Brotherhood of the Tomb

by Daniel Easterman

  What’s up, Nico? The cardinal’s frightened. Who’s this woman?’

  ‘Now,’ Patrick whispered.

  They moved apart, Francesca to the left, Patrick to the right, opening fire as they did so, round after round. Their opponents did not stand a chance.

  Running now, they raced along the passage, Francesca in front, Patrick trailing, hampered without shoes. Suddenly, they turned a bend in the corridor. There was a blaze of light. Lamps flickered. A fire burned brightly in a metal brazier. Flames twinkled on mosaics of gold and silver. In a high dome, their reflections coruscated like exotic fish in a sea of bronze.

  At the centre of the room, dressed in black edged with red, an old man sat in a high-backed chair. His clothes were soaked with blood and his hands were crimson. In his right hand, he held a long, thin-bladed knife.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Migliau gave up the knife without a struggle. He was thin and wasted, a shadow, tattered and torn. Twenty years ago, in another tomb, in a different darkness, he had taken life as easily as a cook breaks eggs. It had been nothing to him, beside the enormity of what he had found. Now, he seemed drugged, witless, a thing of straw.

  He was still tall, but all the vigour had been sucked from him relentlessly. His cheeks were hollow, his neck thin. Only his eyes retained the old anger, the tensions of a man close to divinity or madness. Behind him, on a stone altar, the gutted body of a naked child lay on a film of fresh blood.

  Francesca found a sheet on a low bed close by, on which the cardinal had evidently been sleeping. She covered the child and took him down from the altar. He was still warm, like something sleeping, a dream away from his lost years.

  ‘I loved him,’ whispered the cardinal. Patrick bent to hear him. The cracked lips parted, whispering. ‘He was my son. They said it was necessary, that I should have a son. For today, to be my sacrifice. He was to be the balance. The payment for Christ’s Vicar.’

  He looked down at the white-swathed bundle Francesca laid on the ground.

  ‘They brought a woman for me,’ he said. ‘Seven years ago. She was white, so very white, and frightened of me. She should not have been frightened, I would not have harmed her. Her flesh was pale, not like the dreams of women I used to have. No more dreams now, no more. She stayed with me until a child was certain, then they took her away. I had started to desire her by then. But I do not dream of her.

  ‘I called the boy Giovanni, after John the Zealot. They kept him in a house near the patriarchal palace, where I could visit him every month. They never let me see his mother. What happened to her? Is she still alive?’

  He paused, contemplating a memory.

  ‘All the time I knew his destiny, but I still loved him. That was part of the reckoning, they said, part of the balance. Without love, there could be no sacrifice, none that had any meaning.’

  He looked at them, one after the other.

  ‘I shall soon be Pope,’ he said, his voice still a whisper. ‘He is my guarantee, because I loved him. But I shall have no love. No love for God, no love for mankind. There will be nothing now but sacrifice. There will be balance upon balance until every drop is bought and paid for.’

  Patrick took the old man by the arm and raised him to his feet.

  ‘It’s time to go,’ he said. He felt nothing, not even contempt.

  ‘But there hasn’t been time for a Conclave yet.’

  ‘There will be no Conclave.’ Was that true? If they didn’t make it in time, the Church would need to find a new pope.

  What about the child?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘You take Migliau,’ he said. ‘I’ll carry the boy.’

  It was a race against time, now. The worst of the rush-hour traffic had cleared, giving them half a chance. Cars and pedestrians cleared out of their path. Once in the city, Francesca took a circuitous route through side streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares that she knew would still be heavily jammed. It was almost ten when they reached the Vittorio Emanuele bridge and eased themselves into the line crossing the river.

  They drove straight across St Peter’s square, stopping at the Bronze Doors that formed the main entrance to the Vatican. Within seconds, they were surrounded by Swiss Guards posted there as extra security for the ceremony inside. They formed a ring round the van, pointing their Uzis at its doors.

  Francesca had already wound down her window.

  ‘Quickly,’ she said. ‘I have Cardinal Migliau in the back. There’s no time to explain. We have to take him to the audience.’

  A thickset sergeant strode across.

  ‘Out!’ he ordered, waving his gun at her.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ she said. ‘Look in the back. It’s Migliau, I tell you. He has people planning an attack on the Pope.’

  ‘Cover her,’ the sergeant commanded two of his men. ‘You, you, come with me.’

  They went round to the back. A guard turned the handle and pulled the door open. Inside, Patrick sat beside Migliau. On the floor, the dead boy lay wrapped in his sheet.

  Was zum Teufel...?’

  Patrick raised his hands in the air and slid out. Two guards grabbed him and threw him against the side of the van. One frisked him, taking his gun.

  The sergeant looked carefully at Migliau.

  ‘Are you able to move?’ he said. He thought the blood was the cardinal’s own, that he had been wounded.

  Migliau moved like a man in a dream. Slowly, he crawled to the door, where he was helped down by a guard. The sergeant scrutinized him more carefully.

  ‘Mein Gott,’ the man whispered. There had been photographs of Migliau all over their barracks during the past week.

  ‘He isn’t hurt,’ said Patrick. ‘That isn’t his blood. If you look beneath that sheet, you’ll see where the blood came from.’

  A guard stepped into the van and drew back part of the sheet. A moment later, he was outside, throwing up.

  What the hell’s all this about?’ demanded the sergeant, grabbing Patrick roughly. He was still dressed in the trousers and sweater he had put on in the catacombs.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully,’ said Patrick. ‘There won’t be time to repeat this. Cardinal Migliau is responsible for... what your man saw inside. There’s no time for explanations. You’ll just have to take my word. People working for him plan to launch an attack during this morning’s audience. They intend to kill the Pope and the children who will be with him.’

  He could see the confusion in the sergeant’s eyes.

  ‘If you don’t believe me,’ Patrick insisted, ‘the Pope will be dead. And a lot of innocent children. Do you want that on your conscience?’

  What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Take us to the reception. It’s the only way. Please believe me, we’re talking in terms of minutes. I don’t know exactly when the attack will start or where it will come from. You’d better call up reinforcements. Bring in the Italian security services. But for God’s sake hurry.’

  The sergeant was an intelligent man. He had already been disturbed that morning when Colonel Meyer’s disappearance had been reported. If this man and woman were involved in some attack, it was implausible that they would turn up like this, giving advance warning. Unless this was some sort of decoy. He pulled a handset from his pocket and flicked a button.

  ‘Captain Luft? This is Sergeant Genscher at the doors. We have an emergency. I’d like you here at once.’

  A curt voice replied. Genscher replaced his handset. Turning to Migliau, he took him by the shoulders.

  ‘Your Eminence, is this true? What this man is telling me - is it the truth?’

  Migliau stared at him as though unable to understand. Finally, he began to speak in a slurred voice.

  ‘The truth? I am the truth. That is my destiny. They are about to proclaim me Pope. There will be white smoke, and then it will be time for blood. I loved him - that is what I find hard to understand. I had not planned for love.’

  Genscher shook his head. For the first time in
his career, he felt genuinely frightened.

  Seconds later, a man wearing a captain’s uniform came running through the doors. He paused briefly to take in the scene. Genscher ran up to him. They talked briefly, then Captain Luft came across to where Patrick and Francesca were standing together at the back of the van.

  ‘Is this true? You ask me to believe there is some sort of plot against the Pope. What evidence do you have?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Francesca retorted, ‘we don’t have time for evidence. Just tell your men to be ready and get reinforcements quickly. You can have all the investigations you want afterwards.’

  Luft did not argue. He turned to Genscher.

  ‘Do as she says. Tell Hofmann and Wegener to bring their men here straight away. Contact

  Carabinieri HQ and tell Colonel Sahi I need help right away.’

  Genscher saluted and left.

  “You two,’ the captain said, addressing Patrick and Francesca. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Captain,’ Francesca implored, ‘there isn’t time. The audience must be halted. The Pope and everyone else have to be evacuated.’

  ‘I can’t do that. The audience has already started. I don’t have the authority to stop it.’

  ‘Who has authority?’

  ‘Colonel Meyer, but he’s missing. And even he would need authorization from Cardinal Fischer.’

  Francesca closed her eyes.

  ‘Cardinal Fischer’s mixed up in this. We have to take Migliau to the Holy Father. We have to shock them into evacuating the Sala Clementina. Please, Captain. There are lives at stake.’

  Luft looked from them to Migliau and back again. Genscher had told him he thought Migliau was mad. Mad and evil? Or maddened by being taken hostage?

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll take responsibility. God help you if you’re lying.’ He turned to the guards still waiting by the van. ‘You men come with me. We’re going to interrupt a papal audience.’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Patrick carried the child while Luft escorted Cardinal Migliau. In the Corridore del Bernini they caught a brief glimpse of the imposing Regia staircase, before turning right onto the Scala Pia. Guards lined the staircase, saluting as the captain passed, yet betraying bewilderment on their faces.

  At the top of the staircase, Luft hesitated before the doors of the Sala Clementina.

  ‘This is your last chance,’ he said. ‘Once I open this door, there’s no going back.’

  ‘If we don’t go in,’ pleaded Patrick, holding the child out to the captain, ‘this will only be the first of many. We have no choice.’ He drew the sheet away, exposing the naked child.

  Luft straightened himself and opened the door.

  Red and black painted pillars rose majestically to a curved, frescoed ceiling on which the figures of Justice and Religion upheld a universe of order and love. In a painted sky, angels and cherubim circled in a cosmic dance. Light and harmony, the world unchanging, archetypes in a heaven of incorruptible delight.

  On the floor, a different harmony, vanity seeking grace, jewels and precious cloths conferring an unworldly dignity on the merely mortal. Cardinals in red silk, bishops in robes of magenta, priests in black, and above them all, at the end of the room, seated on a chair of gold, the Pope in white.

  Cardinal Migliau took a faltering step into the room. No one noticed him at first. Then a diplomat near the doors caught sight of him. Patrick followed, carrying the dead child in his arms. A deathly hush began at the back of the room where they passed and conveyed itself to the very end. Men and women parted to let the mad procession pass. No one tried to stop them, no one spoke a word.

  Migliau held himself erect now, as though entry to this room had granted him new strength. He walked unaided past rows of staring faces, never looking either to right or left until at last he came to the foot of the papal chair, raised on a low dais above the crowd.

  ‘Come down,’ Migliau said, in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. Those that had hung back to let him pass now crowded forward to hear him speak.

  ‘Come down,’ he repeated. ‘That is my throne. Those are my robes. I depose you in the name of Christ.’

  The Pope did not respond at first. He could not understand what was happening. Migliau he recognized, but who were these others with him? And what was the meaning of the dead child being carried behind the cardinal?

  Captain Luft stepped forward.

  ‘Your Holiness, I must apologize for this interruption. There’s no time to explain. We must evacuate the chamber. There is reason to believe that some sort of attack is planned.’

  The Pope stood, horror on his face.

  ‘I do not understand. You come here in this fashion, you interrupt a most important audience. I demand to speak to Colonel Meyer. Where is he? Where is Cardinal Fischer? Have they been told about this?’

  ‘There is no time, Your Holiness. We have to clear the room. I have ordered the Bronze Doors closed. We need to get everyone as far away from the Sala Clementina as possible, into the Appartamento behind. I believe lives may be in danger. Please help me, Your Holiness. I beg you.’

  The Pope saw the concern on the man’s face. He hesitated only a moment longer, then raised his hand.

  ‘Please,’ he called. He spoke simply and directly in Italian, in a calm voice. There is no need for panic. I have just been told that, for our safety, the Swiss Guard wishes us to move to the apartments behind this room. I want you to follow their advice as quietly and speedily as possible.’

  At that moment, there was a movement in the crowd. A figure detached itself from the group of cardinals standing near the Pope. Cardinal Fazzini ran forward and threw himself in front of Migliau, taking his hand and raising it to his lips. Then a second cardinal and a third stepped forward and knelt in front of Migliau. They were followed by an archbishop and four bishops.

  Patrick laid down the child’s body. Looking round, he caught sight of the group of orphans who had been waiting to meet the Pope. They were wide-eyed, many of them openly weeping, while a handful of visibly distressed nuns bustled round them trying to restore order.

  On the other side, a collection of priests stood in shocked silence. Patrick glanced at them. At the front stood Assefa.

  ‘Assefa!’ Patrick ran forward.

  The Ethiopian did not respond. Patrick noticed that the priests on either side of him were holding him by the elbows, as though to prevent him falling. As he came up to his friend, one of them pushed him roughly away.

  Patrick hit the man hard, knocking him back. He staggered, then rallied and came for Patrick. Dodging the priest’s first blow, Patrick threw himself on him. There were shouts and screams as people struggled to get out of their path.

  ‘Patrick!’ Francesca’s voice cut through the din. ‘He’s got a gun! The other one.’

  Patrick twisted round to see the second priest aiming at him. There was nothing he could do. As he watched, Assefa swung his arm down, striking the priest’s hand. Two more priests rushed forward and grabbed the first man as he too pulled a pistol.

  At that moment, there was the sound of an explosion from below. Less than a second later, another followed it, then a third. They were breaching the Bronze Doors. Someone screamed. There was a burst of frightened voices.

  Patrick ran to Assefa. The Ethiopian had collapsed. Patrick saw at once that he had been heavily drugged.

  ‘Assefa, are you all right? What about O’Malley? What happened to him?’

  Assefa struggled to form words.

  ‘O’.. .Malley ... dead ... Fischer ...Il Pescatore ... Patrick, listen ... The Guards ... all bullets ... blanks ... No good ...’

  Patrick stood.

  ‘Francesca, get the pistol from that other priest. I’ll take this one. I’ve got to warn the captain that his men are armed with blanks.’

  Suddenly, there was a sound of shooting. Burst after burst of machine-gun fire echoed faintly from below. There were shouts from outside as Swiss G
uards ran to defend the stairs.

  ‘Captain,’ Patrick cried, running to where Luft stood by the doors into the Appartamento. He grabbed the captain’s arm. ‘Your men have been armed with blank bullets.’

  What?!’

  ‘I don’t know how. Can you try your gun?’

  Luft said nothing. He walked across the room, unslinging his Uzi, and aimed it at the wall. He fired a short burst. The gun rattled, but the wall remained unharmed. When he turned to face the room again, his cheeks had lost all colour.

  ‘I have a pistol,’ said Patrick. ‘So has Francesca. One of your men has the guns Sergeant Genscher took from us at the doors. That gives us four.’

  ‘Four handguns against how many assault rifles? There’ll be a massacre out there.’

  ‘Get your men to organize a barricade at the main doors!’ said Patrick. The captain nodded and gave the orders. In spite of everything, he was successfully keeping his head. A group of priests ran to give his men a hand.

  A handful of prelates had gathered about the Pope and the group was making its way towards the rear doors, leading into the suite of rooms behind. Others were helping the orphans through. In the space in front of the papal dais, another ring of clerics had formed, taking turns to kiss Migliau’s hand.

  Suddenly, a figure separated itself from the original group of cardinals which had been broken up by Fazzini. He made his way towards the circle of dignitaries around the Pope. Captain Luft caught sight of him and stepped forward.

  ‘Cardinal Fischer! I’ve been trying to find you all morning. Colonel Meyer has disappeared. We need...’

  Fischer turned. As he did so, Patrick caught a glimpse of him and thought he recognized his face as one of those in the folder Assefa had found in Dublin. The look in the cardinal’s eyes was complex: triumph mixed with doubt, confidence with fear. As the Swiss Guard captain took a second step in his direction, he turned and reached inside his robes. His hand came out holding a small gun. He raised it, shaking his head, a sort of pity in his expression, then fired twice. The reality of the bullets seemed to take Luft by surprise. His eyes widened, he reached out a hand as though in supplication, tottered, blinked, and fell.