He outlines our plan efficiently. We will move in three teams – one to secure the papal apartments, one to control the communications centre, and one to secure the access points to prevent the cardinals from fleeing.
Colonel Reichlin leads the first team personally. I follow close behind as we march through the Vatican corridors. Staff members flatten themselves against walls as we pass, sensing the gravity of our mission.
We reach the antechamber to the papal apartments where three guards stand watch. They stiffen at our approach, their plain black suits distinguishing them from our traditional uniforms.
“Stand down,” Colonel Reichlin commands.
The lead guard, Gianelli, places his hand on his concealed weapon. “Sir, we have orders from Cardinal Antonelli—”
“You have no authority here,” Reichlin cuts him off. “Youare not Swiss Guard. Step aside.”
Tension crackles in the air. The three men exchange glances, forming a tighter blockade before the papal door.
“Sir,” Gianelli protests, his Italian accent thick with defiance, “the Pope is not to be disturbed under any—”
Colonel Reichlin draws himself up to his full height. “I am the commander of the Swiss Guard. This is Vatican sovereign territory under our protection. Remove yourselves immediately or be removed.”
At his signal, six of our guardsmen step forward, halberds at the ready.
Gianelli’s face hardens. “You’re making a mistake. Cardinal Antonelli will—”
“Arrest them,” Reichlin orders.
The men react instantly. Gianelli reaches for his weapon, but two guardsmen seize his arms before he can draw it. The second man throws a wild punch that connects with a guardsman’s jaw before being subdued. The third attempts to flee but is quickly cornered.
“You don’t understand what you’re interfering with,” Gianelli spits as he struggles against his captors.
“I understand perfectly,” Reichlin replies coldly. “Treason against His Holiness.”
The three men are disarmed and their hands secured behind their backs with plastic restraints.
“Take them to the holding cells,” Reichlin orders. “They’ll be questioned once we’ve secured His Holiness.”
As they’re dragged away, still struggling and hurling threats about Cardinal Antonelli’s authority, Colonel Reichlin turns to the ornate door of the papal apartments and knocks firmly.
“Your Holiness? It is Colonel Reichlin of the Swiss Guard.”
Silence follows. He knocks again, more insistently.
We hear movement inside, but the door remains closed. Then comes a muffled voice. “Colonel? The door is locked from the outside!”
Reichlin’s face darkens with fury. He examines the door, noting the electronic keypad lock that shouldn’t be there. “They’ve installed unauthorized security measures.”
“We could search Gianelli for the access codes,” I suggest, checking my watch.
“No time.” Reichlin’s decision is immediate. “His Holiness has been imprisoned long enough.” He turns to four of our strongest men. “Break it down. Now.”
The guardsmen position themselves, and on Reichlin’s count, they ram their shoulders against the heavy wooden door. It groans but holds. On the third attempt, the wood splinters around the lock. One final coordinated thrust, and the door crashes inward.
Pope Pius XIV—Marco Ricci—stands in the centre of the room, looking tired but resolute. His eyes widen at the sight of our assembled force bursting through his shattered door.
“Colonel? Captain Lombardi? What is happening?”
Reichlin immediately drops to one knee before the Pope, his head bowed. It’s a gesture of such formal deference that I haven’t seen it performed outside of a papal coronation.
“Your Holiness, I must beg your forgiveness. I have failed in my sacred duty to protect you. You were imprisoned in your own chambers while I was blind to the deception.”
Marco looks stunned. “Rise, Colonel, please.”
