The Seventh Commandment

by Tom Fox

  He kept his arms outstretched, his rapture utterly convincing.

  He only lowered them when a vibration from his pocket called him to a different posture. Sliding his phone from his trousers in as unnoticeable a manner as he could, he saw the caller ID on the screen.

  A second later, the church’s elderly custodian slipped through a side door and out of sight.

  55

  Outside the Church of St Paul of the Cross

  Angelina had not known what to expect of the church that had produced the video. The youth in the clip – somewhere in his mid-twenties, perhaps, cleanly kept and brimming with intensity – wore normal Italian street clothes, so at least she knew not to be expecting throngs in common robes or cultic uniforms. She’d chided herself for the thought as she and Ben had walked. Of course they wouldn’t wear such things. Ben dressed normally, and Angelina reminded herself that as utterly bizarre as it seemed to her, and as unusual as they were in Rome, charismatics were a large percentage of the Christian population worldwide, especially in America. She wasn’t exactly walking towards a cult.

  She was, however, making her way towards something entirely beyond her realm of both comfort and experience. Religion was hard enough to swallow when it was simply adherence to codes of conduct and beliefs about the past that went beyond what was credible or substantiated by documentable fact. Once religion became something more . . . she wasn’t sure of the right word. Spiritual? Dynamic? Then it became something else entirely, and that ‘something’ was even harder for her to relate to in anything other than baffled, dismissive terms. The idea of God existing at all was a supreme invention of human need matched with creativity; to believe one’s self-crafted deity actually spoke to people, that his voice echoed down from heaven and whispered into their ears or bubbled up like a spring in their hearts – this was simply delusion.

  A house of delusion, harbouring the deluded. That was what Angelina had decided she and Ben were walking towards.

  Which made the plain, boxy, red-brick edifice before which they finally stopped something of a surprise. There was no great courtyard before it like there were with so many Catholic churches throughout the city. There was no dome, no steeple, nothing at all to mark it out as different from a warehouse or storefront. Only a neon cross lit above twin sets of glass doors, with metallic letters bolted to the brick between them spelling out ‘St Paul of the Cross’.

  ‘That’s it?’ she asked, eyeing up the building.

  ‘This is the place,’ Ben answered. He seemed to gain an inch in height as they drew closer to the entrance. ‘My spiritual home.’

  Angelina cringed. Just the sort of language she expected.

  Ben pulled open one of the doors and made the sign of the cross over himself, then propped open the door with his foot and beckoned her forward.

  ‘Are you ready to see? To truly see?’

  She shot him a reprimanding look – Don’t try to sell your spiritual proselytism to me, Dr Verdyx – yet she couldn’t wholly conceal the fact that she did, in fact, want to see what was inside.

  It took only a few steps for her to draw herself fully in, and realise it was nothing like any church service she’d seen before.

  Angelina felt the service of charismatic prayer before she saw it. It came not as an interior, ethereal feeling, but a genuine pulsing of her senses. A drum beat filled the air, accompanied by guitar and other instruments, amplified to literally shake the flooring beneath her. For a moment she wasn’t sure whether she’d walked into a rock concert or a church, and when she rounded the subdivision of the narthex and saw hundreds of hands raised in the air, swaying and pulsing to the rhythm, she was even less sure.

  She turned to Ben, seeking some sort of explanation, but found him following the example of the others, his own hands raised high and his eyes closed.

  The music thumped.

  Sing praises to the Lord, with all your soul!

  Sing praises to the King, with all your heart!

  Spiritual words, perhaps, but the tune would almost qualify as pop.

  Finally Angelina grabbed one of Ben’s outstretched arms.

  ‘Ben,’ she tried not to yell, though the volume of the singing made it hard to do otherwise, ‘what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s the end of the morning Mass and praise,’ he said. ‘The last hymn. Something a little peppy to inspire people on to the day.’

  Angelina’s forehead creased. She remembered the sombre hymns that were always listed as ‘Recessionals’ on the bulletins for the Masses she’d been dragged to as a schoolgirl. They’d certainly never sounded anything like this.

  A few seconds later the music reached a harmonious climax and then, to Angelina’s complete shock, the whole congregation burst into cheering applause. It was only after the sustained cheering began to die down that a gentler voice, older, amplified over a sound system Angelina couldn’t see, broke through the melee.

  ‘The Lord is with us.’

  ‘And will be forever!’ the people cried back, as much a cheer as a communal response.

  With that, the Mass had apparently ended. In front of them the crowd began to mill and move, gathering up handbags and hats, briefcases and babes-in-arms, and moving from the pews towards the exits. A whole sea of people swarmed past Angelina, the face of each one of them bright with radiant enthusiasm.

  ‘If the service is over,’ Angelina managed to say to Ben through the flurry of activity, ‘does that mean we can speak to someone in charge?’

  ‘There’s only one person at the head of this congregation,’ he answered. ‘He doesn’t normally speak with people after Mass, but I’ll see if he’ll make an exception. Give me a minute to have a few words.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?’ Angelina asked, suddenly feeling out of place and exposed.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Ben replied, motioning to a recently emptied pew. ‘You never know. The Spirit might just move you.’

  Ben worked his way through the bodies, finally breaking out of the crush into an open space at the front of the sanctuary. He was sorry to have missed Mass, though it wasn’t often he was able to arrange his work schedule to allow for a late arrival at the Archives on a Wednesday morning, so not being here this morning was hardly out of the ordinary. Ben was religious about his Saturday and Sunday attendance and took part in his local stake’s morning prayers more or less daily, but being here at the tail end of a midweek Mass only served to remind him how much he wished he could be here even more often.

  At the front of the room, a few volunteers were already beginning the normal motions of post-service clean-up, gathering leftover bulletins from pews and tidying the chairs that lined some of the side walls.

  One was a fellow parishioner Ben recognised immediately.

  ‘Thomás,’ he said, walking up to the younger man, ‘I need to see Father.’

  Thomás smiled at him, more than a simple friendly greeting. He looked bemused.

  ‘Is something funny?’ Ben asked, confused.

  ‘No,’ though a laugh followed the word as Thomás extended a hand and embraced Ben by the shoulder. ‘It’s just that it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I barrelled in here myself, saying just the same thing.’

  His eyes were warm, energetic. He gazed into Ben’s and sensed the seriousness behind them.

  ‘You have someone with you?’ Thomás asked, nodding towards Angelina, sitting in a pew at the far end of the church. Ben bobbed his head in affirmation.

  ‘Okay,’ Thomás added. ‘Give me a minute. I’m absolutely certain Father Alberto will be willing to see you.’

  56

  The library

  Church of St Paul of the Cross

  Thomás led Ben and Angelina through a network of uninspiring corridors that led out of the side of the sanctuary, having returned to fetch them only a few minutes after leaving Ben. The priest had broken his usual regime of a period of reflection after Mass, and agreed to see them in the small
library the parish operated within the environs.

  The library surprised Angelina nearly as much as the church itself. There were no mahogany shelves here, no burled reading desks or calfskin armchairs. The room was a beige tiled cube lined with industrial-style shelving, perhaps three or four hundred books – no more than that – loosely arranged on dustless surfaces; fluorescent lights hung from drop-filled ceiling tiles drenching everything in blue-white light. There were three wooden chairs in the room, which Thomás immediately began arranging into a small triangle.

  ‘Father should be here in just a moment,’ he said. He motioned to Angelina to take a seat, but she continued to stand. Ben, however, smiled appreciatively.

  ‘Thank you, Thomás.’

  Angelina hadn’t stopped glaring at the man since she’d caught her first sight of him. It had taken a few seconds to work out the recognition, but little more than that before she realised his was the face she’d seen on the computer monitor in the hotel lobby. This Thomás was the man who’d recorded the video streaming all across the Internet, speaking about prophecies and plagues and . . .

  Christ, I can’t believe I’m really here.

  He beckoned once more towards the chair in front of her, and Angelina was about to decline a second time, perhaps a touch less politely than the first, when the door through which they’d entered swung open again.

  Father Alberto Alvarez stepped into the room, and something changed in the air.

  Angelina hadn’t been able to see him as he’d concluded the Mass; the swell of bodies had been too dense. But she knew from the moment he passed through the door that he must be the church’s priest. There was something – she couldn’t put the right word to it – different about him. He wore the plain greyish-brown robe she associated with Franciscans and saw on a daily basis in Rome, but he carried himself entirely differently than most. He was slightly bent from age, though hardly a hunchback, his face grooved in wizened sobriety. Perhaps it was just the overpowering fluorescent lights, but his small eyes seemed to sparkle.

  ‘Benedict,’ he said warmly, stepping up to Ben and opening his arms. Ben embraced him like a child his father.

  Benedict? Angelina mouthed the word as his glance caught hers on the way back to his chair. He smiled, almost deviously.

  I guess ‘Ben’ had to be short for something.

  ‘And whom do I have the honour of meeting here?’ the priest asked, turning to face Angelina. So much for prophetic vision, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking.

  ‘My name is Dr Angelina Calla,’ she answered, extending a formal hand. The priest took it graciously, though enveloped it in his rather than shook.

  ‘And I am Alberto,’ he answered. ‘The “Father” is optional, since I suppose it makes you uncomfortable.’

  Angelina balked. Was she so transparent? But then, she’d never made any effort at practising the art of concealing her thoughts about religion and clergy.

  ‘Please, let us sit,’ Father Alberto continued. He motioned to the chairs, and all three sat together, nearly knee to knee.

  ‘Thomás said you wanted to speak with me urgently.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Ben answered. ‘It’s about . . . well, I think you know full well what it’s about.’

  Father Alberto merely smiled.

  ‘It’s about lies,’ Angelina suddenly challenged, ‘and the fact that I want to know who’s telling them, and why.’

  A corridor outside the library

  Laurence watched the man and the woman follow Thomás into the library with absolute fury. When, a few moments later, Father Alberto joined them, his anger bordered on rage.

  Laurence hadn’t been a young man for a long time, and there were those in his current age bracket who would say that when plans wobble and go off kilter, it’s best simply to let them falter. It wasn’t that life was too short, just that they were too close to its inevitable terminus to waste time lamenting the plans that didn’t go as intended. Move on, live another day. The usual tripe.

  Laurence had always considered that kind of logic horseshit. He didn’t know whether he had another two years in him or twenty, but as far as he was concerned the question made no difference whatsoever. Even if it was only two months, he wanted them to be life on his terms. Life with all the frills and benefits he’d envisaged for himself.

  With the extravagances this whole present work was meant to provide.

  That meant not letting anyone screw it up, especially so close to the conclusion. He wasn’t letting two academics and their intrusive interests ruin what he’d worked so hard for. Emil had promised him wealth beyond reason, and Laurence felt it entirely unreasonable to risk not receiving it.

  Ridolfo and André might not have been capable of doing what had to be done, but Laurence was damned if he was going to prove himself so weak-willed.

  Emil had given him an opportunity to end this threat. Laurence had every intention of taking it.

  57

  Via Tarsia

  Listed residence of Ridolfo Passerini

  Major Hans Heinrich adjusted the bulletproof vest around his chest and stood perched in the agreed location as the man to whom he’d given command of the incursion barked the go order. Till that moment they’d moved in silence, surprise a key. But the assault would be loud, and there was no point with whispers once it began.

  ‘Go!’ the commanding, shorter man shouted. Seven bodies burst into motion.

  Heinrich’s team had spent the whole of the night analysing the imagery gleaned from the CCTV footage of St Peter’s Square during the gunfire and chase there. There had been two assailants, both male, and though the cameras hadn’t clearly caught the faces of the two additional figures these men were after, it was clear that one of those was male and the other female – the latter appearing injured – and Heinrich was confident that it was Verdyx and Calla.

  Told you you should have stayed with me, he’d muttered to himself as he’d watched the recordings.

  The Swiss Guard had access to FRIS, the Facial Recognition and Identification Service database employed by all the branches of civil Italian law enforcement as well as its military, but, as with so much else, their ability to act on data retrieved from it was dependent on the treaties defining Vatican–Italian relations. When one of the two assailants’ faces had, four and a half hours into refined digital comparisons, at last pinged a positive result, Heinrich knew the only way he could act to take the man would be to involve the Italian police. He could try to operate in secret again, as he’d done with the capture of Calla and Verdyx, but access to FRIS was always monitored, so the police would already know the Swiss Guard had been using it, and had located this man. It would be impossible to explain without involving them properly, so Heinrich had followed the route the law required.

  The identification linked the face to the profile of a twenty-seven-year-old male named Ridolfo Passerini, a man with a brief and hardly jaw-dropping criminal record. He’d been photographed by the Polizia di Stato after an arrest on suspected breaking and entering charges four years ago, but there hadn’t been sufficient evidence to indict him and Passerini had been released. The computer was able to match the image from the Vatican’s cameras to that of his file with an unusually high 98.7809 percent accuracy, given the strange deformities that marked out Passerini’s face and neck. He was not, to put it mildly, an attractive man.

  But just as clearly, as the footage from St Peter’s Square made obvious, he’d moved on to bigger things than breaking and entering.

  The man running next to him on the recordings appeared of a similar age, perhaps a year or two younger, and of what most would consider a handsome appearance. Yet what makes a person ‘handsome’ in the conformity-minded consciousness of modern society tends to be his looking similar to a thousand other handsome people – and that meant the computer hadn’t been able to pinpoint an identity. It had whittled a listing of possibilities down somewhat, but manually searching through 3,955 possible subj
ects was more than Heinrich had time for. He’d leave his men to that back in the office.

  For now, the system had pinpointed Passerini’s address as Via Tarsia, number 188. The street number linked to a small villa with a blue door.

  The door shattered less than a second after Senior Officer Elia Biagi shouted ‘go’.

  A second later, a flash-bang grenade had been tossed inside, and a second after that their closed eyes and covered ears buffered the sound of its violent, debilitating but not deadly explosion.

  Two seconds later, the incursion team was pouring through the shattered door, masks on and guns raised at eye level as they scoped out each and every room with practised efficiency.

  Major Hans Heinrich stood outside, observing, leaving the work to the force whose territory it was. His tongue tingled with the adrenaline that came all the same, something within him craving being inside, in the action. But what he wanted most of all was the result. He wanted his man.

  A minute later, Senior Officer Biagi stepped back through the smoky front door and on to the street.

  ‘The house is clean,’ he said, and Heinrich’s heart sank.

  ‘No one at all inside?’ he asked.

  ‘Whole place is empty. Looks like it’s been that way a while, too. No signs of recent habitation.’

  Heinrich considered what this implied, but the police officer grunted out his meaning as he turned and walked back towards his men on the scene.

  ‘If your man was here, Major, he’s been gone for a while.’

  58

  The library

  Church of St Paul of the Cross

  Ben’s face betrayed the horror with which he absorbed Angelina’s sudden, blatant accusation.

  ‘Angelina!’

  She kept her eyes glued on the priest, her visage fierce and unswayed.