Lux Domini: Thriller: A Catherine Bell Story

by Alex Thomas

  "After everything that has happened today, you think it’s a coincidence?" Catherine pointed to the oak in the headlights, then turned to Ciban and coolly scrutinised him. "It’s no coincidence and you know it!"

  "Be that as it may," replied the cardinal forcefully. "It is not necessary for you and Monsignor Hawlett to wait with me for the tow truck." He grabbed the door handle with his slender, powerful hand, but before he could get out, Catherine yelled against the wind and rain: "Cardinal Benelli asked for my help!"

  "What?" Ben asked.

  Ciban fell back into the seat and closed the door so forcefully that one might think he was fending off intrusive demons. But before Catherine could say another word, he said: "Listen closely, Sister, as I will only say this once. Don’t get involved in Cardinal Benelli’s game-playing. He not only has an endless repertoire of exotic anecdotes from the Vatican, but he was also the master of disguise and confusion." The cardinal paused for a moment as if what he was about to say took a lot to overcome. Nonetheless, he said it with urgency, sincerity, almost like a prayer. "I know you are a good person, Catherine and you want what is best for the Church, but believe me when I say this game is entirely out of your league."

  Silence filled the air for what felt like an eternity. Even the whipping rain outside that relentlessly drummed against the vehicle seemed to be torn away. Catherine tried to control her consternation. Ben stared into the rear view mirror as if he were hypnotised. In that moment Ciban’s mobile phone rang. The sound made Ben flinch.

  "Ciban." The cardinal switched to his left ear before it could slip. In that moment, Catherine noticed he must have hurt his right hand. "No, Rinaldo. Nothing’s happened." A short pause. "Sister Thea called you. Um…no, everyone is alright." He listened for a long while. Then he put his mobile phone back in his pocket. The cardinal acted as if he could hardly believe his ears as he said: "His Holiness has suffered a collapse. Dr. Lionello is with him now."

  19

  It had hit Leo like a ton of bricks. He had been standing at his office window, puzzling over a file from the Cardinal Secretary of State when he suddenly must have fallen unconscious to the floor. Now he was dozing in his bed in the dim light, not really knowing how he had even gotten there. It was a miracle that he hadn’t hurt himself during the fall.

  There was no doubt that the murderer had struck again. Another member of Leo’s congregation was dead. Since only he and the congregation itself knew the identities of its members, the murderer or at least the traitor must be one of them. Leo had no idea who had been murdered this time, but as macabre as it sounded, Isabella, Sylvester and Darius were no longer suspects. As it was with the fourth murdered congregation member now too.

  The Pope felt shaken to the core. For the first time since he had learned of the murders, he felt more than fear. He felt panic. But no one, not even Ciban, was allowed to notice.

  There was a knock at the door just loud enough that Leo could hear it. He had a feeling he knew who it was.

  "Please come in, Corrado."

  His private secretary, Corrado Massini, entered his bedroom chamber along with Ciban. Leo searched the cardinal’s face to detect any signs of "I told you so, Holiness," but he saw nothing of the kind. In fact, the man seemed worried.

  "How are you, Holiness?" asked Massini and approached the bed.

  "I feel somewhat weak, but other than that, I am fine."

  That was the understatement of the century. In truth, Leo felt as if someone had ripped out his heart alive and it was now beating and thumping outside his body. Just as with his last collapse, Dr. Lionello had examined him head to toe in the tiny clinic in the Apostolic Palace, but he knew all too well that the cause for his collapse was not an organic one. In truth, a part of his soul, yes, a part of his spirit was missing that would allow him to do his job as head of the Catholic Church with no ifs, ands or buts. But he had grown weak. Perhaps too weak.

  Massini seemed more worried than Ciban. It was no wonder. The young man could make no rhyme nor reason of Leo’s fainting spells nor of the fact that even the most modern medical examination could offer no explanation for them.

  "Corrado," Ciban said softly and turned toward the young Monsignor, "would you please give His Holiness and me a few minutes alone."

  Massini didn’t budge, but looked questioningly at Leo instead. Was the Pope imagining it or was his trusted secretary keeping a distance from Ciban like he never had before? Had they suffered an argument? Did the young man hold Ciban accountable for Leo’s condition?

  "It is alright, Corrado. Should I need anything, I will ring."

  "Alright then. I am just around the corner, Holiness."

  After Massini had left the room, Leo said: "Marc, you most likely know more than I, correct?"

  As usual, Ciban got straight to the point. "There was an incident at the reception, Holiness. Cardinal Benelli is dead."

  "Benelli…" said Leo quietly with an inward gaze. The cardinal had actually won the election as Pope in the last conclave after it had appeared to be neck-and-neck between Cardinals Gasperetti and Monti. But when the Cardinal Chamberlain approached Benelli to ask if he accepted the vote as Pope, Benelli rejected the offer and exercised his right to appoint Leo, whose name was then Eugenio Tore. Benelli had certainly made more than just friends with his decision.

  "He was my first spiritual counsellor after accepting the vote as Pope," continued Leo quietly. "He taught me about the different meditative steps toward cleansing: Ablutions, Enlightenment and Unification." Leo snapped out his daydream.

  "Now that you see me just lying around here, I bet you think he was a member of the Congregation?"

  Ciban silently took a seat next to the Pope.

  "What can I say…you are right," explained Leo.

  "Your honesty venerates you, Holiness."

  "You couldn’t help but jab me."

  Ciban shrugged. "To be honest, no. I couldn’t." He gave Leo a worried look. "How many more of these attacks can you handle?"

  "Always the frank one." Leo suppressed a smile. "To be honest, I don’t know. Despite his heart disease, Cardinal Benelli was one of the strongest members of the Congregation. His sudden death literally bowled me over."

  "He committed suicide, Holiness."

  "Pardon me?" Leo stared at the elegantly dressed man on the chair next to his bed. According to Catholic doctrine, suicide was a cardinal sin against God. What made Benelli do such a crazy thing?

  "He said he wanted to set a signal," explained Ciban as if he could read Leo’s mind. "But I am not certain if I understand which signal he meant. I was hoping you could tell me. What did his suicide prove other than risking your own health?"

  Leo listened closely to the inner voice that had served him so well since becoming Pope. But at the moment, it was nothing more than a distant whisper, nothing more than a vague, indeterminable feeling.

  "I don’t know, Marc," he said finally and shook his head. "I haven’t a clue. But if there is a signal, we will certainly know more soon."

  20

  Monsignor Corrado Massini waited in the antechamber for the Pope to finish his conversation with Cardinal Ciban and call him back in. Massini felt horrible, so horrible in fact that what he really wanted to do was make his way down the twisted pathways of the Vatican palace to the interior of St. Peter’s Basilica to toss himself over the edge of the gallery at the foot of the dome drum. And he would do it in a heartbeat if he knew it wouldn’t wreak such havoc for the Pope. But the Holy Father’s current bodily condition wasn’t the only reason for his horrible feeling.

  The DVD had arrived in a business-sized envelope without a return address through the normal house mail. Massini thought nothing of it at first as he retired to his private chambers after a hard day’s work and discovered the package. But then he had read the enclosed computer-written note: "The contents of this DVD will be of most interest to you. Watch it immediately. A well-meaning friend."

  For a moment, Massini
had thought the whole thing was just one big joke, but he had a subtle feeling that he should watch the DVD right away anyway. He finally placed the silver disc into the player and turned on both the device and the plasma television set. The disc did not contain a text file, but rather a film as he discovered.

  He flinched as he heard his own voice in the film and as he saw himself and Aurelio on the screen. They had just finished making love and Massini was quietly and calmly telling Aurelio about his weakness for…

  The Monsignor had immediately turned off the player and stood with his entire body numbly shaking for several minutes as he stared at the plasma screen.

  Until the phone rang. No caller ID.

  "Yes."

  "I presume you liked our little film. Keeping it a secret comes with a price…" It wasn’t Aurelio’s voice, but Massini had heard voice-altering software before.

  His fear mixed with anger. "Forget it."

  "Oh, I beg of you. I have here a second envelope that is, of course, addressed to His Eminence Cardinal Ciban. But if you’re not interested…"

  "You filthy pig."

  "You look pale. Well, that is to be expected under the circumstances."

  Massini looked around in shock. Had the blackmailer installed a hidden camera somewhere? Or was he just bluffing?

  "So, what do you say," said the foreign voice, "Are you interested in making a deal or not?"

  "What’s to guarantee that you won’t send the second video after all? That it remains our deal?"

  "No one," said the voice coldly. "But I assure you that should you reject our offer, His Eminence will get to enjoy your little artwork first thing tomorrow morning."

  Massini’s fear turned from anger to sheer desperation. "What do you want?"

  "No worries. It isn’t much. In fact, it should be as easy as pie for you."

  "Out with it."

  "His Holiness’ journal."

  "What? Are you crazy? They will immediately suspect me!"

  "Easy now. You aren’t the only house employee with access to the private chambers of His Holiness. Perhaps it was the chamber servant. Or His Holiness misplaced the book. He has been rather…how should I say…forgetful of late. Be that as it may. You can do it."

  Someone behind him cleared his throat, bringing Massini back to the present. Monsignor Rinaldo suddenly stood before him. He hadn’t heard him come in. A few months prior Massini had made friends with the younger Rinaldo. He was a nice guy, but a total archival mouse who didn’t at all fit in with the rest of Cardinal Ciban’s staff.

  "Pardon me for being so direct, but you look as though you could use some bed rest and recovery time as well," said Rinaldo. Massini knew all too well that he was right.

  "I’m alright," the Monsignor assured him quickly. "It has been an exhausting day. How may I assist you?"

  "I have heard that His Eminence is still here. I have an extremely urgent message for him."

  Massini’s gaze fell to the business-sized envelope in Rinaldo’s hand. It took everything he could muster to not stare at the envelope in horror.

  "I’m afraid it will take a while," he said. "But since I am already here, I would be happy to take it for you."

  Rinaldo shook his head. "Thank you, but I would prefer to personally hand him the envelope."

  "Certainly. No problem." Massini attempted a smile. Then he carefully asked: "Who is it from?"

  "There has been an incident within Lux Domini," explained Rinaldo hesitantly. "That is all I can say."

  Massini involuntarily gave an audible sigh of relief.

  21

  Catherine had just arrived at the hotel lobby when the night porter, a dwarf-like rotund man in his 60s, stopped her.

  "Sister Catherine!"

  She turned left, moved away from the lift and headed for reception. The incidents in Benelli’s villa and thereafter were still swirling around in her mind. Ciban must have made it to His Holiness in the Apostolic Palace while Ben was on his way back home after having dropped her off at the hotel.

  "This here," the night porter quickly swung around to the mail slots next to the rows of keys and placed a small package onto the counter with his tiny, stumpy hands. "It was left for you this evening."

  The grey sealed cardboard box had neither a return address nor a recipient's address.

  "Are you certain?" asked Catherine.

  The little man nodded vigorously. "I had to swear to hand it to you personally."

  "Then you spoke with the sender?"

  "With the messenger. I have never seen the young man in all my life. But he insisted that I give it to you personally as soon as you entered the hotel."

  Catherine looked at the package warily.

  "Do you think it could contain anything…dangerous?" The chubby porter took one step back from the reception desk.

  "No. Of course not," she quickly assured him with a smile. "Can you describe the messenger?"

  The man didn’t move. "Well…if you ask me…mid 20s, medium height, slender, short brown hair, eye colour uncertain…well, dark, I think. Jeans, red t-shirt. I would have to say he wasn’t from the official postal agency. Oh yes! I remember now. On the backside, he shoved in a little card."

  Catherine flipped over the box and pulled out the card. In tiny letters she could read: ‘If you believe with all your heart, you may. Apostles 8:37. Trust in your gift, Catherine.’

  Benelli! This must be from Benelli! Good heavens, couldn’t the white-haired cardinal leave her in peace even after his death? Catherine noticed that the night porter looked at both her and the package with even more astonishment than before. She quickly, perhaps too quickly, managed to bring a smile to her lips and kindly thanked him before approaching the lift.

  It took all she had not to open the package in the lift. She had barely entered the room when she headed for the recliner and ripped open the paper. She carelessly threw the packing material to the ground, opened the box – and found another box inside. Then another. And another. It appeared that Cardinal Ciban had either forgotten Benelli’s bizarre sense of humour or he had never received a package from him before. Catherine finally came to the innermost layer and came upon a sheet of finely folded paper. As she unfolded it, a key fell out. Not just any old key. It looked as though it belonged to a vault. A safe deposit box?

  "Keep this in a safe place!" was written on the paper.

  Catherine creased her forehead. Keep this in a safe place? Nothing else? She once again searched through all the boxes and bits of paper she could find, expertly kicking each examined piece to the side. When she was a child, she used to love playing football. Unfortunately, she found nothing. What in God’s name could she do with a key without a single reference? As she looked around the piles of crumpled paper, she realised she still couldn’t believe Benelli had taken his own life before her very eyes. During their conversation in the chapel, he had seemed so quiet, so reasonable, so determined. Not at all the kind of person who was about to stamp out his own existence or that one couldn’t trust. Cardinal Ciban, on the other hand, saw it differently, thereby seeming to confirm Benelli’s decision.

  Catherine sighed. Once again the image of the dying Benelli appeared in her mind’s eye. The amazing similarity between Darius’ and his aura, not to mention the seconds in which he died.

  She took the key and placed it together with the photograph in a small safety compartment in the desk. Then she took a hot shower, slipped into a comfortable nightgown and fell into bed utterly exhausted. By God, how tired she was. The sounds of the city pushed through the open window like the sounds of a distant waterfall. Rome’s streets never slept.

  She was truly exhausted, but only after she ran the events of the past few hours through her mind could she finally fall asleep.

  Catherine slept like a rock. And she dreamed.

  22

  Ben drove through the nocturnal streets of Rome past arguing couples, groups of young people and adventurous tourists who just had to exper
ience Rome’s nightlife. The promising life of clubs, discos, restaurants, bars and plazas full of night revellers. None of it interested him anymore. He just didn’t have the desire to go home just yet. Instead, he thought about Darius and Benelli and about how he might circumvent Ciban’s stonewalling and continue his investigation. That’s when he got an idea.

  His gaze swept across a row of old apartment buildings near the Roman Forum. He knew that the buildings’ facades were deceptive. Although they looked in disrepair from the outside, their interior was immaculate. His gaze stopped at one of the houses. A light burned in the second floor as he had hoped it would.

  The priest he intended to visit had a soft spot for antique Rome, which is why he had chosen to live near the former government and commercial quarter of the city. Once upon a time the Roman Senate had held sessions and court proceedings in the Forum Romanum or had triumphal marches and religious processions starting at the Via Sacra that later moved toward the statehouse. Today the quarter was an archaeological park, a tourist attraction with its ruins from various epochs during the Roman Imperial Era. But for the young man who lived in the old apartment building and who loved to slip into the robes of Old Rome as a re-enacter to simulate life during antiquity, these ruins were the remnants of the Golden Age of world history.

  Ben ran to the doorstep and rang the doorbell. No response. He pressed the bell again, this time somewhat longer. After about fifteen seconds, he heard a voice on the intercom. "Yes?"

  "It’s me. Ben. I need your help, Abel."

  "At this hour?"

  He drew closer to the intercom, speaking with quiet urgency: "It’s a matter of life and death."

  "Isn’t that always the case with you?"

  "Darius is dead."

  Seconds passed. "Come up."

  Abel’s flat wasn’t particularly large. It encompassed about sixty square metres, but it was filled with the craziest collection of high tech gadgets and historic museum relics that Ben had ever seen. Two-thousand-year-old clay fragments from the amphorae lay neatly in a row next to spearheads just as old. At least that’s how they looked. A reproduced senator’s robe hung over a chair. A gladiator’s helmet lay on the desk next to one of the computer screens. Gladiators were professional warriors who fought to the death in public arenas.