by Tom Fox
But this wasn’t him. The whole world knew that man was in the Vatican, but this image had come from outside. From a river. A body. A dead body, identical in its features to the face they knew so well. And every heart, every mind and soul knew what this horrifying image meant. They had wondered, some scrupulously, some piously, about the identity. Now they knew.
A fake. A fraud.
The newspapers hadn’t had time to run new issues yet, but the day’s headline was written on the shocked faces of millions of Italians, whose surprise, anger and rage began to spread around the world.
One word, vile and poisonous.
DECEPTION.
Vatican City: 6:36 p.m.
Cardinal Viteri dreaded this phone call more than anything else he’d dreaded in this dreadful day. Secretary of State to the Vatican, head of the Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris, confidant of pontiffs and anti-pontiffs. But it was a second phone call to Caterina Amato, a second call with bad news, that filled him with real fear.
“What is it, Donato?” she asked as the line connected.
“It didn’t go as planned.”
A pause, then fiery anger. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means your hit men weren’t able to eliminate Trecchio and the woman. They tried, but—”
“You’re telling me that the two individuals with full knowledge of our work have escaped our assassins, twice, and are now inside your supposedly sacred city?”
“They’re in the custody of the head of the Swiss Guard now.”
“How could you let this happen!”
“I wasn’t . . . They were supposed to be . . .” Cardinal Viteri fumbled for words.
“Shut up,” Caterina spat back at him. “This could destroy everything I have worked toward! It’s a good thing you’re not here in front of me, Donato. With news like this, I’m not sure I could guarantee your . . . personal safety.”
Viteri knew it must be his mind, but he could have sworn he could hear a gun being cocked and holstered on the far end of the line. He caught his temper and sat silently. Then, as calmly as he could: “Tell me what you would like us to do.”
“I want you to get yourselves ready,” Caterina answered. On her end of the line, she was already in motion. “Use whatever power you’ve got in there, Donato, the full influence of your Fraternity. Because what has to happen now can’t be delegated to others.”
She paused, then spoke flatly. “I’m coming in myself, and I’m bringing my own team with me.”
Headquarters of La Repubblica newspaper: 6:38 p.m.
Antonio Laterza didn’t often beam. Almost never did he exult. But the anonymous telephone call he’d received two minutes ago had evoked these foreign reactions in him. He felt radiant.
La Repubblica, along with every other media agent in the nation, was already pushing the news of the moment: the fact of the unknown twin to the stranger in the Vatican, whose image had been leaked only half an hour ago. Everyone was scrambling to figure out who this man was, how the two were connected, and what the hell all this meant for whatever the fuck was going on in the Church.
But now, now Laterza had something no one else in the world had. Something that would win him editorial prizes and garner his paper awards. And a happy additional gem in his new-found crown: it would help him crucify Alexander Trecchio.
The phone call had come two minutes ago from a woman he didn’t know. She didn’t identify herself. But by God, she said such beautiful things.
“Are you the senior line editor for the paper?” she asked.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the person who’s going to give you your next story.”
Laterza had been suspicious. Lots of people promised stories.
“I’m sending you a series of emails, with attached photographs,” the woman continued. “They’re coming to your private account.”
“How do you know my private emai—”
“It’s better if you don’t ask questions,” she interrupted. “Go to your computer and confirm that you’ve received these messages. Do it now.”
Laterza had walked to his computer and done as instructed. Three messages were there as promised. Their return addresses were the kind of garbled alphanumeric gibberish that indicated a temporary address created and deleted as soon as its messages had been sent.
“I have them,” he confirmed.
“Open them and have a look,” the woman instructed.
Antonio clicked open the first email and began to read. His eyes widened from the first line. There was a single subject: Alexander Trecchio. A man bitter with the Church, angry at having been rejected from his life of service. A man infuriated by what he saw as a corrupt institution, headed by a corrupt man, feeding the world lies and false hope.
A man intent on taking down the Church by whatever means he could.
He clicked to the second email with its string of attached photos. Alexander leaving the scene of a murder, as yet unsolved. An annotation detailing his attempts to explain to the police that the victim—his victim?—held secrets that could destroy the curia. Alexander co-opting a police inspector known for her deep, almost excessive piety to help him in his cause. Photographs of the two of them gaining entry to the IOR during the lockdown of the Vatican. Evidence of them stealing financial data.
Laterza’s pulse thrashed in his chest. He clicked the third email. It contained only a single photo: Alexander Trecchio and Gabriella Fierro breaking into Vatican City through a small door in its wall.
Laterza couldn’t breathe. “I trust these materials are sufficient to give you something new to write about,” the woman on the phone said. “You’ll find enough detail in the documents to justify publication.” She paused. “I suggest you run with it immediately. Get it in your online edition now, then share it with everyone. Your name will be made forever. You’ll be the editor who saved the Church.”
65
The papal apartments, Vatican City: 6:43 p.m.
Two Swiss Guards in full ceremonial dress stood outside the door to the Pope’s private study, halberds angled slightly inward and eyes forward. They stood at post as the Pope’s innermost guards had done for centuries, though in reality they were only the visible face of a much larger team that surrounded him. A team that Christoph Raber had already augmented. There were men stationed on the other side of the door who held MP5s instead of halberds. Every quadrant of the interior had a guard posted, leaving no section of the study, office or apartments without immediate manned line-of-sight protection.
As Raber approached the embossed wooden doors, Alexander and Gabriella behind him, together with a small group of his core team, the two uniformed guardsmen drew their halberds straight. Raber followed the protocol and knocked three times, solemnly. Then he broke with that protocol by opening the door without waiting to be summoned.
As they entered, the pontiff was already standing. He looked at Raber, his face reddened and not its usual picture of serenity.
“Christoph, I know you are concerned for my safety, but is all this really necess—”
“Your Holiness, your life is now in immediate danger,” Raber cut him off.
“So you’ve already said.” The Pope’s response was tinged with a faint annoyance. “And I’ve told you that threats against the papal office are not uncommon and will not stifle us with fear. You of all men should be aware of this.”
Raber took another step forward. His stance was forceful but his face belied this with a more sympathetic expression. He seemed to know that his next words would wound the Pope.
“Cardinal Rinaldo is dead.” He stood his ground, peering into the pontiff’s eyes. Gregory was stunned.
“You’re . . . you’re sure?” he finally asked. There was genuine pain in his voice.
“He was discovered in his office less than an hour ago, by his nephew.” Raber motioned to Alexander, who took a step forward. The pontiff didn’t turn to face him.
“Rinaldo w
as,” the Pope stuttered, his eyes glassy, “he was my friend. Of many years.” Suddenly he lifted his hands to his face, covered his eyes and wept. Gentle tears, then one great mournful sob. Then he drew in a long, controlling breath. He lowered his hands slowly and his reddened eyes stared forward hard.
“Who did this?”
“We don’t know,” Raber answered. “It took place in his office. Poison.”
Suddenly the pontiff’s eyes were on Alexander and Gabriella. They were neither warm nor tender.
“How did these two get in here?” he demanded. “I ordered the Vatican sealed.”
“We broke in, Your Holiness,” Alexander answered honestly. “It was the only way to get to you.”
“We were hoping to speak to the cardinal,” Gabriella added. “We have information for you, but it’s not as if others were lining up to help us get it to you.”
“So I understand!” the Pope retorted. He reached down to a black remote on his desk and aimed it at a small television on the far side of the room. They had barely noticed its muted images since they’d entered, but suddenly the sound made its presence a focal point.
“We repeat,” a newsreader announced over a backdrop of the northwestern wall of the city, “two individuals—one a former priest and recently sacked newspaper columnist, Alexander Trecchio, and the other a suspended Roman police inspector, Gabriella Fierro—are reported to have broken into Vatican City within the past hour. Nearby residents report hearing a volley of gunfire before order was restored.”
“My God,” Gabriella gasped.
The Pope motioned for her to be silent. “Just wait.”
The report continued, flashing old head-shot images of Alexander and Gabriella on the screen. “Trecchio and Fierro have different reasons for acting so violently against the Church. Trecchio, embittered by ecclesiastical scandal, is reported to have long been on the attack against his former employers. Fierro, pious to a fault and known by her colleagues as a woman possessing religious belief, is believed to have been bribed by Trecchio into collaboration.”
“This is outrageous!” Gabriella exclaimed.
“To push that relationship beyond any doubt,” the newsreader continued, “a sum of over ten thousand euros was transferred from Trecchio’s personal bank account to Fierro’s only two days ago, in what appears to be clear evidence of securing her cooperation.”
“Ten thousand!” Alexander erupted. “There’s never been that much in my account to begin with!”
The Pope muted the display. His face betrayed his mistrust as he turned to Raber. “I may indeed be in danger, Christoph, but it seems you’ve brought the people responsible for it right through my door.”
Raber considered this a moment, but shook his head. “Your Holiness, I’ve personally checked into the backgrounds of both Alexander Trecchio and Gabriella Fierro. As of twenty-four hours ago, their bank accounts were clean. What you’ve just heard could only be true if those accounts have been manipulated since. And manipulation of funds is precisely what we’ve been investigating. You’ll recall the firms I discussed with you before.”
The Pope reflected on the information, hesitant to accept it.
“Gregory,” Raber said, softer and more personally, “they’re being framed.”
Gabriella took a tentative step forward. “Your Holiness, neither I nor Alexander have anything against you. I’m a devoted child of the Church, and Alex is too, though perhaps he has a few scars from that childhood.”
At this, the Pope’s features softened slightly. He appeared able to relate to the scabs and scars sometimes borne by those who held the Church dear.
Gabriella continued. “We have nothing but respect for you. But we’ve made our way here as we have because we do have something against—”
She was cut off. A door at the side of the room opened with a click. The whole space fell into an immediate, captivated silence.
The stranger entered, looking directly into Gabriella’s eyes.
“Against me.”
66
Central Rome, en route to Vatican City: 6:47 p.m.
Caterina Amato spat into the car phone of her S-Class Mercedes as her driver barreled through the evening traffic of the city. The man on the other end of the line had fast become the individual she despised most in the world. Amato was not someone accustomed to failure, and had never been one to allow it in those who worked for her.
“If you want to avoid a bullet in the back of the head the next time you let down your guard, Umberto,” she said to the thrice-failed assassin, “you’ll be at the entrance to the Apostolic Palace in ten minutes.”
“We’re already en route,” Umberto answered. “Maso’s got a slight wound in his arm but should be okay for the mission.”
“A wound?”
“He took a bullet from one of the guards during the exchange outside the wall. Only a scrape.”
Caterina’s instinctive reaction was immediate. He’s a dead horse. Shoot him in the temple and move on. But personnel was at a premium for what had to come next.
“Can he still fire a gun?”
“Of course.”
“Then bandage him up and get him fit for action. I’ve already called together as large a team as we can manage from D’Antonio’s men.” The side benefit of having the police deputy commissioner in her pocket was that every corrupt officer he had in his—which included marksmen, sharpshooters and incursion team members, all willing to do just about anything for the right price—was also at Amato’s disposal. She needed them tonight.
There was a slight delay before Umberto replied.
“What, precisely, is the change of plan?”
“Discrediting the pontiff is no longer on the cards,” Caterina answered. “We can’t pull it off, not like this.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Umberto answered. It was the first time in his life he’d ever directly countered his employer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve already succeeded. Whether or not Trecchio and Fierro expose our involvement, the scandal alone will be sufficient to accomplish what you wanted. Even if the Pope is exonerated of responsibility, in this day and age it’s enough just to be involved in scandal to be mistrusted forever. You’ll still have ruined him.”
Caterina fumed. “I don’t pay you to think about these things,” she spat back. “I pay you to do what I tell you.” Her rage was well past anything that would be sated simply by tarnishing the papal reputation. And what would be the satisfaction in ruining the Pope, if her own company was ruined in the process? The object of war was not mutual destruction but to come out the winner.
Another silence. Umberto recognized he’d been put back in his place. “What are our new instructions?”
Caterina sank back into the cushion of her seat.
“We are taking things to their next logical step, Umberto. It turns out it may be possible to kill a pope after all.”
67
The papal apartments: 6:53 p.m.
The sudden appearance of the stranger in the papal apartments silenced all conversation. For Gabriella and Alexander, this was the first time they had directly seen the man who had started off their whole quest. Prior to this moment he had been an image in video clips, recycled newsreel and grainy photographs in newspapers. Now he stood in their midst. The man that Crossler and Tosi had been convinced was part of a devious plot. The man whose origins were suspect and whose powers were a mystery that seemed bound up in fraud, his intentions completely unknown.
Yet the man didn’t impose. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t appear defensive. Nothing in his demeanor suggested an appetite for power. He looked only . . . peaceful.
An almost ethereal silence hung over the room as he stepped softly toward the group.
“You are here,” he finally said, returning to Gabriella’s exchange with the pontiff, his words soft, “because you think I am manipulating the Pope. That I am manipulating the people.”<
br />
Both Alexander and Gabriella wanted to speak, but both seemed held in silence. Alexander, the great doubter, couldn’t break his stare from the man’s eyes. They were like pools, drawing him in.
“Well, aren’t you?” the stranger asked again. There was no malice in his voice, no accusation. It was a simple question.
“Your presence here,” Gabriella eventually said, “it’s tied into things we know to be fraudulent.” The last word came out of her mouth as if it saddened her to say it.
“Fraud,” the stranger said. There was something like a pitying smile on his face. “Yes, there is always fraud. I have no doubt it’s around us in abandon. It’s always been so. But what has that to do with me? Have I committed some fraud?”
“There’s nothing that links you directly to the scandals we’ve seen in Pescara or the clinic in Rome,” Raber said, a strange protectiveness suddenly in his voice.
Alexander wanted to attack, wanted to be aggressive, but he couldn’t manage anything more than a surprisingly meek tone. “It’s the timing that’s suspect. Your arrival is the key.”
The man looked at him with something resembling sympathy in his eyes. “Timing can be a strange thing, don’t you think? It was time for the Pope to walk, that much is now clear to the world. It was the Lord’s doing, and these things happen when they are willed. But such timing can also be taken advantage of.”
“What sort of advantage?”
“The arrival of good,” the stranger answered, “often stirs up intentions of evil.”
“You’re saying you had nothing to do with those healings—the children, the cancer patients?” Alexander demanded. His voice was now more forceful. “That it’s mere coincidence?”
“Neither I nor you believe it’s coincidence at all,” the man answered calmly. “Everyone in this room knows that others have had their hands in those affairs.”
Alexander’s eyes went wide. “He admits it!”
“Though I ask you,” the stranger continued, “are those healings any less miraculous just because they were caused by the machinations of men? Even evil men? The blind still see. The sick are still healed.”
