by Jones, Rick
Father Auciello took a step forward with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. “Any intercepts?” he asked, his eyes remaining fixed on the monitor.
Essex nodded. “From the imprecise data collected from Mossad, it appears that an Arab faction may have taken the Ark and left behind the staff of Aaron and the golden pot of manna as proof of the true Ark. Apparently this faction contacted Mossad, saying the Ark would open its ills against all the infidels in the world. No further explanation was given.”
“Do we know anything about the faction group?”
“No. From what we can surmise from the intercepts, the Lohamah Psichlogit believes the illegal excavation was conducted by al-Qaeda. But they’re basing this on an encrypted message they received and translated from an unknown source. Keep in mind, however, that this is nothing but inference, since the partial communication has not been confirmed as viable. But as of three hours ago it’s the only thing they have. And because it’s the only thing they have, it’s the only thing we have.”
Auciello nodded. “Keep monitoring the channels.”
“Will do.”
For a brief moment both men eyed the monitors in silence, both wondering if the holiest of treasures was truly in the hands of al-Qaeda. And both wondered the same thing: What will they do with it?
As that thought hinged on their minds the access door behind them whooshed open and a man wearing vestments stood silhouetted against the backdrop. “Gentlemen,” he said, “how good it is to see you both once again.”
Fathers Auciello and Essex stood rapt as the shape came forward.
#
Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci lifted the hem of his robe and carefully took the steps to the Tomb of the Egyptians. The air was dry and cool, the smell musty and moldy as all underground chambers were. The cardinal had ventured these steps many times in the past as the Vatican’s secretary of state. Now he ventured them as a man stripped of his hierarchy, but a man respected by the ranks of the SIV, nonetheless.
With the alacrity of an aged man, he took the steps slowly as he descended, the way lit by electric lanterns. When he set foot on the bottom he noted the old stone walls and the pathways, once erected by pagans, leading to the old burial chambers. He also took note of the trail that led to the SIV command center, a bullet-shaped archway that gave entrance to a vaulted doorway that had a mirror polish to it. Beside it was a keypad.
After punching in the buttons the door opened, giving entrance to a pristine white booth where he was being scrutinized by a security camera, which was a small globe that hung at the top of the booth’s corner marking the landmarks on the cardinal’s face for facial recognition as he stood there. Once done, a second set of doors opened and the cardinal was given access to a small, rounded chamber that was so ethereal in its whiteness that it seemed to give off a glow.
“Welcome, Cardinal Vessucci,” said the security officer monitoring the facial recognition scanner on his console. It was a 3-D picture of the cardinal along with a brief dossier of the man’s profile. “It’s good to see you again.”
The cardinal smiled. In the room’s center was a single white desk. And the officer sitting behind it wore the traditional garments of the security staff, a pair of black pants and a scarlet jacket with the symbol of the Vatican on the coat pocket, the crisscrossing keys of St. Peter—one gold, the other silver—set beneath the papal tiara. The colors of the man’s uniform were in dark contrast against the entire whiteness of the room.
“Ah, Emilio,” he said, holding out his hand. “If only the circumstances were different.”
The officer took the cardinal’s hand and shook it. “I see you’re part of the conclave once again.”
“Twice in six months,” he responded. “And in my book that’s twice too many.” He looked past the officer to a smoked glass doorway. “Would the good Fathers Auciello and Essex be in by any chance?”
“They are.”
“Would you be kind enough to give me access to the SIV Chamber? There are matters I must discuss with them.”
“Of course, Cardinal.” The officer pressed a button and the smoked doorway gave access to a feebly lit stairway. “Be careful,” he told him. “The rails will guide you.”
The cardinal smiled. “I’m no stranger to the chambers, my dear friend.”
The cardinal descended the stairway with a tight hand on the railing. Once he reached the bottom he noted the reinforced glass, the myriad of blinking lights and monitors, the casts of light coming from the faces of the PC monitors sitting along the consoles. Against the opposite wall stood a massive screen that offered a view similar to looking out a glass window. The clarity was that exceptional.
After punching in a code to access the chamber, the door whooshed open and a blast of cool air met the cardinal as he stepped onto the threshold. Fathers Auciello and Essex turned and the old man could see the surprise on their faces.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “how good it is to see you both once again.” And the good Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stepped inside, the door closing behind him.
#
Arms were extended and hands where shaken. Fathers Essex and Auciello had missed their old friend, which was evident by the genuine smiles and congenial pats on the shoulders. After the greetings ended, the cardinal then took on a more sober look as he ushered the priests away from the monitors so that he could pull them into close counsel, so as not to be heard by the Jesuits.
In a tone barely above a hushed whisper, the cardinal said, “It’s a shame about Pope Gregory.”
Both men nodded.
“So tell me, what do you know about his passing?”
Auciello took the advance and spoke for Father Essex as well. “That it was an accident, the pontiff leaning too far beyond the railing.”
But Bonasero’s instincts had always been quick and sharp, his assumptions not always correct but at least close to the truth. In his regard he had viewed Gregory as a deeply careful and prudent man who took into account every facet of life with utmost caution, which was an embedded trait of his polished conservatism. So what was he doing at such an early hour on the balcony? Was there something on the cobblestones below calling him from the shadows of blue night like a siren? Or was it truly an accident as everyone believed: that the man simply fell to his death?
The questions nagged at him and wouldn’t let go, a marked trait as staunch in him as conservatism was in Pope Gregory.
“Is everything all right, Bonasero?” asked Essex.
Bonasero feigned a smile and placed a caring hand on the Londoner’s forearm. “Everything’s fine,” he told him. “But tell me, when I left, did the good pope inquire about the nature of the Vatican Knights?”
Auciello nodded. “He did. But only through the good Cardinal Angullo, who wanted to know everything including the activities of the SIV.”
“Such as?”
“Angullo wanted to be apprised about everything regarding the Knights,” he said. “As well as all SIV matters pertaining to the Knights, and how deep the SIV looks into on-site matters and situations across the globe. To me it seemed as if the cardinal was acting more on his own interests rather than that of Pope Gregory’s, since the pope already knew about the magnitude of our responsibilities—global or otherwise. It appeared to me that the good cardinal was gleaning knowledge for his own sake rather than the sake of the pope.”
Bonasero nodded and listened, consuming everything with avid interest.
“But he is the secretary of the state,” he added. “So we could not deny him what he requested to know.”
There was no doubt in Bonasero’s mind that Cardinal Angullo was grooming himself to be omniscient in worldly affairs. He also knew Angullo to be overly ambitious to fulfill his needs to achieve greater heights within the church’s hierarchy. The man was politically skillful in negotiations, quick with his wit and articulated well with a sharp tongue. In a power grab he also maneuvered himself to usurp Bonasero’s position as s
ecretary of state; better positioning him to the papal post should it become vacant, which it had six months after the last Electoral vote.
And in that short tenure while Gregory reigned, Cardinal Angullo learned the secrets of the Church and placed himself in a position to know everything, should he happen to take the papal throne.
Cardinal Bonasero found the whole scenario disturbing, however. The power of the Church was squarely within Angullo’s grasp and his power would have no boundaries, should he be chosen.
Bonasero took a step closer to the screens, the view of the Middle East and Northern Africa as clear as peering out an unblemished window, as his mind continued to roil with the thoughts of Angullo possibly garnering the papal post. What he couldn’t let go of was the fact that there was something deeply hidden, if not forever buried, that Cardinal Angullo ambitions to succeed the throne outweighed his moral compass, and even considered that the cardinal’s ambitions had become so paramount that the life of Pope Gregory was snuffed out by the cardinal’s committing hand.
Letting a sigh escape, Bonasera closed his eyes with the realization that corruption within the Church was not just a pre- or medieval constitution, but a conviction of a black soul who was convinced that their actions were for the overall good.
And Bonasero prayed that this was not the case, hoping above hope that Pope Gregory’s death was truly a mishap rather than the dark machinations of a lost soul.
He washed the thought away and turned toward the screen, reminiscing of a time when he used to view and direct the Vatican Knights to the hot spots around the world to save countless lives. And then he wondered how many souls were lost due to the refusal of the Church to send forth a unit to protect the citizenry of the Church within the past six months.
Under further consideration it was amazing to the cardinal how one man had the power to change the lives of so many with a single command or wish, each thought directed by the convictions of what Pope Gregory believed to be right or wrong, good or evil.
And then his consideration went one step further: How many people died over the past six months under the pope’s tenancy when they could have been saved?
As he stepped closer to the visual on the mounted wall screen, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci could only wonder.
#
“Tell me—” said the cardinal, pointing to the live feed “—why you are observing the Temple Mount.”
Fathers Essex and Auciello joined the cardinal by his side, the men focusing on the actions playing out before them.
Father Auciello answered in his usual stately manner. “You have been gone for too long, my friend,” he said. “If you were still secretary of state, then you would have a live team in place.”
“Are lives in jeopardy?”
“No,” said Auciello. “But we are getting invalidated reports through encrypted codes from Mossad that the true Ark of the Covenant may be in the possession of an al-Qaeda faction.”
Bonasero appeared astonished. “The Ark of the Covenant? At the Temple Mount? Has it always been there?”
“We’re still trying to determine that. But all indications are that the Covenant was located in an uncharted chamber approximately a half kilometer to the east.”
“And how did it come into the hands of al-Qaeda?”
“Again: we don’t know for sure. Everything is just speculation at this point. But Mossad seems to be very active at the location we’re now watching.”
Bonasero Vessucci remained riveted in his stance, his eyes cast forward, watching. If Pope Gregory did not disband the Vatican Knights, then there was no doubt that they, along with established members of the SIV, would be onsite gleaning information rather than speculating from satellite feeds and encrypted notes. “Al-Qaeda will use it for nefarious purposes only—we know that. It’s an interest of the Church to be shared by all, not just the Church itself.” He then turned to Fathers Essex and Auciello. “Is the Camerlengo acting on this?”
Auciello nodded. “No,” he said. “He’s more focused on the pope’s burial and the upcoming election.”
“As well he should be.”
“And we haven’t enough data to support the need to act. And even if we did,” he added dolefully, “we know longer have the resources to intervene.”
The cardinal turned back to the movements on the screen, the people milling about on an obvious hot and dry day. Auciello was right, he considered. The Vatican Knights were the only true resource to act on behalf of the Church in affairs of war and battle, in which the lines drawn were not specifically done so at the Vatican door. Most interests were in foreign lands with diplomatic ties which were well beyond the reach of the Church, some halfway around the world. Now that the value of the Knights had been cast to the wind, there was little or no salvation beyond Vatican City for those with the most need.
Furthermore, al-Qaeda was a faction of opportunity. If they truly were in possession of the Ark, then they would capitalize in such a way that would subsidize terrorist campaigns for years to come. How they would benefit was the question that lingered in the cardinal’s mind. But they were talking about al-Qaeda.
And al-Qaeda would find a way.
“Bonasero?” Father Essex sounded almost contrite. “If I may be candid.”
“Of course.”
“Since the times of Pope Gregory and Cardinal Angullo, we have been somewhat revoked to act accordingly.”
Bonasero Vessucci understood. Without the Vatican Knights to act upon pertinent information that may prove detrimental to the assets and interests of the Church, or to its citizenry, then there was no point in having the SIV other than to convey rudimentary intelligence.
“I hear you,” he said, and then he ushered them away from the Jesuits once again. When they were in the pooling shadows with minimal light cast from the screens, Cardinal Vessucci spoke to them with open objectiveness. “As you know, I am impotent to act in the manner deemed necessary by my station.”
“Then perhaps you’ll elevate to the next level, so that you can.”
“It’s not a secret that I’m seeking the papal throne. But Cardinal Angullo is a formidable candidate who seeks the throne as strongly as I do.”
“Should Angullo succeed the throne, others will suffer due to the Church’s inability to protect them. So tell me, Bonasero, if you take the papal throne, do you plan to bring back the Vatican Knights?”
There was a moment of hesitation, and then he nodded, a single bob of the head. “It would be my wish to do so,” he answered. “But the good Cardinal Angullo would stand in the way, since he refuses to see their necessity in the scheme of things. If al-Qaeda is truly in the possession of the Ark, then we need to react before such a treasure is lost forever—or before it’s used in ways not meant to be.”
“I hear his camp has weakened,” said Essex.
“But still formidable. Remember, gentlemen, he has strength by being the secretary of state and as Pope Gregory’s close friend. Those two facts alone make my journey a difficult one to achieve.”
There was a momentary lapse of silence.
And then, with forced spirit, the cardinal smiled. “We must be patient by waiting to see how His will plays out,” he said. “If the good Cardinal Angullo excels to the throne, then so be it.”
“You know as well as I do that if he does, then the Church suffers greatly. It’s not only His will, Bonasero, but there’s a human element involved as well.”
“From where I stand I can do very little. But if my peers see me as a suitable replacement for Pope Gregory, then the SIV will be brought into play . . . as will the Vatican Knights.”
Essex and Auciello did not smile, nor did they betray their thoughts or emotions. But deep inside they wanted the cardinal to take over the papal throne and the privilege to protect the interests of the Church, its sovereignty, and the welfare of its citizenry, which could only be done with the Vatican Knights under his rule and the rule of the Society of Seven.
They
hoped.
They prayed.
They needed.
And the only person who stood in Bonasero’s way was the all-powerful Cardinal Angullo.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The outskirts of Tehran, Iran
Night had come to Tehran. And the old man lay on the ultra-thin mattress recalling the moments when such a luxury would have been a blessing in Vladimir Central Prison.
Just a simple item, he regarded, as he lightly brushed his fingertips over the coarse fabric. The little comforts that better a man’s life, he told himself, can be by the most minimum of degrees.
On that first day when the doors of the Vladimir Central Prison closed behind him, Leonid Sakharov couldn’t even begin to comprehend the meaning of hardship or fear or degradation, until the bodies of his comrades began to pile quickly at his feet.
After having his head shaved, the cuts and scrapes testament of a dull blade, he was then placed in a cramped cell with three other men. Two nights later, with the situation serving as a psychological breakdown as much as physical, they were ordered out of their cell to the showers, told to spread their legs and feet as they placed their hands against the wall, and beaten with a baton or rubber truncheon until they had little reserve left to drag each other back to their cell.
Those who later complained to the authorities of the brutality were singled out for worse punishment, which is why Sakharov remained submissively quiet by giving in to totalitarian rule that governed the system.
