The eye of the lion

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Monsignor Voquessi observed the image of the man before him in silence, lost in profound reflection.

He looked at the cold, white face, the deep blue eyes and the firm chin. Then he saw the silver hair and imagined the Papal triple crown resting firmly upon that majestic head.

It was a sight to behold.

He nodded and the man in his large bedroom mirror nodded in turn, in agreement.

He stood up and walked towards a picture on the wall which depicted a portrait of His Holiness.

John XXIV was dying. His doctor had confirmed the news to him only a half-hour ago. A mortal blood clot was forming in his brain and the diagnosis predicted a fatal outcome in no more than 48 hours. The Pope, still conscious, refused to go to the hospital. He wanted to die in his bed, surrounded by his

brothers and in the mercy of Christ, not in a cold hospital. The press had still not been informed, by order of Voquessi.

The cardinals and the high command of the Church were already preparing an emergency meeting, a conclave to elect the successor to the throne of Saint Peter.

A mere formality, the façade for a well-known secret which had been rumored for a long time in Rome and which featured one name only: Bruno Voquessi.

The Pope’s condition was, for the moment, top secret. No-one dared to anticipate the end, and of course, no-one would think of going against the next Pope’s desires and alerting the doctors.

The Cardinal went towards his room’s balcony doors and opened them lazily.

A cold breeze caressed his face and the light of the moon drew his gaze up towards the sky, although his thoughts were not on this planet at that moment.

He was thinking of the magnificent dawn which was approaching. Not in the astronomical sense exactly, but rather the dawn of eastern civilization, of an entire world eager to believe in miracles which would make it forget the general misery and disappointment of a lost humanity. Miracles which he, serving the Mother Church, was starting to hold out to a world

without hope, and which would soon help to reaffirm the church’s position of moral and spiritual authority in the world, with Bruno Voquessi, the Pope of rebirth, at its head!

Meanwhile, five hundred feet away, oblivious to the Cardinal’s dreams of glory, hidden between two large cisterns on the roof of a nearby building, a man dressed completely in black was getting ready for work.

Unhurriedly, with a control gained from a long experience in the profession, his face covered with a black balaclava, the man finished assembling the final part of his powerful Varmint Kevlar automatic rifle, of Czech manufacture. Then he carefully raised the accurate telescopic laser sight and the long silencer.

Immediately, with a sure, trained hand he loaded a slim golden .223mm bullet, inserting it slowly into the weapon’s chamber, then gently pulled back the rifle’s bolt, which gave a dry metallic click.

He knelt on one knee and crossed himself religiously, whispering a prayer.

Afterwards, completely calm, he took a breath, raised the rifle and aimed it at the figure on the balcony. Voquessi’s face appeared in the scope. The red point of the laser glided across until it came to rest between the Cardinal’s eyes, who at that

moment had shut them, enjoying the evening breeze.

Slowly, the hunter’s finger pulled the trigger.

The prey fell, dead.