by John Lyman
“I’ve seen the same kind of symbolism in America,” Leo said. “One of our well-known oil companies used the red image of a winged horse. I guess oil company executives have a penchant for mythological beasts, which isn’t too surprising when you think that oil has become something akin to a new idolatry in the twentieth century.”
In the gathering darkness, they turned onto the coast road and saw row after row of closed seafood restaurants, a sudden reminder that they hadn’t eaten all day. Leo began rooting around in the ice chest in the back and discovered some large pastrami and mozzarella sandwiches made with thick Italian bread. Within minutes, they had devoured all of them and were looking for other hidden culinary treasures Francois’s men had stashed onboard. Leo let out a whoop when he found a plastic container full of Saltimbocca alla romana—veal slices rolled with prosciutto and sage. Translated, Saltimbocca literally means jump in the mouth.
From a side road, a black SUV just like the one they were riding in pulled out onto the highway in front of them. A stern-sounding voice with a thick Swiss accent came over the radio.
“Good evening, sir. We are right in front of you. The pope sends his regards. Please follow us.”
Francois turned and looked at the others. “Swiss Guards ... they’ve been waiting for us.”
Lev eyed the black vehicle ahead. “Are you sure, Francois?”
“Positive. For one, not too many people drive vehicles identical to this one, and secondly, he used the correct passwords.”
“The pope sends his regards?” As someone familiar with codes, Lev couldn’t help himself. “Really?”
Francois smiled. “Well, our passwords might not be all that sophisticated, Professor, but I happen to recognize the voice.”
“No offense, Francois. I’m just relieved to see we have some backup now.”
“Look behind you.”
Lev turned in his seat and peered back at the darkening road behind them. In the distance, he saw a small white car pass beneath a street light, driving with its headlights turned off. “How long have they been there?”
“Since that mob outside Rome attacked our vehicle on the highway. We try not to leave anything to chance.”
A few minutes later, the black SUV in front of them slowed and turned off to the right. They followed until the headlights from their vehicles illuminated the front of a darkened farmhouse sitting at the end of a red dirt road.
As soon as the SUVs stopped, the lights inside the house began switching on, and Leo and the others could see that the building was already surrounded by Swiss Guard soldiers. Climbing from their vehicle, Leo and the others stretched and looked around.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Leo said, “but I’m going straight to bed.”
“Good idea, Cardinal,” Francois responded. “I have a feeling the next few days will be very busy for you.”
Wearily, they all filed into the house as the security men outside began their night-long vigil. Parked along the road under the trees, the small white car that had been following sat with its lights off, waiting for the dawn.
CHAPTER 14
Leo had gone to bed early, while Morelli and Lev had stayed up late. Before going to bed, the two men had joined a group of Swiss Guard officers at a long wooden table in the farmhouse kitchen—drinking coffee, playing cards, and listening to the reports on TV about the mysterious virus that had swept through central Italy, leaving thousands dead in its wake before flaming out like a blazing torch dipped in water.
In a replay of the viral onslaught that took New York by surprise, the majority of people in the affected region had remained healthy, while others had died a horrible death within hours of exposure. On the surface it appeared as though the virus had run its course, but many families continued to huddle in their homes and pray as specialized biohazard teams from the World Health Organization descended on the Italian countryside looking for clues to the identity and origin of the deadly pathogen.
So far, the only thing they knew for sure was the fact that they were dealing with a virus that seemed to change the way it affected its victims. Unlike the Ebola-like symptoms seen in New York, the virus seen in Italy had acted more like a neurotoxin against the body’s central nervous system, but in both cases the method of infection remained a mystery.
The Italian outbreak had apparently started in the suburbs of Rome and headed north, cutting a swath through the regions of Umbria and Tuscany before finally ending its rampage on the outskirts of Florence. For the past twelve hours, no new cases had been reported, and news that the virus stopped just as suddenly as it had started brought cries of cautious relief across the entire European continent.
In Portofino, the picturesque seaside village was slowly awakening to the fact that they had been left untouched by the shadowy specter of a pathogen that had suddenly faded into oblivion—but for how long? The world had now been hit twice by an engineered virus that affected its victims differently on two separate continents, and no one knew when the mysterious virus would once again spring to life somewhere else on the globe and take thousands more to their graves.
Early the next morning, Morelli awakened, grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen, and walked outside to breathe in some fresh country air. Sipping his coffee, he squinted in the bright sunlight and surveyed the rolling hills surrounding the farm. He noticed that, sometime during the night, more vehicles had arrived at the farm, and with them had come a large detachment of men who were standing around in their combat fatigues next to a grizzled-looking Swiss Guard captain.
Morelli ambled up to the group and spoke briefly with the captain before drinking the last of his coffee and walking back to the farmhouse. Once inside, he spotted Leo sitting at the far end of the dining room table, happily dealing out a new hand of cards to a depressed looking group of men. Biting his lower lip, Morelli was barely able to keep from laughing when he realized that the men seated around Leo had unwittingly subjected themselves to a game of poker with the cardinal, a man who was known to beat world-class players on a regular basis.
As a young boy growing up in central Pennsylvania, Leo had watched his father and uncles gather together every Friday night under the glare of a bare light bulb hanging above the kitchen table. There, after they had all spent an exhausting week working deep in the local coal mines, they would drink and laugh and play poker into the wee hours of the morning. The game had always fascinated Leo. He had loved watching the way his father’s left eye twitched imperceptibly when he was holding a winning hand, a clue that his father’s opponents never seemed to notice. That single observation had taught him an important lesson in life, because just like in poker, life was full of imperceptible nuances that a keen observer could use to his or her advantage when they lacked solid information and had to make a key decision based on instinct alone.
Having a relaxing hobby like poker challenged Leo’s mind and sharpened his powers of observation, so despite his busy schedule doing God’s work, he continued to follow the careers of professional poker players who traveled the international poker circuit. He always knew when a well-known player was visiting Rome, and as soon as he found out where they were staying, he would dispatch a formal invitation for a friendly little game. But as rumors of his skill began to spread within the poker community, Leo soon discovered that many of the visiting players he had beaten in the past were suddenly becoming very creative in their excuses as to why they were unable to meet with the famous cardinal for an evening of poker and fine wine at the Vatican.
Lev glanced up from the table at Morelli. “Did you know about this?”
“Know what?”
“That the cardinal is a card shark. He’s a hustler and you never warned us.”
The humbled Swiss Guards all nodded their heads.
“I learned long ago never to play poker with the man, especially if money is involved.” Morelli peered over Leo’s shoulder at the cards in his hand. “I have some news that might make you feel
better, Professor.”
“What ... is Leo bluffing?”
“It concerns the yacht. Apparently, the Carmela has just made a record crossing of the Mediterranean. Francois informed me that they dropped anchor offshore thirty minutes ago.”
“Hmmm ... Alex must have really been pushing the new engines.”
Morelli slid down into an empty chair beside Leo and let out a loud sigh.
“Ok, what is it?” Leo said, laying his cards face-down on the table. “You don’t look happy, Anthony.”
“I’m afraid this is as far as I go, Leo.”
“I thought we were all going to Spain together.”
“There’s been a change of plans. With the arrival of the Carmela, you have the entire Bible Code Team here to support you now. Pope Michael needs me back at the Vatican.”
“Actually, I was a little surprised he let you leave in the first place. After all, you’re his most trusted advisor.”
Morelli winked and nodded his head in the direction of the door. Leo caught on and grabbed a cup of coffee before excusing himself and following Morelli outside.
“What’s up, Bishop?”
“Marcus is very fond of you, Leo. He picks his confidants carefully, and I happen to know that he especially values the fact that you possess the kind of mind that can analyze a situation from a unique perspective. You see things others may miss. That’s why our little get-togethers with the pope over the past year have been so important to him. It allows him to bounce ideas around the room with those he trusts in an informal setting away from the pomp and ceremony of his office. But I have a feeling there’s something else ... something that only he is privy to, and he doesn’t seem to want to discuss it with anyone else ... at lease not now.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure, but he’s sending you to Spain for a reason ... a reason that he’s chosen not to share with either of us. On the way here, I thought back to a cryptic comment he made last month after a late-night dinner party he held for a select group of friends in his apartment. He seemed troubled that night and surprised both Enzo and myself when he had more than his usual two glasses of wine. We were all laughing about a complaint that had been made about you.”
“About me?”
“Yes. It was quite funny, actually. Enzo received a letter from a group of Vatican nuns. They had written to say that they didn’t think it was dignified for a cardinal of your stature to be whizzing around Rome on a motor scooter. We were all practically rolling on the floor when Marcus got up and poured another glass of wine. His face suddenly turned serious, and he started talking about how dangerous and crazy the traffic was in Rome and how maybe he should forbid you to drive around town on the thing. He then walked to the window and surprised all of us when he muttered something to himself about how your survival and the survival of the Church were somehow linked together. He stood there for a long time, then turned and looked back at us as if he had forgotten that we were in the room. He seemed lost in thought, as if something else was bothering him, then smiled and became his old, easy-going self again.”
“That doesn’t sound like Marcus ... I mean, His Holiness. Good grief, I’ll never get used to calling him that.”
“Truth be told, Leo, he prefers his given name in private.”
Leo paused and took a last sip of coffee. “I know. I think he’s almost as uncomfortable in his position as I am in mine. Despite the fact that he’s always had a very fatalistic view of life, he’s always been very protective of his friends. Even as far back as when we were all in seminary together he used to watch over the underclassmen like a mother hen. It’s a quality he’s probably had all his life ... it’s in his blood. Now that he’s become pope ... a Jesuit pope ... he’s become like a military commander looking out for his troops. If you look at the big picture, and I’m talking about the future of the Church in general here, then his statement about my future being intertwined with that of the Church isn’t really all that strange. The College of Cardinals is a pretty exclusive club. We’re the pope’s generals, and the next pope will be chosen from our ranks. Marcus probably just had a few too many glasses of his favorite Merlot that night and was feeling a little overly protective of one of his own.”
“I disagree, Leo. It was deeper than that. There was something definitive in his statement. As soon as the virus hit Rome he wanted you out of there. I mean, with so many people dying, the Vatican is practically under siege right now, yet the pope sent his best people to guard us. The captain in charge of all those well-armed men standing over there said he’s never seen so much security for a cardinal before. He said we’re receiving more protection than the pope himself right now. His Holiness values your friendship, Leo, but something else is going on. He’s making double sure nothing happens to you, and it’s not just because you two are friends.”
Leo stared back at Morelli with a blank look on his face. His uncanny ability to read people had failed him this time. He had completely misread the pope earlier when he thought the pontiff had lost trust in him. So that’s why the pope had wanted to speak to the bishop in private. Morelli and Francois had been given orders to watch over him, but why? What was Pope Michael up to?
“What are you two conspiring about? Is it some kind of Catholic plot?”
Morelli and Leo turned to see a sullen-looking Lev Wasserman standing behind them. Morelli grinned back at him and pulled a small yellow box from his coat pocket.
“Here, Professor. This might help to make up for your poker losses with the Cardinal.”
Lev whistled softly to himself as he gingerly opened the box and inhaled the unmistakable and overpowering aroma of twenty-five genuine Cuban cigars.
“Cohibas!”
“Yes. The Church is making significant inroads back into Cuba. Raul Castro gave them to Bishop Hernandez when he was meeting with Fidel last month. Hernandez doesn’t smoke, so he mailed them to me and I’ve been saving them for you ever since.”
“Your thoughtfulness has just earned you a special place in heaven, Anthony!” Lev stepped back and eyed the bishop suspiciously. “What do you want?”
Morelli laughed. “Well, go ahead ... we know you’re dying to try one.” They both watched as Lev expertly clipped the end from one of the precious cigars and lit it with a match. Closing his eyes, he exhaled and let the thick, bluish smoke drift upwards around his head and through his hair as his face widened with a huge grin. “I don’t know how to thank you, Anthony. How did you know these are my favorites?”
“I didn’t, but I knew they must be good considering where they came from and who sent them.”
Those entrenched in the cigar world knew that only ten farms in the Vuelta Abajo region of Cuba supplied their best leaves for the Cohiba. That, plus the fact that they are the only brand to use three fermentations—one of many small details that make it one of the finest cigars in the world. First introduced in 1968, the Cohiba was an instant sensation. Back then, the Cuban government was looking for something special. Their cigars were a point of pride, and Fidel wanted the best of the best when it came to giving a special gift to foreign dignitaries. The Cohiba exceeded his wildest expectations, and when word of its velvety flavor spread among cigar aficionados the world over, the new cigar became almost impossible to obtain, making it one of the most expensive and sought-after tobacco products in the world. Needless to say, Lev was ecstatic.
Morelli relished watching Lev’s reaction. The bishop was truly a man who enjoyed giving more than he enjoyed receiving, and those who counted themselves among his close friends quickly got used to receiving little gifts from him for no special reason.
Morelli glanced down at his watch. It was time for him to leave. Not one for long goodbyes, he turned away and walked quickly down the red dirt road to the little white car that had followed them all the way from Rome. Looking back at Leo and Lev, he gave a quick wave before climbing into the back seat. Moments later, the little car had disappeared from sight.
“Nice cigars.” Leo and Lev glanced over to see Francois standing next to them.
Lev sighed as he reached into the box and handed Leander one of his precious stogies. Running the prized cylinder of tobacco beneath his nose, Francois nodded his head in the direction of a group of fit-looking men sporting an array of automatic weapons. “As you can see, one of my quick response teams arrived during the night. I think it’s time we leave for Portofino.”
While Leo and Lev settled into the back of one of the armored SUVs, Francois conferred with the Swiss Guard captain before hopping behind the wheel and starting the engine. Flanked by several additional vehicles full of heavily-armed men, the procession pulled away from the farmhouse and headed up the coast highway toward the stair-stepped houses that made up the seaside village of Portofino.
Considered by many to be one of the most beautiful seaside ports in all of Europe, millions of would-be travelers had gazed upon pictures of the tiny Mediterranean village on posters displayed in windows of travel agencies all over the world. One look at the idyllic seaside setting was usually all it took to make customers reach for their wallets and hand over their credit cards as they stared at the poster, hypnotized by thoughts of rubbing elbows with the rich and famous on the Italian Riviera.
Although the harbor at Portofino was too small to accept a super yacht the size of the Carmela, the port was filled with smaller yachts along with brightly-painted fishing boats that appeared to float on air in the clear aquamarine water that lapped at a dock populated with sidewalk cafes. The laid-back, seaside retreat of Portofino was a place where the rich and not-so-rich mingled in a setting untouched by time, drinking and eating late into the night as the velvety sea air filled their lungs with the sweet perfume of the ocean.
After parking on a sloping cobblestoned street, Francois walked with Leo and Lev down to the waterfront. Predictably, the cafes were deserted as a slight breeze ruffled the multicolored umbrellas over the empty tables.
