The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [44]
"Nothing like a low profile." Jack muttered to Adler.
"Don't sweat it. Every time I've come here it's been the same way. First time?"
"Yep. First time in Rome. I wonder how I've ever missed coming here - always wanted to, the history and all."
"A lot of that," Adler agreed. "Think we might make a little more?"
Ryan turned to look at his colleague. Making history was a new thought to him. Not to mention a dangerous one. "That's not my job, Scott."
"If this does work, you know what'll happen."
"Frankly, I never bothered thinking about that."
"You ought to. No good deed ever goes unpunished."
"You mean Secretary Talbot ?"
"No, not him. Definitely not my boss."
Ryan looked forward to see a truck scuttle out of the way of the motorcade. The Italian police officer riding on the extreme right of the motorcycle escort hadn't flinched a millimeter.
"I'm not in this for credit. I just had an idea, is all. Now I'm just the advance man."
Adler shook his head slightly and kept his peace. Jesus, how did you ever last this long in government service?
The striped jumpsuits of the Swiss Guards had been designed by Michaelangelo. Like the red tunics of the British guardsmen, they were anachronisms from a bygone era when it had made sense for soldiers to wear brightly-coloured uniforms, and also, like the guardsmen uniforms, they were kept on more for their attractiveness to tourists than for any practical reason. The men and their weapons look so quaint. The Vatican guards carried halberds, evil-looking long-handled axes made originally for infantrymen to unhorse armored knights - as often as not by crippling the horse the enemy might be riding; horses didn't fight back very well, and war is ever a practical business. Once off his mount, an armored knight was dispatched with little more effort than that required to break up a lobster - and about as much remorse. People thought medieval weapons romantic somehow, Ryan told himself, but there was nothing romantic about what they were designed to do. A modern rifle might punch holes in some other fellow's anatomy. These were made to dismember. Both methods would kill, of course, but at least rifles made for neater burial.
The Swiss guards had rifles, too, Swiss rifles made by SIG. Not all of them wore Renaissance costumes, and since the attempt on John Paul II, many of the guards had received additional training, quietly and unobtrusively, of course, since such training did not exactly fit the image of the Vatican. Ryan wondered what Vatican policy was on the use of deadly force, whether the chief of the guards chafed at the rules imposed from on high by people who certainly did not appreciate the nature of the threat and the need for decisive protective action. But they'd do their best within their constraints, grumbling among themselves and voicing their opinions when the time seemed right, just like everyone else in that business.
A bishop met them, an Irishman named Shamus O'Toole whose thick red hair clashed horribly with his clothing. Ryan was first out of the car, and his first thought was a question: was he supposed to kiss O'Toole's ring or not? He didn't know. He hadn't met a real bishop since his confirmation - and it had been a long time since sixth grade in Baltimore. O'Toole deftly solved that problem by grasping Ryan's hand in a bearish grip - "So many Irishmen in the world!" he said with a wide grin.
"Somebody has to keep things straight, Excellency."
"Indeed, indeed!" O'Toole greeted Adler next. Scott was Jewish and had no intentions to kiss anyone's ring. "Would you come with me, gentlemen?"
Bishop O'Toole led them into a building whose history might have justified three scholarly volumes, plus a picture book for its art and architecture. Jack barely noticed the two metal detectors they passed through on the third floor. Leonardo da Vinci might have done the job, so skillfully were they concealed in doorframes. Just like the White House. The Swiss guards didn't all wear uniforms. Some of the people prowling