Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  The look in Menendez’s eyes changed. He bent forward a little and scrutinized him suspiciously. »What are you doing, Monsignore? These are all things I already know. This alone cannot have induced you to seek my trust. And to make myself perfectly clear: my trust has a high price.«

  Duncker swallowed hard. »Of course, Your Eminence.«

  He pulled a folder with documents from his briefcase and handed it over to Menendez. »These are copies of confidential papers. Once you have read them, you will understand.«

  Menendez skimmed through the documents. And his expression changed. The Spaniard’s face turned ashen.

  »I do understand,« he whispered, and looked back at Duncker. »It was good that you came to me, Monsignore. I will pass these papers on and the necessary steps will be discussed. The only question that remains is: are you willing to continue to walk this path with me and Opus Dei to the end?«

  Duncker had expected this question.

  At about the same time, John Paul III was crawling through the Necropolis underneath the Vatican. He was following an archaeologist wearing a headlamp through the winding catacombs that exuded the mustiness of decay. For this was the realm of death, and life had no place down here in the city of the dead. Yet it was in these catacombs that the early Christian communities had gathered to celebrate mass and to bury their dead, tolerated by the Roman authorities. These first Christians had shared the catacombs with Jewish communities and they had dug deep shafts and passages into the soft stone underneath the city. The result was an almost unfathomable labyrinth of passages, shafts, chapels and crypts.

  Through the mist of the lamplight, John Paul III saw hundreds of recesses, which had once been filled with coffins. Now, skulls stared at him, skulls that had been properly labeled before they were placed next to the piles of mortal remains. In some spots, he could see wooden partitions that blocked the access to other branches of this labyrinth of eternal rest. Anyone who dared to come in here without knowing his way around would have quickly lost their way. The dim light of the lamp was completely absorbed by the walls and the musty air. A foul-smelling draft enveloped the Pope like the breath of a giant and terrible creature. The narrow passages all looked the same. Dangerously steep steps that had been hewn into the rock led deeper and deeper into the belly of the Vatican. The world above ceased to exist. There was no sound except for the footsteps and the heavy breathing of the two men, who were in a great rush to get deeper and deeper into the Necropolis. The tall Pope was shivering. He was constantly forced to duck his head, and his white cassock scraped the dusty rocks several times.

  »Shall we take a break, Holy Father?« the archaeologist asked him. He had called the Apostolic Palace one hour earlier, alarmed about an extremely strange discovery that they had made.

  »Don’t worry about me,« John Paul III replied, gasping for air. »Is it far now?«

  »We are almost there. You can already hear the generator.«

  Finally, the passage ended in some kind of crypt, an enlarged and semicircular space on the lowest level, which was illuminated by spotlights on tripods. The bright light seemed unreal, strange and inappropriate down here; yet John Paul III sent a quick prayer to the Mother of God. In the middle of the chamber, a diesel generator chugged away. Three of the archaeologist’s assistants were drinking coffee from thermos flasks. They jumped to their feet when they recognized the Pope.

  »No formalities down here!« said the Pope with a dismissive wave of his hand. »Where is it?«

  Professor Sederino from the University of Rome pointed at a spot on one of the chamber’s sidewalls. »We found it this morning. Actually, we didn’t expect to find anything special in this part of the Necropolis. We were only here for mapping reasons. And now this.«

  The Pope stepped closer and saw what the Professor was talking about.

  The symbol.

  On the wall of the crypt, John Paul III recognized several reliefs, which had been engraved into the rock with a rough tool. The first sign was a large circle with a small circle in the middle, the symbol for light or the sun. Next to it were several spiral symbols. And then there was IT, in the center of all these spiral symbols, staring at him spitefully and viciously, the crossed symbol that kept haunting John Paul III in his worst nightmares.

  He knew what it probably meant: copper, Venus, light. The symbol of the one who had a thousand names: Satan, Behemoth, Seth, Pazuzu…

  Professor Sederino continued. »All I can say after a first visual inspection,« he said, »is that these reliefs must be very old, much older than the catacombs themselves.«

  John Paul III barely listened to what the archaeologist said. He was tense and alert, as he began to examine the rest of the wall and discovered more symbols, which were much smaller and less distinct. Letters and terrible drawings were carved into the rock, and in between were countless depictions of eyes with square pupils.

  »This looks like some kind of inscription.«

  »It does, doesn’t it?« Sedrino called out with enthusiasm. »But I have never seen an inscription like it before. Have you?«

  »No,« John Paul III lied.

  »These drawings, they could be some kind of map. What do you think, Holy Father?«

  The Pope pointed at a crack in the wall. »This crack here, it looks as if there is more hidden behind this wall.«

  »My thoughts exactly,« the archaeologist replied. »I am anxious to see what we will discover behind this wall.«

  John Paul III turned around and looked at the professor. »No. You will not continue to dig in this chamber.«

  »Holy Father?«

  »You heard me. I forbid any further excavations in this location. I want you to seal this area off, and I want you to keep to yourself what you have seen here, at least for the moment.«

  Sederino could feel a protest on the tip of his tongue but when he saw the Pope’s face, he swallowed it back. »Certainly, Holy Father, as you wish.«

  The three other archaeologists nodded with awkward embarrassment. John Paul III knew the true value of these kinds of assertions. He only needed to look at the men. The disappointment was written all over their faces.

  »The fact that this chamber exists has to remain a secret for now, under all circumstances,« he repeated. »I can only ask you not to talk to anyone about it, not even your families. Forget about this place. I know what I am asking of you. If you do not disappoint me, I give you my word that you will get the exclusive right to examine the crypt at the appropriate time. Until then, the Church will generously support another research project of your choice. However, should it so happen that even the tiniest bit of information relating to the existence of this crypt seeps out, I will hold you personally responsible and forbid all further archaeological research on the territory of the Catholic Church, worldwide. I will end your careers. Have I made myself clear, gentlemen?«

  That evening, Alexander Duncker did not dine with the Pope, as he usually did. Instead, he took a car that drove him to a five-story house on the Viale Bruno Buozzi, an apparently nondescript building that was nevertheless very well known in church circles. There, Dunker attended, with extremely mixed feelings, an extraordinary soiree. The Prelate of Opus Dei, Cardinal Santillana, welcomed Duncker like an old friend and led him into a secure lounge where Cardinal Menendez was waiting for them together with four other high-ranking numeraries in cassocks, all of them Spaniards. Duncker knew them, of course. With the feeling that he was betraying his mentor, but with the conviction that he was doing the right thing, he provided a brief report on the content of the secret documents, copies of which he had given to Menendez.

  »His Holiness plans the establishment of a supreme auditing agency that would supervise all financial operations of the Istituto per le Opere di Religione. Furthermore, this new agency will be designed to focus explicitly on the finances of Opus Dei.«

  »To what end?« interjected one of the numeraries.

  »The objective is to break the financial power of
the Opus Dei and its influence on the Roman Catholic Church.«

  »He wants to annihilate the Opus,« was Menendez’s comment. »That’s what he always wanted to do.«

  »The Pope’s primary goal,« Duncker added, »is to create more transparency and to protect the Vatican Bank from money laundering. His plan is the enforcement of international banking standards. But this is not all. In addition to this, His Holiness plans to sell all shares that the Istituto per le Opere di Religione holds in operational areas which do not provide an immediate financial benefit to the dioceses. Moreover, he plans the sale of church property: private equities as well as artifacts and valuable objects.«

  »We are talking billions here!« Menendez moaned. »He wants to plunder the Church!«

  »What does he plan to do with the proceeds?« Cardinal Santillana wanted to know.

  »In a nutshell, he wants the proceeds to flow to an international organization which is yet to be founded, a relief agency with the mission of fighting poverty and hunger in the Third World. His Holiness is well aware that this is only a drop in the ocean but he hopes that it will function as a signal to the other world religions and to the governments of the leading industrial nations.«

  »He is giving the Church away,« Santillana remarked. »Just giving it away like a present. He wants to make his dream come true, his ideal of a poor universal church, and he is determined even to sacrifice Opus Dei on the altar of his crude ideals.«

  »The man is going insane,« was Menendez’s comment. »It’s obvious. These billions will just disappear into the abyss of the international financial markets without having any positive impact on anything. And afterwards the Church will be helpless and powerless, facing chaos and its own demise.«

  »The plan is far more complex than I can explain here,« Duncker admitted. »It actually does provide for a protection of the assets. The bottom line, though, is that it all comes down to the breakup of Opus Dei and the sellout of the Church’s property.«

  »How seriously do we have to take this plan?« asked another numerary.

  Duncker shrugged his shoulders. »So far, it is only a plan.«

  »Could this be just one of his usual provocations? What if we leak this plan to the international press to expose him?«

  For a while, there was silence in the room. Then Prelate Santillana spoke up again.

  »The point is not whether or not Laurenz seriously intends to sell off the entire Catholic Church. The only thing that matters right now is that he is attacking Opus Dei. So I am asking for suggestions as to how we should react. We are entre nous, gentlemen. So you are free to say whatever you please.«

  XLVIII

  May 29, 2010, The Ruins of Misrian, Turkmenistan

  Thousands upon thousands of glazed clay fragments covered the site of the ruins, as if this were fate’s final attempt to recreate the lost ornaments of Misrian from its ancient remains. Most of the fragments were glazed with the typical blue of the sky, shining in the sunlight as they had done on their first day. Last witnesses to the former splendor of the town. Peter picked some of the fragments up and tried to picture the magnificence of the Misrian Mosques that had once been covered with these artful blue ornaments.

  »The town must have been rich. I mean, really rich.«

  »Oh, it was! And how rich it was,« Haase replied, showing him the foundations that his workers had already excavated. »When you think of Misrian in its golden age, you have to picture a center of Islamic culture, or better, a center of the world and its cultures. The town was the junction of three important trade routes that connected Europe with Asia. In my opinion, in its heyday Misrian was more important for the Orient than Florence was for Europe. And this town is old; very, very old. Our ground-penetrating radar equipment show four individual building layers, and this one here is only the topmost layer. I am convinced that the first foundations date back to at least 2000 years before Christ.«

  Peter was only listening with half an ear. He looked over to Ellen who was stretched out on the ground photographing clay fragments close-up. She glanced in his direction and gave him a brief wave before refocusing on her work. A little further in the distance, Peter saw another team of workers at another excavation site.

  »What is Kelly digging for over there?«

  »I have no idea. He was already here when we arrived. I tried to engage in a … collegial exchange with him, but he is not interested. So we keep our distance.«

  »Do you believe that there could still be a buried treasure?«

  »No way. The Mongolians did not do things by halves.«

  »Who the heck is financing his excavations?«

  »No idea. Why don’t you ask him yourself?«

  Peter noticed that Haase was growing increasingly vexed when it came to the issue of Edward Kelly, and so he let the matter rest. A little later, when he turned around to look for Ellen, he saw her stroll towards Kelly’s excavation site. Kelly raised his floppy hat to her and greeted her warmly.

  »What did you talk about?« Peter asked her later when they were back in their tent.

  »Who?«

  »You and that Kelly guy.«

  »I asked him what he is digging for«

  »And?«

  »›For treasure,‹ he said. So I asked him, what kind of treasure? And then he gave me this here.«

  She handed Peter a palm-sized and unglazed clay fragment. Before firing the pot, a symbol had been carved into the soft clay and later the grooves had been painted red. A spiral that looked as if it had been drawn roughly by hand. The ancient color was still vivid and bright.

  »It is beautiful, isn’t it? Kelly claims that it is very old.«

  Peter felt his mouth getting dry. The spiral on the fragment stirred up the sediments of his oldest memories, conjuring up fuzzy images that were filled with fear and horror. Peter stared at the fragment in his hand and suddenly he got the feeling that he had experienced this exact same situation before. He was trembling and he could feel a baseless panic enveloping him. With the panic came sweat, oozing out of every pore of his body and forming a huge stain on his T-shirt.

  At first, Ellen did not notice what was happening to him.

  »He said I could keep it and that he’d found hundreds of these. And I said, do you mean to tell me that this is supposed to be a treasure? And he replied, it’s a lead. I’m on the verge of my breakthrough. If you like, I can tell you more. Ooh, secret, secret. He is a nutcase, of course he is. But quite interesting. … Peter? You are as white as a sheet, Peter. What’s wrong?«

  Peter put the fragment away and took a deep breath.

  »Nothing. I’m okay.« He looked at Ellen. »Didn’t drink enough.«

  She seemed worried and handed him a bottle of water.

  »By the way, Kelly invited us over tonight.«

  »Don’t tell me you accepted?!«

  »It’s impossible to decline desert invitations. Besides, I’m curious.«

  The setting sun dipped the long white rock formation in the distance into a glowing red light. As Peter stepped out of their little tent and looked over to the cliffs, it looked to him like a gigantic wave of petrified blood crashing towards him, silently.

  Kelly was waiting for them in his yurt, which stood apart from the archaeologists’ camp. Behind it were two other yurts, where his workers slept and cooked. The digging equipment and the findings were stored on the bed of a Russian four-wheel-drive, which was kept under armed guard at night.

  When Peter and Ellen entered the yurt, stepping with the right foot first out of respect for the local tradition, Peter noticed once again the advantages of yurts compared to simple Russian army tents. The spacious yurts, consisting of a circular wooden frame with thick felt covers, were not only more comfortable, they also ensured better temperature control. Furthermore, they were better suited to withstand the daily sandstorms. Kelly’s yurt was almost luxurious, with the interior walls and the floor covered in carpets. Long panels of fabric were hanging down from the tw
o columns supporting the crown of the yurt and they were imprinted with occult symbols: triangles, pentagrams, mandalas, the Egyptian key of life Ankh, swastikas and also the spiral symbol. Next to the wall stood a small altar with a gold-plated pyramid and incense candles. Peter noted several amulets and good luck charms dangling from the ceiling. A table was covered with artifacts that Kelly had found at his excavation site. Clay fragments and small metal items that Peter could not identify in the dim light of the yurt. Kelly greeted them in a silk kaftan. The front was also embroidered with a symbol, a large circle with a small circle in the middle.

  Ellen seemed delighted. »What are you?« she called out. »A shaman or a scientist?«

  »I prefer the word ›seeker‹.«

  Peter stopped himself from making the comment he would have liked to make, and sat down next to Ellen. »Who pays for your research? Or better, your ›seeking‹?«

  »I have sufficient means to do this all by myself,« Kelly replied. »I prefer self-reliance, in all areas of life. And I am also an autodidact. I taught myself everything I know. I am not committed to anyone, just to myself and the truth.«

  »Bravo!« Ellen said, clapping her hands in ironic applause. It was not ironic enough for Peter’s taste.

  »Which truth?« he asked.

  Kelly made a vague gesture with his hands. »Let’s eat first.«

  He had arranged for a goat to be slaughtered. The animal was roasted and served with tomatoes, fresh bread and Bulgarian red wine.

  »I am afraid that’s all they had in Ashgabat«, he said. »If you don’t like it, we can skip the wine and continue with vodka.«

  Despite his strange appearance, Kelly proved to be amusing and intellectually stimulating. He talked about his »research projects,« various treasure hunts and adventures that had led him all over the world. Basically, he presented himself as the living embodiment of Indiana Jones. Peter, who had thought from the very first moment that Kelly was a bullshit artist of galactic proportions, was now perplexed by Kelly’s profound historical knowledge and his precise descriptions of ethnic minorities in India, Papua New Guinea, Tanzania and Burma. Peter was even more perplexed by Kelly’s ability to speak their different dialects, as he so amply demonstrated.