‘Money won’t be a problem, General. This program has the highest priority, and that comes from the very top,’ Shakiba assured his guest. ‘Would you be prepared to come to Iran?’
‘That would not be without risk,’ General ul-Haq observed.
‘We would make it worth your while,’ Shakiba replied easily.
The general raised a thin dark eyebrow.
‘Would a million dollars US … each … together with remuneration for your scientists be enough to cover the risk?’
Ul-Haq and Yousef exchanged glances.
An hour later, O’Connor whistled softly. The Iranians might be having problems with their nuclear program, but they were a lot further ahead with it than Washington, the International Atomic Energy Agency or even the Israelis had allowed.
O’Connor sent a short, encrypted burst transmission to Tom McNamara, the Deputy Director of Operations back in Langley, switched on the cable television and tuned in to Al Jazeera. The Arab network was beaming live, and President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was addressing the World Without Zionism conference in Tehran. The diminutive, dark-haired Iranian president was standing in front of a huge hourglass, the top of which contained a globe of the world. Two countries, the United States and Israel, had ominously fallen through the neck and shattered in the bottom section.
‘Een rezhim-e eshghalgar-e qods, bayad az safheh-ye ruzgar mahv shaved!’ Ahmadinejad said, extending his fingers for emphasis. ‘This regime occupying Jerusalem must vanish from the pages of history!’ The audience of representatives from Hamas and Islamic Jihad, members of the Society for the Defense of the Palestinian Nation and hundreds of university students all cheered wildly, shouting ‘Allahu Akbar! God is great! We love you, President Ahmadinejad!’
O’Connor shook his head. The world was going barking mad, he thought, and he flicked off the television, locked his laptop in the room safe and headed out towards the closest Métro station. It took only minutes to walk down the bustling Rue des Abbesses, where beneath the white-shuttered windows and wrought-iron balconies, wine shops competed with fruit stores and brasseries. The aromas of freshly baked bread wafted out of the patisseries, and waiters dressed in black served café, thé and chocolat on the pavement tables. Scooters, motorcycles and vans took up every available cobblestoned space between the plane trees and maples.
The Art Nouveau entrance to the station, Metropolitain Abbesses, with its striking green wrought-iron and glass roof, had been designed in the early nineteen hundreds. It was one of the deepest stations on Paris Métro Line 12, and O’Connor scanned the surrounds warily before taking the stairs. Lifts enabled an attacker to operate at close range.
O’Connor changed trains at Pigalle and a short while later the train arrived at Gare du Nord. With 190 million passengers passing through the station each year, the huge terminus was Europe’s busiest. O’Connor took up a position opposite the platform where the train for Auvers-sur-Oise was ready to depart and waited. With less than thirty seconds to go, he strode across to the last of the red, blue and white carriages and boarded. Why make it easy for anyone tailing him?
Chapter 3
Cardinal Salvatore Felici’s driver eased the big black limousine off the E80 Grande Raccordo Anulare, Rome’s greater ring road, and headed towards the city’s second airport. The guard on the VIP entrance snapped to attention at the sight of the cardinal’s coat of arms fluttering from the small silver flagstaff on the bonnet of the Mercedes.
The Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith alighted and walked the few steps to where his Russian-made Beriev Be-103 amphibious aircraft was waiting. Tall and powerfully built, Cardinal Felici had a good head of fine, black hair, flecked with grey and combed straight back under his scarlet zucchetto. He had a long rectangular face, and a large aquiline nose. His piercing grey eyes were hooded, underscored by dark circles, but, like a peregrine falcon, Salvatore Felici missed nothing.
As soon as the cardinal was strapped in, his pilot radioed for permission to depart and was given an expedited clearance in front of five commercial passenger jets. They taxied towards the end of the airfield, and Felici watched as a 737 on late finals approached, the pilot adjusting as a sudden gust of wind lifted the starboard wing. Felici’s pilot brought the stylish twin-engine red Be-103 to a stop just short of the runway. Manufactured by the same Russian company that made Sukhoi jet fighters, when the Be-103 landed on water, it floated on its wings. Unencumbered by floats, it was capable of an impressive turn of speed. Never known for his patience, Cardinal Felici found the Be-103 a perfect match for his travel requirements.
‘Ciampino Tower, this is India November Oscar Juliet, holding short of runway three three.’
‘India November Oscar Juliet, you are cleared for an immediate take-off, runway three three, direct to Lake Como. Contact departures when airborne and have a pleasant flight.’
‘Oscar Juliet, roger, cleared for immediate take-off, runway three three.’ Felici’s pilot eased the aircraft on to the ‘piano keys’ and moved the throttles forward. The Continental engines growled in response and as the Be-103 reached 70 knots, the pilot eased back on the stick and they climbed rapidly.
Felici reclined in his leather seat behind the pilot. Through the haze to the west he could make out the Tiber River and the distinctive dome of St Peter’s Basilica surrounded by the walls of the Vatican City. It was a city that in the not-too-distant future Felici was determined to rule. Just two months shy of his sixty-third birthday, Felici contemplated the age factor, aware that some might still believe him too young to be considered papabile, one who might likely be elected Pope. After the long reign of Pope John Paul II – twenty-six years and 168 days – the curial cardinals would, he knew, be wary of electing someone who might be Pope for a long time. Felici smiled to himself. John Paul II’s predecessor, John Paul I, had lasted for only thirty-three days, but he had made the mistake of trying to reverse the Church’s stance on contraception. Even more threatening to some of the curial cardinals in Rome had been his plans to investigate the sinister activities of the Vatican Bank. After it became known that John Paul I was about to dismiss a number of powerful cardinals and bishops who were all members of the notorious P2 Masonic Lodge, the pontiff had been found dead in his bed. Felici stroked his powerful jaw thoughtfully. The Curia would need to be brought on side.
Felici opened his soft Italian leather briefcase and extracted the briefing notes for the meeting he’d convened at his private villa, out of sight of prying eyes. Could ancient crystal skulls pose a threat to the Holy Church? The meticulous Felici was not prepared to take any risks. Centuries before, the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s intelligence service created by order of Pope Pius V in 1566, had recovered a crystal skull and kept it hidden ever since. Now there were reports of others.
Three hours later the plane began its descent towards the dark-blue waters of one of the deepest and most stunning lakes in Europe: Como. During the Ice Age, a massive glacier had ground the mountains aside, forming the lake in the shape of an inverted Y. Cardinals had long been associated with the luxurious villas that graced the shores of the lake. More recently, the likes of George Clooney, Madonna, Gianni Versace, Sylvester Stallone and Richard Branson had added their names to an illustrious list.
On the western side, Felici could make out Isola Comacina, Lake Como’s only island. A ferry, smoke belching from a single black funnel, was pulling away from the little jetty below the famous Locanda restaurant. Beyond the island, the red terracotta roofs of the small lakeside towns stretched towards the Alps: Lenno, Mezzegra, Tremezzo, Menaggio; and on the east, San Giovanni, Bellagio and Varenna; each with their distinctive churches, some turreted in Romanesque stone. To the west and to the north, jagged snow-capped granite peaks marked Italy’s border with Switzerland.
Felici’s pilot searched the lake for an area clear of the hydrofoils, ferries and myriad smaller craft that plied between the towns. He set the flaps at 30 degrees, came in low
over the smooth waters and held the aircraft nose up with the power still on, allowing the wings to finally settle onto the lake in a burst of spray. The pilot maintained a nose-up attitude until the Be-103 slid off its bow wave, gently bobbing on the lake about a kilometre from Villa Felici, which was clearly visible in the distance, nestled amongst cyprus pines, sycamores and candelabra plane trees on one of the lake’s many promontories. Almost immediately, a classic polished mahogany Italian speedboat emerged from behind the stone sea wall of the villa and powered towards the plane.
Within minutes, Felici was on board and the throaty, throbbing inboard echoed around the lake as his boatman gunned the sleek wooden craft, Felici’s personal coat of arms flying from the flagstaff at the stern. They planed across the water at nearly 30 knots and Felici looked towards his villa with a sense of deep satisfaction. Left to him by his father, Alberto Felici – Gentleman of His Holiness, Pope Pius XII, and Papal Knight Commander of the Order of Sylvester and banker to the Vatican during the Nazi years – the eighteenth-century property covered several acres and was considered one of the finest in all Italy. The villa was dominated by a magnificent stone loggia with views towards Isola Comacina and the Gulf of Diana to the south, while the Gulf of Venus, and the towns of Tremezzo and Bellagio beckoned from the north. Climbing fig trees were entwined around stone arches connecting a chamber music hall on one side with the library on the other. A secret passage, known only to Felici, led from the library, providing an escape route to the waterline. A gravel path, flanked by marble statues and gnarled wisteria, wound its way down to the main buildings below the loggia, red terracotta roofs reflecting the last of the sunlight. Just above the private wooden jetty, twin stone bell towers, remnants of a thirteenth-century Franciscan monastery, rose above the sycamores.
Felici’s boatman manoeuvred the speedboat through a narrow stone gap that led to an enclosed subterranean boathouse beyond, and nudged the tyres around the two piers either side of the stone steps leading to the main house. The deckhand leapt on to the steps and steadied the boat, offering his free hand to assist the cardinal. Sister Bridget, who had driven up from Rome the day before, was waiting at the top of the steps, her long dark hair tied neatly under her veil. Sister Bridget was a striking beauty, with soft blue eyes and flawless creamy skin, and her appointment to Felici’s household had raised more than one eyebrow in the Vatican.
‘Welcome, Eminence,’ she said, smiling demurely. ‘Everything is ready,’ she added, anticipating her master’s first question. ‘Professor Macchiarolo is waiting for you in the fumoir.’
The professor was not only a respected world authority on the crystal skulls, but he was also a staunch Catholic.
‘And the wine for dinner?’ Felici asked.
‘Chef has procured some Clos des Goisses 1975 and he has managed to acquire another case of Château Haut-Brion 1989.’
‘Excellent.’ Château Haut-Brion, Felici knew well, was one of Bridget’s favourites. The smile that appeared on Felici’s lips was almost as rare as the wine.
Eighteenth-century wood panelling lined the walls of the villa’s smoking room. Renaissance paintings on leather hung from brass hooks on the picture rail. Exquisite Louis XV and Louis XVI side tables were matched with comfortable leather chairs and a deep-blue felt sofa. Elegant blue and gold lamps threw a soft light onto the Persian carpet. The mantelpiece above the log fire was dominated by a softly lit wooden case containing Italian Renaissance bronze statuettes. It was a setting Cardinal Felici considered only fitting, given his status as a prince of the Church.
‘Professor, how good of you to come,’ he said, offering his fine, bony hand to the tubby professor.
‘The pleasure is all mine, Eminence. Before you arrived I was admiring the view. It’s a beautiful part of the world.’
‘It is indeed, Professor.’
‘But I must confess, Eminence, I’m puzzled as to why the Vatican would be interested in the crystal skulls,’ queried Macchiarolo, peering over his tortoiseshell glasses.
Felici smiled enigmatically, waving Professor Macchiarolo towards a leather chair. ‘I will come straight to the point, Professor. Every so often, the Church is faced with threats; some real, some imagined. You were interviewed for this article in Panorama.’ Felici withdrew the glossy magazine from his soft leather briefcase. The cover featured a photograph of Silvio Berlusconi, flanked by two beautiful models, but it was the equally striking photograph of an ancient crystal skull below the cover story that had caught the cardinal’s attention.
Professor Macchiarolo nodded, a wry smile on his lips. ‘Ah, yes. The article on the Inca skulls.’
‘You’re smiling, Professor?’
‘That article was written by a journalist who is not an expert in this field, Eminence. Despite my best efforts, I’m afraid there are a number of errors, reported from … shall we say, more sensationalist sources.’
‘Then we can perhaps be more relaxed about the journalist’s assertions that these ancient crystal skulls might pose a threat to the doctrine of the faith?’
Professor Macchiarolo’s smile vanished. ‘No, you are right to be worried. The Inca held to a spirituality that was sharply at odds with the scriptures, and if the Inca crystal skulls should come to light, the knowledge they contain will, at the very least, promote fierce debate. They may even change the way many people think. All crystal can be programmed with information – at the heart of information storage in a modern computer, for example, is a tiny silicon crystal chip – and I have seen ancient archaeological reports that indicate three such skulls exist. If linked together, they may contain a complete message … a message that will be explosive.’ The eminent academic outlined what he suspected the Inca crystal skulls contained as the colour drained from Felici’s face.
‘Dr Rossi is on the line, Eminence,’ Sister Bridget announced, once the cardinal’s guest had departed.
‘Thank you, I’ll take it in the library.’ The cardinal briskly walked to the library phone extension and picked up. ‘Dottore, buongiorno. Come stai?’
‘Bene, grazie, Eminenza,’ the papal physician replied, ‘but I’m afraid His Holiness is not at all well.’ Cardinal Felici, he knew, liked to get straight to the point. ‘His Holiness has just been diagnosed with bladder cancer … a tumour on the bladder wall. We’re scheduling surgery next week.’
‘Shocking news indeed,’ said Felici, his mind racing. ‘What’s the prognosis?’
‘This particular cancer is very aggressive. It will depend on whether it has perforated the bladder walls and spread to the lymph nodes. I thought you should be the first to know.’
‘Of course, thank you. I will return to Rome at the earliest opportunity.’
Felici rang off and immediately dialled the pontiff’s private secretary, Monsignor Abati.
‘I have just spoken with Dr Rossi, Monsignor. A terrible business. I trust His Holiness is resting.’
‘I’m not sure that resting is part of His Holiness’s vernacular, Eminence, but we are doing our best to shield him from his in-tray.’
‘I understand completely, Monsignor.’ Felici had long maintained a close relationship with the fearsomely efficient monsignor, not because of any particular fondness for him, but rather as a means to increase his own power base in the Vatican. ‘It’s a difficult task, but if anyone can do it, you can. In the meantime, it is important that this information is very tightly held. I will shortly draft a media release, which I will copy to you, but I don’t think it necessary to apprise the Curia at this early stage. We will describe His Holiness’s tests as routine.’
‘Absolutely, Eminence.’
Felici put down the phone and moved to the big French windows. The sun had sunk behind the snow-capped mountains and cold shadows extended across the deep waters of the lake. It was time. On his return to Rome, Felici resolved to begin his campaign for the keys of St Peter in earnest. He already held detailed files on every possible competitor, but the one that worried hi
m most was the Cardinal Secretary of State. Cardinal Sabatani, an eminent lawyer and one of the few Jesuits in the college, was a progressive, and Felici considered it unthinkable that a liberal might be elected pope. His thoughts turned to the crystal skull already in the Vatican’s possession.
In 1805, a crystal skull had been recovered by the Holy Alliance. The skull and two yellowed parchments – an ancient cipher along with a translation of an Inca prophecy handed down by word of mouth – had originally come into the possession of the Spanish conquistadors. In 1532, Francisco Pizarro had captured the Inca king, Atahualpa, and slaughtered thousands of innocent Inca at Cajamarca. The Inca had been forced to convert to Catholicism, and the skull and parchments had passed into the hands of the priests and friars who had accompanied the conquistadors. Unable to crack the cipher, and fearing the power of the skull, the priests had eventually alerted the Holy Alliance, who arranged for the artefacts to be brought back to the Vatican and placed in the secret archives, where most believed they had lain ever since.
Felici crossed to the bookcase at the far end of the library. He reached behind a volume of Dante’s ‘Inferno’ and pressed a small black button. The library shelf revolved noiselessly, revealing a wooden staircase. Felici descended the stairs until he reached the stone steps of a narrow passage excavated through the rock of the promontory, its walls dank and covered in moss. The secret passage had been constructed in 1850, by order of Cardinal Dorino, who had need of an escape route during the reign of Pope Pius IX when the north of Italy and the Papal Army were under siege from the Austrians. The passage led to rooms on the lower floors of the villa, and from there to the boat landing, but Felici had made one important addition to the passage – a private vault chiselled out of the rock, just above the waters of the boathouse. It was this vault that now housed the priceless crystal skull and the ancient parchments.
The Inca Prophecy Page 2
