Brotherhood of the Tomb

by Daniel Easterman

  He paused as they entered the Sentinal Courtyard.

  ‘So,’ he went on, ‘the easiest thing seems to be for you to appear at the audience tomorrow. I’ll explain that you were involved in some confidential last-minute negotiations relating to the conference and that I preferred to keep your presence in Rome a secret. Naturally, you won’t have either the time or the opportunity to make a fuss. In all the uproar there’s going to be tomorrow, it will be a simple matter to dispose of you.

  ‘Cardinal Fischer tells me you came within a whisker of working out what’s going to happen. You have my congratulations.’

  Assefa turned to him.

  ‘And exactly what is going to happen? You mean to kill the Holy Father. And the children with him. You’re a cardinal, you have taken sacred vows. I don’t understand.’

  Fazzini spread his hands.

  ‘Why should you? You have no foundation on which to build any understanding of my actions. There are few that have. I do none of this for your sake; quite the contrary. A black priest is, in my opinion, almost a contradiction in terms. Well, not wholly, perhaps. Men like you have your place. Christ died for all men. But that place is not here in the Vatican. Your role is to serve, not to rule.’

  He stopped walking. His voice rose in the stillness.

  ‘There are black bishops, even black cardinals. How long before a man like you is elected pope? And now people are saying that women should be ordained to the priesthood. What next? Black women?

  Whores? Hermaphrodites? And then they say priests must marry. Where will that end? Will they marry one another, husbands and wives together at the altar? Their children acolytes? In America, homosexuals go through a form of marriage. Will men marry other men and serve as priests together, one to hold the cup and one the host?

  ‘Now they tell us Mahomet was a religious genius and Islam a God-given creed. What will they tell us next? That the gods of the Hindus are brothers of God? That witchcraft and the black arts are also part of God’s plan, sharers in God’s mysteries? Will they erect statues of Baal and Astarte in our churches? Tell me. Where will this end?’

  Assefa did not answer. Several steps behind, the priest with the gun waited patiently for them to move again. Assefa began walking.

  ‘I asked you what will happen tomorrow. I’ve come this far, I have a right to know.’

  ‘What right? The right of a priest? You think because I do wrong in your eyes, I am less than you. You don’t have to tell me, I know that’s what you think. It is as I told you, you have no foundation for understanding. You were raised in the wilderness; all you know we have taught you. You know nothing of yourself, understand nothing through your own merit.

  ‘You think our brotherhood is an aberration, a distortion of the true faith, a bastard thing.’ He spoke loudly again, his voice nervous, hard, insistent. ‘But by what standard do you judge it? Who is a Christian, who is not? Is it for you to judge? For Rome? Are the Copts Christians? The Greeks? The native churches of Africa? Mormons? Jehovah’s Witnesses? We are older than any of them - older than Rome, older than the oldest. We have rights. A right to judge. A right to condemn. A right to punish.’

  Assefa trembled. The night air was cold.

  ‘Is that what you will do tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Punish?’

  Fazzini paused.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you like. It is a punishment. What the Fathers of the Church called an exemplum. We shall make an example of the ungodly before men.’

  ‘What example? What will happen?’

  ‘Very well, if it will make you happy.’ He hesitated briefly, then began. ‘After the Holy Father - you will notice I observe the formalities even now - after the Holy Father has greeted the heads of state they will bring in the children. He will get down from his throne for this part, to mix with the orphans, pat them on the cheek, give them candies.

  ‘And then it will be time. Our people will come in from the Piazza and make their way up the stairs to the Sala Clementina. There will be fifty of them, dressed as Islamic freedom-fighters. They all speak Arabic, of course. There won’t be any misunderstanding. Everyone will take them for Muslim extremists. They will be heavily armed, and they will shoot to kill.’

  ‘They’ll never get through,’ said Assefa, though he hardly believed it himself. ‘The Swiss Guards will cut them down.’ Fazzini shook his head. ‘Tomorrow, the Guards on duty at the Apostolic

  Palace will discover that they have been issued, not with live bullets, but with blanks. Incidentally, you and your friend Father O’Malley did us something of a favour by bringing Colonel Meyer into this. He’ll make an excellent scapegoat.’ They walked a little further in silence. From the San Damaso courtyard, they took a lift to the third floor of the Apostolic Palace.

  “You’ll be spending the night in a room not far from here, Father. Bernardo will give you something to help you sleep. Please try not to make things difficult for him. I’m sure you’ll perform excellently in the morning.’

  Assefa turned to go. All resistance had been sucked from him. There was no point in fighting odds like these. Before leaving, he turned to Fazzini.

  Why? What’s it all for? What will you achieve by any of it?’

  The cardinal eyed him. There was a look almost of pity in his gaze. Pity mingled with contempt.

  “We will achieve God’s purpose. Not as you conceive it, of course. Not as the Pope conceives it. Not as the Hindus and Muslims and Buddhists and all the mixers and appeasers and ecumenicists conceive it. ‘Almost two thousand years ago, God gave power to Rome. He let it happen. Let them tear down His Temple, let them scatter His people. And then He took power from them again. This time He gave it to the Arabs. And then the Turks.

  ‘That was His nightmare, you see, God’s nightmare. All the prophets dreaming of a new Zion, and He gave them blood and ashes. For their sins. Because they gave Him the blood of doves and kept their children for themselves. And even when the nightmare seemed to have ended, when they thought they had woken up, He tricked them again. He let them think they had the truth, when all He had given them was lies and approximations. Half-truths are worse than falsehoods. Now they gave Him bread and wine instead of blood.

  ‘He let them rule in the name of Christ, when all the time Christ was with us, bleeding them empty. Wars, inquisitions, plagues - they had to pay, you see, they had to match his sacrifice.’

  He stopped and strode across to the wall. Above the fireplace hung a wooden crucifix. He lifted it from the hook and held it folded in his hands. He stood looking intently at it for half a minute, then tossed it on the flames.

  ‘But now all that will change. They’ve had their chance. Now it’s our turn. We will offer Him the sacrifice he wants.’

  He turned and looked hard at Assefa.

  ‘Cardinal Migliau has been chosen by God to be His new High Priest. There will be a temple again. And an altar. And worthy sacrifice. In a matter of days, there will be a Conclave. In a matter of hours, they will burn white smoke. Migliau will be our new pope.’

  ‘Not if God wills otherwise.’

  ‘God does not will otherwise. Listen. After tomorrow, there will be such an outcry in the world. There will be calls for a new crusade. Forget Russia and China. Islam will be revealed as the real enemy. And our new pope will be the first to call for war.

  ‘The day after tomorrow, it will be announced that he is being held hostage by the same terrorists who carried out the massacre in the Vatican. His life will be threatened. Prayers will be said for him in every church and every cathedral. There will be special masses. And during the Conclave, the idea will be put forward that he should be elected pope. In partibus infidelium. The Vicar of Christ among the heathen. He will be chosen, have no doubt of that. And a few days later, there will be a dramatic rescue. He will return to Rome in triumph. And instead of forgiveness, he will proclaim the Tenth Crusade. Exactly seven hundred years since the last Christian stronghold in the Holy Land fell to the Saracen.’r />
  In the fireplace, bright flames started to devour the crucifix.

  FIFTY-THREE

  It was the smell that brought Patrick round. That or the heat. His head felt as though someone had filled it with cement and closed the lid with a bang. His first thought was that he was still in the crypt on San Vitale, then he remembered Francesca and Rome and the attack on the apartment.

  He groaned and tried to open his eyes. They felt sticky. He reached up a hand and touched them gingerly. His fingers came away wet. The next moment, he was coughing violently and trying to sit up. His lungs were full of smoke, and however hard he tried, he could not find air. He managed to open his eyes a fraction. Light hit him like a tank meeting plate glass. He blinked rapidly. The smoke was thick and acrid, and it stung.

  The room was full of it, heavy black smoke shot with flashes of orange and purple flame. The smell was kerosene. Kerosene and smoke. All round him, the flames were catching hold with alarming rapidity. His legs felt like jelly-rolls, and he was certain he was going to die. He fought to keep his eyes open long enough to sort out where he was. Bizarrely, a standard lamp in the corner was still lit, glowing smugly to itself as though all around it were normal. The smoke and flames had disorientated him.

  Francesca! Where was Francesca? It came to him vividly that he had last seen her on the other side of the room, where she had rolled out of the second gunman’s line of fire. How long had passed since the attack?

  He tried to call her name, but the second he opened his mouth he started choking. He groaned and began to crawl forward in what he prayed was the right direction, keeping his mouth as near to the floor as possible. There was just enough air at floor level to keep him alive. Behind him, he could hear the sound of flames licking steadily at fabric and woodwork. His head felt detached from his body, slamming round the room as though held on a length of elastic.

  The area between him and the door was a mass of spreading flame. To his right, the only window to the street was fitted with iron bars half an inch thick. The apartment had become a death-trap.

  There was no way out through the kitchen: its only window was ten feet off the floor and just big enough to spit through. There was no way out.

  His fingers touched something soft. He pressed harder and the softness moved.

  ‘Fran.. .cesca ... Is ... that... you?’ he coughed.

  There was silence, then a hoarse voice out of the darkness.

  ‘Si... Patrick ... What happened?’

  ‘Stun grenade ... Then kerosene ... They ... want it to ... look like an accident ... Don’t ... talk ... Got to ... make a ... run ... for it’

  He took her arm and helped her to a kneeling position. They got what air they could into their lungs, then stumbled forward. The flames were in perfect mastery now, rising, falling, spiralling in a terrible ballet of light and darkness.

  Francesca felt her breath sucked away, felt the heat wrap itself about her, seeking her flesh. Her head was throbbing, her heart pounded in her chest like a nightmare trying to break free of sleep.

  It seemed madness to go further, but there was no choice. They had to go into the heart of the fire if they were to escape from it. ‘Run!’ cried Patrick, taking her arm. They staggered forward, heading in a straight line for where the door ought to be.

  Something caught Francesca’s foot. She pitched forward, pulling Patrick with her, rolling as she fell. She had fallen across the body of the man she had shot.

  Patrick felt his lungs fill with smoke. His skin felt as though it were about to catch fire. He pulled Francesca to her knees, urging her forward to the door. A wave of smoke billowed into his mouth and eyes, choking and blinding him. Where in Christ’s name was the door?!

  With an effort they moved forward again, keeping as low as possible to find what little air lay trapped beneath the roiling smoke. Patrick knew they could have no more than seconds before they succumbed. Seconds, and the door as good as miles away, out of sight, out of reach in the blinding darkness.

  Suddenly, they were there. Whoever had set the room on fire had closed the door behind him. It was a mass of flame. Patrick raised his foot and kicked hard, splintering the frame. The door caved in and fell outwards into the passage.

  Behind them, the room erupted with incredible ferocity as the glass in the windows exploded, letting a rush of oxygen inside.

  The passage was an inferno. Its walls were wood panelling, not plaster, and all down its length flames tore like beasts at one another, leaping and snarling.

  No time to hesitate. No choice. Just the flames and a last dash for life. ‘Run!’ he gasped. They staggered out into hell. Their clothing caught fire, they were ablaze, blind fish swimming in agony through a sea of flame.

  The front door had been left open. That was the source of the oxygen feeding the flames. They staggered through, out to the landing, their arms flailing wildly to extinguish the flames. Patrick fell to the floor, coughing, sucking air into his lungs. Francesca dropped beside him, retching, gasping for breath.

  Patrick rolled towards the banister. They had to get away from the apartment before the flames spread further. With an effort, he pulled himself to his knees. He opened his eyes. Less than a yard away, a man was standing, feet apart, staring straight down at him.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  At first he thought he was in the hospital in Venice again. The same sounds, the same colours, a face bending over him. And then he saw the bandages. The fire had been neither a dream nor an hallucination.

  ‘Where am I?’ he pleaded.

  ‘San Giovanni,’ a voice said. A woman’s voice. ‘L’Ospedale San Giovanni. Next to San Giovanni in Laterano. You’re in the emergency department. You were brought here several hours ago after a fire. Please don’t worry, you aren’t badly hurt. Just some burns. They say it’s a miracle you escaped.’

  ‘Francesca ...’ He tried to get up, but a firm hand pressed him back onto the bed.

  ‘It’s all right. A woman was brought in with you. She’ll be fine. Don’t worry about a thing. Try to get some sleep.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about the time. Sleep, that’s what you need.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. It’s important. Please, what time is it?’

  ‘It’s half-past seven.’

  ‘Morning? Is it morning?’

  ‘Of course. I told you you were brought here only a few hours ago.’

  Where is she? Francesca ... the woman they brought in with me?’

  ‘You’ll see her later. Lunchtime. You can see her at lunchtime.’

  ‘No, that’ll be too late!’ He pushed himself up again. He could see clearly now. He was in a curtained cubicle on a bed surrounded by drip stands and other pieces of emergency equipment. The nurse was on his left, a woman of about forty. She reached out and forced him down again.

  ‘Try not to excite yourself. Your wife is in the next cubicle. You’ll both be transferred to a ward later this morning, when the day porters come on duty.’

  He lay back exhausted. Above him, bright lights stabbed his eyes. Two and a half hours. He had to know what was happening.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have to make a telephone call. It’s extremely important’

  The nurse hesitated then nodded.

  ‘All right. I’ll have someone bring a wheelchair.’

  ‘My legs ... ?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your legs. I just don’t want you on your feet tiring yourself. Wait here.’

  He had to speak with O’Malley. The priest had planned to stay at the Vatican until he was sure everything was safe. He would have tried ringing again last night, but without an answer. Why hadn’t he gone to the apartment? Surely someone there would have sent him on to the hospital. And what about Roberto? He had not even reported back. Patrick felt fear grip him like a cold hand.

  An orderly came with a wheelchair and helped Patrick into it.

  ‘Can you take me into the next cubi
cle, please. My ... wife is there. I need to speak to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was told to take you to the telephone.’

  ‘Dammit, I can’t make this call without a number. She knows it. I’ve got to speak to her.’

  ‘Only if she’s awake.’

  The orderly pulled the curtain of Francesca’s cubicle back a few inches. She was propped up in bed, her eyes open.

  ‘All right, you can go in. But only a moment, mind, or I’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘Patrick!’ She pulled herself up.

  He took her hand and squeezed it, making her flinch.

  ‘I’m sorry, Patrick, it got burned a little. Still hurts.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What are you doing in a wheelchair? You aren’t... ?’

  ‘No, I could walk if I wanted. Hospital regulations. Listen, Francesca, it’s half past seven. If Dermot hasn’t succeeded in persuading this cardinal about the plot, it’ll be too late to stop it.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that too. I only woke up half an hour ago. They told me you were still sleeping, that you shouldn’t be disturbed. Dermot should have been sent here. Or Roberto. I’m worried, Patrick. I think something’s happened.’

  ‘I want to telephone the Vatican, speak to the man they went to see. The cardinal. What was his name?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘He’s an American. That’s why Dermot trusts him. His name is Fischer, Cardinal Fischer.’

  ‘Does he spell that the English way or...’ Patrick gripped the edge of the chair.

  What’s wrong, Patrick? Is there ... ?’

  ‘O Jesus. We didn’t tell O’Malley. The Fisherman. Assefa won’t have realized, English isn’t his native language.’

  She took his hand, disregarding the pain.

  “What is it, Patrick? What’s the matter?’

  He told her. She shut her eyes, closing out the pain.