»You don’t have a hope.«
»The key.«
Slowly but surely, reality crept back into his consciousness and he began to notice details of his surroundings. An industrial area. A huge parking lot for trailers. Warehouses. An old brick building. A fence, bushes and a street. All badly lit. Peter saw that Alessia Bertoni and the man with the broken arm were struggling back to their feet, moaning. It was time to hit the road.
»The key! … THE KEY!«
»In my purse.«
»You get it. And you two – over there!«
None of the three reacted.
Peter aimed at the man who was standing in front of him and shot him in the leg. Simple rule: If you try to drown me, you are my enemy. It was all quite straightforward.
The American screamed out and fell to the ground.
»You, over there, go! … The key, Alessia! Empty your purse.«
The American with the broken arm crawled over to his colleague, while Alessia Bertoni emptied her purse on the ground and fished the car key out.
»Leave it. Move back. Further. Stop!«
Without leaving the agents out of his sight, Peter snatched the key and walked around the van. He expected backup to arrive any moment now and there was only a single access road to and from the parking lot.
While still keeping the three in his sight, Peter started the car,
»You don’t have a hope, Peter!« she shouted. »You’re a murderer. The whole country will go after you. The whole world!«
»I am not a murderer,« Peter said, and then he stepped on the gas.
»SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!«
Peter was yelling and screaming as he pushed the pedal to the metal, driving through the barely lit street without having the slightest idea whether he was even still in Rome.
»Fucking hell!«
The swearing was helpful. Cleared his head and swept away the last doubts that all this might have been just another of his migraine dreams. When he reached the first main road with traffic signs, he knew where he was. In Rome! He was still in Rome, in the Eternal City, in the city he loved. Peter knew that he had to get rid of the car as quickly as possible, but right now this was not an option. He threw a brief glance to his right. At the cold, black, deadly gun that lay on the passenger seat. Reflections of the golden light from the sodium streetlamps were glistening on its barrel. The last time he had shot a gun, someone had died. That person had been an enemy, because he had also shot at him. Simple rule, but what did it help? On that day, Peter had sworn to himself that he would never again touch a gun and that he would never kill again.
Well, look how great that worked out.
»What a fucking, fucking mess!«
Peter slowed down – he didn’t want the police stopping him for speeding. He opened the glove compartment and found a cell phone. Probably with a secure line but they would, of course, be able to trace back whom he had called.
Who gives a rat’s ass?
»Peter, thank God! I’ve been trying for hours to reach you. Where are you?«
»Up to my neck in trouble, Don Luigi. Where are you?«
»In my car, on my way to the Santa Croce church in Gerusalemme. I was attacked. By a woman. Peter, she took the documents.«
Loretta!
»What about the amulet? Have you heard from Maria?«
»Where are you, Peter? Is everything all right with you?«
»Where is Maria?«
»I can’t reach her. By the time I was free again, she’d left me a message on my cell phone saying that she was on her way to this pilgrim church to meet with someone who is allegedly acting on my behalf. I am terribly worried.«
»Shit! … Be careful, Padre! I know the church, I’m on my way.«
He hung up and looked again at the evil black beast by his side. It was laughing at him. The gun knew what he didn’t want to know.
That he would need it again.
XXVIII
May 12, 2011, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Rome
As Maria entered the old pilgrim church from the 12th century, the nave was almost in darkness, only lit by the glow of the votive candles by the entrance and a few candles in the sanctuary.
Maria knew the church. Santa Croce in Gerusalemme was one of the Seven Pilgrim Churches of Rome, famous for its passion relics, among them the panel with the inscription »INRI,« which had hung on Christ's Cross. It was said that Saint Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, had brought it from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 326 AD, together with small wooden pieces and nails from the True Cross. During the Late Middle Ages, the place was considered so holy that women were forbidden access to the church.
Maria entered the Chapel of St. Helena, to which the church owed its name, since it was said that the floor of this chapel had once been covered with soil from Jerusalem.
She seemed to be alone. Maria heard neither footsteps nor voices. Slowly and carefully, as if she were walking on thin ice, she crossed the nave, praying a silent Hail Mary to calm her nerves.
»You are late, Sister Maria.«
Maria was startled to death and spun around. In the shadow of one of the pillars, she perceived a figure clad like a Capuchin Monk, with the hood pulled low down over his face.
»I was delayed,« she said in a firm voice and took a step back. »Father Nikolas?«
»Do you have the relic?«
The man didn’t move, not even an inch. And yet he frightened her. Maria cursed herself for having been so stupid as to come here.
»No,« she answered, and cast a glance towards the exit.
»Where is it?«
»Give me proof that it was really Don Luigi who sent you and I will take you there.«
Before she could react, the man with the hood was standing next to her. It almost seemed as if he had flown out of the shadow behind the pillar. Maria didn’t get a chance to see his face. He grabbed her, spun her around, and began to choke her from behind with fingers that felt like steel.
»Where is it?«
His voice sounded sharp even though he was whispering. Maria tried to struggle out of his grasp and lash out at him. She tried to scream. But the man who called himself Father Nikolas held her in an iron grip and began to choke the last breath out of her.
»Where is it? If you scream, I will kill you here and now.«
He loosened his grip around her throat and Maria gasped for air. She was desperately trying to come up with something that she could tell the man.
»In my cell in the monastery.«
The man choked her again. Maria was panicking.
»You shall not lie. Do not lie to me, Sister. I can smell if someone lies.«
Maria was desperately trying to come up with something that she could do, with something that she could tell the man. She didn’t want to surrender the amulet to him. But she didn’t want to die, either.
»I will take you to it,« she gasped as soon as the man took his hands from her neck. Next she felt the touch of cold and sharp steel against her throat and the fear of death began to wash over her entire body.
»No,« said the man, »I will kill you now, Sister. But before I do, you will tell me where you hid the relic. If I believe you, your death will be quick; you will barely even feel it. But if I smell a lie oozing from your mouth like mucus from purulent tissue, then you will have an agonizing death. Then I will skin you, Sister Maria. From the tips of your toes all the way up to your beautiful neck. Pain, Sister Maria. Do you know what pain is?«
Maria was gasping in panic and she began to shake uncontrollably.
»Please,« she whispered, »please, don’t.«
»Where is it?«
Maria no longer doubted that the man would do what he threatened to do. Christ had died in agony on the cross, from exsanguination and from thirst. He had died with broken bones and dislocated joints in the scorching heat of Judea. But Christ had been the Son of God and she was nothing more than a bundle of gasping and sweating fear.
Th
e excruciating fear of pain.
»I will not lie, I swear by our Lord Jesus Christ that I will not lie.«
»That’s good, Sister Maria. So where is it?«
»I will not lie but I won’t say it either,« Maria gasped. Because in spite of her panic and her fear of dying, there was one thing that became clear to her: this man would kill her anyway. Whether she surrendered the amulet or not – she was already dead. So what difference did it make how she died?
Nikolas tilted his head forward slightly and began to sniff at her. For quite some time. It seemed to take forever.
»I see. Well then, Sister Maria. May the light be with you.«
She felt his hand tensing against her neck for the fatal cut. Maria prayed to the Holy Virgin.
And then the shot rang out.
It ripped through the silence of the church, rolled with crunching sounds through the nave, and surged over the altar before sweeping through the side chapels. The only sensation Maria felt was that the blade was no longer pressing against her throat. She heard a muffled sound and noticed that the man let go of her. At the same moment, she slumped forward.
Nobody was holding her. Maria fell hard on the cold marble floor, saw a shadowy movement right next to her, and instinctively doubled up to protect herself.
A second gunshot. Something shattered. Maria saw the figure with the hood fleeing towards the back section of the church.
Hasty footsteps, very close. A hand that grabbed her. Maria started screaming.
»Calm down, Maria, it’s me! Are you okay?«
She nodded. She nodded even though this was another lie. She simply nodded because she recognized Peter Adam kneeling next to her, holding a gun in his hand. He pulled her carefully to her feet, as his eyes darted through the dark church.
»We have to get out of here. I think I hit him but he might not have been alone.«
»He was,« she managed to utter, »alone. He has a huge knife.«
»Let’s go. Hurry. Do you still have the amulet?«
She nodded again, still unable to move. With trembling fingers she pointed at the offertory box by the entrance.
An ancient Fiat Panda was waiting on the other side of the street and its headlights flashed briefly as Peter and Maria came storming out of the church. Peter recognized the driver, who looked oddly squished in the small car, and pulled Maria behind him.
»I’ve only just arrived,« said Don Luigi, holding the passenger door open. »What happened?«
»Drive, Don Luigi, just drive!«
»But where?«
»Anywhere, just away from here. Go. Drive!«
Don Luigi stepped on the gas and steered the rickety car through the night-time streets of Rome. He was worried about Maria. He could see her in the rear mirror and it seemed as if she were still in a state of shock, not saying a word.
»You look terrible, Peter. What happened, for goodness sake?«
»I will explain it to you later. First we need to find a place to think for a while, in peace. And avoid police checkpoints.«
»Is the amulet still in your possession?«
Peter showed it to him. The Padre nodded in relief.
»I know a Carmelite monastery on Via dei Baglioni. The sisters are very discreet and helpful.«
»Good.«
Peter turned around to Maria. »Everything okay?«
She shook her head but tried to smile. »Thank you,« she said.
Peter gave the Padre a brief overview of what had happened during the night, and the Padre told him that Loretta really had stolen the documents they’d found in the papal apartment.
»CIA? Mossad?« Don Luigi shook his head.
»You don’t seem overly surprised.«
»It was clear that the secret service agencies would be alarmed by the disappearance of the Pope. But I never would have thought they’d go that far.«
»Well, they think I’m a murderer and a terrorist.«
Don Luigi looked at him. »But did you kill this agent, Peter?«
Peter didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say? He wasn’t sure anymore. When they crossed the Tiber, he asked Don Luigi to stop for a moment and threw the gun into the river. He’d left the van in the vicinity of the pilgrim church. It wouldn’t take them long to find it. Peter figured anyway that they were already conducting an intense search for him.
XXIX
ONE YEAR EARLIER …
May 8, 2010, Vatican City
Shortly after eleven o’clock, the papal helicopter took off from the landing pad next to the Vatican wall to return the Pope’s guests to the airport, where their private jets were waiting. At precisely that moment, Cardinal Menendez stormed into the Seconda Loggia, his face crimson with fury.
»Why am I not informed when the Pope is holding secret talks with an Islamic Grand Mufti and the Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi?« Menendez was fuming with rage and Duncker watched helplessly as the Cardinal pushed past him into the Pope’s study.
»Simply because it was a secret talk,« John Paul III replied in a distant tone. He didn’t get up from his chair and he didn’t ask Menendez to take a seat. »Or, let’s say, it was a first exploratory talk, a cautious attempt.«
»I am the Vatican Secretary of State!« Menendez was seething with fury. »And therefore responsible for all foreign affairs.«
»And I am the Pope.«
The rebuke hit home. But it did not keep Menendez from continuing to express his rage.
»Sheik Abdullah and this Kaplan are declared enemies of the Catholic Church. What did you discuss with these two preachers of hate?«
»Calm down, Cardinal. I will inform you in due course.«
»I am warning you, Your Holiness,« Menendez seethed through his teeth, »do not abuse this office for personal power games that will hurt the Church.«
Now the Pope rose from his chair and gave his Cardinal Secretary of State a cold stare.
»How dare you, Cardinal? I will not allow anyone to threaten me, neither you, nor anyone else.«
Menendez realized that he had gone too far and fell silent. John Paul III held out his hand with the Ring of the Fisherman, forcing Menendez into a subservient gesture, which was completely uncalled-for between Pope and Cardinal Secretary during their daily routines.
»You may leave now, Cardinal.«
Menendez bowed to the power of the Pope. He bent his knee slightly as a kind of genuflection and kissed the ring.
»Your Holiness.«
Before letting him go, John Paul III handed the Spanish Cardinal a small folder.
»You need to read this by this afternoon. It’s suggestions for the organization of the new Congregation of Interfaith Dialogue. I will appoint five new Cardinals for this project. You may recommend one of them. I assume he will come, as usual, from the ranks of Opus Dei.«
Around noon, John Paul III returned to his apartment, where his housekeepers had already set the table. John Paul III loved Roman cooking – pasta all amtriciana with lots of onions and bacon, baked artichokes, and fresh Branzino from the nearby coast. He liked to pair these dishes with a glass of Sicilian Regaleali. However, every now and then he was overcome by nostalgia and with it came – to the dismay of his Italian cooks – an insatiable craving for traditional German food and a pilsner beer. This was the hour of Sophia Eichner.
The slender woman from the Rhineland, who did not look her age of sixty, was known as the Pope’s confidante with a personal opinion. They had known each other since elementary school and Sophia Eichner had run Franz Laurenz’s household for a short period. When Laurenz moved to Rome, she found it natural to relocate with him. She edited his books and practiced her profession as a physician. Sophia Eichner was an independent human being.
And she was a Protestant.
That alone had almost been enough to unleash a scandal in Rome. And there was, of course, a lot of gossip about the fact that the German woman moved so freely in and out of the Apostolic Palace and that there were occasions when she stayed in
the appartamento until late at night. The Curial snake pit of envy, intrigues and slander already smelt a Shadow Popess – not the first one in history. However, Alexander Duncker kept nothing a secret. In the interest of full disclosure and openness, he reported every visit to the press and stressed tirelessly that the Pope thought very highly of Signora Eichner as a long-standing and independent confidante, and that he would be working with her on his new book.
Which was the whole truth.
Besides, certain rumors weren’t damaging to the Pope’s reputation in Rome, not at all. At least his sexual orientation seemed to be clear. For this was the »Cardinal Question« in the Vatican, the true divide that split the Curia like a tectonic fault: gay or straight?
As it seemed obvious that Sophia Eichner did not represent an immediate danger to celibacy and the continued existence of the Catholic Church, the murmur of speculations was beginning to fade to silence and Roman society was getting used to the always-friendly German signora on the red Vespa scooter. She remained in the picture, clearly visible, but she never gave any interviews or attended social events. She continued to be what she was: an independent and respected part of the Vatican.
»What did they say?«
»Well, they were too polite just to laugh at me. But they don’t trust me, of course not. I believe Chaim Kaplan even thinks I’m crazy. The Pope with the Obsessive Symbol Disorder.«
Much to the horror of his Camerlengo, John Paul III mixed some of his mashed potatoes with sauerkraut and shoved it with delight into his mouth.
»Mmmh! Delicious, Sophia! Tastes exactly the way my mother used to make it! Where can you find sauerkraut in Rome?«
»In Asian food stores.«
The Pope laughed and flashed a beaming smile at Sophia Eichner and his other lunch guest, who picked politely at his food and only ate the smoked pork chop.
»Of course, Menendez threw a tantrum. But who cares? I bet he’s already busy pulling strings to find out what went on.«
Apocalypsis 1.03 Thoth Page 3