There were other reasons for the Church’s decline. The advent of the sexual revolution and the evolving role of women in society were key. The Church had been criticized for its prohibition on ordaining women as priests, its intolerance toward the gay community in its fold, and its opposition to same-sex marriage.
Augustine knew that while the Vatican’s positions on these controversies had left the Church severely battered, their effect on the faith paled in comparison to a more sinister flaw. The revelations of widespread child sexual abuse committed by some within its priestly ranks had done the greatest harm. The well-publicized cases of pedophilia and abuse and, worse yet, the discovery of numerous cover-ups that could be traced all the way to the steps of the Vatican had left an indelible stain on the Church. More than fifty Roman Catholic bishops from around the world stood accused of sexually abusing children. The Church’s moral authority, the one thing it could not afford to lose, had waned. The Vatican’s own studies had revealed a direct correlation between the terrible scandal and a severe decline in both the numbers of faithful and contributions. Many felt there was no chance of recovery or absolution. While these self-inflicted wounds were bad enough, it was conceivable that those combined with Hans Meyer’s efforts to destroy the Church might spell the end for the Catholic faith. Mankind, the pope felt, was in dire need of a miracle.
It was with these troubles in mind that Augustine stared out in silent gloom at the courtyard below, where thousands would gather the following morning to receive his papal blessing. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as he had countless times in recent years to relieve the debilitating, migraine-like pain that now seemed to routinely invade his days. He had been told by his doctors that it stemmed from stress, but at times the pain and the noise that accompanied it inside his head were so great that they felt otherworldly. Preoccupied with his mood and the suffering from his headache, he barely took notice of the papal secretary, his longtime aide, who had arrived and stood patiently at the entrance to his office, not saying a word.
“Father De Santis?” the pope finally asked.
“Yes, Your Holiness. He only just arrived. I know you’ve been waiting.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Your Holiness, I presume you’ve heard the news?” the aide said before he turned to escort De Santis from the room next door.
“What news is this?”
“The announcement this morning, Holy Father. With God’s blessing, the terrible plague has come to an end. It seems a cure has been found.”
“I see. That is wonderful news,” the pope said as he looked toward the heavens. He took the briefing book that sat on his desk, placed it in his secretary’s hands, and grimaced once again at its sight. “One scourge ends, another awaits.”
As his aide retreated, the pope took a seat in his red velvet reclining chair. De Santis had not communicated in days, and Augustine had anxiously awaited news from him all afternoon.
“Holy Father,” De Santis said as he entered the pope’s private office. It had the smell of leather, books, incense, and just a hint of cigar smoke, precisely to Augustine’s liking. “I can only hope I find you in good spirits and good health in his name.” De Santis knelt to kiss the ring on the pope’s extended hand.
“Yes, thank you, Father De Santis,” Augustine said. “I’m feeling fine, with the exception of the heartburn.”
“Heartburn?” De Santis said. “I never had any idea that you—”
“Just a figure of speech,” the pope said as he motioned for De Santis to sit across from him.
De Santis sat and sank deep into the soft red velvet cushion of the massive chair. The pope’s own seat was as hard as the marble floor beneath him. He liked the substantial height difference he enjoyed while in his favorite chair. The seating either put his visitors at ease through comfort or at a distinct disadvantage due to their lower physical stature, both of which Augustine was pleased to accept.
“So,” the pontiff said. “What do you have for me? What have you learned?”
“I must be uncharacteristically brief, Your Holiness, as I must leave for New York within the hour. From there, I’ll return to Rome with perhaps more useful information. I can discuss this with you more fully next week. In the meantime, I have some exciting, even potentially miraculous, news.”
The pope’s eyes widened as he rubbed his aged hands together in anticipation of De Santis’s report.
“I’ve confirmed the new location of the Watcher child,” De Santis said. “He has been moved around a lot in the past few years, but my various reputable sources in Switzerland place him back at Meyer’s compound, which, as you know, lies just a few miles outside of St. Moritz.”
“You have seen this Watcher child?” the pope asked.
“I’m certain he can be found just outside St. Moritz,” De Santis said.
“That’s not what I asked, Father De Santis,” the pope said. His voice carried a hint of irritation. It had been a few years since he’d first asked De Santis to learn everything he could about the Watcher child, but very little information on the demon had been found. “I asked whether you have seen the Watcher child.”
Augustine could tell De Santis was exhausted as well. He watched as he slumped entirely into the cushion that now seemed to envelop him.
“I have not seen the Watcher child,” De Santis said. “There is extraordinary security at the Meyer compound. But I have had it confirmed firsthand by housekeeping staff that a child resides there who matches the expected age. Meyer has no other children. It’s a certainty the Watcher is there.”
The pope could not help but look disappointed.
“Your Holiness,” De Santis said, “all church officials in the area, of which there are many, have been alerted, and I’m certain we will soon be seeing reports of daily sightings of the child, his movements, his appearance, and the like.”
“Very well, then,” the pontiff said. He had heard identical updates from De Santis before. “When you said I would be excited by the news, I presumed—”
“I believe I informed you that my travel plans also involved a brief stay with our Domenika and her family on my way to New York for the meeting with Cardinal O’Brien,” De Santis said.
“Yes, yes.”
“Here I have most unexpected news. It has caused me to reconsider the conclusions reached by our conclave formed some time ago regarding the other child, the child of the Shroud,” De Santis said.
“The child of Domenika,” the pope said. “The boy whose birth we attended.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” De Santis said. “You will recall that we agreed the Church could not sit in scientific judgment as to the efficacy of DNA passed from one source to another in the unethical practice of human cloning.”
“Yes.”
“You also know it was our steadfast belief that the transference of divinity in any sense through human cloning would, by its very nature, reach beyond the bounds of both reason and faith. In other words, it would be impossible.”
“Of course,” the pope said. The Church’s 1987 magisterium had forbidden human cloning. Augustine began to wonder whether De Santis had brought with him well-worn history rather than any news at all.
“Your Holiness,” De Santis said, “I must report that during my visit with Domenika, I became privy to something incredible worth pondering. Domenika and I did not part company on the best of terms, for reasons I can explain later. But when I first arrived and had the chance to spend time with her and the child alone for just a moment, she confirmed for me that Dr. Bondurant had a sample of the child’s blood drawn at birth. I have been curious about this for years.”
“Go on.”
“His hypothesis was that the child’s blood might contain some sort of divine healing qualities that would put this infamous plague to rest. I realize that, on its face, this theory might seem ridiculous, but you must know that Domenika also conveyed to me that the infant’s blood sample was delivered by Bondur
ant to health authorities for testing just weeks ago.”
The pope’s eyes lit up again. “I just heard they believe they have found a cure for this Satan’s Sweat,” he said.
“Devil’s Sweat, Your Holiness.”
“Call it what you want. It has taken many millions of innocents in his evil name.”
“Your Holiness,” De Santis said, “I realize I might be speculating, but if there is truly a connection between the blood of the child of the Shroud and the cure for the terrible plague, we—”
“We now have two unique children we must mind,” the pontiff said. He was perched on the very edge of his ornate chair. He sat in silence as he pondered the remarkable possibilities. His aged heart began to race. He knew De Santis had no definite proof, and there was a great deal more to be learned. But if the power of the child of the Shroud’s blood was true, it was possible that the glorious miracle he so badly needed to rescue his beloved Church had finally arrived.
Chapter 31
New York City
Galerkin closed his left eye and drew a bead on his target with his right through the high-powered scope. As he peered through the glass, he felt as though he could almost reach out and touch her. She reclined on a bright-blue lounge chair ten feet from the rooftop pool. She was leggy and tan and just seconds away from the end of her life.
He carefully rested his Barrett M107 sniper rifle against the rooftop railing and picked up his laser range finder to recheck the distance. She was eighteen hundred meters away, a bit more than a mile. It was a long distance but one he had killed quite capably from several times before.
Galerkin had watched her hard body glisten in the sun for nearly twenty minutes. Tanning alone on the rooftop of her boyfriend’s magnificent townhome on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, she wore an inviting bright-white bikini that contrasted well with her bronzed skin. He could see through the scope that she was pretty, even at a distance. Short blond hair, athletic frame. He could almost count the number of freckles on her shoulder.
But he’d grown impatient with her lack of cooperation. He’d made up his mind that he wasn’t going to shoot her as she lazed in the lounge chair. There was just no sport in it. The proper way, Galerkin’s way, would involve a bullet through the center of her chest as she dove into the pool. Preferably a swan dive or something similarly graceful to mark her last gesture in life. But there she sat, interminably, having shown interest in a Vogue magazine, her drink, and suntan lotion. Everything but the pool.
He wiped the perspiration from his brow with his shirtsleeve and turned to locate the position of the midday sun at his back. It had to be at least ninety-five degrees out. The small patch of blue water looked inviting to Galerkin from a great distance. He could find no reason why, given the heat and the tiny droplets of sweat that had collected on her stomach, the pool had not yet beckoned to her. Eventually, she would dive in. She had to. It was only a matter of time.
He pulled her dossier from his satchel to reexamine her particulars during the wait. Socialite. Argentinian. Spoke three languages. Into Pilates and martial arts. Raised at elite boarding schools. Her father had run a global manufacturing empire for years. When the business began to slide, so did his personal wealth. It was only then that the authorities discovered he’d raided the company’s bank accounts to save his sinking empire. When he was found dead in the water near his yacht in the Caribbean, most believed it was suicide. Some claimed it was murder. Galerkin had been told the death was a hit by the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service, an organization her father had blackmailed along the way. At least, that was who had paid him for the present job. His bronzed target had made the mistake of boasting to friends that she’d gathered evidence the Mossad had murdered her father. She had plans to go to the press.
Galerkin detected some movement on the roof and pressed his eye against the scope once more. Now she sat on the edge of the lounge chair as she tightened the string of her bikini across her back. It was a sure sign she was ready to move. He slowly pulled the bolt of his rifle backward and, careful not to remove his eye from the sight, felt around in his pocket for the single bullet that was about to earn him one hundred thousand dollars. He placed the large brass cartridge in the chamber of his gun, slammed the bolt forward into its firing position, and locked the long rifle barrel into the crook of his left arm.
His cell phone vibrated.
Galerkin hesitated to answer. The distance to his target, the bullet’s time of flight, a slight breeze from the west, and some downward vertical velocity due to gravity meant that catching her in a dive mid-flight would require every bit of his concentration. He watched as she pulled her hair into a ponytail and stared at the shimmering water, still glued to her chair.
“I’m busy,” Galerkin barked into his cell phone. The phone looked the size of a matchbook as he mashed it up against the ear of his massive head. “Who’s this?” He scowled when he heard Meyer’s voice on the other end of the line.
“He’s in Washington again,” Meyer said.
“Who? Who is in Washington? I am busy.”
“Bondurant. Bondurant’s there. And I’m sure he’s with the girl, Jozef. He must be.”
“No,” Galerkin said. “Now I hear yesterday he lives in pissant town outside D.C. But very close.”
“Check it out, Vitaly. Check both places.”
“Yes, well, I am in New York City. I am on different job right now, you see? I get to him later.”
Galerkin tried to angle his eye back toward the scope while he simultaneously used his shoulder to sandwich the cell phone against his ear. He could see that the target had risen from her lounger and started to walk toward the far end of the pool.
“Vitaly,” Meyer said. “Your assignment on Bondurant has taken forever. I think you have difficulty managing priorities.”
“Look,” Galerkin said, preoccupied. He followed the woman with his crosshairs around the edge of the pool and smiled as she began to make her way to the diving board. “That’s it, pretty one,” he said.
“What did you say?” Meyer asked. “Are you talking to me?”
Galerkin placed his fat forefinger ever so lightly against the trigger. “No, I am talking to poor little rich girl,” he said. He pressed the butt of this rifle hard against his right shoulder.
“Vitaly, I’m talking to you,” Meyer said, obviously frustrated. “What does it take to get your attention? I need you in D.C. Bondurant’s apparently assumed my name in order to hide.”
“I go to D.C. for you,” Galerkin said. He smiled as he watched his target step onto the diving board. “But first I finish here.”
“My source says he’s at the Four Seasons,” Meyer said.
“Mine says pissant town. This place, they have nice pool?” Galerkin asked. He placed a small amount of pressure on the center of the trigger to prepare it.
“How would I know?” Meyer said. “It’s a nice hotel. I’m sure they do.”
“With diving board?”
Galerkin watched his target take three quick steps and plant her feet hard at the end of the board to soar high. As he squeezed the trigger to remove the slightest bit of slack remaining, it hit its break point. He aimed precisely where the bullet should capture her sternum in flight.
Galerkin gave the trigger a full squeeze and stiffened his shoulder to absorb the recoil of the massive rifle. He counted “one-two-three” and then watched the bullet tear into its target. It splayed her entire chest cavity in half before she had the chance to belly flop into the water.
“Okay,” Galerkin said as he peered through the scope and then watched the entire pool turn blood-red in an instant. “I go to D.C.”
Chapter 32
Rome
When De Santis arrived at the clinic across from Rome’s Gemelli Hospital, he sat in the crowded waiting area and nervously tapped his foot. He vowed that no matter what prognosis they had in store for his aching lower back, it would be his last doctor’s visit until his next annual
physical exam. He was already late for his scheduled meeting with the pope at the Vatican, which was a full twenty-minute cab ride away. Time was of the essence. He vowed to say little to the doctor. He would simply nod his head quickly at the suggested remedy and be on his way with a prescription as quickly as he could.
At least, that was the plan. De Santis’s previous efforts to put an end to the nagging pain he’d experienced over the past few months had already resulted in more visits to the clinic than he felt necessary. Today he was seeing a specialist again. He presumed, given his senior position at the Vatican, that they’d made more out of his chronic pain than was deserved. De Santis had simply gotten older, and he knew it.
Unlike several bishops whom he’d served who always flew first class, he’d traveled too often on long flights in cramped coach-class seats. He was always on the go. It wreaked havoc with his diet, the likely cause of his recent weight loss and lack of appetite. These were all contributing factors to his current lethargy, he was sure. But they certainly didn’t warrant the number of medical tests he’d been put through during previous appointments when the medications and exercises he’d been prescribed hadn’t worked. His frustration had grown. His last visit to the clinic had involved a CT scan and an endoscopic ultrasound of his abdominal area when his main complaint was the discomfort in his lower back.
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