The Octopus at the Vatican

# 29 - the end of the road

TW : violent deaths

Both killers had been standing guard around Saint-Angelo Castle for twenty-four hours. They didn't know where, when or how their target would show up. If it showed up. They had spotted the car in which Vittorio was waiting. It could be linked with the target. When he had sprung from nowhere running towards the car, they rushed and knocked him down just to make sure. They would check later if it was the target. And it was the right one. They had been lucky. They threw each of the muzzled and handcuffed prisoners in a car boot. Theirs and Vittorio's. They then set off. Everything had happened very quickly and discreetly. Vittorio had parked in a deserted part of Piazza Adriana.

At the same time, the second commando was keeping watch on the other side of the Vatican, in Viale Vaticano. Their victim, a man aged 65 could appear within one hundred meters from the pink Venetian house with a garden at 50 Viale Vaticano. They had been on the lookout since the previous day.

Vittorio tried to move as soon as he woke up. His hands were tied together behind his back. It seemed rather cowardly. Handcuffs, he thought. Suddenly, he felt a violent headache. He felt like vomiting, screaming. But his mouth was shut, stuck. He tried to open it. Impossible. If I puke, I'm screwed, while concentrating hard to control his body. He was lying on his left side. The floor was hard. He felt his bones hurt on the bumps. That was it, he was in a car boot. He wasn't blindfolded, but this meant nothing as it was pitch black. He forgot about his physical pains and began to feel fearful. This was the end of the road. He hoped it would be quick and painless.

Albino had lost consciousness on opening the car door. He was waking to life in an oven and hurt all over. He tried to think about Vittorio. Hoping he wouldn't be in the same position. But there was little hope. Where had their plan gone wrong? He tried to think; he gave up because of his throbbing headache. Never mind now, what's coming is clear. And gloomy at the same time. Better to die now rather than to suffer for weeks the fate of Aldo Moro and die in the end. He tried to pray, but this no longer worked.

He tried to assess the journey. Its length, the noise in the streets. The stops at red lights. How long had he been unconscious? After ten, twenty, thirty minutes — impossible to estimate — the car slowed down, he felt painful bumps and then the car stopped. The engine stopped. Darkness and silence.

The boot opened. He noticed the glow of the soft September night behind two chaps who pulled him out roughly, got him to stand and tethered his ankles. He almost asked for his baseball cap to annoy them and show he wasn't afraid. But he refrained. What would be the point of humor in those circumstances? He, as a Christian, had to prepare to meet his God. These two men didn't count any more.

Vittorio appeared at his side in the same situation. They looked at each other, but couldn't speak. They were ordered to move forward. They were reassured to keep them docile, the same way the SS did. Further to the right, they would be tethered and held in a small shed while waiting for the ransom.

But the killers hadn't even bothered to hide their faces. Which left the victims in no doubt as to what was awaiting them.

Although one never knows; they were proudly and mechanically stepping towards certain death.

They were progressing. The ground was dry and hard, with stones and a bit of dry grass. They could only progress slowly, because of their chains. They couldn't attempt anything. They carried on, following their executioners' orders. Ten meters, thirty meters, fifty? It wasn't a house that appeared, but an old bathtub. The sort one uses to water the cows. They were probably in a field outside of Rome, abandoned for years. The ideal spot to get rid of them. Right next to the bathtub, they noticed with horror white polyethylene cans. Acid. To eliminate their bodies. At this point, they were hoping to be killed before being showered with acid. But the mafia was sadistic.

Just then, Vittorio's sphincters gave up. He let go. He swore against his body betraying him and keeping him from dying with dignity.

Albino looked at him. It was a smile, 'Farewell, I love you'. Vittorio glanced at him with love. Then Albino turned his head and stared in front of him. He could no longer see the bathtub or the cans. His eyes were looking into the distance, on the horizon of the buzz of the city. He was humming a psalm of victory, love, hope and eternal life.

Whereas Vittorio was hypnotized by the bathtub and the cans. In any case, it wasn't milk. He tried to calm down, to breathe deeply while waiting for the bullet in his head.