“Why a battle? We didn’t want a battle. If the Vatican doesn’t start to learn from the past, history will wipe out the whole nightmare. No culture will allow itself to be suppressed forever.”
“Try telling that to the Native Americans who’ve virtually been wiped off the planet. I don’t know, maybe Ronald and Jennifer are planning an eleventh-hour way of using law to foster justice. I’m just worried about our safety. It’s hard to say what the ripple effects of a trial will be.”
“I don’t think Thomas had a chance to tell you about his vision. He’s explained everything to me over the last several years, about the gifts of the Druids and other indigenous peoples. He’s convinced that a time will come when people will recognize that the path we’ve been following has been the wrong one. And we can use what remains of these gifts and the knowledge of older cultures to help us to remember, so that a new consciousness can forge its own way in the world. At least that’s what he believes.”
“You know, that’s what I believe as well. When you translated the scroll of Dubdrean about the return of the Druids, I almost got dizzy. Ryan must have felt an even more powerful affirmation from this text. But with this indictment Ronald and Jennifer are going down a road that could trigger a religious war. It’s very possible that we’re underestimating the consequences of our actions.”
“No, Adam, I don’t think so, at least not anymore. There will be resistance from the Vatican, of course, but most Christians have known for a while that the true message isn’t to be found behind the Church’s power-hungry walls.”
“I’m still worried. I think it’s very possible that Ronald has something else up his sleeve. What if Jennifer is just a puppet here?” Shane ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his tired eyes. “I think we’ve done enough talking and speculating for the day. I propose we drink another round and then go back.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that. Ronald called me before he left. The scrolls are going to be flown to Washington tomorrow on a special plane so that experts can precisely date their origin. He asked us to come along and stay with the scrolls on the flight.”
Another flight, Shane thought with a shudder.
MACCLARY’S APARTMENT, WASHINGTON, DC – AFTERNOON
MacClary had taken Jennifer to the Hotel Monaco and was now sitting in his apartment, not far from the Supreme Court Building, looking thoughtfully out the window. Just as he was about to get out of his chair, the telephone rang. Shaking his head in surprise, he went to his little study. In comparison to the remarkable, almost dramatic antique feeling of his parents’ house, this room was much more cold and formal, filled with files and legal books.
“Ronald MacClary.”
“Ah, Mr. MacClary. Thank you for answering. This is Bill Axton. The president would like to meet with you tomorrow at five o’clock.” Axton was one of the president’s closest advisors. The invitation, though friendly, was extended in such a way that it was quite clear it was actually an order.
MacClary grew uneasy. Had the ambassador gone against his wishes and already told the White House about what was going on in Dublin?
“May I ask about the agenda for this meeting?”
“I can’t tell you that, but the matter is urgent.”
“Very well. I will be there right at five. See you tomorrow, Mr. Axton.”
“Thank you and good-bye.”
MacClary didn’t put down the phone right away. Instead, he dialed the embassy in Dublin and asked for the ambassador.
“Mr. MacClary, what can I do for you? Has something happened?” the ambassador asked when he came to the phone.
“I asked you to keep silent about the bugging,” MacClary said sharply.
“What do you mean? What makes you think I haven’t kept my word?”
“You haven’t told anyone about it?”
“No, and I can speak for all the people who work for me as well. It’s absolutely impossible that information about this bugging was leaked out, at least from here.”
MacClary could hear the unspoken question behind the ambassador’s words. He was deeply embarrassed about his hard tone of voice. “Oh God, I must be seeing pink elephants now,” he said contritely. “Please forgive my rush to judge. I’ve made a mistake.”
“Already forgotten. I can understand how these affairs would cause you some concern. Good luck in Washington, and I hope the matter sorts itself out quickly. Good night.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. And a good night to you as well.”
Confused, MacClary hung up the telephone. What could the president need to talk with him about? He had never been summoned to the White House before.
There was no likelihood of sleep tonight. MacClary turned on the television and, as if the news had been waiting for him, CNN was reporting about Ireland.
“As was reported today,” the well-groomed anchor said, “the Vatican has for decades been systematically concealing the number of Catholic officials involved in the abuse of minors in Ireland and the US. In addition, reports of a large number of cases involving sexual abuse of children by Catholic clergy have again been reported in Germany and other countries. Pope John Paul III has repeatedly apologized for the abuse. He has requested the presence of the entire College of Cardinals, comprising approximately two hundred members, for a meeting in Rome on the fourth of April to address the abuse cases.
“Meanwhile, it was reported on Friday that a German bishop was taken into temporary custody related to the cover-up of approximately three hundred abuse cases in the Munich area. It was announced that he had been taken into custody on Wednesday, but has since been released on a bail of fifty thousand euros. The name of the bishop has yet to be disclosed, but Rome has signaled its willingness to do so in the coming days should the charges be confirmed. The bishop has, in the meantime, been suspended from duty.”
MacClary sat motionless in his chair. He could feel his customary self-confidence returning as he listened to the news report. There was no going back now, and he was going to make sure that the Vatican stood before the world and their god and took responsibility for their actions.
THE MAGDALENSBERG – MARCH 19, EARLY MORNING
Ryan had said his good-byes to the friendly innkeepers the night before. He had to trust that they wouldn’t take any action, at least not before midday, when he’d already have met up with Brian Langster and was miles away over the mountains in safety. Only the son had gotten up with him to set up his motorcycle behind the house.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Ryan said as he prepared to depart. “When this is all over, I promise you I’ll bring my friends back here to celebrate. We’ll have a few reasons for a party by then.”
As he started up the motorcycle and drove off, though, he could see in the rearview mirror that the young man was crossing himself. Hmm, well, I might have to rethink that idea about celebrating here.
It was about thirty miles to the border once he had the mountain road behind him. It was still pitch black, and he hoped that no one had seen him or would recognize him later. When he got to the bottom of the mountain, he was suddenly blinded by lights from a side road. A car started heading directly toward him. Ryan swung the motorcycle around. It started to lurch so much that he almost crashed. Then the cross-country bike started to earn its keep. He cut across a slope and lost his pursuers.
He turned off the light, driving almost blind in the darkness through the brush, until he came back onto the road. He could see his pursuers coming nearer from above, and he pushed the motorcycle as hard as it could go. It took the tight curves squealing. As he desperately tried to get to the autobahn toward Italy, memories flashed across his mind about all the conversations he’d had over the last years about the Celts and Druids with Deborah and MacClary.
He’d soon travelled a solid twenty-five miles on the autobahn. His wounds were still causing him a good deal of pain, but the burning desire to make it to Washington lent him strength. The dawn illuminated
the mountains with an orange-yellow light as he approached, and he could already see where he had to get off the autobahn to get to the country road on the other side of the border.
He’d just crossed the open border to Italy when a black helicopter rose up from under the autobahn bridge. Seconds later, he saw a police roadblock about a half mile ahead. That could only be meant for him! He could hear an announcement in Italian coming from the helicopter. Ryan couldn’t understand a word of it, but its meaning was unmistakable.
In the next moment, a door opened on the side of the helicopter, and out of the corner of his eye Ryan could see that two sharpshooters were leveling their weapons at him. He began to swerve back and forth, but he realized this wouldn’t help for long. How could he get away? To make matters worse, police cars were approaching from behind.
He had to get off the bridge. Underneath him was a wide mountain river with sandy basins on either side, its water glistening turquoise blue in the dawn light. A bit farther downriver he could see a few scattered farms. It was at least sixty feet down, and the water was too shallow to jump from the bridge. He noticed that every bridge pile had a steel ladder on the inside, but before he could do anything with this information, he heard a loud pop, and he felt the motorcycle swerve behind him. The back tire had been hit. He slid to the side and was lucky that his fall was cushioned again by the well-wrapped scroll. He sent up a silent thanks to his ancestors. The fall was still bad enough. His feet slipped toward the crash barrier, which stopped his slide with a jolt.
“Damn it all to hell!”
Ryan gritted his teeth, pulled himself up with a groan, and ran to one of the piles. Carefully he climbed over the fortification, took a wild leap, and landed on a platform where he could get at the ladder. His pursuers were still behind him. The helicopter flew level with the bridge. Shots ricocheted off the cement. He climbed down the pile with as much speed as care, out of range of the shooters. More shots followed. Then he heard the helicopter turn around, obviously unable to fly under the bridge.
Ryan stepped on the last rung of the ladder. As he reached the bottom, he was alone. His pursuers seemed to have disappeared, and there was only one lone policeman who looked down from the bridge as he got to the valley floor and ran away.
“Damn it, what good will it do you to kill me?” Ryan swore in desperation. Then he ran, his face distorted with pain, alongside the river to a nearby farm, as he heard the helicopter return. He reached the other bank and hid himself behind the farm in the undergrowth.
He had to get out. But how? Ryan knew he only had a few minutes until his pursuers picked up his trail again. Not far from where he was hidden, he could see the country road that he had to follow, but he would never be able to make it, not under his own steam and not with a bevy of well-armed people pursuing him.
Desperate, he looked around, his gaze sweeping the river and the fields surrounding the farm. The only living thing he could see was a black horse, contentedly grazing near a shed. Ryan thought for only a few seconds, then he ran in the direction of the shed as another shot crossed his path from some direction or another. There was no time for saddle and halter. As a child, he had been able to win the trust of nearly every horse he met. He hoped now that he hadn’t lost this skill.
He ran to the little paddock and laid his hand on the forehead of the gelding.
“I need your strength and your help. Please let me lead you.”
Then he climbed on the horse’s back and they galloped off. Ryan heard the regular rhythm of the hooves on the stone, felt the horse’s mane blow in his face.
They reached the riverbed when Ryan heard the helicopter approaching from behind. Shots narrowly missed him again. “Faster!” Ryan shouted, encouraged by the sight of the looming forest and the rising mountains. There was a ditch that he had to get across. Another shot just under the hooves made the horse jump so high with fear that he crossed over the gap in one enormous leap, making Ryan almost lose his seat. They were almost there. The helicopter turned from its pursuit because of an approaching cliff. Once in the protection of the trees, the path up the mountain traversed boulders and spruce brush.
Ryan gave the horse a friendly pat on his sweaty neck. “You’re quite the hotshot, aren’t you?” he said, surprised at what an amazing animal he had found just standing on the wayside. They slowed down a bit, and Ryan could see, about a hundred yards away, the inn and the red camper Brian Langster had told him to look for. It was closer than he’d expected.
Relieved, he urged the horse into a gallop and rode down the side road. He could already see his contact standing and waiting for him. Langster took a nervous leap toward his car as the unknown horse came galloping at him like a huge black projectile. Ryan stopped directly in front of the little black Fiat and dismounted with an elegant sweep, landing directly in front of Langster.
He threw his arms around the neck of the horse, who was now breathing heavily, and closed his eyes. “Thank you, my friend, thank you,” Ryan said softly and gave the horse a pat on his hindquarters to get him on his way back home. “Well, sometimes one horsepower is all you need.” Ryan turned to Langster. “We have to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“I’m going to bring you to a doctor who’s a friend of mine,” Langster said. “From there you can continue on to the States. But we’re maintaining radio silence because we can’t take any risks. As soon as you’re in the air, you can contact your friends again. Do you understand?”
“Understood.”
It would be hard for the others to go days with no word from him, but it was necessary. His bruised body needed the rest.
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF JUSTICE, SUPREME COURT, WASHINGTON, DC – MARCH 19, MORNING
On the first floor of the Supreme Court Building, there is a conference room set aside for the justices. This is where decisions are made, judgments are written, and where trial votes are held on camera to decide whether the court should take a case.
Ronald was nervous. He had no idea how much his fellow justices already knew and how they would react when he brought them into the loop. Until just a few days ago, his activities in the area of Church history had been his own private affair. They weren’t looked on too kindly, but as long as he didn’t attract too much attention, they were tolerated in silence. But now he would have to explain himself. He had to stop any attempts to attack him and undermine his authority. However, bringing a case forward that hadn’t yet been heard, dismissed, or appealed in a district court was a risky business. In the end, all he could do was entrust the matter to his colleagues and wait for their reaction. Most of the justices who had been named by the last four presidents were conservative Christians, but their duty lay with the law, with the Constitution, and not with the Vatican.
As he entered the conference room, there was only one justice there. “Good morning, Ronald,” the man said to the astonished MacClary. “I’ve just heard that Justice Courtney is ill; the session has been cancelled. Didn’t anyone tell you?” Justice Bob Johnson was a small, very thin man with gray-flecked hair and a thin mustache. At seventy-five, he was one of the oldest justices on the Supreme Court.
Dumbfounded, MacClary looked at his colleague. “No, but this isn’t good at all.” For a few seconds he stared at the huge, empty conference table, and then he had a realization. He’d been given the opportunity to talk privately with one of the most liberal justices on the court.
“Here’s the thing, Bob. I’ve been summoned to the White House for a meeting at five this evening. I don’t exactly know what’s waiting for me there, but it might have to do with certain affairs in Dublin that—”
“I think I have an idea what it’s about,” Johnson interrupted. “Did you really think that your private feud with the Catholic Church wouldn’t have any consequences?”
MacClary sat down, baffled. What had happened?
“Don’t look at me as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re lucky that none of the big newspapers
have found out about it yet,” Johnson said as he placed an Austrian newspaper in front of MacClary that contained an article about the suspicious interruption of MacClary’s lecture.
MacClary breathed a bit easier. “Oh, that! No, Bob, that was irritating, but hardly a reason to reproach me. There was nothing in that lecture that hasn’t already been said by others. No, there’s another problem. I accidentally discovered that my residence had been bugged.”
“What? Who in God’s name...”
MacClary took a deep breath. As unpleasant as it was, he had to lie to one of his best friends on the court.
“We don’t know, but I can assure you that I haven’t had any conversations about our activities over the last several weeks. When I’m there, I am, as you know, in another world. I hardly even answer the telephone. The Guantanamo story came up once, but the bugs hadn’t been put in place yet, if the experts are to be believed,” MacClary said.
“Good, that’s something at least. Still, the whole matter is, at the very least, extremely unsettling. Is there any evidence to suggest who did this?”
“Unfortunately, no, we don’t have any ideas aside from the usual suspects. We may never know for sure who’s behind it. But there is something else I’d like to discuss with you, off the record. We’re apparently about to get a pretty explosive case. I’ve heard from a lawyer friend of mine that the district attorney’s office in Boston intends to bring charges up against the Vatican sometime in the next few days. I don’t know the details of the case yet, but she signaled that if it were dismissed she would appeal to the Supreme Court.”
The Celtic Conspiracy Page 16
