The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  "Do you think?" Robin asked, seated with his legs crossed and Loyola's book on his lap. "That's nothing. The worst is yet to come."

  48

  Manuscripts? What manuscripts?" Schmidt asked, looking out the window.

  A downpour with heavy wind was pounding Rome. Below, in Saint Peter's Square, a few brave souls tried to zip up their raincoats, and others ran under the arcade to seek shelter. Banks of black clouds closed over the Eternal City as if preparing for the universal fl ood. The tourists and faithful looked like insects scurrying from the water and sheltering under its immense roof. It was afternoon in the Vatican, but it looked more like nighttime.

  "The weather's not going to change today," William observed indifferently.

  "If it's confidential, I understand," Schmidt said, excusing himself. He didn't want to put Tarcisio in a difficult position. Whatever was going to happen was enough.

  William shot a constraining look at the secretary. Obviously he wasn't going to share a papal secret with a simple priest, especially if he might cease to be one soon.

  "It's confidential," Tarcisio confirmed uncomfortably. He wanted to reveal everything and let the logical, rational mind of the Austrian iceman analyze the case and come to conclusions, but he couldn't do that in front of William.

  Whether by fate or divine intervention, Trevor, the secretary of state's assistant, knocked lightly on the door and came in with a cord less phone in his hand.

  "Excuse the interruption, Your Eminence," he said fearfully.

  "What is it, Trevor?"

  "A call for Cardinal William."

  "Who is it?" William asked, approaching Trevor.

  "David Barry, Your Eminence."

  William took the phone from Trevor, or, more correctly, snatched it from his hand. "If it's all right with you, I'll talk outside, gentlemen."

  "Do as you wish, William," Tarcisio said.

  William left with Trevor behind him, and the two men continued to watch the heavy rain come down on the square.

  "If this keeps up, the Tiber will overflow its banks," Schmidt observed.

  "Let's hope it stops. I'm going to pray it does." Tarcisio turned his back on the window and went to sit on the leather sofa. He was too old to confront the Sodom and Gomorrah that contaminated society. The world was going to hell, and at an amazing speed. To find young people capable of devoting themselves to more than video games and iPods was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Consumerism was the new religion and, with every day that passed, gained followers more easily than any other faith.

  A lightning bolt lit up the dark day for a brief instant, followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap.

  "God save us!" Tarcisio cried out, terrified. "Sit next to me," he asked Schmidt. "I'm going to tell you the story of the manuscripts."

  Schmidt approached his friend and held up his hand. "Tarcisio, I don't want you to tell me things you cannot or ought not tell," he said forcefully. "Friendship should not override duty."

  Tarcisio smiled. An admonishment like that could come only from Schmidt, who was always more concerned about the welfare of others than his own. Friends like Schmidt were becoming extinct.

  "Sit down, my friend," he sighed with consternation. "The problem is that I don't trust William."

  "Why not?" Schmidt asked curiously, sitting down by his Italian friend.

  "I'm not sure he can be trusted."

  "He's a cardinal in the Apostolic Roman Catholic Church, a prince of the church, like you. He is the prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. What more do you need?" Schmidt argued.

  "I know his credentials, Hans. That's not the problem, nor is his dedication to the church," Tarcisio replied, choosing his words care fully. "I don't know what side he's on or what his goal is."

  "Is that your impression?" Schmidt asked, almost condescendingly. "His methods have gotten results. Rafael has got information. The girl is with Ben Isaac. Skepticism aside, he's given us a suspect, and what a suspect. The glorious Society of Jesus."

  Tarcisio listened attentively. A cold analysis, based only on facts, relegating opinion and feelings to second place. That's how Schmidt was. That's why Tarcisio needed him.

  "Maybe it's just an impression," Tarcisio agreed.

  "It is. He's on our side," his friend assured him.

  "Let's forget that," the secretary decided to change the subject. "The parchments I was telling you about were mentioned for the fi rst time during the time of Leo the Tenth, specifically in 1517."

  Egidio Canisio, a prelate whom Leo X named a cardinal, had a prestigious professor of Hebrew with vast connections in Jerusalem. His name was Elias Levita. It was he who told Leo X about a document that mentioned where the bones of Christ reposed.

  "That would be a disaster," Schmidt remarked.

  "Leo the Tenth knew that. He was an astute businessman before he became a man of the church."

  "I know. He was the one who had the bright idea to sell indul gences," Schmidt mocked.

  "Don't remind me. He offered a license to sell indulgences in all the Germanic territories to a Dominican, Johann Tetzel. That's why Luther did what he did."

  "That's another story," Schmidt said, going back to the subject they were discussing.

  "Well, moving along, Leo the Tenth kept everything secret and appointed his nephew to personally investigate the matter."

  Giulio, the nephew, understood that to control the situation they had to get the parchments and get rid of the witnesses. He had just the man for the job.

  "Who?" Schmidt wanted to know.

  "Saint Ignatius," Tarcisio suddenly answered.

  The Jesuits, Schmidt thought.

  Tarcisio noticed the connection his friend was making. Rafael's suspicion was not as crazy as it sounded.

  "Loyola completed his mission," Schmidt said, with a gesture for Tarcisio to go on.

  "The Society of Jesus was the reward. Loyola brought the parch ments and much more," Tarcisio said thoughtfully.

  "The bones of Christ," Schmidt added.

  The secretary nodded, as if putting it into words was too painful.

  "Where are those documents?" Schmidt asked.

  "The Jesuits are their faithful keepers. They confide them to the pope only on the night of his election."

  "And the bones?"

  "Also in their possession," Tarcisio said, exhausted.

  Schmidt got up and went to the window again. Historical facts, holy men, prestige, legends, none of this mattered. Only information, validated with some skepticism. Feelings were inimical to thoughtful decisions. He paced back and forth from one window to another, from the desk to the sofa, comparing the facts Tarcisio gave him with those he'd assimilated the night before.

  "All right, if Loyola recovered the parchments and bones and remained the faithful guardian of them, from which the Jesuits derive their power, only one question remains, assuming the Jesuits are involved in this." Schmidt paced back and forth with his chin in his hand.

  Tarcisio waited expectantly for the question.

  "What piece is missing for them?" Schmidt concluded.

  Tarcisio looked as if he didn't understand.

  "Leo the Tenth was the first to struggle with the problem. He appointed his nephew, the future Clement the Seventh, to investigate. Clement, for his part, recovered the documents and the bones. Prob lem solved. What is it that they want? What could be more important than the . . . bones of Christ?" he said in a whisper.

  "The Gospel of Jesus," Tarcisio informed him.

  Schmidt looked at his friend incredulously. "What did you say?"

  "Just what you heard. That's what they're after." It was Tarcisio's turn to connect the dots. "As you said, they have everything except that piece of the puzzle. They eliminated everyone they fought with, directly or indirectly, for the relics and became the faithful guardians, as happened with Loyola." That was it. It could only be that. Simple, silent, bloody.

  "With one diff
erence," Schmidt interposed. "This time without the pope's consent."

  "Jesuit dissidence is not a new thing. It goes back to the beginning of John Paul the Second's papacy. There were also some quarrels with other pontiffs that were resolved. The greatest interference, involving Wojtyla, was over Superior General Pedro Arrupe's resignation. A pope had never named a papal delegate to preside over the General Congre gation that was going to elect a new superior general. The Jesuits were resentful and offended. They considered an insurrection against the pope," Tarcisio explained.

  "But Paolo Dezza, the delegate Lolek chose, was a Jesuit," Schmidt argued.

  "But he wasn't named by the superior general."

  "Because Pedro Arrupe was in no condition to do so," Schmidt said, showing some indignation. "A stroke had left him partially para lyzed and unable to speak clearly."

  "Go explain that to them. For many Jesuits it was an outrage," the secretary continued.

  Schmidt frowned and changed the subject." I assume it's in Ben Isaac's possession."

  Tarcisio nodded. "That gospel is very intriguing."

  The gospel was mentioned for the first time in the apocryphal Gospel of Mary Magdalene, the same one that revealed the correct location of Christ's tomb. Who better than Magdalene to know where He was buried? Who better to guard a gospel written by her own com panion, Jesus?

  "So Loyola didn't recover the Gospel of Jesus?" Schmidt asked.

  "He couldn't find it. The Gospel of Magdalene, as you know, was not complete."

  Pius IX got involved in the nineteenth century. He read the secret and formed a trusted group to investigate. They found three more parchments that mentioned the Gospel of Jesus, and, more seriously, when and where and by whom it was written . . . but not the gospel itself."

  Tarcisio wiped the sweat from this face.

  Every previous attempt to find the Gospel of Jesus had failed. The only certainty was that it did in fact exist.

  "Until Ben Isaac," Tarcisio declared.

  "Until Ben Isaac," Schmidt repeated, looking at his friend. "Some thing's bothering me, though. The society and the church are on the same side. Why all this conflict? Couldn't they negotiate and arrive at an agreement? The Jesuits wanted the Gospel. Why not negotiate with Ben Isaac?"

  Tarcisio smiled as he got up, bent over with the effort. "The soci ety and the church haven't been on the same side for a long time." He looked down again on the empty square below, lashed by the wind and incessant rain.

  "They must have talked about it?" Schmidt asked.

  "Many times," Tarcisio answered painfully. "Today I have to meet with Adolph."

  "Let him know you know what's going on. Lean on him," Schmidt suggested.

  "It doesn't help, Hans. I'm going to be talking with the CEO of a large corporation. There are many interests at play. The Jesuits know they can't attack us directly." He sighed and wiped his face again. "Nor can we attack them."

  William returned to the papal offi ce, flushed, obviously tired.

  "The CIA is onto us," he said.

  "That's all we needed," Tarcisio grumbled.

  "What do they have to do with all this?" Schmidt asked.

  "What do they have to do with anything they get involved in?" Tarcisio protested, and looked at William. "Excuse me, William, but your compatriots are always sticking their nose into situations that don't concern them."

  William could have said, Look who's talking, but he was silent. Tarcisio had a point.

  "What do they want?" the secretary inquired.

  "They want to know about Rafael, Ben Isaac, and Sarah. They know something, but don't really know what they know. They have Jacopo. I gave them a few crumbs of information in exchange for his release."

  "You didn't have to give them anything. He could have been released if he'd been patient. Are they going to be a problem?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Any news from Rafael?"

  "He's going to have dinner with the director of the CIA at Memmo. Now he's lying low in Mayfair at the Church of the Immaculate Conception."

  Tarcisio whispered, "Let's hope he gets away intact."

  49

  David Barry was better informed after talking with Cardinal William on the phone. Jacopo had revealed almost nothing, but had said that, if he wanted to know more, Barry should contact Jacopo's superior, who by coincidence was a fellow American. David Barry played this same card, talking about Long Beach and the RMS Queen Mary, the transatlantic liner that now served as a hotel and museum, permanently anchored at that California city. He also talked about Houston's incomparable museum and theater district, aware that a cardinal, unfortunately, always owes his duty to the pope, and not his country of birth. That's how careers are. Everyone sells his work and loyalty to his job.

  "Did you call me?" Aris asked from the director's offi ce door.

  "Yes. Come in and close the door."

  Aris came in and sat down without being asked.

  "I talked with the Holy See," Barry informed him.

  "Okay, you've got my attention."

  "It was the only thing I could drag out of that son-of-a-bitch histo rian. The name of his superior, Cardinal William, who happens to be from Long Beach," Barry muttered.

  "Long Beach? How does someone from Long Beach become a car dinal?" Aris asked curiously.

  "The conversation was cordial. They have almost everything under control," Barry continued, ignoring Aris's remark.

  "Do you believe that?"

  "Of course not. I threw him a few crumbs to let him know we're informed without letting him know we're just outside the door."

  "And the door is still shut," Aris added, jokingly. "And locked."

  "Well, he half opened it. An Islamic terrorist group kidnapped Ben Isaac's son."

  "Who's claiming it?"

  "Islamic Jihad."

  "Those bastards."

  "They go after the very rich, study them, analyze their weaknesses, and then strike. In this case Ben Isaac's son," Barry explained, joining his hand together on the desk.

  Aris thought about the story for several moments and then found flaws."That doesn't explain what happened in Paris, or Rafael's presence."

  "That's what I thought," Barry agreed.

  "What did Cardinal William say?"

  "That Ben Isaac was a devout Catholic and well thought of by the church. Besides, he has partnerships with the Vatican and the Bank of the Holy Spirit."

  "A banker with interest in banks. Tell me something new," Aris said sarcastically. "So the guy gives money to the church, and that's why the priests want to save him. This doesn't explain the murders. Or the agreement, the Status Quo."

  "The agreement was another weakness for Ben Isaac. An agreement between financiers. They used the excavations as a way for Ben Isaac to transfer money to the church legally as investments. Islamic Jihad eliminated almost everyone involved to demonstrate they weren't kid ding, and would kill his son in the blink of an eye."

  They thought over William's explanations, looking for a fl aw.

  "Does that seem believable?" Aris asked finally, lifting his hands behind his neck to stretch.

  "Not at all. The English and French have taken charge of the rescue operation. Let's wait and see. Then in Rome we'll know everything. Tell Sam to investigate these partnerships," David said, making quotation marks in the air, "between Ben Isaac and the Vatican and the Bank of the Holy Spirit."

  "Okay." Aris got up promptly, went to the door, and turned toward Barry. "Does this mean that Rafael doesn't know what he's doing?"

  "Apparently." Barry took out his gun, checked the bullets, and returned it to his holster.

  "Are you leaving?"

  "Let's go," Barry said, grabbing his jacket. "Take care of the calls and come with me to the garage. It's time to deal the cards."

  50

  The voice echoed from the speakers in perfect English. Everyone listened in tense silence, some scarcely breathing. Garvis kept his hand in th
e air to restrain gestures or words. Ben Isaac was standing up next to the dining room table full of electronic paraphernalia. A few technicians were seated with headphones, listening in. Others con nected the call to special software that displayed the voices in graphic color on the computer screens.

  Sarah put her arm around Myriam, who remained seated on the sofa, shivering with every word from the cold voice issuing from the speakers. This was the man who had hurt her son. Calculating and implacable.