»Your wish is my command, Master.«
»Do not disappoint me again, Nikolas.«
»I will get the relic for you and anything else that the pair might find.«
»Good, Nikolas. May the light be with you.«
XXXV
May 13, 2011, Rome
From behind the tinted windows of the American limousine, Peter saw that there were police checkpoints everywhere in the Rome streets. However, the Ambassador’s car with the diplomatic license plate passed the roadblocks without being stopped even once. Only when they reached one of the side gates of Ciampino Airport was the car forced to a halt, but no one checked them and only seconds later they were waved through to the airport ramp where a Learjet with a Saudi registration was already waiting for them.
Don Luigi had given Peter the parchment rolls and had provided him with some cash. Peter was not to use his credit cards under any circumstance. And if they had to get in touch – only if it was absolutely necessary – they were to use internet cafes.
Peter thought about Don Luigi, who had increasingly begun to creep him out over the last few days. He was kind of scary. The exorcist seemed to have excellent contacts all over the world and he knew things and made things possible which could usually only be accomplished by secret service agencies. Peter wondered what sort of personal agenda Don Luigi was pursuing in this game. On whose side the Padre really was.
Come on, what are the sides here? And which side are you on? What are you actually looking for in Avignon? For the proof of your innocence? How is an 800 year old prophecy supposed to prove that you didn’t kill Loretta? So what are you looking for? Make a list.
The original of Malachy’s Prophecy of the Pope.
Any relevant information about the origin and the meaning of the amulet as well as about the alchemical writings from the papal apartment.
Any relevant information about a possible connection between your visions and the imminent attack on the Vatican.
Any relevant information about a possible connection with the Templars.
Any information about a secret that the Catholic Church has been keeping under lock and key for the past thousand or even more years.
»What a load of crap!« Peter rubbed his face vigorously. He had no idea what he was really looking for. And perhaps it was not the searching that mattered. But the finding.
The interior of the Learjet was luxurious. Since they had left the monastery, Mohammed Al Naimi had sat opposite Peter and had not addressed a single word to him or Maria. Peter had tried to worm further explanations out of him but to no avail. Nothing could break the tenacious silence; the Ambassador seemed determined not to talk to them. So he enjoyed the closeness of Maria’s body, her warmth and the scent of her skin. As they were sitting next to each other in these aircraft seats, he felt even closer to her than he had felt in the armoire in the Apostolic Palace, packed in with her like sardines in a can.
How long ago was that? A day? A year?
But despite the fact that she was physically so close to him, she seemed to be miles away. She looked out of the window, lost in thought.
»What kind of soap do you use?« he asked her without thinking.
Damn, stop that! Just let it go.
She turned her head towards him and gave him a look as if she had not understood his question. Then she offered him a fleeting smile and continued to look out of the small window even though there was not much to see, just the gloriously blue ocean.
A strange feeling of forlornness overwhelmed Peter, as he began to understand that he was sitting between two strangers whose intentions he didn’t know, making it all pure guesswork on his part. It wasn’t fear. It was forlornness. Loneliness. The feeling of having been in the exact same situation before. The feeling of being among strangers.
On the run.
And what followed in the wake of this oppressive loneliness was suspicion that was suddenly aimed at Maria. Why had she come with him? Was it her job to watch him? Was she really a nun or an agent, like Loretta and Alessia Bertoni? His suspicion was like a rat gnawing at his heart, insatiable and evil.
»When did you join the convent?«
»Five years ago.«
»And why?«
»You wouldn’t understand.«
»Try me. I mean, let’s be honest here, you are a beautiful, intelligent woman. You don’t seem to me like someone who is already so disappointed with life that she has to turn away from the world.«
She shifted angrily towards him. Mohammed Al Naimi didn’t show the slightest interest in their conversation.
»I did not turn away from the world. I turned towards God.«
»Come on,« said Peter in exasperation, »don’t give me these platitudes. Explain it to me. Have you never been in love? Never had a boyfriend? Did you never want children?«
»Now you are the one with the platitudes. But okay. Yes, there was a time in my life when I was in love. Yes, there was also a time in my life when I had a boyfriend. And yes, there was a time when I wanted to have children. But something was always missing in this life, something essential. Even though I didn’t know what it was. And then, five years ago, I had some form of breakdown; let’s just call it that. I was in very bad shape. I was in hospital for three weeks but the doctors couldn’t find any physical cause. So I decided to take two weeks out to recover in a convent. When I witnessed the sincere community of the sisters and their relationship with God, I knew all of a sudden what I had been missing the whole time: God. I wanted to be close to God, as close as possible. And I was willing to pay the price.«
»But there we have it. You say it yourself: you are missing something.«
»Sacrifice is a virtue of free will. And everything has its price. One has to understand where one belongs. I belong to God. My faith is my life. I am happy.«
»No, I don’t believe that. You don’t seem happy, not at all.«
»Is that so?« Once again, there was this mocking expression on her face. »And how do I seem to you?«
Like an unreachable promise, Maria.
»Lost. You are still far away from where you belong. I may be mistaken but that’s how I see you.«
Without a word, she looked at Peter and then she turned away again and refocused on the view of the ocean below them.
»Do you know what else I believe? You’re making it too easy for yourself. How can anyone sacrifice their life to a religion that still insists – seriously and stubbornly – that there was an immaculate conception and that the flesh of Christ ascended to heaven, even though there are no historical documents to prove that Jesus, the man, ever existed? How can anyone seriously believe in the physical existence of Satan? And how, Maria, how is it possible that anyone can believe that the New Testament – the writings of an enthusiast and demagogue who never met Jesus – is the Word of God?«
Now she seemed upset.
»So, what is it that does matter in your opinion? What can we believe in? In the laws of quantum physics, which raise more questions than they answer? Why shouldn’t God be capable of letting a virgin give birth to a child? Why shouldn’t a person be able to rise from the dead in the flesh? Sure, if you are the one who decides what is and isn’t possible, and if you set the limits of what is possible, only you and nobody else, then all these things cannot be true. But isn’t that intellectual arrogance? To say: hey, there is a discrepancy and therefore it’s all nonsense and impossible. But do you actually know so much more than those who believe?«
»Give me an example.«
»Angels, for example. Scientists were able to prove that the laws of physics would prohibit a human being from ever flying with these kinds of wings. However, they could not prove that angels do not exist. And you cannot prove that God does not exist. Actually, I can even understand your dilemma. You are confused because of all the things that have happened to you during the last few days. How would someone like you be able to find an explanation for a vision that he had and that a Neapolita
n boy repeated, word for word, if that someone does not believe in God? I am sure that this confusion will pass as soon as you accept that God is real and not a brain dysfunction that affects a few billion people. Perhaps you would like to take the time and ask yourself why someone like you specializes in reporting on the Vatican, of all things. You say that I am lost? That I am still far away from where I belong? Okay, I don’t mind. Welcome to the club, Peter.«
XXXVI
May 13, 2011, Questura di Roma, Rome
Urs Bühler received his daily briefings and found the news that was coming in increasingly alarming. In the vicinity of Santiago de Compostela, they had discovered the horribly mutilated body of Cardinal Torres, who had been one of the favorites for the upcoming election of the new pope. In Milan, a priest had been murdered; again, literally chopped to pieces with a machete. Last night, there had been a shootout in the Santa Croce church in Gerusalemme. They had found traces of blood but no dead or injured. A laboratory specializing in geochemical analyses reported the disappearance of one of their doctoral students. The disappearance of Gianni Manzoni would not even have been mentioned in Bühler’s briefings, had it not been for two facts. The first was that the Branciforti Institute had worked for the Vatican from time to time, and the second was that this guy Manzoni had met Don Luigi on the day prior to his disappearance. And that was the next thing: Don Luigi had also dropped off the face of the earth, as had Peter Adam. And five days from now the conclave was to begin. He was running out of time.
Bühler knew very well that he had no investigative authority whatsoever outside the confines of the Vatican, but up until now the cooperation between the Swiss Guards and the Carabinieri had always been excellent. They kept each other in the loop and both parties profited from this arrangement. But this seemed to be over now, all of a sudden.
After Peter Adam’s escape during an interrogation by members of international secret service agencies, the Italians were in a state of extreme nervousness. They had started doing things for the mere sake of doing them, even waving goodbye to months of tedious surveillance and busting another Islamist cell every day. Bühler was not surprised, though, that the police and the domestic intelligence service hadn’t found a thing except for some handguns. It was needless to add that they had not uncovered any information about Peter Adam. The entire ordeal had turned into a flop and lost all the characteristics of a well-organized covert operation. It was only a question of time until the details would be dragged through the press. So perhaps it was better not to be in the line of fire.
Not that Bühler didn’t think that these secret service assholes deserved the embarrassment of Peter Adam’s escape. But it also confirmed his conviction that the man was dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. However, he did not believe that Peter Adam was the mastermind behind the mystery. He had to have accomplices, and one of them was pulling the strings. In Bühler’s opinion, Adam had only murdered the American journalist to prevent his cover from being blown so soon.
The only thing that was still a complete mystery to him was the sequence of digits that Loretta Hooper had written in her own blood on the carpet of her hotel room. Why had Peter Adam allowed this to happen? Why hadn’t he run away? The man had behaved like a complete moron, behavior usually reserved for Italians. So Urs Bühler had returned to the murder scene, to take another look at the bloody numbers. To his surprise, though, the room had already been tidied up and a company specializing in the cleaning of crime scenes had removed all traces of evidence.
»What the fuck have you done?« Bühler was beside himself as he yelled at the Commissario in charge, a pale-faced and arrogant Milanese with the composure of a lotus leaf – the Bühlerian rage dropped off him like morning dew.
»The crime scene investigators have finished collecting their evidence, Colonel Bühler. And we thank you for your collegial cooperation.«
Bühler did not believe a word he said.
»What did you find out about this bloody sequence of digits?«
»I don’t understand what you mean, Colonel Bühler. Which bloody sequence of digits?«
»You know damn well what I mean!«
»There was no sequence of digits, Colonel Bühler. There was just blood.«
Bühler tried to stare the Commissario down but he seemed completely unruffled and stared right back with his watery eyes.
»Say that again!«
»There was no sequence of digits. You must be mistaken.«
»Show me the pictures of the murder scene!«
Even though the Commissario cocked his eyebrows in annoyance, he deigned to show Bühler the photos that the crime scene investigators had taken at the murder scene. And, indeed, none of the pictures showed the bloody digits.
»I saw those numbers with my own eyes!« Bühler hissed at the Commissario, throwing the photos back on the table. »These pictures have been manipulated or manufactured.«
»I think our conversation is over, Colonel Bühler.«
Bühler’s hands shot forward and grabbed the Commissario by the collar, almost pulling him over the desk.
»Listen to me, you polenta-eating bastard. I don’t know what kind of crap you are pulling here, but five days from now a new pope will be elected and I am responsible for the safety of the cardinals. Somewhere out there, some asshole is on the loose who is most likely planning to blow up the Vatican. And that’s not going to happen on my watch. I will prevent this – with or without you and your band of losers and mama’s boys!«
He returned to the Vatican still fuming with rage, uttering profanities against all Italians that were ever born, when he noticed a pickup truck with the logo of a mining company that he had seen a couple of times during the last few days. But suddenly, for some unknown reason, he felt unsettled by the sight of the truck. Bühler briefly considered stopping the car, but the pickup was already merging into the Roman traffic flow. Enough time for Bühler to memorize the name and the circular logo of the mining company as well as the number on the license plate.
Bühler had learned when to respond to the alarm bells of his body or brain: always and immediately. His ability to process different sensations and perceptions simultaneously and to respond to subconscious emotions had saved his life more than once during his years with the Legion. He remembered that he had seen the pickup truck in recent days in front of the entrance to the Necropolis, the vast and not yet fully explored subterranean labyrinth of catacombs underneath the Vatican, which archaeologists thought contained the true grave of Saint Peter.
Back in the sala operativa of the Guards, Bühler immediately ordered his staff to replay the surveillance tapes of the entrance to the Necropolis for the past few days.
»What are you looking for, Colonel Commandant, Sir?« asked the guard who was sitting in front of the monitor.
Bühler did not respond. He just stared at flashing images on the screen.
»Stop!« he suddenly barked. »Go back!«
The time stamp said 05-11-2011 – 10:24 AM. The monitor showed the pickup truck of the mining company stopping in front of the entrance to the Necropolis. Three workers in blue overalls disembarked and unloaded equipment from the truck.
»Zoom in!« Bühler ordered. »What is the stuff they are unloading there?«
»Looks like … I would say … drilling equipment, Colonel Commandant, sir.«
»And what’s that? What is that bald guy heaving from the truck?«
»No idea. Never seen anything like it before.«
»Make a printout of the picture and find out what that thing is. Also, I want a list with all the dates and times that these people were here.« Bühler turned to another one of his guards. »Favre, what are you doing right now? Whatever it is, stop doing it. Check the license plate of the pickup truck and, even more important, check this company out. Address, commercial register entry, credit report – absolutely everything. Steiner, put a team of five men together. Light armament. Take one of the dogs with you and search the Necropolis for
any suspicious activities. Report to me in my office in one hour.«
XXXVII
May 13, 2011, Avignon
Mohammed Al Naimi kept his word. After their arrival in Avignon, the Saudi Ambassador led Peter and Maria to another luxury limousine with a diplomatic license plate, which carried them out of the airport area, successfully circumnavigating the pitfalls of customs and immigration. They drove to a nearby parking garage and there he explained that he would expect them back at the same location 24 hours later for their return flight to Rome. If they didn’t show up, it would be their problem. Peter assured him that they would be at the airport on time and under all circumstances, with or without the original prophecy. He suspected that he was by now on Interpol’s Most Wanted List and that his picture was plastered all over Europe, and he hadn’t the slightest desire to struggle his way from Avignon to Rome without a passport in his pocket.
Peter went to the car rental area of the parking garage, entered a PIN code into an automated key dispenser, and withdrew the keys to an inconspicuous Peugeot that Don Luigi had rented for them.
The rain was coming down in torrents when they left the parking garage and began to fight their way along the N7 towards the center of the city, one traffic jam at a time. The rain continued throughout their entire drive, until they reached the Place du Palais by the Rhone. Threatening masses of dark clouds were pressing down on the rooftops of the city, as if they were determined to drown the entire town of Avignon in a deluge of rain. In front of them, a monstrous monolith of sandstone and huge stone blocks rose into the air, a rugged Gothic façade melting with the rain and the clouds into an ominous entity that seemed ready to devour everything in its path. A repellent bastion with arrow-slits instead of windows, crenellations on the roofs, and countless merlons for the defense of the blind angles with boiling oil or pitch. A giant of a palace with four wings nestled into each other. A Gothic massif reminiscent of the Dolomites, rutted and impregnable, without unnecessary embellishments, a masterpiece of almost Moorish strictness. It was obvious: Avignon’s Palace of the Popes with its nested structure was a fortress. And at the same time one of the most magnificent castles of its time.
Apocalypsis I Page 18
