by James Codlin
“I do not, Your Eminence,” the priest replied.
“Your stewardship of the work to modernize the electronic infrastructure and data collection capabilities throughout Latin America has been exemplary, and is being completed ahead of time and at minimal cost. Thanks to you the data processing center in Burgos is fully functional with the supercomputer already receiving enormous flows of data. You have done well.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence. I trust His Holiness is satisfied as well.”
“I am most pleased, and that is what matters.”
The priest’s gaze remained steady. The cardinal was satisfied, and he congratulated himself for finding the right man for this assignment.
“We are now moving into new areas of investigation that will require the highest level of secrecy and loyalty from you.”
“This has been revealed to me as God’s will,” the priest said.
“You will now be required to reaffirm your vows to God and the Holy Catholic Church. You will then take further blood oaths of secrecy, loyalty, and brotherhood to me personally and the responsibility that has been bestowed upon me. Do you require time to pray and to contemplate before making these affirmations?”
“No, Your Eminence, I am prepared to do so now.”
“In addition, you will also be required to assume a completely new identity. The person you were, and the relationships you have as of today, will simply cease to exist. Are you prepared to make that sacrifice?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Then let us repair to my private chapel.”
*
The sun was rising over Rome as the two men of God sat in their respective chairs, reflecting upon the last 12 hours of discussion.
“The knowledge I have just imparted to you has been passed in an unbroken chain from Tomás de Torquemada to me and now to you,” the cardinal said. “I trust you feel the full weight and gravity of more than five centuries of holy dedication.”
“I do, Your Eminence. I am humbled by the faith you have put in me,” the priest said, though without a trace of humility.
“You will answer to me and only to me. No one else, including His Holiness.”
“I understand.”
“You will continue with your work reestablishing the power of the Holy Office under your new identity and with a new chain of command. I have handpicked your new subordinates and advised them of your imminent arrival. With this team, you will carry out one of the most crucial undertakings since the founding of the Fourth Angel initiative more than 500 years ago. Here is your first assignment toward attaining this goal.”
The cardinal removed a sheet of paper from a folder and handed it to the priest. He scanned it quickly, noting that it listed the names of more than 100 current cardinals. It did not pass his notice that none of the cardinals listed were over the age of eighty, the maximum age for participation in a papal election.
“Beginning immediately, you will prepare dossiers on every one of these princes of the Church. I want to know every detail from birth to the current day. Most especially, I want full information and proof of any deviations from church doctrine. This includes any lapses in moral character such as violations of celibacy, financial improprieties, or child molestation. Anything that would blemish the record of these cardinals in the eyes of God and the Holy Office.”
“This will require additional resources,” the priest said.
“Through me you shall have any resources you need. A technician at Moto Electric has been assigned to provide you with exclusive use of any data-harvesting technology and equipment you require. A special server at the data center in Burgos is yours exclusively. If you need to hire specialized talent such as private investigators, do so, but with this proviso: upon completion of their work they will be silenced. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Eminence.”
The cardinal reached into a desk drawer and removed a leather pouch, sliding it across the desk.
“This contains a universal letter of introduction and an unlimited letter of credit valid for drawing on any bank in the world. Your transactions shall all be in cash—no credit cards. There is also an encrypted phone that will serve as your direct line to me. You can reach me any time, day or night. A jet now waiting at Fiumicino Airport will be available for your exclusive use. You will also find inside your new church credentials, national identity cards, and a passport. From now on, you will be known as Father Luis Serrano. Any questions?”
“What is my timeframe for accomplishing this work?”
“A year and two days from today, at noon Greenwich time.”
“If I may speak freely, it is apparent that this is in preparation to influence the next conclave of cardinals voting for a new pope.”
“Correct,” the cardinal said.
“How will you know with such precision the date on which a new pope will be required?”
The cardinal withdrew something from a drawer. He opened his closed hand, disclosing a small glass ampoule for a moment, and then placed it back in the drawer, which he slid closed.
Father Serrano nodded. “I see.” He rose, took the cardinal’s hand, and kissed his sacred ring. “This we do for one, ten, a hundred, or a thousand years, whatever is required to bring on the Millennium.”
“Go with God,” the cardinal said.
“Yes, Your Eminence, Cardinal Legendre.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
French Guiana is located on the northeast coast of South America, sharing borders with Suriname and Brazil. Attempts to colonize it began in 1608 with the Tuscans, and after being driven out by the indigenous peoples several times, the Europeans exerted their control and then squabbled over the territory for several centuries before it finally rested permanently in the hands of the French in 1814. From 1852 through 1951 its infamy was that of a brutal penal colony for undesirables banished from France, most of whom quickly starved to death or perished from disease.
After a legacy of slavery and punitive barbarity, a new industry came to French Guiana in 1980. Capitalizing on French Guiana’s location close to the equator and away from population centers, France built a spaceport and launched rockets carrying communications satellites into orbit in competition with the American NASA and SpaceX launch systems.
Although the French government had prohibited French Guiana from joining the Latino Union, the LU chose Arianespace to be its launch contractor for a communications satellite arriving from Japan. The 35 Moto Electric engineers and technicians who had traveled on the plane with the satellite now swarmed over their masterpiece of Japanese technology. Around the clock they unpacked, inspected, calibrated, and installed the satellite that would tie the countries comprising the new union together with telecommunications services, television, internet, weather reconnaissance, and ecological and resource-development surveillance.
The French engineers at the launch complex were at first amused by their total exclusion from these activities, but with time they became annoyed that they were not permitted to see the payload, even from a distance. The Japanese were courteous and quickly forthcoming with any technical data needed by the French rocket booster team, but inspection of the satellite was politely but firmly refused. They insisted that their company had committed to a very tight delivery schedule to make the launch part of the inauguration festivities for the capital of the Latino Union. They were solely responsible for this deadline, and they requested, please, that everyone else stay out of their way.
*
Martín hovered in a state of half-consciousness and delirium. As he tried to take in his new surroundings, he wasn’t sure whether hours, minutes, or seconds passed. He had a dreamlike memory that he had been with his brother, but that had all ended abruptly and violently with a poisoning or illness.
He was in a sparkling clean room, covered in bleached white sheets. On the wall facing him was a crucifix showing the suffering of Christ on the cross in excruciating detail. Martín was dressed only in baggy white
boxer shorts, and an elastic band was wrapped tightly around his chest. A doctor in a white coat stood at the foot of his bed looking at a clipboard.
Martín tested his throat and mouth several times, finally asking, in a rasping, trembling voice, “Where am I?”
The doctor looked up from the clipboard. “Our Lady of the Angels Hospital.”
“But where?”
The doctor looked back down at his clipboard, made several notations, and then left without a word. Nurses came in on several occasions—nuns in modern habits—all of them aloof and businesslike as they carried out their duties.
All, that is, but one. She was young, pretty, and enthusiastically started conversations. When he asked her where he was, she avoided answering by mentioning how hot it had been the past few days. But it was at least something for him to build upon.
Eventually Martín felt well enough to have something to eat. He discerned from the selection of food delivered to him—some fruit and an arepa—that it was still morning, although he wasn’t certain whether only one day or more had passed.
While he was eating, a priest came in. The man was dressed in black pants and a matching coat, as well as a black smock with a white clerical collar. He was middle-aged with a craggy face, sunken eyes, and a strong jaw. He had a full head of hair that was just beginning the relentless change from black to gray. His body appeared robust and athletic.
“I am Father Serrano,” he said. The priest offered a hand. Martín took it, and Serrano gave him a firm grip.
“It looks like you’re back with the living,” Serrano said. “How do you feel?”
“Okay. A little shaky, but as you say, back among the living. What happened to me?”
“You were brought here yesterday afternoon.”
“From where?” Martín asked.
“Some distance away.”
“What was wrong with me?”
“You were incapacitated by a poison.”
“What kind of poison? How was I poisoned?”
“What do you remember happening to you?” Serrano asked.
Martín considered the question. Both Gallego and Nicolás had warned him to beware of priests. “I know this sounds strange, Father, but I don’t remember.”
The priest regarded him closely. “Why did you come to Venezuela?”
“Business.”
“I thought your work with the Latino Union was finished.”
Martín gave Serrano the broadest smile he could muster. “The work is never finished, is it? Always some loose end—some detail.”
“I suppose. But you were an awfully long way from the LU’s capital city to be tying up loose ends.” The priest let this hang in the air for a moment, and then continued when Martín failed to offer up any additional explanation. “You were in Caracas, is that correct?”
Martín wondered if the priest knew, or if he was fishing. “In transit, yes. Father, where am I now?”
“You’re still in Venezuela.”
“But where, and how did I get here?”
“The proper authorities brought you in. You really need to rest and regain your strength. I’ll leave you for now.” Serrano turned toward the door.
“Wait, Father. I need to get to Caracas right away.”
The priest paused, his interest visibly piqued. “Is someone expecting you there?”
“Yes. I must get to San Juan Diego. I have very urgent business there. The inauguration of the capital, you know.”
“Yes, I am aware of that event. Who is waiting for you in Caracas?”
“As I said, it’s official Latino Union business.”
The priest gave him a cold smile. “Just tell me who and how to reach them.”
“That’s a kind offer, but I must make the contacts myself. And I have to leave immediately.”
Serrano held out his arms, palms-up, in a signal of resigned powerlessness. “Your release depends upon the doctors.”
Martín tried to sit up but found himself restrained by the harness affixed around his chest. His eyes followed the wires that protruded from the harness over to a heart and respiration monitor beside the bed.
“Would you please send in the doctor so I can talk to him? And is there a phone I can use? There are several urgent calls I must make.”
Father Serrano was already at the door, his hand on the latch. “I’ll see what I can do about the doctor. You must rest.”
He disappeared out the door, locking it behind him.
*
Martín was sweating through his sheets as he waited for the doctor to arrive. Somehow he had to get word to Takeshi Ishikawa that the guerrillas were heading east to the coast where they had plans involving nuclear weapons. Even if those nuclear weapons were just a coca leaf dream of Nicolás and the other revolutionaries, the potential threat had to be taken seriously.
He sat up and craned his neck, looking at the window. The room was above ground level, and the window was a contemporary sliding glass type. There was a latch with a small lock.
When the door finally opened, the young nun entered. She turned and looked up and down the hall, then pushed the door shut. Once inside, she looked shyly at Martín, as if unable to decide what to do next.
Martín turned up his charm. “I have been so rude not to have asked before, but what is your name, Sister?”
Her face lit up with a radiant smile. “Sister Trinidad. And I’ve heard your name is Ibarra.”
“Yes, Sister. But you can call me Martín. I’m so glad you came in. I was getting lonely. Recovery is such a dull business.”
“Yes. Sister Juana—” She scrunched her face into a sour expression that was unmistakably a caricature of one of the older nurses who had regularly attended to Martín — “doesn’t want anyone visiting you, including the doctors. Orders from Father Serrano. And some other visiting priests.”
“Well, how about that? I wonder why. I am only an architect who lost his way and had an unfortunate incident yesterday. But I certainly don’t pose a threat to anyone—I haven’t bitten anyone in years!”
She laughed easily and smiled back at him.
“Where is this hospital?” Martín asked.
This time there was no hesitation, although her eyes did dart momentarily to the window in the door. “We’re in Caracas.”
“And what happened to my clothes?”
“I think they had to be burned. They had some kind of chemical on them.”
“And my wallet, phone, and passport?”
She thought about that. “I think I saw them in a plastic bag, but I don’t know where they are now.”
That was unfortunate, but it was clear that the nun wanted to be helpful. “Sister Trinidad, I really need some clothes. And I need that bag. I have very important matters that I must attend to immediately.” He looked at her with plaintive eyes.
The young nun looked down at her shoes. Sister Trinidad’s expressive face searched for a way out of the discomfort she was feeling. “I need to leave, or Sister Juana will be angry. I hope you understand.”
Martín nodded and forced back a smile, fighting the urge to press Sister Trinidad further. He recognized that he had pushed her as far as she would go—for now. Instead, he watched in silence as Sister Trinidad slipped out the door and closed it behind her.
*
Sister Trinidad was putting surgical instruments into an autoclave when she heard a door open in the next room. She immediately recognized the voices of Sister Juana and the visiting priest, Father Serrano.
“I want that man out of my hospital,” Sister Juana said.
Serrano laughed. “Oh, come now, Sister. A little compassion toward a man in need of our charity and care.”
“He’s a Jew. Chavez did well in driving most of his kind out of the country. Take him to another hospital.”
“I cannot do that,” Serrano said, his voice lowering and becoming stern.
“I’m calling the bishop. If you won’t remove that man, the bishop will.”
Sister Trinidad crossed herself and closed her eyes. She knew it was a sin for her to be eavesdropping on this private conversation, but she was curious about the pleasant young man who had been brought into their care without any explanation. And why was he being detained? She wanted to know that there was a good reason for doing so. It would put her mind at ease, and perhaps she would even be able to reassure Martín that he was safe.
“I feel exactly the same as you, Sister!” Serrano barked. “But I have important plans for Ibarra—plans appropriate for a man whose people killed Jesus Christ.”
Sister Trinidad instantly forgot her concerns about sinning. She moved closer to the wall and listened intently.
“And that is?” Sister Juana asked.
“You cannot say anything of what I am about to tell you to anyone. Do you swear it?”
“Yes,” Juana said after a pause.
“An auto-de-fé. We’ll burn him at the stake for his heresy… and in full view of the world.”
Sister Trinidad jammed her fist into her mouth to stifle a gasp.
There was another long silence, and then Sister Trinidad heard Sister Juana’s voice again, this time meek and uncertain. “I don’t really understand exactly what you are doing… but I am not sure that—”
Father Serrano cut her off. “Oh, come on now. Are you suddenly feeling sympathy for the man you just dismissed moments ago as a Jew unworthy of taking up a precious bed in your hospital?”
“It’s just that what you are…” Sister Juana’s voice was trembling now, and Sister Trinidad could sense her deepening fear. There was a sharp cry of pain from the older nun, followed by a thud against the wall.
Father Serrano’s voice was steady, even, and menacing. “I can see that I made a mistake confiding in you, Sister. I thought you could see the path to righteousness as clearly as I do, but your vision remains clouded by unwarranted pity for those who are beneath us and unworthy in God’s eyes. Damnation will be arriving very soon for those without the purity of the soul to follow God’s will. I will pray for you, Sister. And you will say nothing. Otherwise you will join Martín Ibarra at the stake.”