“That’s what I’ve always heard about them.”
“The thing is, Kevin, they’ll stop at nothing. Once they decide the pope is the false prophet, they’ll eliminate him. They’re our Hezbollah and just as dangerous.”
“Where did they get these ideas about false prophets, anyway?” Kevin walked slowly along the ancient stone path, taking in the scent of fresh basil wafting through the air. Being a resident of the Vatican had its delicious advantages.
Drotti shrugged. “As you’ve just heard from Cardinal Porter, it’s from the Bible. Some say it’s in the prophecies, and the appearances of the Virgin Mary through the centuries.”
“Strange that this group has lasted all these years underground.”
“Indeed,” Drotti added. “They are small, secretive, and invisible, though they’re international. This isn’t Opus Dei, who may be conservative, but are in line with Church doctrine. This group is more secretive than the Masons. Their secrets and rituals are more deadly.”
The two men continued their brisk walk to the executive suite.
Suddenly, Drotti stopped to face Kevin. “We suspect this Opus Mundi was responsible for the 1981 assassination attempt on John Paul II.”
“Really? That’s one hell of an accusation.”
Drotti nodded. “I know. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But it gets more interesting. John Paul II was shot by a Turkish man, Mehmet Ali Agca on May 13, 1981, in St. Peter’s Square. If you recall, the square was especially crowded that day; it happened only seconds before the pope was going to read the third secret of Fatima. The date chosen for the reading and the assassination was the anniversary of Mary’s first appearance to the children at Fatima.”
The children of Fatima. Kevin reached back in his memory. In 1917, the Virgin Mary appeared six times to three children in the small village of Fatima in Portugal. Drotti was right on the mark. The first of these appearances was indeed on May 13th.
“You’re right. I remember it now,” Kevin said. “In 1978, after only 33 days in office, John Paul I died. Then his successor, John Paul II, was shot in front of St. Peter’s in 1981. So, what’s the connection?”
Drotti didn’t respond. He knew more, but wouldn’t reveal it to Kevin just yet.
“And now you guys think a secret group within the church is trying to kill this current pope?”
Drotti nodded, his brows furrowed. “Opus Mundi believes the current Church leadership, meaning the pope, is leading us to hell—literally. They’re out to kill the false messiahs.” Drotti looked to the sky, pointing his finger. “And they’re taking their fanaticism from their reading of the scriptures!”
“Will they try again—to kill the pope, I mean?” Kevin asked.
“Here’s what I’m worried about,” Drotti responded. “The current pope is rumored to be making an announcement in the next few days that’ll mandate a major change in Catholic doctrine. It’ll incense the conservatives.”
“Do you know what he’s going to say?” Kevin asked.
“I have an idea, yes, but I’m going to keep it to myself.”
“Sure,” said Kevin. “But if it could help us with our job in this, let me know.”
“I will,” said Drotti.
The men strolled quietly for a few minutes, until they came upon Villa Domenica.
Kevin took his key from his pocket. “Max, please don’t plan anything for me Thursday or Friday. I’ll have visitors in town.”
“Your lady friend?” Drotti smiled.
“Just visitors, OK?” said Kevin, irritated. Drotti seemed to know everything about him.
“We don’t have much time to figure this out, Kevin,” said Drotti.
“Don’t worry,” said Kevin, “I’ll be working all the time. I have resources. If you don’t mind, I’ll need a little privacy.”
Drotti nodded. “Sure. You have my number. Oh, and the cardinal’s.”
“Thanks,” said Kevin. “I appreciate it. And thanks for everything.”
“No problem. I’ll have everything on your list delivered tomorrow. Have a good night, Kevin.” With that, Drotti turned, leaving Kevin alone for the evening.
Once inside the executive suite, Kevin noticed right away that his laptop was open and the screen on. Who’d been using it? He was sure he’d closed it before leaving. What the hell? He approached the desk and sat down. He looked at the screen. A message scrolled across the screen in large, black letters. The message: GO HOME.
A threat? Had someone from Colombo been here? Opus Mundi? Maybe they’re playing hardball, Kevin thought. No matter. It’s one game I know how to play, too.
Kevin opened the refrigerator and grabbed a Peroni. Plopping in the leather chair, his mind was scrambled by what Cardinal Porter had told him. And now, the laptop with a message.
Often Kevin prayed to God and Jesus and Mary. He decided to ask them all about his new assignment and the quandary of the church. What’s the mission at hand? To save the Church? To save the pope? Uncover a menacing secret society within the Church? Eliminate the would-be assassins? Or could it be something else, something even more portentous and earth-shattering?
As Kevin gulped down a deliciously cold slug of beer, his mind drifted to Katie. How about giving all this up and leading a normal life? With his advanced education, he could get a job in finance or consulting. New York would be an interesting place to live. And kids? As a result of a bad case of chicken pox at a young age, Kevin knew Katie couldn’t have kids.
What? Wake up! What are you thinking, knucklehead? He couldn’t leave the Church. In his head, a chorus of angelic voices were blaring, powerful and demanding. The idea of breaking his vows was unthinkable. Okay, everybody. Calm down. I’m not leaving the Church.
Kevin sat up, alert. He hoped someday, somehow, to find the key to silencing this tug of war in his mind—his love for Katie versus his love for the Church. Was this a given for priests? Did all priests have this screeching cacophony, this tortured conflict?
Back on track to the assignment. He was here to investigate a possible overthrow of the Catholic Church by a radical group. They think a false prophet has gone soft regarding doctrine. Sounds easy enough. Kevin sighed.
Kevin remembered the intercepted message Cardinal Porter had given him. He stopped moving and retrieved it from his pocket.
VISITOR 5/29 BEIRUT. TRIGGER SALE
SATIN PO$ 6/2
(Note: unsure if correct translation but nothing better found)
An idea came to him. He grabbed his iPhone and called Toby Beck, a CIA friend, an expert in crypto. He and Toby went way back. In Iraq they were army officers together. From their time there, they shared some dark secrets.
Toby answered his phone. “This you, Kevin?”
“Yes. How are you, Toby?”
“Good, good. What’s going on?”
After explaining he was in Rome on a Church mission, Kevin continued, “I need some decoding help, buddy. I have an intercepted message that needs your eye.”
“I’m in that business, Kev,” Toby said. “I can give you a secure number to relay it as a PDF. Can you do that?”
Kevin recalled he had a copy machine in his quarters. He jumped up to see if it could scan and send the document to Toby. It could. “Can do, Toby. I’ll send it right away.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Toby said and hung up.
His iPhone buzzed a half hour later. It couldn’t be from Toby, could it?
“Kevin, it’s Max. I just got an advance copy of the papal encyclical that’s coming out tomorrow.”
“How bad is it?” Kevin asked.
“Bad. The pope appears to be changing the rule on birth control. Contraception will be permitted for married couples.”
“Is that a big deal? For decades American priests have been avoiding it in the confessional. The majority of practicing Catholics pay no attention to that rule.”
“The short answer, my friend, is that it’s a very big deal. Church leadership must have know
n this would enrage conservatives like Opus Mundi. I just hope they’re prepared for how it’ll affect them.”
Kevin had nothing to say. A second call beeped in on Kevin’s mobile. “I’ll call you back, Max,” Kevin said, and hung up. He answered the second call. It was Toby.
“My ass is on the line for this, pal, but frankly I don’t give a shit. I’ve got some stuff for you,” Toby said.
Kevin knew he’d need to return the favor someday, but it was worth it.
“You’re a good man, Toby. I appreciate your help,” said Kevin.
“Anyway,” Toby continued, “Visitor is likely just that—a visitor or someone by that name. Satin Po$ 6/2 has nothing to do with cloth. When you go through the various combinations it appears that this isn’t even in code. Your guys got lucky. Satin should be two words, Sat in. It likely means Satellite in Position 6/2, or June 2nd. That’s early next month. The word ‘trigger’ is puzzling. One of our guys thinks it means to initiate, the other one thinks it’s literal, means what it appears to mean—a trigger, like on a weapon.”
“This isn’t making much sense to me, Toby.”
“Well, this might help. The Vatican owns three satellites which were launched privately. They’re used primarily for communications and for Vatican TV broadcast transmissions. Anyway, our guys tracked a signal directing one of the satellites to a new orbit starting on June 1st. We don’t know why they did that, of course, but the new trajectory is interesting.” Toby paused. “This is a strange question, but does the Vatican have any, uh, initiatives in the Middle East?”
“Not that I know of,” Kevin said, although Cardinal Porter’s comments about a world conflict popped into his head.
“Well, maybe you should dig a little deeper. We tracked a top Israeli official on his way to Beirut today. Don’t know what he’s doing there. Nobody in Israel is volunteering any intel. That Vatican satellite I just told you about was directed to a new route over Iran, Syria, and Israel.”
“Thanks, Toby. I’ll work on putting this all together.”
“Okay, buddy. But you’d better work fast.”
Chapter Eight
Seville, Spain
Although there was a specific, Opus Mundi-related reason that Carlos Alameda, also known as Columbo, resided in Seville, he wanted to be there. In all of Spain, Seville was Alameda’s ideal choice for residence.
At the cultural and religious center of the city was Seville’s Cathedral, ranked as either the largest in the world, according to the Guinness World Records, or the third largest, depending on how you measured it. It was the largest Gothic cathedral in the world, but its ranking in size was not of importance to Columbo. There was simply not a more expansive and majestic place of worship in the world.
It was no coincidence that Kevin felt equally partial to this Spanish city and its church. He looked forward to visiting the cathedral, and the sights and aura of the magnificent structure took his breath away. The original was a mosque, built in the twelfth century when the Moors controlled Spain. When Ferdinand II of Castile reconquered Seville in 1248, Christianity was reestablished and the Aljama Mosque was converted to a cathedral. Both men knew all this, but Alameda likely knew the history even better than Kevin did. Indeed, Alameda’s knowledge was deep enough to qualify as a tour guide. But there were other reasons for his expertise.
In the fourteenth century, following two earthquakes, the church as it is known today came into being. The Giralda Tower dominating the skyline originally was built as the mosque’s minaret. In the sixteenth century, the bell tower crowning the Giralda Tower was added, bringing in a much needed harmony to the Islamic and Renaissance elements of this magnificent structure. Every visit Alameda made to this cathedral was a fresh experience. Every visit he enjoyed watching first-time visitors entranced by its towering structure and beauty.
Alameda, dressed like a Franciscan monk in a long brown tunic and hood, kneeled before the Capilla Major, the highest and most breathtaking altarpiece in the Christian world. Measuring twenty meters high, it was protected by a bronze grill, itself a work of art. The altarpiece behind the main altar featured massive gold covered carvings of lifelike saints. It was all so unusual and majestic, it took his breath away. He wasn’t the only one who experienced such sublime feelings in this holy place. Pope John Paul II had visited the cathedral in 1982 and as his eyes took in the altarpiece for the first time, he was said to have wept.
His prayers completed, Alameda looked about for the man he knew as Visitor. Soon enough, Visitor, similarly attired like a Franciscan monk, joined him and knelt before the altar. “God bless you,” Alameda whispered in Spanish.
Visitor knelt, his eyes fixed straight on the altar. “The Vatican has summoned an investigator from America,” he said. “He must be dealt with. He is not our usual ecclesiastic enemy.”
“I know what happened to the agents who followed him from the airport,” Alameda commented while shaking his head. “I believe I must go to Rome and personally assume command of the mission.” For a moment, Alameda hesitated before asking the next question.
“Excellency, does the American know about the Secret?”
Visitor continued to stare ahead at the altar. “We do not know what his superiors have told him. Perhaps the Vatican leaders will want to observe him for some time before discussing the Secret.”
Alameda nodded respectfully.
“There is much at stake,” Visitor continued. “Operation Delorgio begins in one week.” He gazed again at the altar. “You will be met by the customary personnel. Pray for guidance.”
Visitor crossed himself and left.
Alameda prayed for a few moments, crossed himself, then got up to leave. On his way out of the cathedral, Alameda made his habitual stop at the tomb of Christopher Columbus. The explorer who’d discovered America had been a resident of Seville. His remains were first interred in Santo Domingo, then in Cuba. After Cuba broke from Spain in 1898, his remains were transferred to a mausoleum in the Seville cathedral in 1902. Alameda was aware that Christopher Columbus would play a role in the cataclysmic events Opus Mundi saw coming. In a gesture of allegiance, he’d adopted the code name “Columbo” as his alternate identity, a tribute to Columbus.
He gazed reverently at Columbus’s coffin, held aloft by four massive bronze statues, kings in arms representing the four original kingdoms of Spain: Castile, Leon, Aragon, and Navarre. We know what mysteries you hold, Alameda said to him in his mind.
Visitor had just confided to Alameda that Operation Delorgio, named for the founder of Opus Mundi, would launch in two weeks. The excitement within him was explosive.
Chapter Nine
Rome, Italy
Entering the lobby of the Hotel Hassler where Katie was staying, Kevin admired the gilded architecture and design. This hotel had earned its reputation as the finest in Rome. The antique furnishings, crowned by a dazzling crystal chandelier from a doge’s palace in Venice, complemented a staff of attendants graciously greeting guests. As Kevin was dressed in his clerical suit and collar, they welcomed him with a small bow. Kevin thought how blessed it was that Katie was doing so well she could stay in such a hotel.
Lovely Katie was waiting in the lobby. The sight of her stirred feelings that Kevin continued to find hard to manage. She looked statuesque, with the most au courant accessories: Hermes scarf, kitten heels, Prada purse. And what a dazzling smile!
After a warm hug, he said, “A nice flight?”
“Yes,” Katie said. “Although first class isn’t what it used to be.”
“Be grateful. Better than the alternative.”
“Right.” She smiled up at him coyly, flashing her eyes.
Taking her arm, they walked out side by side onto the Spanish Steps.
“I wasn’t sure what to wear. You didn’t tell me where we were going,” she said, while Kevin admired her style. She was wearing an unadorned black dress with a fitted linen jacket. On her earlobes were big, playful bauble earrings.
“You look terrific,” he said. “And you’re wonderfully overdressed for where we’re going tonight.”
“Thanks. Are you going to tell me or surprise me?”
“Your choice.”
“Then tell me,” she said with a forced smile. “I’ve had my fill of surprises from you.”
Ouch! Kevin let the comment pass. “We’re dining in Trastevere, the oldest part of Rome,” he said, mustering up as much enthusiasm as he could.
“Sounds adventurous.” Again she smiled, just happy to be with him.
They hailed a cab and crossed a bridge into what seemed like a bygone era. Narrow, windy streets paved with cobblestones were barely wide enough for a single car. The area encompassed the Jewish quarter. Colorful awnings shaded small outdoor restaurants. As Kevin wasn’t sure of the restaurant’s address, they stopped, paid the driver, and started out on foot. Strong aromas of garlic and herbs wafted through the air.
“I love it!” said Katie. “Feels like we’ve been transported back in time.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Kevin said.
They wandered the streets until Kevin spotted strings of lights dangling from a restaurant’s awning. It had a dozen outside tables and rows of low hanging multi-colored lanterns, gently swinging in the breeze. As they approached the entrance, they were greeted with music and song, a lively operatic aria from La Traviata. The singer’s energetic gusto compensated for his lack of talent.
Da Meo Pattaca was a favorite historic tourist restaurant known for its old-fashioned ambiance, strolling gypsy musicians, its food with medieval portions of pasta, and tableside serenades by underemployed opera stars.
A rotund, grinning waiter, menus in hand, approached with vibrant gesticulations of welcome. Soon they were seated al fresco under a clear sky of stars. A lit candle on the table was flickering as though dancing in the breeze. Kevin noticed Katie wearing the gold-plated bracelet he’d given her years ago. It was without value—except to her. She still wore it. It tugged at his heart.
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