All his people needed was a rallying point, something to snap them out of their lethargy. And the translation of the treaty was right in front of him.
Vatican - Wednesday, March 25
Bishop Santini fidgeted in the chair outside the office of the Vatican Secretary of State. The place was a madhouse. Under normal circumstances, the power and authority of the Secretary of State was second only to the Pope. A stately majesty prevailed at the Office of the Secretary of State. People moved slowly and deliberately, and any temptation to speed up was overridden by a solemn reverence. But today, agitated priests, bishops, and civil authorities dashed in and out of Agretti’s office and hovered in the reception area whispering to each other.
Santini had been waiting since 8:00 am. It was now 2:30 pm and all the Cardinal’s secretary did was shrug, balancing phones on each shoulder. With the Pope and so many members of the Curia dead, almost all decisions fell on Cardinal Agretti. He was only alive because his gout kept him from St. Peter’s on Easter morning.
In the three days since the bombing, Santini had thought long and hard about the situation. He had to see Agretti. That American, Callahan, suspected something. He knew he would be back, and he was terrified of what might happen.
When three priests hurried from Agretti’s office, the Cardinal himself appeared in the door. He leaned against the doorjamb, looked at his secretary, and asked, “What next, Antonio? Who’s next? Did we get that fax from the ministry?”
Santini knew he might not have another chance. He stood and walked over to the cardinal.
“Eminence, I have an urgent matter to discuss.”
Agretti looked at him through weary eyes, shook his head, and said, “Santini, everything is urgent today. Everything. I’m sorry for what those thieves put you through. I am. But there is just no time now. Father DeSantis might be able to get you some time later in the week. Just now I really don’t have the time.”
“You need to know what I know,” Santini replied with a firmness he didn’t know he had. “And you need to know it now, Eminence. Not later. Not tomorrow. Not next week. We cannot afford an appointment. Now. You need to know it now. Give me one minute, and you will never regret it. Now.”
Agretti was shocked by the impertinence of the man. Bishops did not speak to the Cardinal Secretary of State in that manner. He’s a librarian. Who does he think he is? He started to tell him exactly that when he locked eyes with the man. Agretti hesitated for a moment, and Santini saw it.
“Now,” said Santini. “For the good of the Church, now.”
“One minute,” sighed Agretti, “and it better be good.” He stood back for Santini to enter the room, then closed the door.
“Ok,” said Agretti, slouching down in his chair behind the desk. “One minute. Go.”
“In 1189, the Vatican and three European powers signed a treaty prior to the Third Crusade. It was called the Treaty of Tuscany. The original with the signatures and seals of the three kings and two Popes was stolen from the Vatican Library during the bombing on Sunday.”
“Very interesting. So what? What did this Treaty of Tuscany say?” Agretti was bored.
Santini gave him the details, and watched the Cardinal Secretary of State simply lay his head down on his desk. He raised his head, tossed his glasses on the desk, and rubbed his temples.
“They actually wrote that down and signed it? The Pope signed it? Two Popes signed it? Not just one infirm Pope who we could say had Alzheimer’s, but two Popes? Two Popes defined it as an infallible doctrine of the Catholic Church! Two Popes did it? They both said God wants us to wipe out Islam? God save us. This is worse than the bomb.”
Agretti settled back in his chair, swiveled around, and looked out the window onto the Vatican garden. He said nothing for two minutes. Santini watched his back and remained silent.
The office door opened and the Cardinal’s secretary said, “Your Eminence, you have…”
“Shut up, DeSantis. Get out and don’t disturb me until I say so.” Father DeSantis quickly retreated.
He turned back to Santini. “Are you sure it went that far? You’re sure? Who else knows of this?”
“I know, you know, and the thieves know. The curators hadn’t looked at it yet, so it was just waiting to be studied.”
“Is it still in the computer?”
“No. I deleted it.” From the collection, thought Santini. No need to mention my own private computer files.
“Backups?”
“Overwritten every seven days. Four days to go.”
“Did you say anything about it to our security people or the Italian police? Anyone?”
“I told them only that one hundred priceless medallions had been stolen. I said nothing about the treaty. I staged the medallion theft when I learned the treaty had been taken.”
“Why?”
The man thinks I’m an idiot, thought Santini. “When I found what the treaty was, what it said, when I read it, I didn’t think it prudent to let anyone know such a thing existed or had ever existed. It could only bring harm to the Church. I had to tell the police something. Something had to be stolen. So I made a huge mess and took a bunch of medallions. They’re in my private safe now.”
Agretti nodded. “You did well, Bishop.”
“We have a complication.” Santini took a deep breath. “An American. An investigator from Vatican security. I’m sure he suspects something.”
“Why?”
“He thinks like a thief. He doesn’t think a thief would bother with medallions when he could take jewel-encrusted chalices and crucifixes. He does have a point.”
“Well, stick to your story. How do you know what the thieves were thinking? Tell him to ask the thieves. Let me know if he causes any more problems.”
Agretti turned to a shiny, black computer on his desk and pecked on the keyboard. “How come the Internet has no reference to the Treaty of Tuscany?”
“Eminence, the Third Crusade did not cover the kings of Europe in glory. Fredrick Barbarossa drowned on the way and his army turned back. Richard of England and Phillip of France couldn’t get along. Sabotaged each other. Jerusalem was not recaptured. And Richard became the Austrians’ prisoner while his mother ruled and his brother John robbed the English blind back home. At the time, they were all too content to forget about the whole thing. And Pope Clement was trapped between opposing political forces. Whatever could be forgotten was forgotten.”
“Forgotten by everyone except the Vatican library?” Agretti snapped. “If the library hadn’t kept it, we wouldn’t have this problem now.”
“Right.” Santini sat up, red-faced. “And we wouldn’t have Aristotle, Socrates, Livid, Augustine, and a long list of others who would have been lost without the diligence of the Church, this library, and the people who built and defended it.”
Santini took a deep breath. “Eminence, it is the responsibility and duty of the Vatican Library to preserve all documents and manuscripts of importance to the Church and its history. That’s what we do, and we do it very well.”
Agretti cocked an eyebrow. This bishop wasn’t afraid of a fight.
“Yes, yes. I know. Ok. Sorry.” Agretti pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his cassock. He tapped one out and grabbed a heavy silver lighter from the desk. “And now we don’t know where the treaty is? Is that it?”
“Yes,” Santini curtly answered. He deeply resented any criticism of the Vatican Library or its mission.
“You have a copy of the treaty?”
“Several. The original Latin document and Italian and English translations I made.” Santini took several pages from his briefcase and handed them to Agretti.
When Agretti finished reading the translations, he blew a huge cloud of smoke straight up in the air.
“It’s true, it’s true. Two Popes said this crap was the duty of all Christians and an infallible doctrine of the Church. Diplomatically, this would be a disaster if it got out. We’d be pariahs. And worse, it coul
d destroy the Church. How many other copies or translations are there?”
“Eminence, besides the ones here, I have two copies of the original and the translations in my office safe.”
“Bishop, say absolutely nothing about this treaty to anyone. I’ll get back to you about how we want to proceed here.”
Santini nodded. “I understand, Eminence.”
“You’re a good man, Santini. I understand you have taken full charge of the Vatican Library after the Cardinal Librarian’s unfortunate death with the Holy Father on Sunday. I don’t know who the next Pope will be, but I do know we will need a good man as the next Cardinal Librarian. Keep that in mind, Santini.”
Back in his office, Santini’s secretary said he had the Cardinal Secretary of State on the line.
“Yes, Eminence.”
“Santini, I want you to destroy every copy and every translation of that treaty you have. Do you understand me?”
“But, Eminence, we can’t just destroy history. It would be… it would be contrary to our mission. It would be wrong.”
“Right now, Santini, our mission is to preserve the Church from its enemies. Now you told me you no longer have the original, so I want you to make sure there is nothing left to indicate that treaty ever existed. That means no paper, no computer copy, nothing stashed in your hard drive or underwear drawer, no nothing. Can I rely on you?”
“Eminence,” he said, “it will be done within an hour.” Santini leaned back and thought it would probably be prudent not to ask the Cardinal what he would do with the copies Santini had given him. Perhaps one day they, at least, could be recovered for the library.
“And remember, Santini, the new Pope, whoever he is, needs cover on this. He needs deniability. You don’t need to say anything to him, whoever is elected, or anybody else about this. I’m not asking you to lie, I’m asking you to support the new Pope and the Church by having no conversation that could ever link the Pope to knowledge of this treaty. Let me take care of that.”
Santini swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I understand, Eminence.”
“Good. We need men like you in leadership positions here, and we need a new Cardinal Librarian. Understand, Santini?”
“Yes, Eminence, I do.”
“Something else, Bishop. In the unlikely event… uh, the event… uh, that I am elected Pope… we never spoke about this.”
“Never, Eminence.”
“Good man, Santini. Good man.”
Santini entered the passwords for his private section of the computer files and accessed the image of the treaty. What a vile thing. His finger hovered above the DELETE key, then retreated. It was still history, and history had to be preserved. Besides, nobody knew about his private collection in the computer. He could protect both the Church and history. That was his burden.
Vatican - Wednesday, March 25
Santini was right. The American was back. Damn. He strolled into his office, gave Santini a nod, and flashed a tight smile. The man had no sense of protocol.
“Bishop, what does a keycard for the library look like?” Callahan lowered himself in to a chair, folded his hands, and leaned back.
Santini reached for his card that hung around his neck and held it up.
“You always keep it around your neck like that?”
“Yes. It’s too easy to mislay something here. This way I have it handy and prevent its loss.”
“Will that open anything in the library?”
“Yes. It has super-access privileges.”
“I see.” Now Callahan’s face wouldn’t stop itching.
Where is he going with this, thought Santini. Stay calm.
“Can we take a look at room H21?”
Room H21? How on Earth did he know that? What’s going on here? Santini’s heart pounded up into his tightening throat.
“Are you alright, Bishop?” asked Callahan. “Is there something about H21 I should know?”
“No… no, no,” stammered Santini. “It’s just… just that in terms… in terms of a theft, it is shocking to think anyone would have taken anything from H21.” Recover yourself, he thought. Think. Think. Nobody can find out about that treaty. Promise yourself. Promise your Church.
“Why is that, Bishop?”
“H21 is a sorting room for our Twelfth and Thirteenth Century collection of papal manuscripts. They are absolutely irreplaceable.” Good job, he told himself, stay on this line. “Absolutely irreplaceable.”
That got to him, thought Callahan. H21 is the last thing he wants to hear.
“Can we take a look at H21?” asked Callahan.
“Certainly. Certainly. Can I ask why?”
Callahan shrugged. “Sure. The security logs show it was opened with your keycard shortly after the cameras show you and the two thieves entering the building.”
Think very carefully, and speak very carefully, Santini thought. “Impossible. I never went near it.”
“Let’s just take a look.” Callahan stood up and immediately felt light-headed. Must have stood up too fast. The doctors had warned him about concussions.
When they reached H21, Santini took a seat while Callahan wandered around. He has no idea what he’s looking at, thought Santini.
“So, who opened the door, Bishop?”
“I’ve been puzzling over that, and I think I understand what happened.” Be very careful, he thought. Callahan’s exhaustion might be an act. “I presume the thief took my keycard after I was unconscious.”
“Used it and then went back to the reading room and put it back around your neck?”
“Well, no. When I awoke, my things were scattered around.” He fingered the glasses, keys, and keycard hanging around his neck. “The paramedic had removed them and opened my cassock. But I know I had my keycard when I was handcuffed to the table. The next I knew, it was on the floor near me with my other things.”
Santini pressed his fingertips together in front of his chest and nodded a few times. “Yesterday, Mr. Callahan, you asked me to think like the thieves. Well, suppose they didn’t want anyone to know they had been in this room. That’s another reason they might have replaced the keycard.” He shrugged. “Just a thought.”
That was very good, thought Callahan. Liar. “Well, since we know H21 was entered, and it’s logical to presume the thieves entered, I think the room has to be sealed by security until we can do a detailed inventory and a forensic examination.”
Callahan flipped open his cell phone. “Mancini, yeah, it’s Callahan. I need a twenty-four hour guard on room H21 in the library. Cut off all keycard access. That includes me and Bishop Santini. Once nobody can get in, we can start opening it up one card at a time. We need to do a detailed inventory to see if anything’s missing.”
“You can’t do that,” sputtered Santini.
Callahan waved him quiet and went back to the phone. “I’ll close the door and wait for the guard.”
He turned to Santini. “Listen, Santini, something doesn’t compute here, and we need to find out what.”
Just Santini? No longer Bishop Santini? He was being treated like a common criminal. “This is not acceptable. I’ll take this to Cardinal Agretti.”
“Who?”
“Cardinal Agretti, the Vatican Secretary of State. He’s the highest-ranking member of the Curia until we have a new Pope.”
Callahan shrugged. “Sure. Go for it. Give him my number.” He pointed a finger at Santini. “But keep this in mind. One, we have evidence of a crime. Two, this room is now a crime scene. And three, a thousand people got blown to hell out there. So call whoever you want.”
Santini’s indignation was real, and his anger was real. But nothing would be found in H21. Maybe a few filing mistakes, like in any sorting operation, but nothing more, nothing about the Treaty of Tuscany. He had done his duty. To hell with Mr. Callahan.
Chapter Five
Rome - Wednesday, March 25
Just after 5:00 pm, people began to arrive at a run-down second-f
loor office above a vacant warehouse in a shabby section of Rome.
The earliest arrivals came from Italy three days ago, and as the week progressed they came from southern France, Switzerland, Austria, and southern Germany. The last came from the UK. Most came by train, but some used private cars. Some came to the warehouse in taxis, but most arrived on foot, preferring to walk the last few blocks. Some were fit, trim, and moved with the easy confidence of athletes. Others were the everyman in the street. Some looked like maids, and some like fashion models. A surprising number were in their seventies and eighties.
One by one they entered a ground floor garage where four men with FN P90s stood back from the doors. Two more with sniper rifles sat on the roof across the street. The arrivals took little notice of the armed guards and quietly followed instructions. None spoke or showed any signs of recognizing each other.
Inside the garage, each sat in a metal chair, placed a thumb on a glowing pad connected to a computer, and looked into an eyepiece jutting from a small box connected to the computer. A silent man pointed a sawed-off shotgun under the table, watched the computer monitor, and nodded toward Callahan as each thumbprint and retina scan was identified. Callahan pointed them toward the stairs to the second floor.
Upstairs, they first checked out small and large caliber pistols, with silencers where needed. Most slipped a knife in a pocket or purse, and each picked up a packet of one thousand Euros for emergencies. Then they went to their strike teams.
A Templar strike team had at least one controller with a computer in the control center, a Watcher, driver, and shooter. Some had more, depending on the target and location of the strike. Each had a single mission, a single target.
The last to enter was a tall white-haired man and a much younger and very attractive dark-haired woman. The woman sat down and passed the identity check. Marie Curtis, Callahan noticed. She smiled at Callahan and said, “Good to see you again, Callahan. They said you were all beat to hell.” She laughed. “They were right. Is it contagious?”
“No, your beauty is safe. It’s not contagious.” He thought about his problem with Santini in the library. Marie was just what he needed, an expert in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries. “Say, will you be around after this?”
The Templar Concordat Page 12