The Templar Throne (33 page)

Twenty-five seconds gone.

The field of vision clear: a three-quarters profile—not the best angle for the job but good enough.

The crowd responded once again:
Amen.

Thirty seconds gone. Through the telescopic sight Hancock saw the Pope visibly take a breath before beginning the third line of the blessing. His last breath.

Hancock fired.

The 2.75-inch, missile-shaped, sharp-nose round traveled the distance between Hancock and the target at a muzzle velocity of 3,350 feet per second in just a fraction over 1.5 seconds.

Hancock waited until he saw the impact, striking the pontiff in center mass, ripping through the chest wall and tipping the throne backward into the doorway of the balcony. Sure of his primary kill, Hancock then emptied the six- round magazine in an arc across the balcony, his object to create mayhem and as much confusion as possible. He succeeded.

With the task completed, he took the rifle down, laid it on the stone floor of the tower and took a few moments to clean up his brass and strip off the Tyvek suit. He put the shell casings into the pocket of his ski jacket, stuffed the Tyvek suit into his backpack and headed downward.

He had overestimated the time it would take for the return journey. Five minutes after beginning the downward trip, he reached the alley, locking the anonymous black door behind him. At six minutes, ahead of schedule, he climbed into his rental car and headed for the Rome Termini, the main railway station.

As he drove, he heard siren after siren heading for the Vatican, but no one paid him the slightest bit of attention. He arrived at the train station eleven minutes after the assassination and caught one of the frequent Leonardo Express trains to Fumincino Airport, where he caught a prebooked flight to Geneva on the oddly named Air Baboo, a short- haul company that used Bombardier Dash Eight turboprops.

The elapsed time from kill to takeoff was fifty- four minutes. By that time neither the Vatican Police nor the State Police had even established the direction the onslaught had come from, let alone any clue as to the identity of the assassin.

The job was done. The Pope was dead.

“Ironstone” had begun.