The Vatican Conspiracy: A completely gripping action thriller (A Marco Venetti Thriller Book 1)

by Hogenkamp, Peter

  He drove quickly along the two-kilometer track that wound next to the edge of the cliff, his mind on other things. At the end of the driveway, he headed down the mountain toward Salzburg. Turning right on Glanegg Road, he skirted along the eastern slope of the huge mountain, reflexively checking his mirrors for a tail. He drove past the Moosstrasse, the main artery to the center of the city, and turned right on the road to Berchtesgaden, following it up the winding valley in the opposite direction from the stream raging along the side of the road. He turned off the main road onto a steep track between farm pastures, passing a small church in a clearing and continuing up, following the road as it ascended a narrow valley between two ridges.

  The track ended at a trailhead, and he parked the car behind a large beech tree and started up the path, which led to a ledge overlooking a waterfall. He spent a few seconds watching the water cascade down the rocky face, then peered over the edge. A dozen boulders greeted his gaze, pounded smooth by centuries of falling water. He gauged the drop to be about fifty meters, plenty for his purposes.

  He spent the next ten minutes poking around, making sure no one was in the area, then returned to the clearing above the waterfall. He didn’t have long to wait; several minutes later, he heard the scrape of a boot on rock, and a head appeared, floating above the trail. A moment later, the rest of the man came into view, and Abayd breathed a sigh of relief. He had come alone as instructed.

  They shook hands, and Abayd faked a warm greeting. He had met the man three years ago when KiKi—against his advice—had flown his entire harem of wives and children over for the August holiday. As big as Haus Adler was, it could not accommodate everyone, and he had been forced to find alternative housing for the security detail. He had needed an agent who could be discreet, someone who knew how to take a five-hundred euro note and tuck it into his wallet. It had been a long and frustrating search—Austria was not a country full of people on the take—but he had ultimately netted the man currently shaking his hand.

  “You look well,” Abayd said.

  “You too.”

  “You have the information?”

  The man nodded, his brow furrowed slightly. “You have the payment?”

  Abayd patted his jacket, feeling the hard bulk of the pistol beneath his blazer. “I have it right here. And if the information is accurate, I will pay you twice what we discussed.”

  The man pulled a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of his black jeans. “You wanted me to find a property that was rented recently, perhaps as recently as one or two weeks ago. You were looking for a fairly large group, at least ten and possibly as many as twenty. A private location was a high priority, correct?”

  Abayd blinked.

  “I found eight rentals that met these criteria.” The man handed over the folded sheet.

  Abayd glanced at it quickly. It was a list of the properties, the address of each, and the name of the renter.

  “You will see that three of the properties are within a four-kilometer radius.” The man handed him another sheet of paper. This one contained additional information on each of the places on the narrowed-down list, including small black-and-white pictures of the exteriors.

  Abayd glanced over the listings. One property had been rented by a family of music lovers from Australia, another by a group of French hikers. The third rental piqued his interest immediately. It was a large farmhouse situated on a dead-end road, rented only three days ago by a producer of documentary films, who had paid the entire sum, including a hefty security deposit, up front.

  The man tapped the third entry with a finger as thick as a stuffed grape leaf, something of which Abayd was quite fond. “I thought this one might be of particular interest to you. It is only a few kilometers down the mountain from Haus Adler.”

  This was the place, Abayd was sure of it. The Americans were right under his nose. “And you didn’t discuss this with anyone else?”

  The man seemed offended. “You offered to pay for discretion, so I was discreet.”

  Abayd took one last look around. He didn’t see anyone, so he fished out a stack of hundred-euro notes from his pocket and held them out. The man reached for them, unable to keep a look of sheer joy from stealing over his face.

  Abayd dropped the bills before the man’s fingers could close over them, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it violently. His victim yelped in pain and went limp, falling into Abayd’s grasp. He thrust forward with his squat, powerful frame, carrying his prey to the brink, then sent him downward with a shove. He braked sharply—lest he follow the poor sap in—and watched him plummet to his death, tumbling end over end as he did. His body smashed against the rocks with a thud and slid into the water racing through the narrow flow-off, lost to sight.

  Abayd picked up the bills and shoved them into his pocket, where they would remain. He had already expensed the cash; there would be no point in returning it. He shot a last look around and started down the trail, hoping never to see this place again.

  Thirty

  Marco and Sarah arrived in Salzburg as the sun sank beneath the Mönchsberg, the small mountain that pinned the old city against the rushing green waters of the River Salzach. Marco parked the car in a garage underneath the mountain, and they exited onto the street via a tunnel blown out of the rock. He led the way around the corner onto the Getreidegasse, the signature street of the old city, and stopped underneath a gold sign announcing the Hotel Goldener Hirsch.

  They passed inside and checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Romano. Marco paid for the room with cash and left an imprint of a credit card he’d been given by Lucci to cover any incidental charges. The concierge led them to a rear-facing room on the fourth floor, with a porch overlooking the Universitätsplatz.

  “It’s a little touristy, but we’ll blend in nicely,” Marco said apologetically.

  “What now?”

  He shrugged. There were some experiences—like staying in a hotel room with a beautiful woman—for which he had little preparation.

  “I’m famished. Want to pick up some takeout?”

  Marco wasn’t hungry, but he wanted some air. “Sure. Chinese?”

  “Surprise me.”

  He went back downstairs. The bar was crowded, and he made his way through the throng milling inside the antler-adorned walls. He turned left on the Getreidegasse and walked past the Nordsee and the Eduscho coffee shop. The cobblestone street was still thick with pedestrians, so he cut through a narrow passageway leading to a parallel street.

  It was years since he had been to Salzburg, and he didn’t have a good idea where he was going, but he had been in the car—with her—all day; he needed a chance to think and stretch his legs. Turning left, he headed toward the Salzach. He found the footbridge leading over the river and started across.

  Dusk had fallen over the city, but the August heat held on stubbornly. He lingered on the bridge, watching the green waters flow underneath, like the uncomplicated days of his former life. They were gone forever, he supposed, despite Cardinal Lucci’s promise that he could go back when it was all over. There was no going back, really.

  The woman in the hotel room was a perfect example of his dilemma. He had almost run out of the room to get away from her, not because she was rude or unattractive, but rather because she was charming and beautiful and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Elena was one thing—he could handle her—but Sarah was another. When she smiled, he couldn’t remember where he was or what he had been thinking about. Perhaps temptation would make him a better priest. If so, he was soon going to make bishop—which despite what he’d told Elena, he did aspire to.

  He left the bridge and walked through the Mirabell Gardens, the air heavy with the scent of roses. He found a Thai restaurant on the Linzer Gasse and placed an order for two lemon-grass chickens. While he was waiting, he veered left into an alley that ran along the base of the Kapuzinerberg, the nipple of rock that thrust up from the eastern bank of the Salzach. He found what he was looking for after a f
ew hundred meters: a small chute cut into the wall between a pair of stone benches adorned by gargoyles. A narrow stairway led up from there, and he followed it up, passing several Stations of the Cross chiseled into the stone in baroque fashion.

  When he reached the top of the steps, the city was gone, and the forest stood in its stead. A well-worn path cut through the trees, and he took it, ending up in the yard of the Capuchin monastery perched atop an outcrop of rock overlooking the old city. He had been here years ago, prior to becoming a priest, to listen to the monks sing vespers. From the low chanting emanating from a grilled window, he could hear that they still did so, and he walked around to the back of the abbey and pulled open the large wooden door, passing inside. There was a small knot of people gathered there, in the vestibule of the abbey’s chapel, listening to the two rows of monks garbed in brown cloaks.

  O God, come to my aid.

  O Lord, make haste to help me.

  Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit,

  as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,

  world without end.

  Amen. Alleluia.

  The evensong continued, enveloping Marco in a cocoon of peace and tranquility, but one that didn’t last. A gust of wind blew the heavy door, which banged against the jamb with a loud crack similar to the report of the gun Marco had used to kill Mohammed. The cocoon of calmness and harmony dissolved, replaced by the familiar soundtrack of Francesca’s screaming and the whine of bullets. He tried to bring it back, but the best he could manage was a static-filled buzzing that wafted in and out of his auditory cortex like a fading radio signal. Eventually, he stumbled out in defeat, shutting the doors behind him. He didn’t belong there anyway; the friars were men of God who had dedicated their entire lives to prayer, and he was a sorry excuse for a priest with blood on his hands and lust in his heart.

  Thirty-One

  Elena found Lucci in the garden, watching a cluster of clouds slip in between the jagged peaks of the Tofane Gruppo to the west. She finished descending the stone staircase that led down from the villa, and stood next to him, gazing at the village of Cortina d’Ampezzo tucked into a narrow valley five hundred meters beneath them. Neither spoke for a moment, but Elena had no delusions that the Cardinal Secretary of State had come all the way from Rome just to admire the view.

  Cardinal Lucci looked much like he had the first time she had seen him, sitting across from her in the bowels of the Vatican, listening quietly as officers from the Security Office had asked her the same questions again and again.

  ‘I already answered that question.’

  ‘Why don’t you answer it again?’

  ‘Why don’t you look at your notes? That’s the reason you’re taking them, isn’t it?’

  He reached inside the depths of his black cassock and produced a manila envelope sealed with wax. “I have something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it up and see.”

  Elena made no move to take the envelope from his outstretched hand. “I’m not in the mood for playing games, Eminence.”

  Lucci adjusted his zucchetto, the red skullcap he was rumored to wear at all times, and stuffed the envelope back inside his robes. “It is an acceptance letter for your daughter.”

  “Acceptance to what?”

  “The Scuola per Ragazze in Rome.”

  “I wasn’t aware she had applied.”

  “I took the liberty of doing it for her.”

  “I could never afford it.”

  “She’s been awarded a full scholarship.”

  One of the larger clouds, its underbelly stained pink with the setting sun, bounced off the Tofana di Dentro and settled over the Tofana di Mezzo, obscuring its rocky summit from view.

  “I thought it might be nice for her to be near her grandfather.”

  “Her grandfather lives in Liguria.”

  “The pope wants to open a medical clinic in Rome to serve the burgeoning Arabic population. Your father is being considered for the position of medical director.”

  “Considered?”

  “Strongly considered.”

  “He doesn’t have a medical license.”

  Lucci produced another document, and this time Elena accepted it, holding it up to catch the fading rays of the sun. It was a medical license, complete with the stamp of the Ministry of Health.

  “His application was turned down twenty years ago. Were you aware of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know?”

  Lucci shook his head. “I thought I would let you give it to him.”

  “I suppose you have arranged something for Francesca as well?”

  “The medical clinic is going to be part of a large community center for Muslim immigrants, run by Caritas, a prominent Catholic charity. Francesca would be an ideal person to work there, don’t you think?”

  “Ideal? She can barely write in Italian, and her speech isn’t much better.”

  “Which will make her a natural liaison to the people we are trying to reach. And her Arabic is excellent.”

  “Where will she live?”

  “I have leased a large apartment in Trastevere.”

  Elena had been to Trastevere before, once, in a different lifetime a thousand years ago, and had fallen in love with the winding cobbled streets and the sidewalk cafés bustling with patrons.

  “Trastevere is too expensive.”

  “The landlord has generously agreed to waive the rent.”

  “And what if I say no?”

  “Say no to what?”

  Elena pointed at the Tyrolean villa where she and her family had been staying since leaving Rome. “To this.” She waved her father’s newly minted medical license through the air. “And this.”

  “You paid for these things already, by saving the pontiff’s life. Consider them thank-you gifts.”

  “And my sister’s position at the community center? My father’s application for medical director of the clinic?”

  “These things are under consideration. As I mentioned, very serious consideration.”

  “I may not be the perfect Catholic girl, but nor am I a fool. You want something from me. Please tell me what it is.”

  Lucci’s weather-beaten face stifled a grin. “Yes, I do. I want you to go to Salzburg, to keep an eye on Marco.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m concerned about him.”

  “Concerned about him how?”

  The sound of a local music festival drifted up from the town square. The constant hum of strings had been a nice change when it had started the week before, but after a few days, she had found herself looking forward to the return of the whisper of Il Maestrale through the pines and the constant cacophony of the jays.

  “I’ll be frank. I’m concerned he is going to let his conscience get in the way of doing his job.”

  “Maybe you should just let him walk away.”

  “I can’t do that, Elena, as much as I would like to. Marco is the only person the pope trusts. He has to be there.”

  There was another rustle of Lucci’s robes, and another document appeared in front of her. This one was a contract offering the Rapido Securita firm forty thousand euros per month to serve as a consultant to the Holy See.

  “Rapido Securita is a shell corporation. All incomes garnered are funneled through a series of offshore accounts into the bank account I just opened in your name at the Banca dei Paschi di Siena. There is a branch on the Via del Corso, not far from your apartment.”

  “I see you have thought of everything.”

  “Most things, yes.”

  Elena looked at the contract again.

  “I get a hundred thousand euros just for signing?”

  Lucci nodded.

  “How do I earn that kind of money?”

  “The hard way, I suspect.” Lucci waved a hand at the village below. “There is a car waiting for you, a black Alfa Romeo sedan parked outside the Grand Hotel
Savoia. After you sign that contract, you will drive the car to Salzburg and wait for Marco inside the Salzburger Dom. I’m not sure when he will go to the Dom—perhaps as early as tomorrow, or a few days after—but I want you to be there when he does.”

  “Is he expecting me?”

  “He’s expecting someone; I didn’t tell him who.”

  A murder of ravens floated down on the breeze and settled onto the row of pines that flanked the steep ravine leading up from the village, cawing at the bright yellow Fiat 500 laboring up the serpentine driveway.

  “What then?”

  “I have no idea, but you’re a resourceful woman. You’ll figure it out.”

  “Do you know what I hate about the Catholic Church?”

  “No, I don’t, but please tell me.”

  Elena ignored his sarcasm, something Lucci used frequently.

  “You’re expecting me to be a good Catholic girl and do what you tell me without questioning why. But I’m not Marco. The accommodations are great, sure, and I really need the money you’re offering, but I still want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “No, you’re certainly not Marco, although I can see why he is drawn to you.”

  The wind freshened, bringing in a line of dark clouds from the west, and the air turned damp; a storm was in the offing.

  “Okay, you want frankness, so I’ll be frank. Vatican City is on the brink of extinction. If Prince el-Rayad gets those nuclear weapons, my country will cease to exist. Marco needs to be there so he can report the all-clear to the pope, and you need to be there to ensure Marco doesn’t just get up and leave. He is a different person when you are around. He draws strength from you.

  “There is another reason as well. I meant it when I said you are a resourceful woman. You were in a very tight spot, Elena, and yet you saved yourself, your family, and the pope in the process.”