The cardinals both stared at him in shocked silence.
‘You say you saw a man actually strangled to death?’ Boyle finally asked uneasily.
‘Yes, I did,’ Harker replied firmly. ‘He was almost as close to me as you are now.’
‘Was it reported to the police?’
‘Yes, but after showing me security footage of the same man walking out of the morgue on his own two feet, they reckoned it was some kind of publicity stunt and didn’t want to know any more.’
‘Perish the thought,’ Baptista muttered coldly, while rolling his eyes.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Harker queried blankly, not allowing his anger to get the better of him.
‘It means, Mr Harker – or is it Professor?’ Baptista subdued Boyle with a raised hand as he was on the verge of intervening. ‘It means that since you showed up at the Vatican…what, over a year and a half ago, the Church has suffered more destruction than in the last two hundred years.’
‘What?’ Harker protested, feeling genuinely shocked by this accusation.
‘Since your initial mysterious meeting with the last pope, John Wilcox, we have had that same pope go AWOL, then a shooting inside the Basilica, directly in front of the world’s media, not to mention world leaders. And, on top of all the malicious and damaging gossip that I will not even go into now, out of respect for the unfortunate dead…there now comes this.’
Cardinal Baptista rose to his feet and made his way over to a drawn curtain on the opposite side of the room, flinging it open to reveal the crumbled ruins of what had once been St Peter’s Square. ‘Behold the aftermath of the atrocious event that not only led to the deaths of over fifty thousand innocents, but that of the recently elected pontiff himself, his holiness Salvatore Vincenzo.’
Harker, followed by Boyle, walked over to the window and gazed down upon the destruction. The media had been awash with images of the devastation which the HAARP weather machine had left in its tracks and, even though Harker had watched all the television coverage, this was the first time he had actually seen it with his own eyes. Emergency services had spent over a week sifting through the rubble, and the fifty-metre crater underneath it, before completely walling off the entire area from the public and banning any helicopters or planes from flying over Vatican City. The whole expanse had been kept from the prying eyes of the media by order of the new pontiff himself and, with so many people lost and the near impossible undertaking of identifying all of the dead, including Pope Vincenzo, there was talk of turning this pulverized holy site into one large ceremonial tribute to the dead.
Next to it, the entire facade of St Peter’s Basilica had been ripped away, revealing the crumbling remains of individual rooms. And although covered with giant yellow tarpaulins, it now looked more like a crumbling classical ruin than the epicentre of the Catholic faith. Below its remnants, JCB diggers lined the crater’s edges, along with two giant cranes erected at opposite ends of the square and, even as Harker took in the awful sight, workmen continued clearing rubble and laying new foundations for whatever restoration plan the Vatican had decided upon.
‘Surely you can’t blame me for all this?’ Harker ventured, in barely more than a despondent whisper.
‘Oh yes,’ Baptista replied angrily, ‘the weather machine. Reported by the media and then discounted soon after by the same journalists as pure fantasy. That was quite a story you concocted.’
Even though it seemed the blame for all those terrible events was now being dumped at Harker’s feet, he remained silent for a moment as he surveyed this utter destruction that had cost so many lives. He had not been directly responsible, although used as pawn in the Magi’s twisted plans, at every stage of the way under the guidance of Pope Adrian VII, better known to his acquaintances as John Wilcox. But, of course, the cardinals didn’t know that important detail. That sinister and despicable group of zealots, which evolved out of two thousand years of hate and greed, and their vile attempts to take control of the Catholic Church and hijack the minds of its followers – no, he had not been party to it at all. And even though that same twisted organization had been obliterated, with help from the Knights Templar, Harker could do little to stem the feeling of guilt and responsibility that suddenly hovered over him now like a dark cloud. Could he have done more to prevent those disasters?
‘What are you saying exactly?’ he asked, suddenly feeling drained of energy.
‘I am saying that even as the fortunes of the Catholic Church have declined,’ Baptista rasped, ‘your own fame – or should I say infamy – has risen. And, after all that has happened, you now turn up here with further tales of murder and resurrection which debase the memories of all those who lost their lives in events that, at every turn, you have been connected to.’
Harker felt his spirits sag as Baptista speedily swished the curtains shut. ‘You, Professor Harker, are what sailors term a Jonah,’ the cardinal continued, before taking his seat again at the conference table. ‘You bring bad luck to all those around you.’
This damning attack left Harker speechless and, in a moment of weakness, he began to feel sorry for himself. It was true that, since establishing the existence of the Knights Templar and their ongoing war with the Magi, everyone he held dear had experienced some measure of bad luck – and Chloe was just the latest victim. Sure, the Magi were gone, defeated, but he still found himself embroiled in events that served only to hurt the ones he loved. Could Baptista somehow be right? Had something unseen rubbed off on him during his recent exploits? Something real? Was he genuinely a Jonah of sorts, destroying the lives of all those around him by just being alive?
As he asked himself these questions, and before his feeling of self-pity grew any stronger, he remembered something that Sebastien Brulet, the now deceased former Grand Master of the Knights Templar, had written in his goodbye letter.
I leave you therefore with one last piece of advice. Some secrets have the power to warp a person’s sensibilities, and in doing so transform them into the very thing they most deplore. Be wary of this, my friend, and never allow yourself to veer aside from the path of what you know to be right.
Those simple words of guidance immediately renewed a sense of purpose in Harker and suddenly he felt himself imbued with renewed determination. He couldn’t control the extraordinary events that seemed to follow him, but he would damn well make sure he did everything in his power to bring them to a righteous conclusion.
‘Please forgive him, Alex,’ Boyle offered, placing a reassuring hand on Harker’s shoulder. ‘Piero lost many friends in the great destruction and I am afraid, you, unjustly, have become the focus of his anger.’
Harker looked over at the glaring cardinal and patted Boyle’s arm reassuringly before returning to the conference table, now with renewed vigour.
‘There are no words that can adequately describe the tragic loss of life or the damage done to the Church, but I will not let myself be blamed for things that were totally out of my hands,’ Harker declared resolutely, standing there with a steely look in his eyes. ‘My actions have always been in the interests of preserving life and if you can’t accept that, then that is something for you to come to terms with…not me. And I hope in time you will come to realize this, but it is your decision to make, not mine.’
Harker’s abrogation of responsibility appeared to only chip away slightly at Baptista’s anger. But as he continued, the man’s glare began to soften.
‘Everything I have told you about these “resurrections” – or whatever you want to call them – is true. I have no cause to lie and the only reason I came to you is that, given the disturbing and ungodly nature of what I have witnessed, I felt that you could give me some guidance, because frankly… I am out of ideas. Now you can either help me to figure out what the hell is going on or not, but either way I am resolved to find out… It’s your choice.’
The anger in Baptista’s eyes had now diminished noticeably, but he still sat there motionless a
nd without saying a word.
‘Of course we’ll help, Alex,’ Boyle stated resolutely, smiling at Baptista. ‘It’s just such a lot to take in… Tell me, do you even know who these two “corpses” might have been?’
Boyle’s conciliatory tone brought a lighter atmosphere into the room and Harker seized upon it, finally resuming his seat and planting both his elbows on the table.
‘There were two names on the headstones: one was Alfonso Bianchi and the other Daniele Russo. I can’t remember the birth dates but the dates of death were definitely this year.’
Harker had barely uttered the names when both cardinals exchanged a look of wide-eyed astonishment. Without pause, he pushed for further information. ‘Do those names mean anything to you?’
It was clear that Boyle did know something, because he had begun to bite his bottom lip nervously. Then he turned back to face Harker, despite a warning shake of the head from Baptista.
‘Eight days ago there was an accident—’
‘Michael, this is not the time,’ Baptista interrupted, visibly annoyed with his colleague’s admission.
‘If not now, then when?’ Boyle replied and, still under the disapproving stare of Baptista, he continued. ‘As I said, there was an accident just outside Rome eight days ago. A truck careered into a passing car, killing all three of its occupants.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Three local priests on their way to a regular meeting of the local clergy. Nothing out of the ordinary. They were taken to Rome’s American Hospital but were sadly pronounced dead on arrival. Then four days ago each was interred in his own parish’s cemetery.’
Boyle, now looking considerably perturbed, glanced over at Baptista, who also appeared increasingly uncomfortable.
‘Please continue,’ Harker prodded, sensing their uneasiness.
‘That night two of the graves were desecrated, and in the morning both bodies had vanished.’
Harker already knew who they were talking about and ventured the names: ‘Father Alfonso Bianchi and Father Daniele Russo?’
‘Yes.’ Boyle gave a sombre nod as Baptista looked on. ‘We thought it was some kind of sick joke… You wouldn’t believe the things some people do these days.’
Oh I believe it all right, Harker thought to himself, reflecting on the cemetery at Cervete. ‘So what happened to the third body?’
Boyle’s face began to pale as he contemplated what appeared, from his pained expression, to be the most difficult part for him to reveal. He first glanced over at Baptista, and this time received a grudging nod of the cardinal’s head.
‘I’ll inform Dr Wheatley that we’re on our way.’ Boyle abruptly rose from his seat. ‘Perhaps it’s best you should see for yourself.’
Chapter 15
The muffled rumbling began within moments of Harker entering the dimly lit corridor, like a warning to any and all that dared venture within the bowels of the Vatican’s Governorate building basement. At first it sounded like the vibrational buzz of a clothes dryer but, as Cardinal Boyle led Harker ever deeper, followed by Cardinal Baptista, it became clear that what he was hearing was something entirely different.
‘Don’t worry,’ Boyle reassured him in acknowledgement of the ever-increasing noise. ‘It’s secure.’
This mysterious response to a question no one had asked made Harker feel even edgier, but he wasn’t sure which part of the statement he was more concerned about: the mention of an ‘it’ being secure or that anything needed securing in the first place. Despite the numerous questions brewing in his mind, starting with the reason for sneaking around in the lowest levels of the Vatican’s administration building, he remained quiet, even as the noise escalated into a ferocious banging sound.
‘Here we are,’ Boyle announced loudly, and he waved first Harker and then Baptista through a doorway situated at the end of the corridor, before closing it behind them all with a hefty clank.
Inside, two heavy-set men in jeans and matching leather jackets sat at a desk facing nothing but a single metal door lined with double reinforced edges.
The two guards stood up and greeted the cardinals respectfully, and Harker could not help but notice the 9mm black steel Berettas holstered to their thighs.
‘Is it normal to have armed guards here inside the Governorate building?’ he asked, as one of the men moved over to the secured doorway and, unclipping a key from his belt, began to unlock it.
‘No, it is not,’ Boyle responded, ‘but unfortunately necessary, given the circumstances.’
The cardinal’s response only heightened the tension as the guard swung the door open, but Harker continued to stay tight-lipped as he followed Boyle and Baptista inside, both cardinals now taking the lead.
The secured entrance opened into a brightly lit and much larger room with grey concrete walls serving to complete the basement feel, and with a separate passage leading off to some other area at the far end. Neon strip lighting hung from the ceiling, while narrow steel benches lined the perimeter and looked in towards a central desk flanked by white metal filing cabinets. From behind a desktop PC monitor, a man in an olive-coloured wool jumper and dark-brown slacks rose to his feet and welcomed the new arrivals with a strained smile.
‘There’s been another change,’ he explained in a Southern American accent, and then paused abruptly on noticing Harker.
‘It’s fine,’ Boyle replied, ‘he’s a friend, so feel free to speak candidly. Professor Alex Harker, this is Dr Gavin Wheatley, who is kindly affording us his services.’
Harker reached in between the two cardinals and shook Wheatley’s hand. ‘Pleasure,’ he said, which was received with a polite nod, and the man now turned his attention to the hellish thudding sound emanating from along the passageway at the end of the room.
‘What is that noise?’ Baptista asked, turning paler with every thud.
‘We gave him a mild muscle relaxant and something to help him sleep but, as you can hear, it’s not had much effect. He keeps pounding on the walls. It’s been non-stop for the past half an hour.’
‘I thought he was secured?’ Boyle quizzed, glancing anxiously towards the source of the heavy thumping.
‘We had him in a straightjacket earlier but he ripped through it, so we’ve now secured him with straps as best we can. But as you can hear, the restraints are having a limited effect.’
‘He ripped a straightjacket?’ Harker asked, amazed that such a thing was even possible.
‘I know,’ Dr Wheatley replied, ‘but, given his current size, it’s understandable.’
‘Current size,’ Harker repeated. ‘Who is this man?’
While the other two stood silently, Cardinal Boyle headed over to the furthest filing cabinet, slid open the top drawer and pulled out a thin brown folder containing two A5-size photographs. ‘This is Bishop Alfonse Esposito.’ Boyle passed one of the photographs over to Harker. ‘He was the third unfortunate to die in the traffic accident I mentioned earlier.’
The picture showed a thin black-haired man wearing a blue T-shirt and jeans, who was leaning against a wooden fence in an obvious pose. ‘OK,’ Harker said, turning his attention back to Boyle, who was now looking decidedly reticent. ‘So what happened exactly?’
Boyle paused to clear his throat, then clutched the image side of the second photo to his chest, obviously not yet ready to show it. ‘He was buried along with the others, on the same day, and as with the other two men his grave was desecrated overnight and the body removed.’
‘Go on,’ Harker coaxed, feeling like extracting an explanation was akin to pulling teeth.
‘Well, unlike the other two, Bishop Esposito reappeared yesterday within his parish…’ Boyle licked his lips with distaste. He then flipped over the photo to reveal the image of Esposito being forcibly restrained between a couple of suited men, his body contorting violently as he attempted to break free.
At first it looked to Harker as if the man’s mouth was impossibly wide open and in the act of scr
eaming but, as he moved closer he realized it wasn’t that the man’s mouth was open, but that there was no mouth at all. Esposito’s entire bottom jaw was missing, revealing the bloodied opening of his throat, with a swollen black tongue that hung limply downwards.
‘Oh my God,’ Harker muttered as he plucked the photo from Boyle’s fingers and began to study it in depth. The macabre appearance of Esposito’s mouth was nauseating in itself, but the fact that the entire top portion of the man’s face was skinless, and with only one clouded eye remaining, was enough to make Harker gag before thrusting it back into Boyle’s hand. It wasn’t only the photo that was now causing him to gag, for it bore some of the gruesome qualities of the poor devils he had seen back at Cervete cemetery, and he took a moment to compose himself as Boyle replaced the offensive photo in its folder.
‘Is this how the two men you told us about looked?’ Baptista asked.
Harker was quick to shake his head. ‘There are similarities, like the swollen tongue, but the damage to the men I saw were the result of decomposition, whereas that…’
‘Looks like it was inflicted with violence,’ Dr Wheatley said, finishing Harker’s sentence.
‘Exactly,’ Harker replied, as Wheatley went on to confirm.
‘Well, it was. The removal of the jaw, skin and eye all happened sometime between the burial and his reappearance at his parish, because it was an open coffin and he certainly didn’t look like that during the funeral service.’
‘Why would someone do that?’ Harker exclaimed, more as a statement than a question, but it was jumped on furiously by Baptista.
‘Why! The only question pertinent at this time is how is he still alive? The man was dead!’
All three men looked over at Dr Wheatley, who was looking just as perplexed. ‘Every test I’ve done shows that Bishop Esposito is indeed alive. His lungs, heart, blood transfer are all functioning well within the normal range, but apart from the obvious, there are some bizarre processes at work that I just can’t account for.’
The Last Judgement Page 11
