Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
D ILLENBURG , G ERMANY
C OTTON STARED THROUGH THE CRACK MADE BY THE PARTIALLY OPEN door into the priest hole and spotted a thin metal wire running from the panel back into the hidden compartment.
A trip wire?
Possibly.
He’d expected something. There had to be more security here than simply a remote location that no one would suspect as a secret repository. But cardinals could not be too overt with security since, after all, why would they need such measures? They supposedly lived a life of chastity and poverty as princes of the church. Most of them were bishops and archbishops, leading dioceses around the world. Some were merely titular bishops, officials within the Roman Curia. A small number were priests, recognized for their extraordinary service. The duties of a cardinal were in addition to those other responsibilities. Their selection came solely from the pope at his discretion, and their most solemn obligation was to elect a papal successor.
He’d done his homework and knew that Jason Richter was a German who’d first studied in Paris, then obtained a doctorate in theology from the University of Mainz. A learned man for sure but unskilled in economics or finance, which had made observers wonder why he was appointed to the commission that oversaw the Vatican Bank. Perhaps it was his connections? He’d served as a member of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith and as president of the Council of the Bishops’ Conferences of Europe. He entered the Curia upon his appointment as vice president of the Pontifical Council for the Laity, then as president of Pontifical Council Cor Unum. He’d also served as a papal envoy to hot spots around the world. The current pope counted Richter as a friend, which, more than anything else, explained his selection. The pope had once publicly called Richter a clever theologian . A comment that would surely come back to haunt, if a scandal ever broke. He knew that Richter had no idea he was under suspicion. Which should allow for an uneventful sneak and peek. So he focused on the trip wire and saw that it led downward into a leather satchel. The wire was attached to the door panel by a screw. Gently, he moved the hinged door inward just enough to create slack then reached in and unwound the wire from the screw, freeing it. That was probably the way Richter would gain access too, knowing the trap existed. With the phone’s light he further examined the gap and saw no more wires.
Okay. Here goes.
He opened the panel.
The space beyond was a rectangle about two feet deep and six feet high. Hell of a place for a person to hide. Like a vertical coffin. Just looking at it brought on a wave of anxiety. Tight spaces were not his favorite. He hated them. But he assumed hiding here was definitely better than the alternative, which would have been torture and death for those medieval priests.
He gently opened the top of the leather satchel and saw that the bag was full of neatly bound euros. Lots of them. The wire ran into one of the bundles on top. He knew what that was. A dye bomb. Normally used in bank robberies. Camouflaged as money and rigged to explode once a robber left the building, staining the bills, making them useless.
He carefully removed the bundle that accommodated the dye pack, laying it on the compartment floor. The wire was connected to a metal pin that, once withdrawn by opening the door, would have activated the booby trap. He was now able to further examine the money and saw it was all in crisp hundred-euro notes.
The intel had been correct.
He found his phone, snapped a few pictures, and sent them off to Stephanie Nelle.
Okay. Mission accomplished.
He replaced the satchel and re-inserted the dye pack. He re-attached the wire and closed the panel door, which clicked back into place. He was about to leave when he heard the growl of an engine, then the screech of brakes as tires grabbed pavement. He stepped over to the window and gazed down at the semicircular drive.
A police cruiser had arrived.
Doors opened and three uniformed officers emerged.
Through the open bedroom door he heard them enter the house. There’d been no door forced. Which meant they had a key. One of the explicit conditions of his assignment was that no one know that he’d been here, and he’d assured the Swiss Guard that this would not be a problem.
But it had just become one.
He stepped to the open bedroom door and peered out. Footsteps bounded upward. The officers came to the second-floor landing and turned up toward the third. They were definitely coming his way.
Had he triggered some sort of alarm?
Hard to say.
He shut the door and locked it.
One thing he’d never done was romanticize his work. As an intelligence officer he’d learned that the job was a constant struggle with three emotions. Uncertainty, fear, and, the worst, panic. Master those and your odds for success increased exponentially. Skills could be taught. But desire was innate. You were either born with it or not. And he was definitely born with it. He missed being a full-time Magellan Billet agent. Retirement, though welcomed, came with its limitations. Most of them were good. Some not so much. Thankfully, his usefulness remained and his actions generally met with success.
So be successful.
He rushed over to the window and opened it, easing himself out onto the narrow sill he’d noticed a few moments ago, wondering if his nearly fifty-year-old muscles could stand the strain. He kept his spine ruler-straight against the outer wall and fought hard not to tip forward. Thankfully, the sill was about ten inches wide and heights were never a problem for him. He reached the corner and stared down at the high-pitched roof of a wing that extended out from the main house ten to fifteen feet down. Steep. But an iron exhaust pipe protruded about halfway down. Could he snag it?
One way to find out.
He jumped, arms swinging to add momentum to the leap, hands reaching out for support that wasn’t there. He hit the slate feetfirst and his knees collapsed, fingers probing for a hold as his body slid downward. He threw all of his weight up through his hips and shoulders, swinging his legs in a scissors motion, arms stretched out, trying to slow the skid. His hands found the iron pipe and he grabbed hold, stopping his slide.
He faced downward toward the slate and lay still, allowing the blood to flow back to his extremities. Then rolled over. The sun moved in and out of clouds, casting harsh moving shadows. All he had to do was get off the roof. The window he’d escaped from was around the corner, out of sight. Four more windows faced him from the main wing, looking down.
One of them opened.
A policeman appeared, poking his upper body out.
And aimed a gun.