Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  ‘What about the gendarmerie, Oberst?’

  ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

  ‘Oberst.’

  The lieutenant scurried from his office as the corporal reappeared with a stainless-steel mug. He placed the steaming coffee in front of Schreider before backing out obsequiously.

  Schreider had barely taken a sip when Weber arrived clad in wrinkled trousers and an undershirt—his face still creased from sleep. The colonel waited for his captain to take a seat opposite him before asking, ‘Franz, can I rely on you today?’ When Weber nodded, he continued, ‘We have to stop Verretti.’

  Weber remained impassive. He was still half asleep. ‘We’re going to be in a lot of trouble for this, Oberst,’ he yawned. ‘But I won’t forget all you’ve done for me as long as I live.’

  Weber’s statement, coming as it did from a partial dream state, did not bode well. Moreover, the captain was rarely pessimistic and never so straightforward. For him to say that, meant something. Meanwhile, Schreider seldom called the captain by his first name, and his doing so revealed how nervous he was.

  The phone rang, and Schreider answered. It was his communications officer at the command desk. He listened, then said, ‘His Eminence Santori, has he risen for breakfast yet?’

  The officer had not finished speaking when Schreider threw the receiver down. Taking his pistol from the drawer, he leapt up. ‘Let’s go!’ he commanded, holstering the pistol as he ran.

  For the umpteenth time in the past twenty-four hours Weber had no idea where they were going or what they were about to do. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, finding his feet despite his exhaustion.

  Schreider was already out of the office before Weber could finish retrieving a sidearm from the gun cabinet. Having done so, the captain made sure to catch up with his commander.

  Staff in the command center gawked. Running wildly, one half dressed, the other in full ceremonial gear, their officers made no sense. They were normally somber men; something serious must have happened.

  ‘I want eight men in full combat gear,’ Schreider barked across the room. ‘Get them to the parade grounds in two minutes. I’ll give further orders on the way.’

  Weber seized Schreider’s arm, forcing him to a stop. ‘What exactly are we about to do, Oberst.’

  Schreider did not shrug Weber off. He knew he owed his captain an explanation. The man had stood by him faithfully for the better part of a decade. ‘The Maggiore and His Eminence Cardoni left for the Villa Malta half an hour ago. Based on what we saw last night and the fact that Verretti is on his way back from Turkey with the suspects as we speak, it’s obvious what the cardinals are up to. Now, I need you to get to the parade ground to supervise the men I’m taking there. I have a plan, but there’s no time to explain.’

  Weber did not follow entirely but complied.

  As the captain left, Schreider shouted across the room: ‘Where is the lieutenant with the bomber?’

  ‘Just arrived, Oberst,’ the surveillance officer replied.

  Schreider turned back towards the entrance, where four Helvetians now stood surrounding the bomber. On seeing the youngster, Schreider seethed. The boy’s face was swollen and he looked half asleep. Schreider felt for him. The poor kid had been acting insanely, but disarmed as he had been he had not deserved to be brutalized. He had not intended to hurt anyone; he just needed therapy and for someone to give him another chance.

  Schreider could not give the kid most of that. He was not a therapist, nor was he a theologian. To make matters worse, the colonel also knew he might not survive the day, which meant he most likely would not be able to testify on the kid’s behalf.

  As the suspect approached, guards circling him, Schreider addressed him, ‘I can’t condone your actions, so I can’t let you go. You need help. What you did was not right. That’s why I’m sending you to Rome for psychiatric observation. It’s for your own good.’

  Schreider turned to the lieutenant.

  ‘Make sure you take him to a clinic,’ he ordered. ‘They’ll know what to do. Then, call Interpol. Explain what’s happened. I might not be around tomorrow; let’s just say I’m handing in my notice today. But I need to make sure the kid’s safe. He’s got mental issues, but he’s no terrorist. I’ve got to go now, but do exactly as I say—if not for my sake, then for the sake of doing what’s right.’

  Schreider did not wait to see them leave but hurried on. Compared with what lay ahead, the bomb threat had been a sideshow.

  On the parade ground, Weber had organized a section of their best men. They were in military uniforms and fully armed.

  Schreider selected four men to join him in his Steyr Puch. The rest he ordered to follow in a second vehicle. When Weber headed for the driver seat of the second Puch, Schreider ordered the captain out and told him to return to the command center.

  Weber disregarded the order. The captain started the engine before Schreider could object and rammed the gas to the floor.

  Schreider loathed what was happening. The last thing he wanted was for his captain to sacrifice his life as well. But there was no time to argue.

  Seconds later, both vehicles roared towards the Porta Sant’ Anna.

  Chapter 43

  The Villa del Priorato di Malta—renowned for the keyhole in its arched portone framing the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica in a distance—served as Grand Master Dubois’s residence. Located at the edge of Rome’s Aventine Hill, the tenth-century Benedictine monastery had passed first to the Knights Templar and then to the Hospitallers after the Templar purges. As with the Vatican and the Palazzo di Malta, the villa boasted extraterritoriality, giving it the freedom to operate per its own laws.

  Standing beneath the Villa’s allée of clipped cypresses, two of Catholicism’s dedicated stalwarts scanned the Tiber River. Having received word of Inspector Verretti’s impending return, the two holy men had slipped from the Apostolic Palace before breakfast. Their obligation to defend the Church was paramount in their minds. The Roman Church had seen numerous schisms, in 431, 462 and 1085 AD, as well as during the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth through to the eighteenth century. Every threat had arisen from internal conflicts, but none had come as close as the present threat of destroying the Church completely. If the letter got out, it would eviscerate the core dogma, which distinguished Roman and its Catholicism from every other Christian denomination—the Apostolic succession and, by extension, papal supremacy.

  Two people. That’s all it took.

  Two people and a letter could bring down the most powerful religious organization the world had ever seen. The cardinals’ actions had not been about maintaining cohesion in the Christian world; cohesion had long ago been lost. No, their actions were about keeping Catholicism alive. Billions of the faithful entrusted their spiritual wellbeing to the Roman Catholic Church. Imagine if those faithful had discovered their faith had been misplaced. Then, imagine them turning against the Church. It would spell the end of the only unbroken tradition to survive from antiquity to the present day. It would also mean the two cardinals would be nothing more than a couple of old men in silly robes, stripped of their power and prestige. In such a context, it was clear that sacrifices must be made.

  Leonardo Santori’s gaze rested on the Vatican, where the rising sun now lit the copper green dome of the Basilica, the domicile of the Holy Roman Catholic Church for nearly two thousand years. The Church’s doctrine was defined through ecumenical councils, and the faithful believed it to be guided by the Holy Spirit, thus making its moral pronouncements infallible. Salvation was also only possible through the Holy Roman Church. This was a divine law granted directly from God. Jesus Christ had founded the Roman Catholic Church when He appointed twelve Apostles to continue his work and teachings. The coming of the Holy Spirit upon the Apostles—an event known as Pentecost—had signaled the Church’s public inception. Independent of civil power and sovereign in all matters, the Church did not overtly claim political or tempo
ral power, but she did assert indirect jurisdiction over moral behavior. She alone could interpret matters of spirituality, and she considered all humans to be bounded by her interpretation.

  Santori stood motionless. Rome had been his home for nearly fifty years. He had spent more time in the Vatican than anywhere else, and yet he had despised every moment of it. How had this been? His ambition had propelled him upwards through the ranks of the clergy, and in a short time had found himself standing next to the throne of God, a champion for spiritual justice. And so, he had believed with all his heart, but acceptance from the inner elite, the guardians of the deepest secrets of the faith, had brought utter disillusionment. He had not created the illusion himself, but he had been tasked with keeping it alive. Persecutor, prosecutor, overseer of morality and eradicator of sins, he had rid the Church of its evils from within. What should have been a noble calling had turned into a dreadful nightmare. His experience in trials and excommunications had made him the champion defender of the faith. Seen against this backdrop, he had had an obligation to the Church. His fate and hers had become inextricable. He had often thought of burning the letter, as well as the other ‘challenging’ materials, which lay hidden in the secret archives, but like his predecessors, he had known that doing so would only delay the inevitable. None of it refuted God or Christ—in fact, some of it was better evidence of the Gospels’ validity than any that was otherwise available—but every bit of it refuted the papacy’s legitimacy and revealed the lies, which lay at the root of the Roman Church’s true foundation.

  The sun rose slowly in the east. Puffing on a half-smoked cigarette, Cardoni also watched as its rays lit the Basilica’s dome. Blowing smoke through his nostrils, he felt drained. How he wished this day had never come. If only they could hand their problem over to the Italians. If only. He rejected the thought as soon as it occurred to him. The fugitives’ knowledge of the letter made that impossible. Giving them over to the Carabinieri would be suicide. The Church would have to deal with the problem internally and without His Holiness’s knowledge. He felt sickened by the prospect of what this day would bring. The shame of being found wanting was too daunting to contemplate. He could not imagine life without the Church. With no one to care for him now in his infirmity how would he survive? He was elderly. The Church was his home and provider. Her demise was not an option. He still had ten, perhaps twenty, years ahead of him. He was duty-bound to ensure the Church’s long-term sustainability. Unfortunate as it was, there was no turning back. Admitting to what had transpired would seal the fate of the one true faith. It would be the end of everything they had lived for and their lives as well. If only he had known when he was younger what he knew now.

  Though they were waiting for the call, the voice of a guard announcing the inspector’s arrival still caught the cardinals napping. To Santori’s disgust, Cardoni stubbed his cigarette against a tree and flicked it into a flowerbed, but there was no time to worry about it as they turned and walked back up the cypress allée and along the path leading to the Villa.

  Falling a little behind, Cardoni lifted his cassock so he could move more freely and did his best to keep up.

  Santori entered the villa via the garden entrance. He had to retrieve the letter, so it was imperative he be there when Verretti arrived. The captives he could see to later. Their status as non-Catholics set them outside the Vatican’s jurisdiction, which would make dealing with them tougher. It was not simply a matter of excommunicating them. It would probably be necessary to have them taken out. It was regrettable, but there was no way around it. In centuries past, he could have had them burned at the stake. Not that he thought the Church should go back to its old ways, but the middle ages had certainly had its advantages.

  Chapter 44

  With outbound traffic at its peak, Schreider was anxious they would be too late arriving at the Order of Malta villa. If Verretti had already handed over the captives to the cardinals, he, Schreider, might as well forget about saving their lives. He had never expected to defend civilians against the Apostolate. But his vows to the Holy See had little meaning for him now. Had he promised to protect God’s elite or His chosen? There was a difference. Now he sensed that the Church’s elite were self-appointed and therefore not synonymous with the chosen. He prayed that he was right in this and that he was indeed defending those chosen by God against those who had veered away from His path.

  Crossing the Tiber River at the Ponte Palatino, Schreider was pushing the engine of the Steyr Puch to its limits. From the iron bridge, he could see Palatine Hill, the most ancient part of the city, nestled amongst Rome’s famous seven hills. But the Villa Malta, on the other side of Aventine Hill, was still some way off. As he cut through traffic, he checked his rear-view mirror to see if Weber was still behind him, and indeed, his captain was glued to his bumper like a bloodhound. He nearly radioed the captain to back off just a little in case of collision, but decided against it. He had worked with the captain long enough to accept that their relationship involved a certain clinginess on Weber’s part. The captain was unmarried and, as far as Schreider knew, celibate. Schreider hated casting aspersions on his loyal captain, of course, but if he was honest, he had jumped to the same conclusion as others. Yet, he had never thought any less of Weber for it. Was not Michelangelo that way? The Church had certainly not disowned him.

  By the time Schreider reached the remains of the Pons Aemilius, Rome’s oldest stone bridge, he could see across the Tiber to where, behind a lane of giant sycamore trees, lay Aventine Hill. On the ridge, was the Basilica of Santa Sabina, and behind it, the Order of Malta’s villa was lit by a ray of sunlight filtering through the storm-laden clouds surrounding it.

  Upon leaving the Ponte Palatino, Schreider found the road ahead blocked-off, so their only option was to turn onto the Lungotevere Aventino to the left. This was in the opposite direction of where he needed to go. Frustrated, there being no time for detours, he kept going straight. Cutting across the center lane, his vehicle bounced as it negotiated the median, unbalancing the men in the back seat. With his hazard lights flashing and his hand thrust out of his window, he forced the oncoming vehicles to a halt. Many motorists gave him the bras d’honneur, but he ignored them, crossing the Lungotevere Aventino into the Via Ponte Rotto despite causing a major traffic jam. After circling the Temple of Hercules, he drove into the Piazza La Bocca della Verità. Traffic at the intersection had slowed to a crawl, making crossing towards the Circus Maximus Valley a devilish prospect, and to top it all, the traffic lights at the Via della Greca intersection turned red.

  Verretti’s approach from Ciampino Airport on the far side of Aventine Hill meant the inspector would have less traffic to negotiate, but Schreider persisted. He had no choice, but to break the law, the Devil take what may. Yelling and gesturing for pedestrians to move, he drove onto the sidewalk in front of the Temple of Hercules and accelerated through the intersection at the Via della Greca and the Lungotevere Aventino. At the light, he slowed looking for oncoming traffic. Just as he thought he had found a gap on the opposite side of the Via della Greca, the light turned green, and a bus blocked his path.

  The drive up the Via della Greca crawled at a snail’s pace, and Schreider would have overtaken the bus, if oncoming traffic had not prevented him. He tried flicking his lights and swerving out of his lane to catch the other drivers’ attention, but to no avail. After a while, though, the road separated into three lanes, and Schreider roared peevishly past the plodding bus. Turning into the Chivo dei Publicii, he checked his rear-view again. Somehow—and the Lord only knew how—Weber was still mere meters behind him.

  The s-bend up the Chivo dei Publicii forced Schreider to downshift. The straight stretch of the Via di Santa Sabina allowed him to glimpse their destination, the Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta. With only a few hundred meters left to go, he accelerated. Halfway up Santa Sabina the road became a one-way in the opposite direction. Dangerous as ignoring the sign was, there was no oncoming traffic,
and he shot ahead. As he approached the Via di Sant’ Alessio on the left anticipating oncoming traffic, he slowed briefly, then thought better of it and sped up again. Just as he did so, he saw a Saint John’s ambulance race from the Via di Sant’ Alessio towards the intersection. Judging by the speed of the ambulance, the driver had no intention of stopping; he was on a direct path with the Steyr Puch, and as anticipated, the driver skipped the stop sign, pushing in front of Schreider.

  To avoid a crash, Schreider veered to the right, a move which set him on a collision course with the perimeter wall of the Basilica di Santi Alessio, so he wrenched the steering wheel left and floored the gas. His move straightened the vehicle and allowed him to edge in front of the ambulance.

  Schreider glanced at the occupants in passing. It was Verretti and, in the driver seat next to him, his adjutant, Lioni. The inspector was screaming with his firearm pointing directly at Schreider. The colonel swung his vehicle left again, hitting the side of the ambulance. That did not deter Verretti from firing two rounds. The first smashed through Schreider’s windscreen. The other hit the doorframe, inches above the colonel’s head. When the Helvetian behind Schreider aimed his semi-automatic at the ambulance, the colonel ordered him not to shoot. He had to protect the captives inside.

  The Puch and the ambulance entered the piazza in front of the Villa Malta side by side. Because Schreider had managed to keep Verretti to his left, the inspector would have to get around or past Schreider to reach the entrance to the villa in the far-right corner. Determined not to let Verretti slip past him, Schreider slammed into the ambulance.