The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  “So would you mind telling me what you were doing, acting like a slightly overweight commando, inside a restricted security area, making a direct assault on St. Peter’s Basilica?”

  “I was trying to get your attention.”

  “Well, you certainly did that. Now tell me why I should not throw you in jail for the next twenty years. Or worse, hand you over to the American Secret Service, who would have you on the next plane to Guantanamo Bay.”

  “Because if you do, it will be the last you’ll hear of this place and all the people in it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There is a bomb inside the Basilica. Commissario, I assure you. I am telling the truth.”

  De Mateo studied him for a moment then looked back out of the door. “Pietro.”

  A young man in plain clothes appeared in the doorway.

  “Okay, Father Walter, Pietro here will take notes.” He looked at his watch. “You have three minutes to convince me.”

  Walter had his complete attention in less than two. He told the rest of the story as fast as he could.

  De Mateo lit another cigarette. The cell was already thick with bluish smoke from the two he had smoked already. “So what you are saying is, despite all our security efforts, there is a bomb inside the cabinet housing of an ancient scroll currently installed below St Peter’s tomb. Which if it goes off, will blow the roof off of St Peter’s Basilica and vaporize everyone inside.”

  Walter nodded, realizing it all sounded more than a little crazy.

  “Have you any proof of this? Just one thing that is not a nicely presented argument. Because what I have at the moment is a nice set of assumptions, guesswork and seemingly logical connections and conclusions, rather than any hard facts.”

  “Did Father Brennan come to speak to you?”

  De Mateo shook his head. “Why should he?”

  “Because I told him what I told you. He said he was coming to speak to you.”

  “Maybe he thought you were crazy.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “I am not sure, but you expect me to evacuate two-thirds of the world’s leaders plus the Vatican Conclave, and of course there is the body of the Holy Father. While the world’s press and media look on.” He looked at his watch. “And the President of the United States is arriving in exactly three minutes from now.”

  “I don’t expect you to evacuate anyone, nor attempt to stop the President of the United States from taking his seat inside.”

  “Really, and why is that?”

  “The people controlling this will have watchers. If they see any sign of evacuation or anything out of the ordinary, they’ll blow it. I’m sure.”

  “And if your theory is correct, what do you suggest?”

  Walter couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “That you let me go in, go down to where the scroll is and take a look, see if my theory is correct.”

  As serious as it all was, De Mateo had to smile. “You are a priest, what would you know about a bomb, even if it is there? If you touch it, it is likely to blow up. No, I need to call the bomb squad.”

  “I thought we already agreed. You can’t do that. If they see the bomb boys arrive, same outcome as if you try to evacuate.”

  “Why have they not blown it already?”

  Walter allowed himself a smile. “You’ve already said. He arrives in three minutes.”

  Walter could see that got through to him. “Look, I have a degree in Electronic Engineering, and a Master’s in Computer Science. I know what I’m doing. It’s a bomb. I know how you would construct it, and what you need to do to control it. A timer is unlikely, too uncontrollable. You can’t deal with changes in circumstances. Like now. No, a radio signal is most likely.”

  “All cell phone network towers within three miles are shut down for security. That’s why we do it.”

  “And they know that. It’s more likely to be a private band, maybe your own security band.”

  “How?”

  “How many private security contractors do you have working on this? We saw some of them take Miss Lefevre away.”

  “Okay, another logical argument. And you might know about the mechanics of controlling a bomb, but what do you know about explosives?”

  Walter raised his eyebrows. “I’ve read a bit.”

  De Mateo shook his head. “This is madness.”

  “What other choice have you got?”

  Walter could see from the look on De Mateo’s face that he knew he had none.

  De Mateo looked first at Walter, then back at Pietro. “This is going to be either the smartest or the dumbest thing I have ever done.”

  “Whichever,” Walter said. “But we need to do it now.”

  De Mateo turned to Pietro. “Go with him, get him a pass and get him inside, now. Because once the President’s detail arrives, no one will get in or out. Keep in touch on your radio.”

  “Yes sir,” Pietro stood to attention. He looked across at Walter. “Follow me.”

  “And Pietro,” De Mateo called after his man.

  “Sir?”

  “Do nothing without telling me first.”

  His officer nodded and disappeared out of the door. De Mateo watched them go. He lit another cigarette and took a grateful lungful of smoke. He had a choice to make, and he had about thirty seconds to make it. He spoke into his communicator. “Get me the head of the President’s Secret Service detail, now.”

  80

  Della Vittoria, Rome.

  “Joe.” Blanchet stepped away from the open French window. Outside was a large balcony and beyond an elevated view of the Dome of St Peter’s. “You think I’ve forgotten how to spot a tail?” The smirk grew into a grin. “No, and you haven’t forgotten how to spot when you’re blown.” He looked across at one of the guards. “Have you searched him?”

  “Yes boss, he’s clean.”

  Blanchet shook his head. “Take particular care, don’t let him get close. He let you take him, and he came without a weapon, which means he intends to take one of yours.”

  “Sounds like chess,” Fagan said.

  “Oh Joe, you ain’t changed.”

  Frankie sat on a bright red sofa. She had a dark weal high up on her cheekbone.

  “Are you all right?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Oh she’s fine,” Blanchet said. “Unfortunately I had to show her a little discipline.”

  Fagan desperately wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, but now was not the time.

  He glanced around the high ceilinged room. The whole front side was made of glass with a large sliding door, and the floor was tiled in Italian marble. Immediately behind him, an open staircase in polished teak wood ran up to the level above. There were the two guards who had brought him in. One sat at a table studying an open laptop. The other leaned against the wall watching him, gun ready in his hand.

  Across the room was a wide, integral kitchen space with a granite topped island in the middle. Marco, stood wearing a large white apron, wielding a long, narrow bladed knife and appeared to be filleting a large fresh salmon on the countertop.

  “Marco is a fully trained Sushi Chef,” Blanchet said. “He went to Japan to be trained by a master. It must be something like Kung Fu. Marco regards it as an art rather than a culinary skill. He could be right. I’ve seen him use that knife to peel the skin off a man and still keep him alive, then slice him up the middle and hold the man’s still beating heart in his hand.” He stepped forward to the countertop and picked up a shaped roll of white rice, topped with a generous slice of raw salmon. “Still the food he turns out is wonderful.” He popped the sushi into his mouth and chewed for a moment then swallowed and sucked on his fingertips. “I wonder what he could do with you and your friend?”

  Marco was looking at Fagan. He flipped the knife into the air and caught it deftly by the handle.

  “He’s still mad at you,” Blanchet said.

  Marco flipped the knife a
gain, this time he caught it by its blade, then with a lightning movement sent it flying through the air. Fagan had barely time to register its flight before it struck close to his head, embedded in the wooden staircase pillar behind him. He looked at the still vibrating blade, less than an arm’s length away.

  “Go ahead, Joe, give it a try.” Blanchet taunted him.

  Fagan didn’t move.

  Blanchet walked across and removed the knife. He moved in close and touched the blade against Fagan’s cheek, its fine point close to the corner of his eye.

  “Dangerous things, knives.”

  He went over and placed it back on the countertop.

  “So what happens now?”

  “We have a little time to kill.” Blanchet checked his watch. “You remember finely timed plans.” He wandered over to the counter and picked up what appeared to be a radio transceiver with a short stubby aerial. He seemed to check that it was in working order then set it back down again.

  “Is that it?” Fagan said. “The detonator trigger?”

  “It’s really very simple. We have access to the Vatican’s security band. A touch of that button and boom.”

  “So what happens while we’re waiting?” Fagan asked.

  Blanchet smiled. “I’ve promised Marco you’re all his, and I’ve given him Miss Lefevre as a bonus. I think he’s taken a real shine to her. But all in its own time.”

  Fagan looked across at Frankie, the fingers of her left hand were extended, telling him to cool it.

  It wasn’t missed on Blanchet. “She’s right. There ain’t nothing you can do.” The scar on his face seemed more prominent, the smirk more intense. “I’m in complete control.”

  Fagan couldn’t resist it.

  “Blanchet, you always were full of shit.”

  81

  Central Security Office, Vatican Gendarmerie.

  Walter and Pietro left the cell block and headed upstairs to the main security office. They stopped briefly in the office by the door for Walter to have his photograph taken and for the security pass to be printed as they waited. Pietro had to call the Commissario and have the girl issuing the passes talk to him directly before she would do what was necessary. She pushed the printed pass with Walter’s face on the front, into a plastic cover along with a magnetic security card and placed the attached ribbon around Walter’s neck.

  “Wear it at all times,” she said.

  “Okay, shall we go.” Pietro grabbed hold of Walter’s arm.

  “We need to get a few things first.”

  “What things? We have to move.”

  “Do you expect me to disable this thing with my bare hands?”

  Walter gave Pietro a list of the things he needed. “Can you get those for me?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well move it, you’re the one telling me we don’t have any time.”

  Pietro shook his head and hurried off into the depths of the office.

  Walter waited in the corridor whistling on old Irish tune like he always did when he was nervous. He wasn’t quite sure how he had got to be standing here, contemplating what he was about to do. He wondered if he would suddenly wake up. But he didn’t need to pinch himself to know that he wasn’t in a dream. This thing was for real. He took a series of deep breaths and tried to go into a relaxation routine he had been trying to master. He could do this thing. He knew what he was doing, in theory. And he did have experience. He had disabled booby trapped bombs before, many times - well sort of. On IED Disposal Expert III on his X-Box, he was level ten. What could be so different?

  Pietro appeared, thankfully to stop him from having to ponder on the answer to that question. He was carrying a small black case.

  “Did you get everything?” Walter asked.

  “I think so. Come on we have to hurry.”

  “I just need to stop off at one last place before we go into the Basilica.”

  Pietro nervously glanced at his watch. “What now? Come on. We need to go. If we screw this up, the Commissario will have us both singing in the Vatican choir - with the boy sopranos.”

  “Trust me. If I screw this up, we’ll be singing in a different choir.”

  St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.

  Commissario de Mateo stood at the top of the Basilica’s steps looking out across St Peter’s Square. It was packed with eager people, many waving banners, shouting out the late Pope’s name, and various groups singing along to the hymns that were being piped out into the square. A passage, wide enough for a vehicle, had been cleared all around the perimeter of the square to allow the arrival and departure of VIP Limousines. Giant TV screens were positioned all around, giving the viewers live coverage of the events taking place inside.

  Traditionally the service started outside, with the late Pontiff lying in state, right where he stood. But for security reasons, and with religious feeling running dangerously high, it was agreed that the whole service would take place inside, with live coverage beamed outside and around the world.

  He had spoken to the head of the President’s Secret Service detail and passed on to him what he knew, with a recommendation that the President return to the airport immediately. The President’s man had ordered the motorcade take another circuit around the Vatican while he spoke to the President himself.

  A voice spoke in his communicator earpiece.

  “Commissario de Mateo, my boss would like to speak to you.”

  De Mateo’s heart seemed to kick in his chest. Then a voice he recognized spoke in his ear.

  “Commissario De Mateo, this is the President.”

  “Mister President,” De Mateo struggled to get the words out.

  “Are you certain about this threat?”

  “Sir, I have a high degree of certainty. High enough to recommend that you return to the airport immediately.”

  “But no proof.”

  “No, sir.”

  There was a slight pause. “It’s Julio, isn’t it? I remember you. We met when Pope Salus visited the United States recently.”

  “Yes, Mister President.”

  “William was a close personal friend. The world is looking on, and you know that for many reasons, including the work we were doing together, I have to go in there and pay my last respects.”

  “Yes, Mister President.”

  “I know you will do your best to keep me safe.”

  De Mateo found himself saying. “Yes, Mister President.”

  The voice of the head of the Secret Service sounded in his ear. “And I do too.”

  De Mateo knew the head of the Secret Service was not conveying his confidence in him. In this business that was the closest you got to a direct threat.

  He changed his communication channel to the one he had agreed with Pietro. “Pietro where are you? Are you inside yet?”

  He heard the reply but didn’t want to believe it. “Father Walter is where?”

  “Sir, he is in the kitchen.”

  “Officer Pietro, I have no idea what you are doing.” De Mateo was trying his best not to shout. “But if you do not have him inside the Basilica in exactly one minute, I will have you both locked up in the deepest cellar in the Castel Sant’Angelo, and then I will personally throw the key into the Tiber. Do you understand me?”

  “Sir, yes sir. We are on our way, now.”

  Moments later the President’s motorcade swept into the square, motorcycles in the lead followed the designated passage through the crowd to the steps of the Basilica. The procession came to a halt, and Secret Service agents spilled out from the cars in front and behind the Presidential limousine, forming a shield around it. The rear door opened and the President stepped out. Agents surrounded him, and he was escorted in a human shield quickly up the steps and inside the Basilica. As they entered, the main doors closed with a resounding clang.

  De Mateo stood looking on. That was it. The place was now totally locked down. If he believed Father Walter, and unfortunately he did, from this moment on, at the wh
im of whoever had their finger on the button, this holy place could be blown to oblivion, and he could do nothing about it.

  It was all up to that crazy priest now.

  De Mateo headed back to the security control center. All he could do from now on was watch and wait. A voice spoke on his communicator.

  “What?” he said, not quite believing what he had heard.

  The caller repeated his message.

  De Mateo shook his head. “I will be right there.”

  82

  St. Peter’s Basilica, The Vatican.

  They showed their security passes at the side door, and Walter led the way into the Basilica. He dipped his fingers in the holy water font by the door and crossed himself, uttering a blessing that God would look after all the people in this place - including him. He gave Pietro a hard look and he did the same.

  “Can we go now?” Pietro muttered.

  The service was already underway in the central nave, on the other side of the altar. The heavenly voices of the Sistine Chapel choir seemed to fill the whole place as if they were singing directly out of the magnificent dome of St. Peter’s. Walter recognized Miserere Mei Deus, Allegri’s beautiful rendition of Psalm Fifty-One. He had sung it with this choir many times in the past. He wished he could stop and join in with them now, and get away from the crazy madness that had invaded this serene place. But as Luca was always fond of telling him,

  God doesn’t give what you want. He gives you what you need.

  He thought of the bomb waiting for him, down below his feet. He prayed that Luca was right.

  They quickly crossed the marble floor and descended the stairs behind the altar. They passed the entrance to the Papal Grottos, and Walter hurried ahead, winding his way through the bowels of the ancient church. He entered a long narrow chapel through a set of iron gates. At the end, he turned right. A dim illumination emanated from below, lighting a narrow stairway. Walter squeezed his bulk into the passage, made for a man much slimmer and shorter than him, and descended. The wooden steps squeaked alarming as each took his weight, his body tugging at the walls and blocking out the light from Pietro, who stumbled behind him in darkness. Walter stopped abruptly, and Pietro pitched into him. Walter absorbed it, barely noticing. His head was turned, his gaze fixed towards an object just a few feet away. The Graffiti Wall, covered in scribbles from ancient Christians who had left their mark to show they had been there, close to the place where someone had etched the words in Greek -