by James Codlin
She went to sit down and froze when she saw Martín Ibarra’s face staring up at her from the table. There was a yellow Post-it note affixed to the cover of the magazine, scrawled with the words “I see your ex made the big time.” That could only be from Dennis Prinn.
She picked up the magazine, taking in every detail of Martín’s face, and let out a long sigh. His face was more pinched than she remembered, and his features had hardened a bit. But his eyes still had that brightness that, when focused on hers, seemed to look inside her. In the photo, the hair that she used to stroke was flying in the wind as he stood among the rigging out on the deck of his boat where they had spent more than one wondrous night.
Doors crashed open and other journalists flooded into the room.
A hundred phones suddenly chirped, played tunes, rang, sang and buzzed in an electronic cacophony. The official announcement had arrived. A babel of languages filled the air as reporters barked into their phones, dictating their pieces while reading the source document.
Gina put aside the Vanity Fair, pulled out her phone, and clicked opened the Vatican release. The 267th pontiff—including the anti-popes—had been elected at conclave with the election signaled moments ago to the masses by the usual means, a puff of white smoke from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. This new pope was from France, not Italy—the most common country of origin by far—or, following recent trends, a country that hadn’t seen one of their countrymen elected before.
The new pope had started as parish priest in a small town near Lille. He was a Dominican, and he had been taught history in a Dominican school. His surname was Legendre and he came from a family of farmers at Nord-Pas-de-Calais. He had a long list of publications, served on courts to determine annulments of marriages, and was well versed in canon law.
Gina pulled out her tablet and began pecking out her story. She began with the sudden death of the incumbent pope, the rapid convening of the council of cardinals, and the unusually long time it took for them to decide who would become the new pope. She then started to type the summary of His Holiness’s life story and career development, but then she stopped. She looked around at her competitors who were all frantically doing the same—churning out the same boilerplate stories off of the same release they had all just received. A release that was already available and being read around the world.
She closed the lid on her computer, put it back into its bag, and started for the door. Dennis Prinn called out to her from across the room, cutting through the noise with his broad Aussie accent.
“Yo, Gina, you wrote one fast bloody story!”
She stopped by his makeshift desk and glanced at the photograph of a pretty dark-haired woman he had taped to the lamp. The woman in the picture was beaming with unabashed pride and was gesturing dramatically toward a home with a blue tile roof and a statue of Pan near the front door. Gina recognized the architecture, placing it in one of the pristine new suburbs of San Juan Diego. It seemed that there were reminders of her father everywhere she looked these days.
“No, Dennis, I’m not going to do the usual born-raised-priest-bishop-archbishop-cardinal-pope story. They can get that generic shit from the wire services.”
Dennis tugged on his gaudy clip-on tie which clashed with the pinstripes on his ill-fitting suit. “What other story is there?” Dennis grandly gestured around the room. “In a few minutes, once this lot realizes that no one is going to read their half-assed regurgitation of the press release, most of these guys are going to be begging me for the footage I’ve prepackaged and had ready to go for this very occasion. For the right price, I’ll be able to make them look awfully good to their editors when they can run a slick, professionally produced video along with their written piece and deliver it to the masses—” He snapped his fingers. “That fast!”
Dennis was the best Gina knew at managing and facilitating television-computer-satellite-internet interfaces. For years he freelanced for the American and international networks. But in recent years, as the global reach and capacity of the mobile internet made worldwide video distribution easier than ever, his formerly steady stream of freelance work had begun to dry up. Gina felt sorry for him, but she couldn’t let his unsubtle dig at old-school print journalism go unchallenged.
“I know, Dennis… but believe it or not, some people still read—and they want some depth and real reporting. So I need to come up with something better than thirty seconds of B-roll interspersed with meaningless sound bites.”
Dennis feigned a hurt expression. “An obsolete and inefficient way of transmitting information.” He crumpled up a sheet of paper and slam-dunked it into a wastebasket that he had commandeered for his own private use, dragging it over next to his desk. He had fashioned a backboard for the wastebasket—a poster board festooned with cutouts of various cardinals’ faces, each with Vegas-style odds scrawled next to them. Legendre had been at 150-1 odds, and no one had placed any bets on him. Based on all the notations made next to the other presumed candidates, it was clear that Dennis had taken a fair amount of action on who the next pope would be. Gina felt oddly proud that her friend had already managed to make some decent money out of his trip.
“Since the 24-hour news cycle has perpetual deadlines of ‘right-fucking-now,’ I’ve got the means to help my clients meet them. But, of course, you being a president’s daughter and a Sheila and all, I reckon your editor has to cut you some slack, right?”
“Doesn’t matter how fast they get it if it’s cookie cutter garbage,” Gina said.
Dennis laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You keep servicing your wine and cheese crowd and I’ll keep feeding the unwashed masses with my—wait for it—sound and moving pictures!”
Gina shook her head in good-natured indignation, winked at Dennis, and turned to walk away.
“But, hey! How ’bout old Marty?” Dennis asked. “See that Vanity Fair piece? That had depth and real reporting!”
Gina paused and started to say something, but found no words. Even for Dennis, that cut a little too close to the quick. She did her best to show no reaction other than to throw her head back in comically exaggerated mock exasperation, toss her hair, and walk out the door.
*
Martín placed a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and pulled out his phone, starting his voicemail. The first message played on speaker as he methodically put his groceries away.
“Hey, Marty. Dave calling. I’m in Seville, man. Got some heavy legal work underway, but I wanted to let you know that I’ll be finishing up in five or six days. I’m looking forward to getting back to Miami. I’ve got a ton of papers and books and stuff—I hope you can pick me up at the airport. I’ll even buy you dinner if you do. Call me back when you can. Bye.”
Martín smiled at hearing the voice of his old friend from college, now an attorney specializing in international law and living in the condo building next to Martín’s on Key Biscayne. He was not a traditional lawyer—Dave scoffed at the “lawyer-bots” who lived their lives dressed in high-end conservative suits while toiling sixteen-hour days at urban law firms, trying to claw their way onto the partner track. Dave had long hair that he pulled back into a ponytail and wore only jeans or baggy cotton pants along with oversized oxford cloth shirts. And ties? Never.
Conventional wisdom would have dictated that Dave put in time at some well-heeled law firm to learn his craft and earn a name for himself. But Dave Broch refused to do so, choosing instead to go directly from his graduation ceremony to a container vessel sailing from New Jersey for Rotterdam. He worked his way across the ocean as a seaman, met a girl in Amsterdam, moved in with her, and waited tables at an Italian restaurant. When he had time off, he hopped the train to The Hague and sat in on sessions of the World Court.
A year and two girlfriends later, Dave was writing briefs for Dutch law firms. When the offers came, he refused to become a full-time employee. Instead he moved to Brussels and wrote briefs and published papers on sovereignty issues for the European
Commission for the next three years. Eventually he found his way back to America, but he continued to freelance, preparing white papers for the U.S. Department of State and private law firms whenever there were questions of national sovereignty in government or private business dealings with emerging nations all over the world.
As usual, Dave’s message had been supplemented by the raucous sounds of a party in the background. Dave worked hard, but the freelance lifestyle allowed him the flexibility to seek out the night culture wherever he found himself. At this point in Martín’s life he grew exhausted just thinking about staying out past nine, but Dave still showed no signs of slowing down.
Martín put a six-pack of Red Stripe beer in the refrigerator as the next message started playing over his phone’s speaker.
“Architect Ibarra, this is Dr. Herrera calling from San Juan Diego. Sir, I call on behalf of His Excellency, the president.”
Martín froze, clutching a box of cereal that he had been about to put into a cabinet, and listened.
“We have a… problem. No, well, a… potential problem. His Excellency requests… no, requires… your presence. So, well, uh… please call me with your travel plans. We will expect for you to arrive here tomorrow. Call me on my personal phone. You have the number. Good-bye.”
Martín slammed the cabinet door shut. During his tenure leading the architectural committee he had been subtly pressured to enter the political arena in the new union. When he resisted, the pressure became more overt. Still, Martín refused, pleading the necessity of returning to his firm in Miami. Once he had made his intentions explicitly clear, he had been assured that his further presence in San Juan Diego would not be required. Now he would have to go back and endure an awkward reunion with Gina’s father. He snatched his phone from the countertop and pulled up his travel app.
*
Gina sat at a cubicle in the Vatican library, poring through the official data on the new pope. Father Guy Legendre had been named both a bishop and archbishop at a fairly young age, and she was surprised to learn that he had been a cardinal for only a little over a year. He had been selected as a cardinal in pectore, in secret, four years before ascending to the position. The internal politics of the Vatican were largely invisible to outsiders, but the election of such a young man seemed… out of character.
The sources in the library listed Legendre’s good works—help for parishioners beyond the call of duty, educational awards, a stint in a Catholic hospital in India. All of these were laudable and demonstrated that as a churchman Legendre was well above average, but… papal material?
The librarian had referred Gina to some clips from the world press, both written and electronic, and additional Vatican internal published sources. There was also a list of magazine and internet articles from both Catholic and commercial sources.
Gina spent the rest of the day going through all of them.
CHAPTER THREE
Santo Toribio de Liébana, Spain—1515
The abbot of the monastery walked to the iron bars of the entrance gate where a man stood on the other side, shaking dust off his cape and stamping his boots. The abbot was accompanied by a monk carrying a torch. The man on the other side of the gate was the same height as the abbot but younger, perhaps thirty-five years old, well-dressed but somewhat gaunt. His hair was black and long and he had no facial hair. He kept a red broad-brimmed hat with a white plume in place and did not remove his gloves.
The abbot made the sign of the cross. “In the name of God, how may I help you, traveler, at this very late hour?”
“I am sorry to disturb you, Abbot, but my need is urgent.” The man spoke with natural-sounding formality, and an air of sophistication surrounded him. He came across as a man of some importance, albeit in the secular world. “Brother Alonso Gomez of this order is my cousin, and I understand he is gravely ill.”
“And you are…?”
“Don Diego Santiago of Valladolid.”
“Then you have been on the road—”
“Three days. I came as quickly as I could.”
There was a pregnant pause as the abbot considered his options. He did not relish letting in a stranger at this hour, no matter the reason. Both the monk and the visitor looked at him expectantly. “You are a man of commerce?”
“Yes, Abbot.”
“Then you must be the man with whom Brother Gomez corresponds so often.”
“Yes, Abbot. We were very close when I was a child.”
“I had understood he had no family.”
“As I say, we are cousins—distant cousins.”
“I see. Yes, Brother Gomez is quite ill. Frankly, we don’t expect his time on earth to be much longer.”
“Then, Abbot, may I see my cousin before he passes?”
Something felt oddly amiss to the abbot. The man’s attitude seemed… off. He came across more like a man who was looking to finalize a business transaction than someone whose aim was to comfort a loved one in his final hours. The abbot, still uncertain, lamely offered, “This is very unusual, and the hour is late.”
“Please, Abbot, I have traveled so far to have at least a little time with Alonso.”
The abbot stood silently while the man stood patiently on the other side of the gate, watching the abbot deliberate. Finally, the abbot relented. “All right,” the abbot said as he reached forward to unlatch the gate. “Brother Del Rio will accompany you to his cell.”
The traveler followed the monk into the monastery and across a wide patio with a fountain gurgling in the darkness. They descended stairs to a long hallway with multiple doors on each side, eventually stopping at one of them. The monk opened the door and stepped in, holding the door open. The traveler entered and stood in the torchlight, regarding the old man on the pallet. The sick man stared back at him with rheumy eyes, laboring to focus.
“Brother Del Rio,” the man said to the monk. “I have some very personal things to say to Brother Gomez. May we be alone?”
The monk nodded, relieved to be dismissed, and placed the torch in a sconce before retiring from the room. The man listened as the echoes of Brother Del Rio’s footsteps receded. He knelt beside Gomez and removed his hat and one glove.
Gomez gripped the man’s arm. “Brother Segovia, I recognize you with the scar on your right temple, your green eyes, and your missing thumb.” His voice was hoarse and almost inaudible.
“And I recognize you from your cleft chin and wing-like ears,” Segovia said with a slight smile.
“Your disguise is excellent. You look like a wealthy merchant—not a monk.”
Segovia let the compliment settle for a moment, maintaining his smile. But now it was time to resolve matters. “Have you transferred the knowledge?” Segovia asked.
“Yes, Brother Alejandro Rojas met the requirements, has taken the blood oath, and received the instructions.” With a palsied hand Gomez reached under his robe and withdrew a paper.
Brother Segovia, Benedictine monk of the Monastery of San Benito el Real, Valladolid, took it and held it up to the torchlight, reading the physical description of Brother Rojas. He then touched the paper to the flame. Ashes fell from his fingers as the paper disintegrated. He reached into his breast pocket and removed a small object.
“I will inform Burgos,” Segovia said, holding up a glass ampoule. “You were the first man nominated for our responsibility. You have served the Guardians of the Fourth Angel well.”
“As have you, Brother,” Gomez replied. He nodded toward the ampoule and, using what little strength he had remaining, lifted his head slightly in expectation.
Segovia pulled the stopper from the ampoule and poured three drops of liquid into Gomez’s mouth. Gomez settled back onto the pallet. Segovia gently took the hand of a man he had never met before in his life, but with whom he shared the deepest of bonds.
They recited in unison, “This we do for one, ten, a hundred, or a thousand years, whatever is required to bring on the Millennium.”
Gomez
closed his eyes and, within moments, stopped breathing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gina Ishikawa hurried through the Brussels National Airport terminal. She carried only her briefcase and a small carry-on bag as she walked straight to the rental car counter. Fifteen minutes later she was driving west toward Lille, France, squinting through the windshield against the fierce August sun and mentally mapping out her piece on the new Pope Pius XIII. She skirted around Lille, continuing west, absently noticing signs for World War I battlegrounds before spotting a sign for Vincennes, the village she was looking for.
Much like other towns in Nord-Pas-de-Calais, Vincennes was tiny, neat, and agricultural. The church stood out among other buildings, and Gina was surprised to see how new it was compared to most small-town churches. In fact, the whole town seemed to have been recently built.
After parking the car, Gina took her Nikon camera out of her shoulder bag and snapped several pictures of the church where Guy Legendre had been a priest. She pushed open a rusted gate and stepped into the small cemetery. Looking around, she saw a few graves decorated with fresh flowers and one with a small French flag stuck in the turf. Gina walked among the weather-beaten and mossy tombstones, peering at the names.
In the northeast corner, she spied a tombstone with the engraving GASTON LEGENDRE, and next to it, LUCILLE LEGENDRE. The Holy Father’s parents.
Gina checked the sun, moved to the proper position, changed lenses, and snapped five more photos.
A man called from behind her in French, “Hello, may I help you?”
Gina turned. A young man wearing stylishly baggy casual pants, a Nautique polo shirt, and round John Lennon sunglasses, stood looking at her with his hands in his pockets. When he saw her face, he said in Japanese, “May I help you?”
Gina, taken by surprise, answered in Japanese, “Please excuse me—I am studying the cemetery. I hope that is all right.”