“Sure,” he texted.
Chapter Six
Seville, Spain
Carlos Alameda’s shabby one-room apartment was nestled among rows and rows of same-size houses in the poorest section of Seville. The paint on the buildings was peeling, exposing rotting wood beneath. The apartment was ascetic. Simple. A rickety metal cot covered with a thin blanket, a small wooden table and chair, and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling on a string. Once upon a time, the walls may have been washed in white, but now were gray.
Wet from a shower, Carlos Alameda stood in his underwear facing the window. This was his home. Carlos was interested in utility only, not comfort. This bare-bones décor was what he needed. Standing at the window, he noticed the sun hovering over the buildings in the distance, ushering in the dawn of the day.
Carlos’s trim body and taut muscles glistened from his shower. If there’d ever been an ounce of fat on him, there was no trace of it on this body that had been muscled and toned years earlier under the expert training of the Franco Youth Brigade. Carlos often prayed to the founder of the brigade, his own grandfather who, during the Spanish Civil War, had fought alongside Generalissimo Franco as part of the ultranationalist movement in the thirties.
Falling to his knees, he prayed out loud in his native Spanish. At fifty-four, Alameda was the trusted and obedient servant of the Visitor, the leader of Opus Mundi. He’d been working for the Visitor for more than thirty-five years.
The morning’s quiet was broken by the sonorous clang of bells from Seville’s cathedral. The bells reminded Alameda of his start with Opus Mundi. It was after he’d completed his studies for the priesthood. He’d been given the mission of violence with Opus Mundi. Should he get ordained? It seemed pointless. He never had.
Back in 1980, the Visitor had taken notice of him and his talents. Alameda was special. He was recruited to train a contemporary, Mehmet Ali Agca. The young Turk being trained by Carlos was determined to do whatever he could to save his family from starvation and penury. They told Agca he could also retain his farm for his parents and siblings in Yozgat. But the deal was that he must do as they ordered, without question. Agca agreed, of course. But he didn’t realize he was selling his soul.
At about the time he was thinking of being ordained, Alameda trained the young Turk to be an assassin. His mission: to assassinate Pope John Paul II.
Finishing his prayers, Alameda dressed in black trousers and shirt, as was his custom. Now it was time for another ritual. In a small bowl on the table were six shiny steel knives, each with a short handle and a six-inch blade. Once thrown, the knife would spin twice, then level out, blade first, on its trajectory to the target.
No one was better at throwing knives than Alameda. This morning, he grabbed the knives and placed his target on the wall with a piece of tape. It was a recent photo of His Holiness Quintus II.
Alameda backed up ten meters, spun around, and in a fluid, practiced motion of speed and balance, launched a dagger. The knife sailed through the air, striking the target in the forehead. Alameda performed the same motion twice more, striking the target precisely in each eye. He was a master.
Alameda smiled, remembering how he’d trained young Mehmet Agca for his day with the pope. But when the day had come, the attempt had failed. On May 13, 1981, he shot Pope John Paul II in St. Peter’s Square. The pope fell, but hadn’t died. Instead, Agca was captured and imprisoned. The Opus Mundi had upheld their end of the bargain. While Agca was sentenced to life in prison, his family survived, though modestly.
The bells were now tolling again. Alameda checked his wristwatch. Time to get to work.
Chapter Seven
Kevin’s Mission, Vatican City
Monsignor Max Drotti arrived at Kevin’s executive suite promptly at five p.m. Drotti was clean-shaven, looking eager. Kevin, too, was refreshed. He’d grabbed a nap, showered, and downed a beer. Ready to go.
“Did you find everything here satisfactory?” asked Drotti.
“Perfect. Everything was great.”
“No visitors or shootings?”
“Well, well,” said Kevin. “The monsignor has a sense of humor!” Kevin slapped him on the back good-naturedly.
“Just looking out for you,” said Drotti, dryly. “I hadn’t realized you were one of those rambunctious American cowboys.”
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said Kevin. He smiled at the monsignor. Maybe they’d be friends, after all. “So, who’re we meeting?”
“Your good friend, Cardinal John Porter,” Drotti said. “If you’re ready, let’s go.”
Kevin relished the idea of seeing his old friend Porter, but he knew the meeting wasn’t because Porter was missing him.
Kevin grabbed his watch and key and locked the door, following Drotti outside. Together, they walked through the damp chill of the late spring afternoon around St. Peter’s Basilica. Kevin loved the history of the place. It seemed uncanny that since the fourth century there’d been a church on this site. Since Caligula was the Emperor, a granite Egyptian obelisk had stood in Rome. And then there was the power of this place. An indisputable lingering and mysterious energy which couldn’t be ignored.
A pope’s responsibilities are staggering—leading a church of more than one billion souls. And with the Curia, overseeing 2,500 dioceses, more than 150 Cardinals, 5,000 bishops and 400,000 priests. Kevin himself was one of those 400,000 priests. Probably the only one who’d been in the CIA. Maybe not, but thinking about it made him feel special.
In addition, there were over a million clerical brothers and nuns, plus 500 citizens, all living in this inner circle, a one hundred-acre area called Vatican City. And of course, there were museums and administrative offices and colleges, tucked around and behind the Grand Central Piazza, stone buildings marked by bronze plaques.
Cardinal Porter’s office was on the second floor of the Governatorato, the Palace of the Governatorate, a tall, boxy building in the heart of the formal Vatican Gardens. Though it wasn’t as well-known as the Apostolic Palace, where the Constantinian Basilica of St. Peter’s was constructed in the first half of the 4th century, this was where the serious business was orchestrated. The most important behind-the-scenes management of Vatican City happened here, and the city’s 1,500 employees were hired and managed from these offices.
“Please, this way,” said a uniformed attendant as he opened the door to Cardinal John Porter’s office. As Drotti and Kevin walked into the room, Kevin let out a low whistle, but checked himself, remembering where he was. Things here were tighter, more reserved than where he came from.
Kevin and Drotti found themselves enveloped by the creation of a medieval ambience. Tall ceilings and walls of filigreed gold statues. Italian Renaissance furniture glistening with gold trim. Three period chairs faced the antique desk where His Eminence stood, smiling. Porter looked to be around sixty years old and stood six feet tall. He was slim with beautifully groomed silver hair, blue eyes, and a movie star sculpted face. If Hollywood ever needed a senior cleric for films, Porter would fit the bill.
Kevin was genuinely pleased to see his old friend again.
“It’s great to see you, Kevin!” Cardinal Porter said, hugging him. He turned and shook Drotti’s hand. “Nice to see you, as well. I wish the circumstances were different, of course. Come, let’s sit at the conference table where we’ll be more comfortable.”
“So, how have you been?” asked Kevin once they were seated on forest green velvet-covered chairs around an oval oak table. Kevin thought the place was truly regal.
“I’m doing well. May have put on a few pounds.” Cardinal Porter patted his stomach. “I have to tell you, I really miss our training sessions in the gym, Kev. Can’t get any of my colleagues to work out with me.”
“The extra pounds come with age,” Kevin said. He smiled. “I’m starting to feel it, too.”
“Maybe we can get in a game of racquetball while you’re here?”
“I’d like that,
” Kevin said, “and my game is a lot better than it used to be.”
“Really? You’re telling me I’m not going to win this time around?”
Kevin shook his head. “Sorry to tell you, Eminence, you haven’t got a chance.”
“We’ll settle that later.” Cardinal Porter smiled. “But back to the present reality. Kevin, you’re here because we need somebody with your special skills. For a major crisis.”
“So I gather,” said Kevin. “I’m surprised I was chosen. You’re one of the few who really know me—and the truth about my background.”
“We considered your background carefully, Kevin, and to tell you the truth, that’s precisely why we need you.” The cardinal smiled, settled in his chair, folded his hands, and took a deep breath. “I trust you, Kevin.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Kevin. “I appreciate that.”
“I suppose you’ve been following the international news. There’s a risk of war between Iran and Israel. The Israelis might strike at any time.”
Kevin raised an eyebrow. The Vatican has been involved in many world events, but the possibility of the Church taking a role in a Middle East war was preposterous, borderline wacky. Kevin remained reticent, nodding for the cardinal to continue.
“No doubt you’re wondering what it has to do with us. Simply put, this war could be nuclear, hence, apocalyptic. There are predictions in the Bible as well as in various Revelations about such an apocalypse opening a new era for Christianity. The official position of the Church is that when the time comes, God will tell us how to proceed.”
Very interesting, Kevin thought. An apocalypse? Are we being serious? Glancing over at Drotti, he noted his eyes were wide open and his mouth slightly agog.
“I know what you’re thinking, gentlemen,” Porter said. “You’re thinking this is strange. But hear me out.” The cardinal walked over to the floor-to-ceiling cabinet of rare books. Up on his tiptoes, he reached, retrieved a leather Bible, blew off a thin film of dust, and flipped through the pages.
“Here it is,” he said without looking up. “Matthew 24.”
Porter began to read:
“And as he sat upon the Mount of Olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, ‘Tell us, when shall these things be? And what shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the world?’
“And Jesus answered and said unto them, ‘Take heed that no man deceive you. For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many. And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in diverse places.’”
Flipping the page, Cardinal Porter continued. “And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many.”
Porter closed the book.
Drotti and Kevin looked at each other, puzzled.
Porter smiled. “You’re not understanding?”
“Not really,” Drotti said. “My personal recollection of Matthew 24 is the ending in which he talks about the weeping and gnashing of teeth, which I always found somewhat colorful.”
“What does this have to do with us?” asked Kevin. “More specifically, what does it have to do with me?”
“The group, Opus Mundi, believes today’s Catholic Church has strayed from its original teachings. They contend the Church is being led by a ‘false prophet.’ In this case, His Holiness, Quintus II. As the passage suggests, ‘nations shall rise against nations,’ resulting in a war. Simply put, a war will fulfill the prophecy, and then the false prophet will be replaced. See where this is heading?”
As the men looked at each other, a loaded silence followed. In the hallway, a clock chimed. Everything seemed surreal. Kevin felt as though time had stopped. Finally he spoke. “Are you saying they’re going to kill the pope?”
Cardinal Porter shrugged. “That’s possible. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“How does the pope feel about all of this?” asked Drotti.
“The pontiff is aware of it,” said Porter. “But he insists on ‘business as usual,’ on keeping his schedule. However, security has been heightened.”
“Well, even if the Pope dies, Opus Mundi can’t replace him,” Drotti said. “Only the College of Cardinals can elect a new pope. Am I missing something here?”
“We don’t have all the answers,” the Cardinal said. “That’s why Kevin is here and on the case. We believe Kevin has the resources and gumption to find the answers we’re looking for.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Kevin. Good God, what did this mean? Would he have to eliminate the would-be assassin? “How did you learn of this, Eminence?”
“Here at the Vatican, we have a special IT team monitoring the online flow of communications 24/7 for chatter related to crimes against the Vatican and the pope. They search for keywords and other data that might be relevant. The IT team is modeled after the National Security Agency in the States, but nowhere near their capability. In any event, in recent days our internal security has reported increased Opus Mundi chatter online, which could mean a major operation is brewing—especially after your attack this morning.”
Resting his elbows on the table, the cardinal unfolded his hands, then folded them again. There were lines around his blue eyes, highlighting his worry and fatigue. “We intercepted one message possibly related to Opus Mundi’s plans. It’s in code. We don’t entirely understand it. I’m going to share it with you in the strictest confidence.” The cardinal looked over at Drotti, whose eyes were transfixed on the paper in Porter’s hand.
“I understand,” said Drotti.
Kevin nodded. Over the years, he’d heard rumors about Opus Mundi. Those in Opus Mundi were fanatics who held to some catastrophic worldview. They’d been around for over a hundred years. If the Masons had deep secrets and an aura of mystery surrounding them, well, they paled next to Opus Mundi. According to legends, and documents uncovered over the years, Opus Mundi believed that a false messenger of God would appear threatening the Church. The advent of this false messenger’s reign would be preceded by a major calamity, like a world war … or an apocalypse. How was the Colombo group connected to Opus Mundi? He’d have to do some research to connect the dots.
Cardinal Porter handed the paper to Kevin and he read:
Transcription intercepted 5/22 NSA 43T/29QA
VISITOR 5/29 BEIRUT. TRIGGER SALE
SATIN PO$ 6/2
(Note: unsure of correct translation but nothing better found)
Kevin shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea what this means.” He handed the note to Drotti.
The cryptic message meant little to Kevin, but he’d figure it out. He took out a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket, and started jotting down a list.
Cardinal Porter said, “Visitor is the pseudonym—the code name—for the leader of Opus Mundi; that much we know. Beirut is a mystery unless Visitor or his designee is going there or expecting someone from there. The next words don’t make sense. We tried variations of satin since the Church uses that fabric extensively; nothing came up.”
“Sir, give me a little time with this. I’ll work on it. Get some help if I need it.” As he finished his list, Kevin stroked his chin.
Cardinal Porter nodded. “Certainly. Anything else you need?”
“I made a list.” Kevin handed the cardinal his piece of paper.
“Ammunition, a secure cell phone, a Taser gun? Goodness, Kevin! I hope you don’t need all these things. Sounds like you’re going to war.”
Kevin half-smiled, raising his eyebrows. “You never know.”
“Did you forget a knife?” Drotti smirked.
“I brought my own,” Kevin replied.
“I cannot overstate the gravity of this, Kevin,” Cardinal Porter said. His voice was grave.
“Of course,” said Kevin.
“Believe me,” said Drotti.
“Kevin will know what to do with this stuff. I’ve seen him in action.”
“I know,” said Cardinal Porter. “That’s why he’s here. And, gentlemen, in Vatican Security parlance, we believe this is a ‘Code Red.’”
“A James Bond movie?”
“I’m being serious, Kevin. To us, it means that Opus Mundi has entered into the Action Phase of their mission to annihilate the Catholic Church.” He looked pointedly at Kevin. “Kevin, they must be stopped. By any means necessary. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
By any means necessary? That’s why they picked me.
“I understand.” Kevin nodded his head. “Give me a couple of days to put all this together and get back to you with a plan.”
“Don’t take too long. That attempt on your life this morning won’t be the last.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Kevin. He swallowed hard. This was no game.
“And I’ll help in any way I can,” added Drotti.
“I knew I could count on the two of you,” said the cardinal. “Now, come. I’ll let you two get some rest tonight. You can get busy first thing in the morning. If you need anything, Kevin, call my direct line. Max has my number.”
“Thank you for having confidence in me,” said Kevin.
“Of course, old friend.”
The cardinal rose from his chair and Kevin and Drotti followed quietly out of the room.
“Thank you for coming, Kevin, and you, too, Max.” The men shook hands.
Cardinal Porter turned to Kevin and repeated, “I’m counting on you.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Once outside, they could see the sun setting in spheres of red and yellow, creating a golden orb in the spring air.
As they headed towards Kevin’s apartment at the Villa Domenica, Kevin asked, “Max, what do you know about this Opus Mundi group?”
“You probably know as much as I do. They’re crazy. Been around for a long time. They’re a group of far-right conservative Catholics who think the Church is plagued by false prophets. Their solution is to insinuate themselves into the pulse of the church, to exorcise the ever false prophets.”
The Secret of Fatima Page 5
