by Neil Howarth
19
Avignon, France
The private jet dropped through the early morning mist and settled effortlessly on the runway at Avignon-Caumont airport, before taxiing in to the private terminal. The aircraft door opened and a man dressed in a long dark overcoat hurried down the steps and climbed into a black Mercedes limousine waiting at the bottom. The door closed behind him, and the car drove rapidly away.
Fifteen minutes later the limousine entered the main gates of the Abbey Saint Andre and stopped in front of the main entrance. A monk appeared as the visitor got out. The monk greeted the man formally and led the way inside.
Father Gerhard Muller met the visitor as the monk led the man into a large office.
“Your Eminence, a great pleasure to see you.”
Cardinal Vogler held out his hand to Muller. Muller stepped forward and pulled the Cardinals ruby ring to his lips.
“Please, Gerhard” Vogler said in his native German. “No formalities.”
“Cardinal Vogler.”
Vogler turned around.
Dominic De Vaux gave him a broad smile. “Please, take a seat. I’m sorry to drag you away so early in the morning. But this is of vital importance, and I promise you we will have you back in the Vatican before lunch. Can we offer you some breakfast?” He gestured to a table filled with baskets of croissants, pastries and freshly cooked breads.
Vogler was anxious to get on with the business at hand, but he did not want to appear too keen. “Thank you, just coffee.”
Father Muller picked up a silver coffee pot and poured three cups, handing one to Vogler and one to De Vaux.
De Vaux held up his cup. “To the discovery of a lifetime.”
The three of them sipped their coffee while Cardinal Vogler chatted with Father Muller about his work at the Abbey, but avoided direct reference to the reason for his visit. De Vaux stayed silent, smiling from time to time as Muller talked about his quest.
Eventually, De Vaux put down his cup, and his face became serious.
“So, to business. Gerhard perhaps you would like to tell his Eminence about our discovery.”
Father Muller wiped his mouth with a napkin and appeared to compose himself.
“Eminence, when we spoke on the phone I told you we had made an unbelievable discovery. A discovery, which we believe may change the face of our whole church, in fact, will impact every religion on God’s earth. We have been able to use some of the world’s leading technology for examining ancient scrolls.” Father Muller nodded towards De Vaux. “Thanks to the generosity of the De Vaux International Foundation, we have used a particular groundbreaking technique, which allows us to examine a still rolled up scroll. The results I must say are quite stunning. They gave us a set of clear images which we have enhanced to improve the readability of the text, but apart from that, there has been no other tampering with them.”
“And the carbon testing? Do you have the results.”
“Our initial tests place it where we would expect.” De Vaux cut in. “Of course your own experts will be able to verify that themselves.”
“You have it here?” Vogler’s voice could barely contain the excitement.
“We have the photographs.” Father Muller said. “The scroll itself is under tight security and environmentally controlled conditions.”
“Of course.” Vogler nodded, trying to conceal his disappointment.
Father Muller opened a black leather briefcase and took out a buff envelope. He held it in both hands as if in deference to its contents, and handed it to Cardinal Vogler.
Vogler extracted a set of photographs from the envelope and spread them on the desk in front of him. He studied them briefly, then picked up one.
“It is in Greek.” De Vaux said.
Vogler gave a nod. “As you would expect. Not to worry, I am a scholar of Greek.” He took out a pair of gold rimmed spectacles and settled them on his nose, then his eyes went back to studying the photograph. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, his hands began to shake, and he started to read out loud.
“Let it be witnessed that herein is written the final testament of I, Simeon, also called by my most holy master, Cephas.”
Vogler’s face had become deathly pale, his voice, now barely a whisper. “Simeon - Simon, Cephas - Peter.” He looked across at Father Muller, whose face was bathed in a broad smile.
“Is it him? - The Fisherman?”
20
Vatican City, Rome
Fagan stood across the street from the Porta di Sant’Anna, the main business entrance to the holy city. He always had mixed feelings about this place and now, with Luca gone, he should have been putting as much distance between himself and this place as possible. But he knew what he had to do. He owed that to the Holy Father.
He had woken in the early hours, a deep ache sitting in his gut. The thought that Luca was no longer here in this world was something he could barely comprehend. But there was another ache in there. One for another reason that was almost as hard to take. He would not be going back to Africa, not tomorrow or anytime soon, and if Blanchet really was involved, there was a chance he would never see Africa again.
He knew he had to find a way to see the Holy Father. He had to talk to him. But how? They would not allow him to just wander up to the Papal apartments.
He had closed his eyes, and the aches persisted, but somewhere in that pain tossed struggle to sleep, an image had pushed itself to the fore. Luca, sitting across from him in some bar, a glass of red wine in front of him, the ever-present Nazionali burning in his hand. And with it came the memory.
It was a conversation from a long time ago. Fagan had laughed at it at the time, he thought that Luca was talking fairy tales, Vatican myths. Luca had talked about a time of crisis, of desperate times. Well that had to be now. It could be the way. If it was true. If it was not another of Luca’s wine fueled, tall tales. He looked across at the entrance to the holy city. There was only one way to find out.
He stepped into the street and took the blow full in the chest. He staggered back, searching for his attacker, and was met with a muttered curse in Italian and a figure with a hooded top disappearing into the human traffic. He glanced around, no one else had broken stride - welcome to Rome, the Eternal City.
He looked both ways this time before stepping back into the street and crossed to the gate. A Swiss Guard, dressed in purple and gold livery, studied his Vatican ID then allowed him through.
“Father Joseph.”
Fagan stopped and turned around. A handsome man in his mid-forties, dressed in a smart, dark grey suit, stood on the steps of the security office.
“Commissario Di Mateo,” Fagan said.
The man personally responsible for the Pope’s security stepped down and approached him. Contrary to popular belief, Di Mateo was not a member of the Swiss Guard but an officer of the Vatican Gendarmerie. He was shorter than Fagan, but even in the suit, it was obvious this was a man who could take care of himself.
“Father Joseph,” his brown eyes peered deep into Fagan’s as if he was probing inside his head. “I am very sorry about Father Luca. He was a good man, a good friend.” The Commissario glanced towards the floor. “We had some good chess games together, some good conversations.”
Fagan nodded and smiled. “Me too. I’m going to miss him.”
“I hear you are going back to Africa.”
It seemed news traveled fast. “Yes, I’m here to collect my things.”
“Well, have a good trip.” He held out his hand. “By the way,” he took Fagan’s hand and held it in his firm grip. “I heard about your little adventure in France.” He looked Fagan directly in the eye. “What was that all about?”
Fagan met his stare. “I wish I knew.”
Di Mateo continued to study him then finally nodded his head and released Fagan’s hand. He glanced at his watch. “I have to go, it is almost time for the Holy Father’s walk in the garden. Have a safe journey and God speed.”
&nb
sp; Fagan could feel the Commissario’s eyes boring into him as he walked away. Should he have told him what Fredo had said, or about Blanchet? But what could he tell him? The word of a half blind, crazy man, and some guy in a bar. No - he knew who he had to speak to first.
The Apostolic Palace hosted more than just the Papal apartments, it was the home to a number of administrative offices and even today, the traditional day of rest, it still buzzed with activity. Fagan looked up at the ancient clock. If he was going to do this, he had little time.
He stepped into a side corridor, up ahead a cleaner mopped the floor. A service door to his right was slightly ajar. He grabbed the door handle, keeping his eyes on the cleaner, and stepped quickly inside then descended a narrow set of metal steps.
He had never been down here before, but he knew all about it. A network of passages, storerooms, and access spaces, serving the cleaning and maintenance personnel that kept the Vatican running smoothly, while at the same time being invisible to the hundreds of visitors that passed through it every day.
He reached the bottom and entered a long, well lit corridor. He went over Luca’s instructions in his head. He needed to be at the other end. The clang of pipes and the hiss of steam accompanied him as he made his way forward. At the end he stopped, the pipes continued their clatter, but he could hear nothing else. He opened the boiler room door.
“Ciao,” he called out.
There was no reply.
He slipped inside and found what he was looking for at the far side of the room, a metal access cover on a raised concrete platform. He grabbed hold of its recessed handles and pulled it aside. A set of metal rungs ran down into the darkness. He stepped onto the ladder and began to descend, pulling the access cover back in place. He was plunged into complete darkness. He paused for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust, then slowly descended.
He stepped down on to a solid floor. This was the fairy tale that Luca had told him about, the Vatican myth. He hoped to God it was more than that.
It was the smell that got to him first. It wasn’t a bad smell, it was the damp, musty, unmistakable aroma of time, not years but centuries. He felt like he could reach out and touch the past.
He dug in his pocket and retrieved a small Maglite, he had found in Luca’s apartment. The light illuminated an ancient bricked tunnel, tall enough for him to stand up in, flat at the bottom and arched above. This had originally been an aqueduct, a runoff from the ancient Bracciano aqueduct that supplied fresh water right across the city. It connected to the Vatican beneath the old Porta Pertusa. Luca had given him the full history when he had first told him of this place. Originally the priests and papal confidants that had passed this way had waded waist deep through freezing water. But the Vatican today had modern water pipes, and the place was now dry as a bone.
The floor rose steeply then leveled out. There was an offshoot to the right from the main aqueduct, and a short way along, a ladder was plastered into the wall, just as Luca had said it would be. It appeared much newer than it’s surroundings. Someone was obviously keeping this place in working order.
He stowed the flashlight in his pocket and gripped the ladder. A vague twilight seemed to illuminate the space above him. He ascended through a narrow opening, barely wide enough for his body. He climbed further and emerged into a large dome about six feet across and rising another ten feet above him, where it narrowed again. What seemed like daylight up above, cast a dim glow into the space. He could make out the faded whitewashed walls. He clung there, holding on to the ladder, thinking about Luca’s tale, and hoping he was right.
21
The Vatican Gardens
Pope Salus was dressed in a simple white soutane, with the papal white zucchetto on his head. Around his neck in the center of his chest, hung a simple wooden cross. He thanked Commissario De Mateo. The policeman bowed his head then turned away, speaking into his radio as he walked back down the path. De Mateo listened to the response. Everything was in place.
“Okay, do it.”
At this point, all the security cameras surveilling this part of the Vatican gardens were shut down. Every approach had been closed off, and Vatican Gendarmerie security guards surrounded the whole area. No one was allowed in. No one could look in or eavesdrop. The Holy Father was completely alone. It was an agreement they had, every day at this precise time when he was in residence, to give him some time and space to himself. This was now the most securely guarded spot on earth.
The Holy Father made his way through the gardens, moving in an unhurried stroll, taking in the beauty of the shrubs and flowers, stopping here and there to take a closer look at a particular bloom. He looked forward to this part of the day, this chance to be alone, away from the hectic world that was the everyday life of the Vatican. He never questioned that God had chosen him for this task, or his mission. But there were times like now when he missed that simple priest, whose life had been so much less complicated.
He followed the path as it meandered up through the garden, to its highest point. A replica of the holy grotto at Lourdes had been built into a man-made cave. He liked to come here each day to pray. It was his own private place to communicate with God.
He contemplated the statue of the virgin, sat high up on the wall, an original from the actual site. He crossed himself and uttered a short prayer, then approached the altar. Candles were already lit and flickered in the morning breeze. He knelt and spent a moment with his silent thoughts before he finally spoke his prayer out loud.
La Camera de Echi
The Pontiff’s mellow voice echoed around the chamber, as if the Holy Father was standing right in front of him. La Camera de Echi - The Chamber of Echoes, according to Luca, had been built by Urban the Third as the only way he could communicate outside of the Roman Curia, who only ever told him what they wanted him to hear. Rumor had it that it had been used by every Pope since. Its location was known only by the Holy Father’s closest allies.
Fagan clung on to the metal ladder and looked up towards the light, then spoke out loud. “Holy Father.” He did not need to shout, Luca had assured him the acoustics of the place were perfect for a normal level conversation. “Please forgive me for intruding, but I must speak with you.”
There was a pause, a tangible silence inside the chamber.
“Joseph, is that you?”
“Yes, Holy Father, please forgive me, I know this is your most private time.”
“Joseph,” the Pontiff’s voice was soft. “The Chamber of Echoes is there for a reason, for times of crisis, when needs must.”
“Holy Father, I believe this is one of those times. I need to talk to you about Father Luca. There are things going on, dark things.”
“Please Joseph, be calm, remember, this is your old friend William here.”
Fagan took a deep breath and clung onto the iron steps. What was it Luca always told him? Breathe, think, act.
“How are you bearing up?” The Holy Father asked.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Oh, he hasn’t gone, of that, I can assure you.” Fagan could hear the chuckle in the Holy Father’s voice. “I hear him twenty times a day muttering in my ear.”
Fagan smiled in the darkness.
“Luca’s time had come.” The Pope continued. “The Lord called him home. None of us know when we will have to stand before him. We can only be prepared.”
Fagan let the silence settle before he spoke. “Holy Father, someone murdered him.”
“What? Do you know that for sure?”
“I have a witness.”
“Then you must go to Commissario Di Mateo.”
“It’s not that easy. My eyewitness is half blind.”
“Blind?”
“And a little crazy.”
“Joseph?”
“Holy Father, I believe him, even though no one else will. And there’s another thing. There was a man in the bar that night, a very bad man. Someone from my past.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“No, but I still know it to be true.”
“Joseph, are you perhaps being a little. . .”
“Paranoid?”
“It’s understandable.”
“I was at Luca’s apartment. Someone had broken in and taken the place apart.”
“Joseph, speak to Commissario Di Mateo, Julio is a good man, he will do all he can to help you.”
“Does he know about me?”
“A little.”
“Trouble is, I have nothing more to tell him than I have told you.”
“Joseph, I think perhaps it’s a good thing you are going back to Africa, you will be safe there.”
“Holy Father, I don’t believe I can do that now.”
“Joseph, do you think that is wise?”
“I think people from my past are involved, and if that is true we must ask why? What are they involved in? Holy Father, three people are dead.”
“Three?”
“Luca, Brother Thomas, and I’m sure you heard about Brother Lucien at the Abbey.”
“Unfortunately, yes. But I thought he committed suicide? And Brother Thomas, that was an accident.”
“Luca didn’t believe Thomas was an accident, and now I’m certain Brother Lucien wasn’t suicide either.”
The Pope was silent. Fagan could imagine him, kneeling at Fatima’s shrine.
