A soon as he felt the Colt clear his belt, he whirled as he lifted it. Over its muzzle he saw two astonished faces. One turned to crimson mush as the big gun bucked in Lang's grasp. The impact knocked the man into a spin and over the railing. There was a wet-sounding impact as he hit the floor below.

The roar of the.45, rolling up and down the stairwell like a departing thunderstorm, momentarily transfixed the men below. Someone yelled and a door slammed.

A spitting sound and something unpleasant buzzed past Lang's ear.

Using his other hand, Lang grabbed the gun arm of the remaining assailant above him on the steps and yanked him to the side as he stepped behind him.

Now he had a shield. Or so he thought.

There were the coughs of two silencers and the man went limp.

Lang was holding a lifeless body, one that had taken bullets meant for him.

The dead weight was pulling Lang off balance. He had the right gun for bluff and bluster but not marksmanship. All he could do was fill the air with lead and hope. He pointed the automatic in the general direction of the two remaining men and emptied the clip. Chips of plaster and stone filled the staircase like shrapnel. One man cursed and dropped his weapon to try to staunch a river of red coursing down his arm.

Lang would have bet the wound was inflicted by flying debris rather than accuracy with the heavy pistol.

The remaining man fled.

Lang looked around him. A stinking fog of gun smoke filled the staircase. Shell casings glittered on the stairs like a field of gold nuggets. The man he had held was stretched out headfirst, his arms reaching for a discarded weapon, a Beretta 9mm. Another dead at the bottom of the stairs. Blood made abstract patterns against the gray stone walls and stairs.

It wouldn't take the police force's resident rocket scientist to figure out what had happened and Lang was the only person left to question. He started down the steps as fast as his gimpy legs would go. The bottom was in sight when he heard the pulsating wail of sirens. From the sound of them, they would arrive at the front door about the same time he did.

Time for Plan B.

He turned and fled back upstairs.

Minutes later, the stairs became a busy place very quickly. A photographer was firing off a flash from every angle. Two men in uniform picked up shell casings, using a grease pencil to mark the location of each. A man in a suit was kneeling beside a body with its head pointing downstairs. Another put on latex gloves before picking up a Beretta.

Several more uniforms were standing to the side doing little but observing.

Inspector Manicci, in charge for the present, watched from the top of the staircase.

The assembly stopped as one as a priest came down the steps. No one observed that his cassock swept the steps rather than ended at the ankles or that the clerical collar was a size too big. The absence of the usual rosary was not noted. Instead, all of the men nodded politely with the courtesy toward the church shown by all Italians, whether churchgoing or not.

The priest stopped, shocked, at the sight of the dead man. Kneeling, he began reciting in Latin. No doubt a prayer for the dead. At first the men on the stairs exchanged uncertain glances. Then, one by one, they decided it was time for a cigarette break outside.

A few minutes later Deputy Chief Police Inspector Fredrico Hanaratti arrived, blue lights flashing on his dark blue Alfa Romeo. His driver parked squarely in front of the massive doors. No matter. No one was going to be leaving anytime soon. One of the uniforms escorted him inside, explaining what had been found so far.

And that some priest was slowing up the investigation.

The inspector hunched his shoulders and started up the stairs. He would put an end to this interference, priest or not.

Except there was no priest.

"Interview everyone in the building," Hanaratti ordered, "including the priest."

But he was not to be found.

Twenty minutes later, a deputy inspector reported the discovery of another, much smaller entrance/exit across the piazza. It lead onto another street.

Just inside the doorway were a clerical collar and a cassock.

Chapter Five

I.

Alitalia Flight 171

Between Rome and Atlanta

Four Hours Later

Lang luxuriated in the first-class seat as he accepted his second glass of champagne. Well, Spumante, a discrepancy more than compensated for by being able to actually extend his legs while he enjoyed it. The past few days hadn't exactly been the rehab his surgeon had recommended. Wriggling his toes in the thick airline-issue socks, he gazed down on the rugged Alpine region below, replaying his last hours in Rome.

After a hasty exit from Father Strentenoplis's apartment building and shedding priestly garb, he had headed back toward the Vatican, stopping only long enough to dump the.45 from the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele into the sluggish green Tiber.

He had not even considered returning to Viktor's to collect his passport. It was too likely the men he had encountered in the ghetto yesterday had observed him coming in or out of the building. That they knew about the priest only strengthened this supposition. He would need to find translation of the gospel elsewhere, preferably somewhere someone wasn't trying to kill him.

He had used his BlackBerry as he walked to call up Delta's stored number. With surprising accommodation, they booked him on that afternoon's flight on Alitalia.

He had no sooner disconnected than the device buzzed, this time showing his office number.

"Sara?"

"It's me, Lang. You all right?"

Just swell, Sara. Twice in as many days, somebody has tried to kill me. I've been forced to seriously burn one man, maybe crack the skull of another and shoot one more to death. I'm not forgetting being responsible for yet one more getting his throat slit and the disappearance of a priest. I'm a one-man plague, but I'm just peachy keen. "What's up?"

"I thought you'd like to know, a Larry Henderson called last night. Says he knows you. He's in the federal pretrial detention center in Macon on what I gather are a number of charges related to growing marijuana. He's got an arraignment in front of a magistrate coming up."

Larry Henderson.

The name was familiar but just out of his memory's reach. Lang was puzzled for other reasons, too.

"I'm still on medical leave of absence from the various courts, I don't practice outside the Atlanta area and I sure as hell don't defend dope dealers. None of this is news. What's special about this guy?"

"He said to remind you of your home in Lamar County."

It all came back to Lang like a yo-yo on a string. Shit! A real pain in the ass when you owe someone, really owe them, and they come around to collect. Especially when your own plate is full of assassins who want you dead.

On the other hand…

"Have someone tell Mr. Henderson I'll drive down to Macon tomorrow. Call and make arrangements with the Fed Bureau of Prisons people."

Lang terminated the call and made another, this one to Gurt.

"There's been a change of plans," he told her.

When he got back to the Vatican to throw his few clothes into his single bag, Francis was waiting for him. The priest was sitting on one of the twin beds, fingering the rosary in his lap.

"Lang, what have you gotten into?" were the first words he said.

"You already know as much as I do," Lang replied, crossing to the small closet and taking out a pair of slacks. "What brings this up?"

Francis hesitated before answering as though carefully constructing an answer. "That Greek Orthodox priest you asked to translate for you, the one visiting from Istanbul…"