“If we’re down there and you don’t want to go into the tunnel, we’ll deal with it. Let’s think positively. Can I count on you?”

“I suppose,” Sana said, without a lot of confidence.

At quarter to nine Shawn started the car and eased away from the curb. With the windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the rain, he had to strain to see. The traffic entering the piazza careened past them at breakneck speed. Entering Saint Peter’s Square, he drove along Bernini’s Colonnade toward Arco delle Campane. “If the Swiss Guards question why you don’t have a Vatican ID card, let me do the talking,” Shawn said. The two dark-brown guard shacks loomed out of the mist ahead. The guards stepped out, wearing dark rain capes over their black-and-orange uniforms. They didn’t look pleased to have pulled guard duty on such a night. Shawn lowered his window as he came abreast of the guard shacks and stopped. A few wayward raindrops immediately blew in through the open window and danced in the swirling air.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Shawn said pleasantly, making an effort to suppress any nervousness in his voice. As he had expected, the shift had changed. They were different guards.

As was the case that afternoon, the guard took Shawn’s Vatican ID card without a word. He examined it with a flashlight, comparing the photo to Shawn’s visage. As he handed it back, he asked, “Where are you going?”

“To the necropolis,” Shawn said, while handing over his access permit. “We’re going to do a little maintenance work.”

The Swiss Guard studied the permit for a minute before handing it back. “Pop the boot,” he said, disappearing toward the rear of the car.

Sana sat uncomfortably as the second Swiss Guard shined his flashlight in her face. Prior to that, he’d used the flashlight and a mirror on a long stick to inspect the underside of the car for bombs.

Shawn heard the trunk slam, and a moment later the guard returned to Shawn’s open window.

“What are the tools for?” the guard asked.

“For our maintenance work,” Jack said.

“Will you be entering through the Scavi office?”

“We will indeed.”

“Should I call security to open it?”

“No need. We have keys.”

“Okay,” the guard said. “Just a moment.” He returned to the tiny guardhouse for a parking permit. A moment later he was behind the car to copy down the license plate number, before returning to the open window. There he tossed the permit onto the dash. “Park straight ahead in the Piazza Protomartiri and leave the parking permit visible on the dash.” He then saluted.

“Phew,” Sana voiced as they pulled away. “I was afraid we were already dead meat when they looked in our trunk and saw the tools.”