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rest and collect her thoughts before tomorrow, but instead her path wound on its own toward the Tiber River. After a few turns, the shining dome of Saint Peter’s rose into view on the far bank.
    She continued to let traffic funnel her toward her goal. All of Vatican City had been closed to the public since the explosion. Even the pope had been shifted for security reasons to his summer residence at Castel Gandolfo. But all that failed to halt the flow of tourists and onlookers. If anything, curiosity had thickened the throngs.
    Due to the congestion, it took Rachel an extra half hour to find a parking spot. By the time she reached the police barricade that cordoned off the famous square, full night had set in. Saint Peter’s Square was usually crowded with the pious and the raucous, but at the moment, it was nearly deserted. Only a few uniformed men patrolled among the columns and in the open piazza. One stood post at the foot of the Egyptian obelisk that rose in the center of the square. They all bore rifles on their shoulders.
    Rachel showed her credentials at the barricade.
    The policeman frowned. He was middle-aged, thick around the belly, and stood slightly bowlegged. The city police and the militarized carabinieri were not always on the best of terms.
    “Why are you here?” he asked brusquely. “Why does this attack concern the Carabinieri Tutela del Patrimonio Culturale?”
    It was a fair question. Her agency oversaw the theft of art and the black market trade in antiquities. It had nothing to do with domestic terrorism. She had not been authorized to be here. In fact, due to her connection with one of the victims, she had been specifically warned to keep her distance.
    But she had to see the crime scene for herself.
    Rachel cleared her throat and pointed forward. “I’m here to catalog and document the site of the explosion, to verify that no art was stolen following the bombing.”
    “So, secretarial work.” His voice rippled with disdain. He added under his breath, “No wonder they sent a woman.”
    Rachel refused to rise to the bait. She retrieved her credentials. “If you’re done, it’s late and I have much work to do.”
    He shrugged and stepped aside, but just barely. She had to brush against him to pass. He leaned into her, pressing, trying to intimidate her with his bulk and size. Rachel knew this game. In an organization that was mostly a male fraternity, she was treated as either a threat or something to be conquered.
    Anger flared, momentarily burning through her anxiety and worry. She pushed past the brute, but not before making sure her heel found the man’s instep. She ground down hard as she stepped past him.
    He barked in surprise and hopped back.
    “Scusi,” she apologized coldly and continued into the square without looking back.
    “Zoccola!” he swore at her.
    She ignored him as she crossed the empty piazza. To either side, the encircling arms of Bernini’s colonnades embraced her. She found her pace growing quicker as she passed the obelisk and fountains and continued toward the main doors to the basilica. Overhead, the breadth of Michelangelo’s dome glowed against the night sky.
    Passing between the giant statues of Saint Peter and Saint Paul that stood guard before the basilica, she glanced at the inscription below the sword-bearing apostle Paul. In Hebrew, it read, “I can do all things in Him who strengthens me.” She couldn’t read Hebrew, but it had been her uncle Vigor who had taught her the words as a young girl. She took strength from both that message and the memory of her uncle.
    With renewed determination, she climbed the steps to the entrance to Saint Peter’s. She found the doors unlocked. Crossing the church portico, she passed into the cavernous nave of the basilica. It stretched almost two hundred meters ahead of her. The church was dark except for a scatter of flickering votive candles, and at the far end of the nave the papal altar shone with the glow of