“Camouflage,” Lazarus said, walking beside him. “They’re hiding in plain sight.”
Pierce didn’t know if that was a good thing. He had expected Cerberus Headquarters to be a walled compound, ringed with razor wire, patrolled by uniformed guards with machine guns and dogs. If it had been, he would have brought a squad of Aegis operators, armed to the teeth with all the latest military specs. But for sneaking into a secret basement in a 1,900 year-old castle-turned-museum, less was better, or so Lazarus had assured him.
“Just the two of us,” the big man had said. “Stealth will serve us better than overwhelming force.”
If Kenner was to be believed, most of the Cerberus staff had perished in the sinkhole. Only a token force had remained behind with the head of Cerberus, a man that Kenner had identified as Pollux Tyndareus.
Kenner had not been able to tell them much about Tyndareus, aside from the fact that he was extremely old and very interested in exploiting exotic scientific discoveries for profit. The name was almost certainly an alias, but Dourado had been unable to learn anything about the man, or who he might really be.
As Pierce approached the entrance to the Castel, a museum attendant rushed to intercept him. “The museum is closing, signore. No more tickets today.”
“I’m here to see the director,” Pierce replied, his Italian perfect, his manner imperious. “I have an appointment.”
The attendant stared at Lazarus with undisguised skepticism. Both he and Pierce wore loose fitting jackets, which concealed both body armor and weapons, but Lazarus had added a baseball cap, with the bill pulled down low to conceal the scars on his face. The wounds had healed with astonishing rapidity, but even with the tiger-stripe pattern of new pink skin hidden from view, his size alone made him stand out in a crowd. “Both of you?”
“Say that he’s your consigliere,” Dourado suggested in Pierce’s ear. “Like Sil in The Sopranos.”
Pierce ignored her. “Yes. Both of us.”
The attendant shrugged and waved them through.
They passed through the gateway and entered the open walkway that separated the outer walls from the main fortress. Dourado had loaded the blueprints into their phones, along with turn-by-turn instructions to get them to the locked door that would access the secret basement levels under the building, but Pierce did not need to consult them. He knew the place like the back of his hand, and not just because he had studied the maps during the final leg of their flight. Pierce had been here before.
It had been years since his last visit, but one thing about a city like Rome, where you couldn’t throw a Frisbee without hitting a historically significant landmark, was that nothing really ever changed. But as he was fond of telling his students, even in an old place, you can still find something new.
They passed through a long corridor with walls of travertine blocks, through the atrium, where a statue of the famed Roman emperor Hadrian had once stood, and descended the ramp that led to his tomb. Their destination lay along that route, beneath a sign that read: ascensore.
Elevator.
The lift was a relatively new addition to the Castel. It was only three hundred years old, installed by Pope Clement XII in 1734. In addition to being the Vatican’s Death Row for several centuries, Castel Sant’Angelo was also a secondary papal residence, connected to Vatican City by a half-mile long aboveground tunnel called the Passetto di Borgo. Clement XII, one of the oldest men ever to be elected as pontiff, had been a forward thinker with respect to accessibility.
The elevator had been upgraded since its installation. Now it looked like a relic from the early 1900s. Pierce and Lazarus waited until the corridor was empty before opening the door and moving into the waiting cage-style car. Pierce slotted a skeleton key into the control panel, and then turned the manual control wheel to the left. Beyond this point, they would have no communication with Dourado. No way to call for help.
As the car descended, Lazarus opened his jacket and readied his MP5K. “Remember why we’re here,” he told Pierce. “Everyone that isn’t Fiona is hostile.”
“Thanks for the ‘stay frosty’ speech, but I’ve done this before. With Jack.” Pierce said.
Lazarus smiled. “Heard you punched a woman.”
Pierce shrugged. “She had it coming.”
It wasn’t true. The woman had been another trespasser at the Roman Forum he had mistaken for a guard, but his nonchalance pulled a chuckle from Lazarus. He’d heard about this routine. Soldiers joking before battle. Reaffirming a bond, like friendship, but deeper. He’d experienced it with Jack, but never with the big man who so rarely said anything.