Bug Man swallowed. He knew the name. He knew the reputation. And he did not like the fact that Caligula knew what he was about.

“As to what you are to do, Anthony ‘Bug Man’ Elder, you are to retrieve a sample. A few cells. That is all. And then you will be free to go. We won’t protect you, but neither will we harm you. And you’ll be paid. A hundred thousand pounds.”

“Cells?” Bug Man asked with a dry mouth.

“Cells. A tissue sample. From the Pope. And it must be done quickly.”

“The Pope. Tissue samples.” Bug Man let this sink in. George waited, expectant, curious to see whether Bug Man would put it all together.

“Jesus,” Bug Man said. He let loose a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Jesus bloody Christ on a cross.”

George got a dreamy look on his face. “See, Anthony, control is so much easier when you don’t require the victim to carry out complex actions. Reduce it to the binary and it’s all more efficient and effective.”

Bug Man nodded, seeing it—and fearing it. “You don’t even need Caligula anymore. You just need a tissue sample.”

George threw back his head and laughed, showing teeth that had had many encounters with dentists. “I quite like you, Anthony. I’d have done this later, not here on the tarmac, but you’re such a clever boy.” He pulled a small plastic bag from the inner pocket of his jacket. From it he withdrew a vial and a Q-tip. “I’ll just swab the inner cheek, if you don’t mind.”

Bug Man did mind. He pulled away.

“Oh, it’s far too late for that, Anthony. You’re in. Like it or not. You haven’t a friend in the world, and so many people want you dead. Turn and run and I’ll let you go, but Caligula will get to you if the Armstrongs don’t find you first. Now open wide.”

Bug Man opened his mouth. George swabbed his inner cheek with the Q-tip and sealed it in the vial.

“We won’t create the biots unless you make it necessary. You have Lear’s word on that.”

“Lear’s word,” Bug Man said bitterly.

“You are not in a position to argue, Anthony. You are lost and despised and scheduled for destruction. And now, you are BZRK.” He grinned and made an ironic power salute with his fist. “Death or madness, kid. Death or madness.”

The Starhotels Michelangelo didn’t look like much from the outside; in fact, it looked like any number of the wearily functional, ’60s-era buildings that deface Rome. Inside it was moderately posh, and Bug Man was hustled into a large suite with a balcony.

The balcony had a very nice view of the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica. (And a red-trimmed Total gas station in the other direction.) The walls of Vatican City were just four hundred feet away.

There was also a nice little restaurant serving—unsurprisingly—Italian food. The TV featured the BBC and CNN International as well as other non-Italian fare, and there was WiFi, but it was a bit slow.

From here Bug Man could easily manage nanobots within Vatican City. But what he needed was a pathway. X to Y to Z to the Pope. And then back out with a dozen or so cells.

“Don’t leave this room,” George instructed. “Except for lunch, which you will take downstairs in the restaurant. That’s when the maids will come in and clean the room. They have to come in, or it will set off alarm bells down at the desk. Normal. Everything normal.”

“I can’t sit in here twenty-four/seven,” Bug Man argued.

“You can and you will,” George said flatly. “Order all the in-room movies you like. But don’t draw attention to yourself. Italian police may not be geniuses, but let’s not give them a chance. Right?”

That was a depressing reminder. When would he be free to walk out in the world without being afraid? Maybe never. But never was a long time, and Bug Man was an optimist.

“So what’s my path?”

“Path?”

“How do I get from here to there?”

George sat down in the easy chair. Bug Man stood looking out through the balcony’s sliding glass door.

“We have access to the wafers used for the Pope’s communion.”

Bug Man snorted. “Are you nuts?”

“Is it a religious objection, because—?”

“It’s an objection over the fact that the mouth is not a point of entry unless you want to end up riding an infallible papal turd out the far end.”

George shrugged dismissively. “Surely there’s some way to—”

“Have you ever seen a mouth down at the nano level? It’s about as big as a valley, and it’s full of massive boulders chomping, plus a tongue and spit and wind. Maybe you can grab onto a tooth and get safely up under the gums, but I’m not trying it.”

“All right, there’s a second way. We have access to a person who has an audience with the Pope on Tuesday. It’s traditional to kiss the papal ring. Does that work for you?”

“I’m still sitting out there on a lip hoping this dude doesn’t get nervous and lick them.”

“It’s a woman, and she’s not the nervous type.”

“A woman? Who?”

“Her name is Lystra Reid. Owns some clinical testing company or other. Directive Medical? Rich American.” He didn’t seem to approve of rich Americans. “She owns medical labs and such. A lot of them. And she’s made some big contributions to an African mission the Pope is fond of.”