The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  Petros Eni - Peter is here.

  He could not walk past it, no matter how urgent his mission.

  A small yellow lamp illuminated the cavity lower down in the wall, that had been discovered by the accidental blow of an excavators pickaxe. A cavity lined with marble containing a treasure wrapped in a cloth of purple and gold. The most sacred relics in the Catholic Church.

  Walter had been down here many times before, but the place always caught him up in its magic. He could never quite believe that inside this small cavity lay the bones of St. Peter - Simon called Peter - The Fisherman.

  Here was the keeper of the keys to heaven.

  Walter stood with his head bowed and mumbled a silent prayer.

  “We don’t have time for this,” An agitated Pietro whispered hard into his ear.

  Walter quickly crossed himself and moved on.

  A security guard stood at the bottom. He nodded as he recognized Pietro but still insisted on checking both their security passes.

  A series of dim lights illuminated the short passageway ahead.

  “We have had security teams down here.” Pietro kept up a nervous running commentary in a low voice as Walter moved quickly forward. “They found nothing.”

  Walter glanced back at Pietro. “Which means it’s still here.”

  He turned at the end into a long passageway running the length of the necropolis but quickly stopped outside the mausoleum. Walter stepped inside.

  Two spotlights supported on tripods brightly lit the interior. A magnificent display case in dark oak dominated the cramped space. It was about four feet wide with a depth of around eighteen inches, supported by exquisitely carved, yet sturdy legs. The master craftsmanship was evident in the finely filigreed etching that ran elegantly around the outer surface, yet it was not the least bit showy or pretentious. Its surface was sanded smooth as glass and seemed to hold an oily sheen that gave it an almost seraphic glow. The hum of the environmental conditioning unit sitting at the back of the room seemed somehow foreign to the otherwise quiet holiness of the place.

  Walter moved up to stand in front of it. Inside was a container with thick glass, encasing the scroll, illuminated by thin strip lights. The parchment was still rolled, its surface cracked and crumbling at the edges.

  Though his rational mind was telling him the whole thing was an elaborate fake, another part of him was telling him something entirely different.

  “Father Walter,” Pietro hissed in his ear.

  “Okay, okay,” Walter held up a hand. He took a deep breath and meshed his fingers together, bending them outwards with a satisfying crack.

  “Let’s take a peek at you my little beauty.”

  83

  Central Security Office, Vatican Gendarmerie.

  Commissario De Mateo entered his office, still trying to make sense of the message he had been given, especially in light of the story that Father Walter had told him. A story, that despite everything telling his trained policeman’s man mind that it was all circumstantial, that there was not a single piece of evidence to support it, he still believed to be true. Perhaps it was simply because to that same tidy policeman’s mind, it just seemed to put all the pieces in place. And besides, his policeman’s gut also told him it was true.

  The man was just as handsome as in all the photographs and the TV coverage he had seen of him, though he had never met him in person before.

  “Commissario De Mateo. A great pleasure to meet you.” The man flashed a charm filled smile and held out his hand. “Dominic de Vaux.”

  “Monsieur De Vaux, what a surprise. I thought you were one of the honored guests at the service. I am afraid St. Peter’s is completely locked down now that the US President has arrived. I am not sure I can get you inside.”

  “Not to worry, Commissario, I fear it may be rather dull anyway. I will blend in at the end as they are all filing out.”

  “So, how can I be of service?”

  “Actually, it is how I can be of service to you.”

  De Mateo gave him a quizzical look.

  “You may know, I am the Chairman of Excalibur Security, we are supplying a number of personnel to supplement the overall security effort for this occasion. One of my senior officers has reported seeing a man who is on your watch list. A certain Catholic Priest, Father Joseph Fagan.”

  “Really?”

  “And he is accompanied by another interesting party. French DGSE agent, Francoise Lefevre. I believe her agency has reported her as a cause for concern.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “Unfortunately my people have temporarily lost them, but I am sure it is just a matter of time before they find and apprehend them. Nevertheless, I thought it best that I inform you, so that you can warn your own people to be on the lookout.”

  “Well thank you, Monsieur de Vaux.”

  De Mateo did not voice his other thought. Why did you not get your security people to contact me before now? And why did you, honored guest of the Vatican, leave the Pope’s funeral service? You would most certainly know that you would be unable to get back inside the Basilica once the President of the United States arrived - or get out.

  But he already knew the answer to that. Yet another thing that confirmed Father Walter’s story. Dominic de Vaux had no intention of getting back inside St. Peter’s. In fact, he would want to be as far away as possible, when his personal gift to the Vatican, and to the world, went off.

  Unfortunately, like Father Walter’s story, he had only instinct, no proof. De Vaux was going to walk out of here, and he could not do a damned thing about it.

  “I will alert my people. Perhaps you would like to watch everything from our control room. You are more than welcome to stay.”

  “Thank you but no. I have a few things that I need to attend to.” De Vaux flashed the smile again and held out his hand. “A pleasure to be of service.”

  De Mateo took it reluctantly, wanting desperately to snap a handcuff on to it.

  He watched De Vaux depart then selected his private band on his communicator.

  “Pietro, what the hell is going on down there?”

  84

  St Peter’s Necropolis, The Vatican Scavi.

  Walter lay on his back beneath the cabinet. The stone floor cold, even through his clothing. But despite that, his back was soaked with sweat.

  He had drilled a small hole in the wooden base, using the hand drill from Pietro’s box of tricks, and he was now inserting a long flexible fiber optic cable into the hole. He shuffled on to his side and picked up a handheld control box that was connected to the end of the cable. He studied a small screen, set in the front. A light on the cabinet end of the fiber optic lit up the inside of the base, and with the help of a small joystick, he was able to move around the focus of the tiny camera inside.

  He stopped the travel of the camera and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. He stared again at the screen letting his eyes run over the detail of what he saw.

  “Oh dear.”

  “What is going on?” Pietro pushed his head in beside him. “What can you see?”

  “My dear Pietro, I see our worst nightmare. I see plastic explosive. I see electronics. I see some kind of communications device, no doubt the trigger mechanism.”

  “But all cell communications are shut down.”

  “I already explained this to your boss. They’re not using the cell phone network. They’re almost certainly using the same security channels you’re using.”

  “How can they do that? It is a secure channel.”

  Walter resisted the urge to reach out and strangle him. “Pietro, trust me. Now, do you have some kind of signal booster down here to help you communicate through all this stone?” Walter waved a hand above his head.

  “Yes, we have radio repeaters at either end of the corridor.”

  “Well, unless they’ve got their own, which I doubt. They’re using yours.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We shut
them down.”

  “I cannot do that. That is our main means of communication. I need to contact the Commissario.”

  “My friend, it takes a pulse of digital transmission a few microseconds in duration to make this thing go up with a very big bang. The least sign of any unusual activity upstairs and they will set this thing off. Trust me, there’s nothing that the Commissario can do, even if you contact him.

  “I’m afraid it’s all down to you and me, my old son.”

  Pietro swallowed hard. “If we shut down the repeaters will that stop the signal getting through.”

  “There’s no guarantee, but it will help.”

  Pietro scrambled out from beneath the cabinet and disappeared. Walter contemplated what was above him and the fear reached up his throat. He slid out and struggled to his feet, his heart racing, threatening to end it all now. He stood in front of the cabinet, his body shaking, desperately trying to resist the urge to run.

  Everything went black.

  Walter couldn’t breathe.

  Has the bomb gone off? Am I?

  Walter realized he was holding his breath. He let out an audible sigh then filled his lungs. His eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He could make out the vague outline of the cabinet. And something else. There appeared to be a faint bluish glow emanating from it. His hands gripped its wooden frame and he leaned forward. The glow seemed to be coming from the scroll itself, seeming brighter at the edges. He leaned closer.

  The lights came on, illuminating the room. Walter blinked, still staring at the scroll. The glow was gone.

  “Sorry about that.” Pietro appeared at the door. “Damned generator keeps cutting out.” He looked at Walter who was still leaning over the cabinet, staring at the scroll. “Are you all right?”

  “What?” Walter seemed to shake himself out of his trance.

  “Walter, we are running out of time.”

  “I’m on it.” Walter pointed to a long package leaning against the wall. “Hand me that. I need to get this turkey ready for the oven.”

  85

  St Peter’s Basilica, The Vatican.

  Commissario De Mateo stepped into the nave of the Basilica and looked across to where his Pope, his mentor, and friend, lay in a simple open cypress coffin, beneath the grand bronze canopy of Bernini’s Baldacchino di San Pietro. He had knelt beside him the previous evening in prayer and contemplation, and prayed for his soul and his forgiveness.

  Was everything Father Walter told him, true? He knew deep in his heart that it was. And if that were true, then he had surely failed this good and holy man, who had entrusted his life to him. He had faltered in his most sacred duty. He had failed to keep him safe.

  Pope Salus was clothed in his familiar white soutane, over which he wore a red chasuble, the traditional color of Papal mourning. A pallium of white lamb’s wool had been placed around his neck. And on his head, he wore his white, bishop’s miter. In his arms rested Pope Paul VI’s pastoral cross-staff and in his hands, he clasped a wooden rosary. On his feet were plain, red leather papal shoes.

  A squad of Swiss Guards, dressed in their finest purple and gold livery, stood to attention beside the coffin with more positioned all around the walls of the nave. Back in the shadows were twice that number of security guards dressed in black combat fatigues and body armor, ready for any eventuality - except the one they were facing. The one that all their preparation had said could never happen.

  The Requiem Mass was already in full swing, now presided over by Cardinal Luigi Scalatchi from Bologna, who was the most senior of all the Vatican Conclave and currently the bookie’s favorite to be the next one to wear the Papal ring.

  The American President had already taken his seat beside the US Ambassador in the second row, though former Presidents had stayed away. Behind him were a large percentage of the world’s leaders, a number of major and minor European royals, and various leaders and dignitaries from the world’s Christian churches. Unfortunately, the news of the scroll had kept away those who the Holy Father had sought to reach out to.

  In the front row sat the Cardinals of the Vatican Conclave, on public view for the last time before they were locked away in the Sistine Chapel to elect the Pope’s successor.

  If they ever got the chance.

  De Mateo had left the control room for a reason. He knew he needed to be right here, in this holiest of places. Not because it brought him close to his mentor, or even closer to his God. But because if that bomb went off, he did not want to be around to explain why.

  Cardinal Scalatchi had finished his eulogy, and the Sistine Chapel choir were singing Agnus Dei De Angelis, their voices filling the entire chamber with a rich, sonorous resonance. De Mateo moved back into the shadows and set his communicator on to his private channel.

  “Pietro, tell me what is going on down there, or I’ll come down and shoot you both.”

  86

  Della Vittoria, Rome.

  “Good, we’re all set then. Four o’clock. All my men will be clear by then.”

  Blanchet hung up the call to De Vaux and looked at his watch.

  Fifteen minutes to go.

  He stood out on the balcony looking out across the rooftops of the eternal city, the domed roof of St. Peter’s Basilica standing proud above all the others in the haze of the afternoon sunshine.

  But not for long.

  “We have a visitor.” The guard, sitting just inside, studying a laptop, called out to him.

  Blanchet set the cell phone beside the transceiver on a glass topped table and walked in through the open French windows. The guard turned the laptop so his boss could see.

  Blanchet leaned in for a better look. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Fagan, seated on the sofa next to Frankie, turned his head and tried to get a glimpse of the screen.

  Moments later a white faced and breathless Father Julius Mengen appeared in the doorway.

  “We have a problem.”

  “Mengen, you slimy son of a bitch.” Fagan tried to get up, but the guard standing behind the sofa grabbed his shoulder and ground the barrel of a gun into his neck.

  Mengen’s weasel eyes fixed on him. “You would not even begin to understand.”

  “Julius,” Blanchet cut in. “You were not supposed to come out here.”

  “I had no choice. Father Brennan sent me. The priest, McGeechan, came to see him. He knows it all, or at least most of it.”

  “And where is McGeechan now?”

  “Father Brennan locked him in his office, but he got away. He thinks he may have gone to De Mateo.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Blanchet swore then spoke into the mike of his communicator, concealed beneath his shirt. “How are things looking down there?”

  A voice crackled in his ear. “Everything normal. We were about to extract.”

  “Okay, get out now.” Blanchet looked at his watch. “You have three minutes.”

  Blanchet put an arm around Mengen’s shoulder and led him back into the hallway. He gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks, Julius. You need to get somewhere safe.”

  Mengen nodded and headed towards the front door. Blanchet watched him as he went, then lifted his silenced pistol and shot him in the back of the head.

  Fagan was not able to see, but he knew the sound of a silenced pistol and a falling body.

  “More loose ends?” he said as Blanchet stepped back into the room.

  Blanchet gave a casual shrug. “The needs of the many.”

  Fagan tried to appear calm, but his mind was reeling from what Mengen had said. A sense of relief that Walter had made it to De Mateo. But with it a gut churning sense of disgust - Brennan.

  Looking back on it now, it all made sense. When Brennan had spoken to him and Walter, he had been digging for information. And he had got close to Luca because he knew he had William’s ear. Not that he would have got much there. But was he the one listening in to Luca’s phone?

  Was that why Luca had to go? Wa
s it Brennan who had pointed the finger and Blanchet had acted?

  “And what about Father Brennan?” Fagan struggled to hold back the anger. “Is he next?” A part of him desperately wanted that to be true.

  “Oh no,” Blanchet shook his head. “Father Brennan is my boss’s hero. He dispatched Cardinal Vogler when he was starting to work things out. And who else could have got close enough to silence the Pope himself? No, my friend, Father Brennan is untouchable. He’s a vital part of the grand plan.”

  Fagan tried to give a cutting reply, but he struggled to speak.

  Brennan killed William.

  The thought seemed to suck the life out of him.

  Blanchet smiled. “Thought you had it all worked out? This whole thing is much bigger than you could possibly imagine.” He took another look at his watch. “I’d love to chat but I’m afraid time is up. If your fat friend has been in blabbing to the Commissario and has managed to persuade De Mateo to believe him, well, let’s not wait to find out.” He headed out on to the terrace and picked up the radio transceiver.

  Fagan knew he had to move, but the guard was still standing with his gun barrel firmly pressed into his neck. He could only look on, helplessly.

  Blanchet stood in the middle of the terrace holding the transceiver and looked back at Fagan. The smile on his face widened as he pressed the transmit button. But instead of a look of triumph, the smile froze. He pushed the button again, and again. He looked towards the domed rooftop of St. Peter’s, still there, standing proud in the hazy sunshine. His face turned to one of intense rage, and he smashed the radio on the marble tiles at his feet.