But there were strings attached. With their burgeoning population, and the anticipated need for the oil and minerals of Africa, they would stop at nothing to gain their ends. While the British Government was trying to deal with the Chinese through diplomatic channels, it faced a dilemma. Thwarting their designs on Tanganyika, while achieving détente with them regarding Hong Kong, would be difficult if not impossible. British rule of that Crown Colony would end when the treaty expired near the end of the century, but militant Reds could take it by force any time. Communist efforts in Africa met with little official resistance as a consequence, but he knew he had to regard every Chinese businessman as a possible enemy agent.
* * *
As the exploration of the Martian ship neared its end, Celestre, the Mafia priest and spy, received an encrypted radio message from the Vatican. He was to proceed to Rome in all possible haste. Extremely important decisions were pending, the message said, involving the highest leadership regarding the Martians and religion. He wondered where he would fit in, but decided that they needed first-hand input. He didn’t realize that their greatest fears concerned the advanced technology, especially its war-making potential. Hastily, he made preparations for the trip. He’d have to stop off in Dar-es-Salaam to consult with Manzone, his Mafia contact there. To bypass him would be his death warrant, he knew.
Once again they met in a dark corner of that Arab café, where he found the Mafioso, fingers drumming on the little table impatiently. It was bare except for a coffee pot and a single cup.
“You’re late!” Manzone snarled, “Not that tardiness in itself is so bad. However, in your case, I’m convinced it was fear that caused it today. You realize, don’t you, that fear is the death of spies? When one is unable to think straight, mistakes that cost the organization are more likely. You know the penalty for that.”
“Of course I do,” Celestre responded defensively. “But have you considered how long it takes to fix a flat tire? That can happen even to a Consigliere.”
“All right,” snapped his superior. “We intercepted and decoded the Vatican transmission. We think they have something in mind besides religion. As soon as you get there, you’re to dig deeper. We can’t let our biggest prize get away from us the way that initial shipment did.”
“But that was entirely different. The whole fiasco was due to the clumsy way your agents handled it, hijacking the goods and then loading them onto a different freighter. If they had instead boarded the intended cargo ship in the Mediterranean and diverted it to our facilities in Messina, the British Navy wouldn’t have been given an early enough warning for the interception.”
“Enough of that! You have your orders. Carry them out well, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
With that, Manzone, pouring coffee from the pot, signaled that the meeting was over with a dismissive motion of his arm. Celestre rose, trying to stifle a sigh of relief. He couldn’t get out of there soon enough.
The Alitalia DC-6 that took him to Rome seemed overage, and the vibration generated by its four engines was not a comfort. In first class, he was coddled by the stewardesses, despite his grotesque appearance. After all, the Vatican had paid for his passage, and that was enough for them. Ordinarily, as a cleric, he would have flown in tourist class, but he wasn’t about to complain. He even accepted a glass of wine from the blue-eyed Italian stewardess who handed it to him with a sparkling smile and the lilt of Lombardy in her voice. When all this is over, he mused as he sipped the wine, all this luxury, including such women, will be mine. He was painfully aware of his physical repulsiveness, but money could blind anyone, even beautiful women.
He was met at the airport by an officer from Papal Security, and after an expedited passage through Customs, he was whisked away by limousine to the Pope’s summer palace, Castel Gandolfo. His escort, introducing himself as Lieutenant Paolo Pedrone, filled him in on the schedule. He was to meet with the Captain of Security, and then, after supper, have a private audience with the Pope himself.
Oh God, Celestre thought, not kissing his ring again! But why the Pope? He was known to be in failing health. Was he still in charge? In any event, he didn’t need the blessing of a lowly priest, with all the sycophants surrounding him. Of course, he knew it obviously had to do with his knowledge of the dig, and its fantastic findings. Not for centuries had the Catholic Church been involved in such things. And then it was in suppressing discoveries that countered established religious teachings.
After his meeting with the Captain, which turned out to be a screening of Celestre in preparation for his Papal interview, he was shown to an anteroom. He sat there twiddling his thumbs impatiently thinking. Didn’t the Pope have underlings to gather information from such individuals as he, so far down in the hierarchy? It didn’t occur to him that there was a problem the Pontiff didn’t want to share.
It was over an hour before the imperious Mother Pasqualina, the Pope's long-time housekeeper, led Celestre into the bedroom of Pius the 12th. The ramrod-straight, saintly-appearing figure he had seen before had changed. His illness had reduced him to a fragile old man, without the vitality shown in their previous meetings. As he sat at the bedside, his skin was sallow, and only his sparkling brown eyes suggested he still harbored an active mind.
In a quavering voice he said, “Welcome, my son. I find it appropriate that your name means heavenly.” Then, motioning to a chair, he added, “Sit here next to me. You are no doubt wondering why we’ve summoned you here. As a dying man, before God takes us, we have much to do, most of which must remain just between the two of us. Do we have your pledge, as a priest in Christ, that none of this will escape this office?”
The Mafia Jesuit knew where his loyalties must lie, but he nodded solemnly to the Pope, agreeing, “Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Good. Then we can proceed. It is possible that you know we were the one who arranged the Reich Concordat, the treaty that facilitated Hitler’s rise in Germany. We have since regretted that, because of the horrible toll of human life during the war that followed. By the time certain members of the Wermacht Officers Corps began to plot against the Reichfuhrer’s life, we indicated through channels that we wanted to join in their effort. The response was one of incredulity that the Holy See should meddle in such a way. Thus our help was not sought. As you know, the assassination attempt failed, and in that failure, the Nazis fought fruitlessly on, allowing much of their previous conquests to be taken over by the godless Soviets, giving us the Communist Eastern Europe of today. Two hundred million Catholics were lost to our Roman Church.
“You may not be aware of the full extent of our stand against the Soviet Union, and what actions we have been taking to undermine their rule over our souls in Poland, Czechoslovakia, and East Germany. That is an ongoing effort, and, we hope, one that will continue after we join our heavenly father.
“There remains to us a final mission, and that is where you come in, Celestre. We did adopt the name ‘Pius,’ meaning ‘Religious’ in Latin, because we do believe in the peace that was taught by our Savior, Jesus Christ, and his apostle Peter, our first Pope. In your reports from Africa, we’ve come to see the discoveries in Tanganyika as a terrible threat to the peace of the world. Now, the Pentagon in America has begun to understand the importance of this alien technology, as have the Chinese Communists. The Soviets, early in on the secret, will be strengthening their presence there soon. Initially intent on the industrial impact of the Martian secrets, all now covet the war-making potential of the thermonuclear power, and the virtually impervious material.
“We have decided on a radical plan. Those secrets must not fall into the wrong hands. Just between the two of us, this includes not only the Eastern Bloc, including the Soviets and China, but also the U.S. While America, as a mostly Christian nation, is the best of the three, the warlike stance assumed by their leaders is great cause for concern.” Warming to the presence of his guest, and leaning forward, the Pope whispered to the questioning priest. “Wha
t would you do, Father, in our place?”
“Your Holiness,” he replied, “I’m just a simple Jesuit. How can I know of any solution?”
“Don’t toy with us. We have our agents everywhere, not only here in Rome, but also in East Africa. Do you think that all our ecclesiastics there are simple missionaries? We know of your Mafia connections, Celestre, and if you think that your punishment for deserting their cause would be worse than ours, think again.”
That threat, coming from the top of the Catholic hierarchy, had a chilling effect on the double agent. He wasn’t worried about excommunication, but he knew he would never taste the luxury of the good life he envisioned for himself if he betrayed either of his masters.
Pius XII continued, after observing the dismay on his minion’s face. “We think that the best recipient of the Martian technology would be Japan. They have adapted a pacifist stance since their disaster in the Pacific war, and their new constitution forbids any nuclear armament.”
What the Pope said was true, and Celestre knew it. What no one knew was how the rest of the story would turn out. After a paroxysm of coughing, which appeared to shake the Prelate, Celestre was given the Vatican plan. In a hoarse whisper, Pius said, “We intend to see that the shipment to America is stopped in the Indian Ocean by an armed skeleton crew, and the vessel diverted to Nagasaki, on Japan’s main island. It would thus emulate the Portuguese ‘Black Ship’ that carried goods to and from the Shogunate that ruled Japan in the sixteenth century. Fitting, don’t you think? And, we have been assured by their government that not only will the Church be paid handsomely, but that they will once again allow our missionaries free access to their people. Don’t you see? Your Jesuit motto, Ad Majorum Dei Gloriam, For the Greater Glory of God, to which all Catholics should aspire, will be fulfilled!”
“Yes, your Holiness, but the route is many thousands of miles, allowing more than enough time for one of the great powers to stop the freighter well short of its destination. How could it possibly get through to Japan, with the naval forces of at least three countries in pursuit?”
Smiling enigmatically, the Pope rejoined, “We won’t burden you with our methods, but the ship will steer a course well off the usual sea lanes where the search will be centered. Moreover, if they should find the ship despite our efforts, the crew will threaten to scuttle the vessel and its cargo. That would keep them at bay until it reaches its destination. They wouldn’t want to risk loss of all that technological treasure, now would they?”
“But your Holiness, what if a boarding party calls your bluff? Merely opening the ship’s sea-cocks to scuttle her would be too slow. The cargo would end up in the wrong hands anyway. What about provisions for holing the hull, as was done with the Ancona in the Mediterranean? But remember, that charge was miscalculated. Nearly everyone went down with the ship. Are you prepared for that?”
Pius seemed to ignore that. “We think you have all you need to know. You will be contacted when the time is right, to make the final arrangements.” Saying that, the Pontiff held out his hand--and ring--for Celestre. Taking the wizened but still soft hand, he feigned kissing the ring with an audible smacking of his lips, followed by his bowing his way out.
Immediately, the Pope rang for Security. “Have him followed, and we mean all the way to the dig in Africa. He isn’t to be trusted because of his allegiance to the Mafia. But what he learned here tonight will be used by them, and to our advantage.”
Celestre failed to notice the agent tailing him, and on his return to Dar-es-Salaam, after a preliminary radio message, he again met with his Mafia contact, Manzone. He spent the better part of the hour recounting the Vatican’s position and plans, adding some insights of his own.
After taking in all that, Manzone said, “Good work. This might even get you a spacious villa in Tuscany--if it all works out. Otherwise, all you can expect is a six by three plot of Sicilian soil.”
Why did the Mafia have to think that way, Celestre thought, either promises or threats? Wasn’t there ever anything in between?
As soon as the priest left the café, Manzone contacted his superior, and arranged a conference. He would transmit the Pope’s plans for the Martian technology, so the Mafia could be ready to pre-empt the Vatican’s scheme with a plan of its own. Certainly they wouldn’t settle just for Japan’s offer. As usual with the Mafia, it would be a sale to the highest bidder. No telling how many millions it would bring, he gleefully conjectured, his eyes glittering greedily in anticipation of his share.
* * *
At the dig, the propulsion unit of the spaceship still rested on the huge trailer, and under the direction of Max and Diana, the Martian crew’s fossilized skeletal remains had been removed and crated for shipment to Chicago. Along with photos of the printing from the bulkheads of the hulk, metal plates containing identification and instructions regarding controls and other equipment had been detached, catalogued and packed, as were the weapons found in the crew’s pods.
The Italian company’s digging machines were still laying waste to the surrounding sections in their mining of the remnants of the other ship. At the dig, powerless to legally intervene, they despaired that the hull material excavated would soon find its way to Dar, to be sold there by the Mafia, probably to the Soviet Union.
One afternoon, Diana chanced to be standing with Kindred viewing the Italian activity, which was sending a column of dust to a height rivaling the perennial cloud that formed the plume over the volcano. “Look at that,” she remarked, “they’re despoiling this whole valley. Rather like the strip miners in their search for coal are doing in Appalachia in America. All this scenic wildlife habitat and rangeland will be ruined forever. You’re the Minister now. Can’t anything be done about it?”
He looked down at her, mostly seeing the top of her head, but by that time he had learned how her jaw was set at such times. “I rather think there is little we can accomplish, short of an act of Parliament.”
“Oh, don’t just give up on it,” she said, “there jolly well must be a way to stop them somehow. What about invoking laws concerning national security? Those shattered fragments could unlock metallurgic secrets that could give Britain’s enemies armor that could be impenetrable.”
“I don’t think that in peacetime there is much interest in that direction, Miss Howard. And after all, the U.S. government will have the same secrets.”
“Well, there has to be a way,” she replied. Then, the solution occurred to her. She exclaimed, “By Jove, I’ve got it! The Martian hulk is unique on earth, and since it’s so huge, it won’t pay to cut it up and ship it home. What about making this valley a National Park, or seeking a United Nations Designation? That would exclude all further mining and exploration, effectively freezing out those bloody Italian Mafiosi. And you know as well as I do that anything they find will be sold to enrich their coffers. What do you say? Can you start the ball rolling?”
“I could try,” he replied. “But to have it ruled an international site would require a vote of the United Nations, and China or the Soviet Union would be sure to invoke their veto. Declaring it a National Park is a more viable solution, but what about your oil Cartel? Their stance would be of great importance.”
“I don’t think they will have any objection. It’s evident that they possess enough fragments to learn the formula for Martian metallurgy, and when they receive the engine, reverse engineering will unlock the nuclear secrets. Their mission will have been fulfilled. They have, in fact, no interest in the anthropological specimens, which we’ve already collected and crated for shipment to the Department in Chicago.”
“Then it’s simply a matter of presenting your recommendation to the Governor in Dar-es-Salaam. I’m returning there tomorrow. I shall be able to present it to him then, if you can type up a formal request tonight. But I think it may take as long as a month before this site and the surrounding sections assigned to those blokes can be officially designated and the mining stopped.”
Dian
a smiled up at Kindred. “We’ll just have to find a way to slow them down, then, won’t we?”
That night, after she finished typing the request the Minister suggested, she lay awake racking her brain for an answer. There had to be a way to stop that strip-mining. Sabotaging their equipment would get results, but might turn the authorities against them, and they needed the high ground, at least until National Park status was granted. Sleep overcame her before she could come up with an answer.
At sunrise, still sleep-deprived, she was jolted awake from her fitful dozing by Max and Dan. Both were highly agitated.
Dan was the first to blurt out, “Those bastards have cut us off from the road to Arusha, with their damn machines creating a deep ditch surrounding our camp. There’s no way we’ll be able to transport our stuff for loading onto the freighter when it arrives in port.”
Diana rubbed her eyes and sat up. “Jolly good! Don’t you see? They’ve in fact played into our hands. Now we have a legal right to stop them.”
The two men, their mouths agape, said in unison, “You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“Quite the contrary,” she said. “Don’t you see, without this move, we couldn’t legally stop them for at least a month. By that time they would have shipped off all the pieces of the wreckage they’ve uncovered. Now we can move against them with impunity, stop their work, and forestall any chance of that treasure falling into the wrong hands.”
By that time, Chet, who had arrived in time to hear her, announced, “My men can take ’em all prisoner, and wreck their equipment with explosives. No more diggin’ fer them.”
“No!” Max almost shouted. “We can’t risk bloodshed. The word would get out to the press, and all our work here would be tainted.”
“Then,” Dan offered, “we use the power of the law to stop them. Any judge, even in this backwater, would invoke an injunction, because of what they’ve done, to cease and desist. All legal and non-violent.”
The Martian Pendant Page 20
