He felt breath down the back of his neck.
"Good evening, Father," the killer whispered next to Ernesto's left ear, as if he didn't want to disturb the souls wandering through the sacred place. An inhuman coldness, almost lifeless. He got no response, obviously. "I want to ask you a question," the intruder explained. "You may choose to answer or not."
He waited a few moments for this to sink in.
"Where is it?"
It was not the question he expected. Terror filled his veins. He knows, he thought without saying a word. Oh, my God. He knows. How is it possible?
"Who are you?" He tried to buy himself some time. Sweat damp ened his face.
A blow struck on the back of the neck, pushing him forward. He steadied himself on the marble flagstone, a few inches from the fl oor.
"Don't answer a question with a question. Where are your man ners, Father?" the tall man asked, raising his voice.
"Who are you? Who are you looking for?"
Another blow. "Again? You all have a very limited repertoire."
You all? He knew of their existence? Ernesto opened his eyes. He would do everything to protect the secret, but he failed . . . completely.
He felt a cold object press into the back of his neck. Lifeless, with out will. The most faithful servant.
"You have ten seconds. Use them well."
Who was he?
Nine. How could he be so well informed?
Eight. Someone had betrayed them?
Seven. The Status Quo had been broken. From this moment on, it would be every man for himself.
Six.
Protect our beloved Roman Catholic Church, which does everything for Your honor and glory.
Five. I give myself to You, my Father.
Four. I serve You at all times.
Three. A tear slid down his face.
Two. I die in peace.
One. He leaned over with both of his sweaty hands on the sacred flagstone and shouted,"Forgive him, Father. He knows not what he—"
The bullet robbed him of the rest of the words. He saw shadows dancing on the walls before collapsing heavily on top of the marble flagstone. Finally he danced with them. He saw and heard nothing more.
3
The less one knows, the more one believes. It has always been that way and will be until the end of time. Today, commonly known natural phenomena that can be easily explained with the effi ciency of science, such as thunder and eclipses, were once considered the anger of God, an omen of the world coming to an end. Believers knelt at every altar, appealing to Saint Barbara, Saint Christopher, and others to intercede with the Creator, Our Lord God, Allah, Jehovah; each one choosing an offering to placate the ire of the god, whoever He was. In earlier ages, intercession came through other saints and gods, now lost in the sands of time, forgotten forever. And the world just kept turning, as we know today, with no interest in the beliefs of those who inhabited it.
Nor did these beliefs matter to the man descending twenty steps, firmly gripping the handrails on each side. Age had not been kind to him. Deep wrinkles were etched in his face, like scars from a whip, reminders of past troubles. The rest of his body bore other remind ers: a crippled leg that wouldn't work as he wished it to, eyes that saw poorly, even with the aid of thick glasses—defects of an overworked, abused body that hadn't been properly cared for.
He took one step at a time toward an underground structure built in the 1950s by five good men. They had constructed a deep shaft with an elevator. However, he considered the entrance, twenty steps up and down, safer. He wasn't thinking about his old age or the impediment of his limbs or the twenty steps he would have to climb up now that he was halfway down. It wasn't a route he took daily; only once a year, on the same date, the eighth of November.
The underground structure was located several hundred feet from a large house, surrounded by leafy trees showing the dead foliage of autumn. The entrance was inside a wooden shed the employees had probably used in times past to store yard tools. It looked abandoned, full of dust and spiderwebs, probably a home for animals that didn't like humans showing up.
At the center of the shed was a bench that hid the entrance to the underground vault. It wasn't as heavy as it looked. It was easier for the old man to move it than to descend those stairs. Once down, the route was short. About a hundred feet to another door, a metal structure a couple of feet wide, with bolts the size of a man's leg. Sixty years ago, one would have had to insert a key in the proper place to activate the mechanism to open it, but now, with technological advances, an entirely electronic lock had been installed. It opened by an optic sen sor, and he looked into it for a few seconds. A blue flash passed in front of the old man's eyes and validated his identity. The eyes matched those registered by the viewfi nder:
IDENTITY RECOGNIZED
BEN ISAAC
8 NOV 2010 21H13S04
ACCESS PERMITTED
The mechanism set off an opening operation that, despite its being a logical sequence of releasing locks, sounded to Ben Isaac like disconnected noises coming from within the structure. Only at the end of the process did the two exterior cranks turn, upon which the heavy door opened outward with an exhalation of air, as if it were a living thing. One by one, the fluorescent lights turned on automatically, illuminating the inte rior of the vault. One hundred square feet of thick stone walls. The inte rior was two and a half yards high, enough to hold a standing person.
Everywhere the lights emitted a uniform white brilliance, leaving nothing hidden. The place itself was hidden enough dozens of feet above in the abandoned shed among the trees a hundred feet from the large house.
The walls consisted of cold, hard granite, making the closed room cool. The white tiles of the fl oor reflected the light. There was nothing on the walls. Bare. Three display cases stood alone in the center of the room, topped with three glass panes that prevented oxygen from seep ing inside. In the lower left corner of each case, a gauge indicated the temperature of fi fty-five degrees. In each of the cases were documents: two parchments and two more recent documents.
Ben Isaac moved to the case on the left that contained a parchment and looked at it. Time had been kinder to that document than to his old body . . . or so Ben Isaac thought, resentfully. What did he know of that document's history? Whose hands it had passed through, and how it had been treated over the years, centuries, millennia, until this day, November 8, the anniversary of its discovery with other scrolls in Qumran in 1948? It had been in his possession in this same place for more than sixty-five years. It dated from the first century A.D., accord ing to the most advanced scientific method of dating that money could buy, and in this regard Ben Isaac couldn't complain. His money could buy anything. It was a small document, compared to the others, its edges worn away and scorched on the upper right side. It must have lain close to a fi re on some cold night, or someone may have held it, with criminal intentions, over a flame. Whatever the reason, the burn had not damaged the text that Ben Isaac knew by heart and sometimes recited to himself in the language in which it was written, a dead lan guage for most people, on nights he couldn't sleep. Those nights.
Rome, year 4 of the reign of Claudius, Yeshua ben Joseph, immigrant from Galilee, confirms he is the owner of a parcel of land outside the walls of the city.
He couldn't fail to be moved every time he saw that piece of parch ment with those letters written by a Roman scribe about a man who would change the course of history for billions of people over the cen turies. Jesus himself, son of Joseph, grandson of Jacob, heir of David the great, Solomon the wise, the patriarch Abraham, according to ancient legend.
He pressed a small green button below the glass which beeped before sliding open. Ben Isaac lifted the document very carefully, as if it were a newborn baby, and brought it close to his eyes. What emotion! Touching an object that Jesus himself might have touched two thou sand years before. How privileged he was. He could touch it whenever he wanted. If a pope had succeeded in
putting his hands on this docu ment, any pope, he would have immediately been accused of sacrilege. But Ben Isaac confirmed it was authentic, he knew it as true.
He returned the parchment to its place and pushed the button to return the glass to its protective position. He moved on to the middle case, in which a much older parchment lay, degraded in some parts, so that some of the written characters could not be seen. But it was possible to read the essential message, which he remembered every day with a shiver and didn't have the courage to read aloud. He didn't want to touch this, never wanted to. The parchment was many years older than the other, but more important. It wasn't a simple legal authoriza tion, but a gospel known only to two people: Ben Isaac and a learned man whom he had approached to interpret the text, under a pact of silence. Ben Isaac was an expert at this. He let nothing slip.
The last showcase held two documents on letterhead paper, with the papal coat of arms at the top. Both texts were in English and easy to read.
November 8, 1960 Vatican City
I grant Ben Isaac, citizen of Israel, resident of London, a concession over the parchments found in the Qumran valley for a period of twenty-five years. While this agreement is in force, neither party will make the discoveries public. The Holy See will not attempt in any way to recover the documents, which it considers its own by right. At the end of the fixed time my successor and those of Ben Isaac will have to arrange a new agreement.
God be with you.
John P.P. XXIII
Ben Isaac (and three illegible
signatures)
The other document was similar, with a different coat of arms and a shorter text.
November 8, 1985 Vatican City
I grant an extension of the agreement of November 8, 1960, for the identical term, at the end of which new arrangements will be made by the heirs.
Agreed to and signed by
John Paul P.P. II
Ben Isaac (and fi ve illegible
signatures)
Ben Isaac read and reread the documents. He remembered the nego tiations. The cardinals, the prelates, the apostolic nuncios, the simple priests who came and went for two years with recommendations, offers, trivial details, curses, threats . . . the Five Gentlemen. He never met John XXIII or John Paul II, despite their having signed the documents. Per haps it had been a mistake. Too many special envoys when it would have been simpler to sit down at the same table and talk. A nuncio came and offered him $2 million for the documents before the fi rst agreement. He doubted that John XXIII had offered so much. Certainly, after the contract was signed, he was never troubled again. So many mistakes made over the course of his life. This had nothing to do with religion. He thought about Magda, tears blinding his eyes, and then Myriam fi lled his thoughts.
With a final glance at the parchments, Ben Isaac sighed. He looked at his watch. It was time. He left the vault and turned back to the stairs. He was too old for the battle, but he couldn't turn his back on it. Life was a battle, nothing more.
Time was up. The agreement had expired.
4
The elderly archaeologist coughed and struggled. He didn't have to wait for the blow, hard and clean, remorseless.
"The next one will knock you out," a voice at his ear whispered, cold, terrifying.
The archaeologist knew he was telling the truth.
He had caught him in the most absurd way imaginable. A tele phone call in the middle of the night, unusual, but not crazy. He awoke groggy and bad tempered, but the message woke him up at once. A parchment needed to be translated. It dated from the first century, but the language was unknown. The caller apologized profusely for the late hour, but he would pay whatever was necessary to get such a respected archaeologist to look at the discovery and assess its signifi cance. Nice words his ego seldom heard. The rest was easy. A ticket was waiting at the airport for a morning flight that would carry him to his destina tion. Idiot, he thought. His mother had always told him you never get anything for nothing.
When he arrived, he took a taxi to the address the caller had given him. He encountered chaotic rush-hour traffic that took almost as much time as the flight, but at last arrived at the designated place. It looked like an abandoned refrigerator warehouse. A strange place for such a meeting.
The courteous greeting that he expected was a hard smack in the face that knocked him facedown on the floor. The attacker, a thin man who wore an elegantly tailored suit, placed his knee on his back and shoved his face into the fl oor with his hand. Immediately, revealing a vigorous physical form, he lowered his head to the archaeologist's ear.
"The rules are simple. I ask and you answer. Any deviation will have consequences. Understood?"
The archaeologist thought the man was going to foam at the mouth like a rabid dog.
"Who are you?" he asked in pain. He could hardly breathe.
Another blow drove his face into the dirty fl oor again.
"I'm the one who asks the questions, understand?"
"You've got the wrong person. I'm only an archaeologist." It was worth the effort to try to clarify things. Attackers are not infallible, like pontiffs.
"Yaman Zafer. Is that your name?"
"Yes, but . . ."
"See how easy it is? We'll get along perfectly," the man whispered, breathing right over Zafer's ear.
"Listen, I . . ."
Another blow to the neck that left him paralyzed.
"I ask, you answer. Isn't that a perfect relationship?"
Zafer shut up. He didn't have many options. Better to keep quiet and see what the man would do. He could hardly breathe with the knee pressing his stomach to the floor. He was completely subdued.
"If you cooperate I'll let you breathe," said the attacker. He spoke seriously.
"Okay," he acquiesced. He couldn't make demands there. Why hadn't he asked for more information before he got on the plane? Why had he let himself be persuaded so easily? He was so careless.
The attacker seemed to have heard his thoughts. "It's very easy to say what people want to hear. Let's get to the subject that brought us here," he licked his lips. "Have you heard of a man named Ben Isaac?"
Zafer shivered, despite the pressure on his back.
"I'll consider that a yes," the attacker said. "I want you to tell me everything."
He raised his knee a little, and Zafer took the opportunity to breathe in as much oxygen as possible. Zafer raised his hand to his coat pocket, but the momentary relief was over. He felt the uncomfortable pressure against his lungs again. The attacker knew what he was doing.
"What was the purpose of the project for which you were con tracted in 1985?"
"What project?"
Another hard blow to the neck.
"I never did any work for Ben Isaac," Zafer explained. Maybe he would be left in peace.
"If you want to be like that," the attacker warned, "I'll be happy to make a visit to Monica and Matteo. I'm sure they will adore me." He smiled mockingly.
Zafer felt a cold shiver hearing the names of his children. Not them. He couldn't put their lives in danger. He had lost.
The elderly archaeologist coughed and struggled. He didn't have to wait long for the blow—hard, clean, remorseless.
"The next one will kill you," the voice at his ear whispered, cold and terrifying.
The old archaeologist knew he was telling the truth.
"Do I need to rephrase the question?" the attacker insisted coldly.
"No," Zafer said with difficulty. It was hard for him to talk from the lack of air. "I'll talk. I'll tell you everything you want to know."
The knee relieved the pressure, supplying air to Zafer, who gulped it down.
"I'm all ears."
Zafer felt ashamed and humiliated. He thought he wouldn't sur vive, but he had to protect his children.
Forgive me, Ben.
5
Nothing lasts forever.
Everything is endlessly changing. The river's water, the sea, the wind, the clo
uds, the body as it ages, the cadaver as it rots, seconds, days, nights . . . nothing is static, not even a chair, this chair inside a grimy, brown room with a forty-watt lightbulb hanging from the ceil ing, over the chair itself. The chair's wood is riddled with woodworms; one day it will cease being what it is and turn into something else. The bulb will stop lighting up one day, or one night, but not tonight, and this room inside this abandoned warehouse will be demolished, together with the warehouse, to give way to a luxury condominium, which will later turn into something else.
The Pope's Assassin Page 2
