Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Schreider hated nothing more than someone questioning his integrity. The Swiss Guard had served the Holy See for five-hundred years; each guard, to a man, was a devout Catholic, and they had all, like their predecessors, sworn an oath to serve and protect the Vatican and Holy See. The cardinals would not find a more loyal force, which was exactly why he was standing there.

  Cardoni drew another cigarette from his gold case and dragged nervously on the first puff. Exhaling before sitting back, he continued, ‘The murder happened in a secret vault. It contains—forgive me, it contained something the world isn’t ready to see.’

  Schreider did not move. He felt as if someone had driven a stake through his heart. He wondered if he had heard right, not about the murder or the secret vault, but about something the world could not see. If he understood Cardoni correctly, the cardinal had just referred to incriminating evidence against the Faith. He could not conceive of his religion having secrets.

  Finally, at length the colonel asked, ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘Not many,’ Cardoni answered.

  ‘Who is ‘not many’? The Holy See, the faithful, who?’

  Santori stood up. The urgency to retrieve the stolen artefact compelled him. ‘What I am about to show you has been the most safely guarded secret in all Christendom,’ he said. ‘Its’ theft threatens our entire existence.’

  ‘Whose existence, the Vatican’s or Church’s?’

  ‘Both!’ Santori snapped. ‘Even Christianity’s!’

  Schreider felt his collar tighten. Anything that incriminating surely meant a fundamental, doctrinal flaw.

  Santori walked to the hearth. ‘You must capture the intruder and return the stolen artefact before it is revealed publicly.’

  ‘Capture! Eminentia, you mean arrest. This is not a war.’

  ‘It is a war—against none other than the Almighty Himself!’ Santori howled. ‘A malicious assault on Holy Mother Church!’

  Yielding to the cardinals violated everything Schreider stood for. Apprehending perpetrators to recover a stolen artefact was one thing; swearing not to divulge secret information was another altogether.

  ‘You have my word, Eminentia,’ he said, marching to the hearth.

  It felt as if he were now perpetuating darkness. He might as well tango with the devil. How could he agree? How had he agreed? Perhaps it was simply not in his nature to challenge a cardinal. He was accustomed to believing cardinals were as holy as they purported to be. He had to get the hell out of there.

  ‘Now show me the body …’

  Chapter 10

  Dust swirled as Santori’s cassock trailed across the steps behind him. Schreider remained some distance behind to avoid stepping on the sweeping garment. The colonel had thought he had scoured every inch of the Vatican City, yet this place was new to him. Rumors of hiding places rarely proved true. It amazed him that the vault had kept its secret for so long. As the Belvedere’s east and west wings were five hundred years old, one would think information on the vault’s existence might have leaked centuries ago. His eyes scanned the area for clues of the murder.

  Descending to the underground chamber felt like a journey into hell. Supported by a series of columns, the stairway zigzagged down to a centric landing. To the front and back, abyss-like corridors replicated the layouts of Santori’s office and the library above. Schreider stopped halfway down on the landing directly beneath the hearth area linking Santori’s office with the library and leaned over the balustrade. Stacked crates interspersed with statues filled the room beneath the office. The Vatican had collected hundreds of pagan sculptures over the centuries, but why? Had generations of priests preached against idolatry, Bible in hand, while at the same time, restoring the very idols they decried? It made no sense. Detecting no evidence of the supposed murder victim from his vantage point, he turned and bounded down the remaining steps, two at a time, to the basement below.

  The area beneath the library opened into a chapel. In its center lay a square nave. Around it, columns rose like vigilant knights. A vaulted ceiling extended over them, its ribs uniting at the columns’ capitals like synchronized waves. Candelabras with battered limbs hung aslant at intervals, the soot of centuries old burnt wax creeping like ghosts up the granite walls. On the far side of the nave rose an apse and altar, and draped across the altar steps lay Father Yilmaz.

  Schreider proceeded to the apse. The sight of Yilmaz caked in coagulated blood turned his stomach. It reminded him of Afghanistan. Years of collecting the body parts of comrades hit by IEDs had nearly shattered his sanity. He still had nightmares more than a decade later. He stopped in front of Yilmaz, his gaze falling on the spattered altar. Brocaded onto the frontal cloth, a converted Saint Paul presided over the reverse crucifixion of Saint Peter. He wondered why their two greatest founders were secreted in a hidden vault. The Church seldom portrayed Peter and Paul together. Yet, he had seen this imagery before. But where?

  Six silver candlesticks encircled Yilmaz, and a gold crucifix protruded from under his shirt. By his head lay a bloodstained dagger; it had a golden handle with red cross insert and a double-edged blade. Schreider squatted and examined the weapon. ‘Templar or Hospitallers,’ he thought, but there was so much blood on the handle it was hard to tell which—in any case, it was a collector’s piece, no doubt. Taking out his pocket knife, he slipped its blade under the dagger’s and flipped the larger knife over. The blade’s shape and size matched the incision on Yilmaz’s chest. It had to be the weapon used to kill the priest.

  Cardoni stopped by Schreider’s side, holding his sleeve over his mouth and nose. The stench of blood was nauseating. The cardinal had been down there just the other day and had not anticipated coming down there again this soon. After this, he decided, he would never return. Few knew of the vault, and those who did preferred not to talk about it. It was not so much the vault itself that had become taboo as what it housed. He studied Yilmaz’s wax-white face sadly. Having made a good impression, the young man had become one of his favorite priests. Indeed, with his dedication to his work, common sense and passion for ethics, Yilmaz could have made a great librarian. Cardoni had even mentioned this to the younger priest once. It was such a pity Yilmaz had never considered taking a degree. Every prospective cardinal had to be well groomed and academically qualified in addition to being well-versed in Church doctrine. Cardoni knew Santori had also liked the boy. His colleague had often mentioned how Yilmaz reminded him of himself. Santori had confided his hope that the young priest would follow him in studying law. His ambition for Yilmaz to become the future Major of the Penitentiary had irked Cardoni.

  At any rate, Yilmaz had declined both their offers. He had had no interest in degrees, said he had nothing to prove, and now his youthful lack of drive was no longer an obstacle to his once-promising career. With the young priest lying life-less before him, Cardoni reflected that everything he and Santori had hoped for was now no more than a futile daydream.

  Schreider rose, his head throbbing with innumerable questions: how had Yilmaz and his killer known about the vault, and how had they gained access to it? More to the point, why had they, and how was all this connected? Yilmaz had routinely collected books from the Penitentiary; that much Schreider knew. Maybe Yilmaz had disturbed the suspect. He could have tried to intervene. Schreider lifted the frontal from the floor and draped it over the altar. Then, one by one, he returned the candlesticks to their places, setting them on the dustless prints in the frontal where they had stood for eons. Finally, he picked up the crucifix and placed it respectfully in the center of the desecrated altar, and in so doing, he saw it.

  Tapping on the square print in front of the crucifix, he said, ‘Something’s missing.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here, Colonel,’ Santori said, approaching from the other side of Yilmaz.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A letter.’

  ‘You don’t care about the priest. It’s the letter you’re after.’

&
nbsp; Santori pulled out his handkerchief and bent down to pick up the dagger. ‘You have your proof, Colonel. Now get it back.’

  Schreider reached for the cardinal’s hand: ‘We need prints first.’

  Santori shielded the dagger from him. ‘You don’t understand, do you, Colonel?’

  ‘We’re dealing with this internally,’ Cardoni interjected.

  Schreider’s focus remained on Santori. ‘With all due respect, Your Eminence, I cannot let you take that.’

  A knocking sound from Santori’s office above echoing down the chamber broke the impasse. Hurriedly, the cardinal placed the wrapped dagger in his sash. ‘We have to go,’ he said, heading for the stairway.

  Schreider was aghast that the two cardinals would not permit a proper investigation. Their behavior bordered on suspicious. Reluctantly, and with more questions than answers, he followed them back up the stairs to the office. On the way, he considered his next move. Any mistakes now and he would face execution. Then, he recalled an earlier thought. The letter obviously contained something sinister—something illicit that implicated the Church—but without information it was impossible to connect the dots. Dear Lord, it had never crossed his mind that his faith could be based on duplicity!

  Chapter 11

  Not far from the Penitentiary a priest hastened along an open colonnade. A breeze was lightly blowing the train of his cassock, creating drag he could ill afford. Tightening the shoulder straps of his rucksack, he briskly approached the atrium.

  Three IT specialists on loan from the United Kingdom were huddled next to the Cortile della Bibliotheca staircase. They had arrived a week earlier to help install a new filing system on the archives’ computer system. On hearing screams coming from the Penitentiary, they had run outside to investigate. Others had joined them. Someone said the sound had come from Santori, which instigated a fierce debate about the Vatican’s most feared cardinal. Anyone facing the Maggiore in a tribunal would undoubtedly find himself transported to the Spanish Inquisition. Other than ending up in Hell with Satan, the most daunting experience would be whatever auto-da-fé His Eminence handed down.

  From the corner of his eye, the fleeing priest saw one of the IT techs beckon, but the priest dismissed the Englishman with a cursory wave. Only at the atrium’s entrance did he stop. His shoulder pressed against the wall, he peered around the corner, scanning the area for security cameras. In the center of the atrium, an S-shaped staircase snaked towards the floor above. To the left and right, passages led to other wings of the museum.

  The priest heard footsteps approaching from behind him. One glance over his shoulder was all he needed to find that two gendarmes were speeding in his direction. Slipping into the atrium, he headed for the museum’s north wing. Just before reaching the passage though, he heard voices of people approaching. Trapped, he ducked behind the staircase. He just managed to hide behind the marble balustrade when the gendarmes ran into the atrium. He pressed his body against the staircase and listened.

  The two gendarmes, one a lieutenant, the other a sergeant, stood before the stairway, discussing where the fugitive had gone. Then the lieutenant ordered the sergeant to check upstairs. At the top of the steps, the sergeant’s footfalls stopped at the landing as he studied the upper corridor for any sign of movement. Once satisfied that there was none, he returned, skipping steps as he accelerated to the floor below.

  ‘Let’s try Pigna,’ the lieutenant said, as the sergeant neared him. ‘No, wait. First check the stairs.’

  The sergeant settled his semi-automatic rifle on his shoulder and approached the opening behind the balustrade.

  A door slammed in the passage to the right. Footsteps followed.

  The lieutenant pulled back. Worried it might be the fugitive, he sprinted towards the noise, the sergeant close on his heels.

  Behind the staircase, the priest waited for their footsteps to fade before exhaling at last. He rested his head against the wall behind him, sweat trickling from his brow. He glanced around the corner and, seeing no one, sneaked from behind the staircase and headed left, away from the gendarmes. Hugging the walls, he passed through an archway leading to the Cortile della Bibliotheca. At the sound of more footsteps, he slipped behind a column enwrapped with an ivory-petalled evergreen rose. As he waited in silence, he heard shouting blare through a window overhead. It seemed to be library staff discussing the slain priest. As he listened, he learned that Vatican security was now on high alert and that the security personnel were searching every building surrounding the Belvedere courtyard. An older voice, possibly a cardinal, was demanding lockdown of the entire city. Even more disturbing though, was the mention of sending more gendarmes to the secret archives, as someone had broken into the bunker.

  The priest waited, listened, calculated. Patience, as he had often heard said, was a virtue.

  Chapter 12

  Schreider stood in the middle of the Via Sant’ Anna, halfway between the Belvedere Courtyard and the Sant’ Anna gate. Dark, roiling clouds were gathering overhead, causing the morning chill to linger. A complex scent of wet soil and budding grapes was wafting in from the vineyards near Marcellina to the east, and lightning in the distance portended the rumble that would soon sweep in from the Apennines.

  Turning, the colonel studied conditions on the ground. An hour and a half had passed since the murder, meaning there was no guarantee the perpetrator had not escaped. At the nearby Sant’ Anna entrance, additional security was scrutinizing everyone who approached the gate. The Swiss Guard had closed the portcullis and extra gendarmes were even searching the handbags of elderly nuns. To the south, at the towering Apostolic Palace, yet unapprised of events, the Holy Pontiff was eating his breakfast. To the west, officials were rushing to a meeting to determine the Vatican’s official news release to the international community. To the north, workers were gathering in front of the post office and print shop, no doubt having heard that something was going on at the Penitentiary.

  Schreider used his two-way to call command. Captain Weber from the Swiss Guard answered, his voice noticeably shaken by the reports he had already received. Deciding not to divulge too much over an open system, Schreider said he would explain the situation further when he returned to headquarters. Then, with Weber’s flood of questions stemmed, he pursued a more practical topic, asking his subordinate how many men were currently on duty.

  ‘We’re fully reinforced, Oberst,’ the captain replied.

  A full complement meant Schreider had about one hundred and thirty guards and sixty-five gendarmes at his command at any given moment. Both forces had rehearsed Alarmbereitschaft I protocols at least once a month for years, but many of the practices in which his men had been drilled were impractical when the official alert level was elevated to such an extent. And yet, if what Santori and Cardoni had said was true—if one artefact could topple the entire Church—the present situation was no less an existential threat than if ISIS militants had dumped ricin in the Bracciano aqueduct. …

  ‘Summon my antiterrorism squad immediately,’ Schreider radioed. ‘Order those already on duty to close off the Vatican. All entrances. Now. Nobody in. Nobody out.’

  Still, he stopped short of requesting Alarmbereitschaft I. He knew he could not implement a full security protocol without involving Inspector General Arnaldo Verretti from the Gendarmerie, as well as the Prefect of the Apostolic Palace and the Roman police. Even then, without additional international assistance, enforcing a high alert would be in vain.

  Schreider marched into a command center already buzzing with activity. He said nothing but continued towards the surveillance offices. On his way, he passed Inspector Verretti, who was giving instructions to four gendarmerie officers. Brushing back his bangs, Verretti beckoned Schreider to join the briefing, but the colonel silently declined and pointed towards the video-camera desk.

  Schreider resented Verretti’s attitude. The police officer had acted as though he thought a mere Inspector outranked the commander of t
he His Holiness’s own personal guard, and indeed he often did make Schreider come to him. He probably did not do it on purpose, but in a way, that made it worse. Thus far, Schreider had ignored this behavior. Maintaining a viable working relationship far outweighed initiating a penis parade. Notwithstanding his tolerance for the inspector, there were times when Schreider would stand his ground, and this was one of them. He had promised the two cardinals he would recover the stolen letter; undoubtedly his job was on the line if he failed, but for many other reasons failure was out of the question.

  The Swiss Guard and gendarmerie operated differently. Schreider served to protect his employer, the Vicar of Christ, and those under his protection, which included the College of Cardinals. Verretti, on the other hand, managed the city’s general policing. In theory, their work environments overlapped, but their duties could not have been more different. That said, though each force had its own barracks, they were obliged to share the command center.

  Verretti had overseen the gendarmerie for the same time Schreider had been commander of the Swiss Guard. The inspector’s abrasive attitude had irritated Schreider from the start. He recalled how Verretti had initially tried to befriend him. The inspector had repeatedly invited the colonel to the amateur rugby matches he played in at weekends, and Schreider had repeatedly declined, using his duties as an excuse. Of course, the one time the colonel did go, the inspector had done quite well. He had played flank, but had incessantly picked fights with his opponents. After tackling his opponent around the neck, the referee had sin-binned him for ten minutes. Afterwards, in the pub, the inspector had accused the referee of bias and not knowing the rules of the game. Rather than behaving like one of Italy’s Azzurri, Schreider thought Verretti had acted like a French Les Tricolore—comparing the Italian to a fighting cock was a more appropriate metaphor.

  Schreider preferred football, a game, he felt, that had true finesse. The electric atmosphere and continuous singing at football matches exhilarated him. And, though his job did not allow him much time to follow sports, he still made time to watch the biggest matches, like the 2006 FIFA World Cup. Schreider had felt personally defeated for weeks after the Swiss, despite winning all their previous matches, ultimately succumbed to Ukraine in a penalty shootout. That five-minute lapse at the end of a single match had made them the first team in history to be eliminated without conceding a goal during regulation time over the course of an entire tournament.