty courtyard. This was not the time for Vatican protocol. The Holy Father's question was direct, and the reply would therefore be blunt. Holiness, it is obviously too late for us to stop tonight's live broadcast. But you should insist that TV Roma makes all future programs about the relic from within the boundaries of the Vatican. Security at their studios may be weak. The neo-Nazis tried to steal it from Canon Levi nearly twenty years ago.

And failed.

Indeed. Reinhardt sighed. But they managed to kill Canon Levi in the attempt.

Every step we make in life involves a degree of danger, Josef. Tell me about this ADR movement.

"Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung, literally Eighteen Germany Purification."

Is that Eighteen as in the British neo-Nazi group Combat Eighteen, Josef?

Indeed, yes. Eighteen: one and eight, A and H.

The initials of Adolf Hitler, said the Pope quietly. But I understand the ADR is not a youth movement.

The Holy Father seemed remarkably well informed on the current neo-Nazi groups. Quite so, Holiness. The movement has been around since the nineteen eighties, but it now appears to be run by powerful politicians and influential businessmen. The ADR has an extensive network.

You're putting me in an impossible position, Josef. The people have been clamoring for a sight of the bronze head since its rediscovery in the Vatican. The Holy Father smiled confidently. And that is why the Vatican has agreed to show it to them through TV Roma.

This was not the answer Reinhardt sought. He looked at his footmarks showing on the crimson carpet, and tried without much success to stand still. Holiness, could the public stay away if the face of Jesus Christ was on show? If the fascists display the bust of Christ alongside the head of Hitler, they will draw more visitors than all our cathedrals and churches combined.

Reinhardt could hear a sound outside the closed door. Vittorio, the private secretary, must be dropping a strong hint to the Holy Father about the passing time. The Pope chose to ignore the man.

It is your responsibility to deal with this evil, Josef. What do you intend to do to counter any move by the ADR against the Church?

Reinhardt shrugged. We could try shouting at the devil. Shouting into the darkness. See what comes out.

I trust you have a more sophisticated plan than that.

Reinhardt hesitated, aware of the enormity of the decision he had already made. More detailed, but scarcely more advanced. I have this afternoon selected ... selected someone in the Church. A man. A man to put his head up to be shot at, Holiness.

People who put their heads up usually get them shot off. Do I know this man?

His name is Sartini. I met him this morning for the first time. He is a priest just out of seminary. It is essential that we identify the parties in this conspiracy before we can act. I believe Sartini would make ideal bait to draw them into the open.

Sartini? The Holy Father frowned. I cannot say I know the name. I trust you intend to make him fully aware of his function ... as bait?

No.

No?

Reinhardt caught hold of the Holy Father's arm, disregarding all convention and etiquette, his voice tense. Sometimes the innocent will draw the enemy, so that he can be caught unawares. There is a country saying I remember from my boyhood: if you want to catch a wolf, you may have to lose a rabbit.

The Holy Father's eyes flashed briefly with a natural energy. Placing a hand on each side of his head he pointed upwards, laughing. Marco Sartini is a rabbit?

With long ears? Far from it, Holiness. Like all good sayings one must not look too closely at the words. Rest assured, Sartini is a survivor. I have seen his records. However, in the end we may have to accept...

The laughter stopped abruptly. You will put his life at risk, Josef?

As you said just now, Holiness, every step we make in life involves a degree of danger.

Then we must pray to the Lord for his safety.

Reinhardt nodded. I have done so constantly, since I met him this morning. I believe there is a plan for revenge that will ensnare the innocent as well as the guilty. A darkened web of evil with a powerful man at its center. I beg you, Holiness, pray for the innocent.

The Pope closed his eyes. How old is Sartini?

Twenty-nine, and I believe he still has both his feet firmly on the ground.

Both feet? The Holy Father's smile was back in place. Then he must indeed be a young priest in a million!

A sharp knock at the door interrupted the conversation. "You really