The Vatican Conspiracy: A completely gripping action thriller (A Marco Venetti Thriller Book 1)

by Hogenkamp, Peter

  “I don’t know why I like you, Mr. Foster.”

  “I’m likeable, and I tell you the truth, unlike those yes men you surround yourself with. The unadulterated truth.”

  “Okay, so tell me the unadulterated truth. What should I do?”

  “Meet with my friend.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t help us.”

  Foster smiled the kind of smile a teacher might give to his best student after he incorrectly answered a difficult question.

  “No, I said we couldn’t take care of the problem for you. But we can give you information, and in the end, information is more important than anything else.”

  “How do we do this? I assume he isn’t just going to stroll into my office.”

  “You assume correctly. I already took the liberty of making preliminary arrangements. I will meet you at our embassy in Rome tomorrow night at nine p.m. Have your driver park in the garage below the basement. Stay in the car until I come for you.”

  Lucci nodded. “See you tomorrow night.”

  “We’re not done quite yet.”

  “We’re not?”

  “No. You haven’t told me what really happened in St. Peter’s Square.”

  “Actually, I did.”

  “The thing about God not being dead?”

  Lucci nodded.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “I want your word that the following conversation will never be repeated, in any form. This is between you and me. Agreed?”

  Foster had been appointed by President Patrick Shanahan to help the Vatican deal with the multiple threats to its security. As a presidential appointee, he had the highest-level security clearance and the authority to share any information he deemed pertinent. More importantly, he reported only to three people: the director of the CIA, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and the President of the United States.

  “As long as what you tell me doesn’t concern our security, I agree.”

  “It has nothing to do with your security.”

  Foster nodded.

  Lucci returned to his desk, poured another whiskey, and retold Father Venetti’s story. Foster, a thirty-five-year veteran of the CIA, listened without interruption until the end.

  “If you made that tale up, you’re a lot cleverer than I gave you credit for, and if you didn’t, you’re a lot luckier.”

  “How much of Venetti’s story can you corroborate?”

  Foster considered this as he flicked his cigar, showering ash over the burgundy carpet. “Most of it, actually, although I don’t know jack about this assassin priest of yours.”

  “Father Venetti is a Jesuit priest, Mr. Foster, not an assassin.”

  “Anyone who kills four Islamic extremists is an assassin in my book—and one I’d like to meet.” Foster got up from his chair and walked around the room, smoke trailing from his cigar like a locomotive in dire need of repair. “You got a dossier on him?”

  Lucci nodded and pointed to a thin manila folder on his desk. “I had it brought by courier from La Spezia last night.” He opened the folder and began to paraphrase. “He was born in Messina … His father was a captain in the Italian navy … His mother is a teacher in a local Catholic school … Educated at Istituto S. Ignazio, a Jesuit secondary school in Messina … Spent eighteen months in the navy, as a lieutenant in the Gruppo Operativo Subacquei, the sub-branch responsible for underwater salvage and repair … Discharged ten years ago …”

  “Did he receive any commendations, reprimands, weapons training?”

  “He received the Gold Medal of Military Valor, the highest award given by the Italian navy, for saving the life of the other sailors in his unit when they were attacked by pirates off the coast of Somalia.”

  Foster stared at him. “Are you shitting me?”

  Lucci shook his head. “Eight Somali pirates tried to hijack his salvage unit in the Gulf of Boosaaso; Father Venetti killed three of them, wounded one, and drove off the other four.”

  Foster whistled. “And they discharged him afterward?”

  “At his request. He entered the seminary shortly thereafter at the Collegium Canisianum in Innsbruck, Austria.”

  “Wait, he kills three men and then goes into the priesthood?”

  “Father Venetti is a very complex man, Mr. Foster. His father comes from a martial family, navy men the whole lot of them. His mother is from a religious family from the South Tyrol. Father Venetti is a man of both worlds, with a strong sense of duty and an equally strong conscience. Even in the line of duty, killing three men could not have been easy to accept. Perhaps entering the seminary was his way of seeking absolution. I don’t know—I didn’t ask him—but I wonder.

  “Anyway, he was ordained after seven years in the seminary and spent the first four years as an associate pastor in the diocese of La Spezia. Five years ago, he was made pastor of San Giovanni Battista in Monterosso.”

  “Any slip-ups? One-night stands? Brief flings? Accusations?”

  “You really are a depraved man.”

  Foster shrugged. “It’s a depraved world.”

  “I do see a notation at the bottom here.” Lucci pointed to the last page of the dossier.

  “Yes?”

  “One of the other priests in his deanery, a Father DiPietro, did mention something to the bishop.”

  “About what?”

  “About rumors he had heard concerning the amount of attention Father Venetti was paying to a young woman in his parish.”

  “I’ll bet you that’s Elena.”

  “It doesn’t say, but I agree. In any event, the bishop looked into the matter and saw no grounds for an investigation, and that was the end of it.”

  Foster stubbed out his cigar on the marble bookend atop Lucci’s desk, and sat down again, slumping worse than ever. “So, let me sum this up. A Jesuit priest from Monterosso with nothing more than a speargun killed four highly trained terrorists, including Mohammed Sadir, a man on the most wanted list of every Western country from Israel to the United States. Additionally, he personally saved the Holy Father’s life during an event that was being covered by international television.”

  “That about sums it up, Mr. Foster.”

  “Maybe you were right after all.”

  “Right about what?”

  Foster raised his glass; what little of the bourbon remained sloshed around in his unsteady hand.

  “About God not being dead yet.”

  Lucci clinked Foster’s glass with his own. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Fifteen

  Marco awoke early, dressed in the black robe that had been laid out for him, and moved out to the porch. A gray dawn was breaking over the old city. A flight of stone steps curled away from his perch, and he started down, descending into a labyrinth of foliage and fragrant blooms. He wandered around in the early-morning gloom, following a winding footpath of crushed stone. A bench presented itself, and he sat down, listening to the bickering of the sparrows. The light collected, and he made out another bench to his right, wedged in between two azalea bushes. A large figure sat in the middle of the bench, hunched over a wooden staff.

  “Is that you, Father Venetti?”

  “Yes, Holiness.”

  “I thought so. Come join me.”

  Marco sat down next to a brown ceramic mug of coffee belching steam into the air.

  “Did you not sleep well?”

  “I have been sleeping for three days. What about you?”

  “I like the early morning. There are no cardinals around to bother me. Only sparrows. I like the sparrows better.”

  Marco assumed that by cardinals, the pope meant men, not birds.

  “Coffee?”

  He nodded.

  The pope stood up and vanished into the gloom. Several minutes later he reappeared, accompanied by a black priest carrying a tray loaded with coffee and supplies. They sipped their drinks and listened to the muffled sounds of the early morning: the distant bark of an excited dog, the low rumb
le of a truck climbing the steep gradient to the castle, and the incessant chatter of the sparrows.

  “Do you know what John Paul II did after he was shot four times by Mehmet Ali Ağca?”

  Marco nodded, but said nothing. It was common knowledge that the pope had issued a statement saying he had forgiven the Bulgarian.

  “Do you know why he forgave him?”

  Marco had his theories, but he kept them to himself. The Holy Father had a point to make; Marco wanted to let him make it.

  “Because there was no other choice. All other roads would have led to more hatred and further violence. The Pole understood that; he was an inspired man.”

  The pope drooped a long arm down and shoveled a handful of bird food from the pail at the foot of the bench. He tossed it in front of him, creating a maelstrom of feathers and small darting bodies.

  “In Nigeria, my people don’t have enough to eat, and in Italy, even the sparrows grow fat. That is why they hate us. Remember that.”

  The priest returned, and the pontiff whispered a few words in what Marco assumed was his native tongue. He disappeared again, long black robe swishing, and came back soon after with a platter of fruit. He set it down on the tray, smiled widely at Marco, and melted away.

  “How will you respond?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I am here. The quiet resounds with wisdom.”

  “Perhaps I should leave.”

  The pope shook his head. “There is no need.”

  Marco nodded and remained seated, glad to have company. He had woken up to the endless replay of his misadventures and had grown tired of them as one grows tired of a movie seen too many times. He had succeeded in putting the horror show of sights and sounds and smells to the back of his mind, but he could still feel it there, like Pandora’s box waiting to be opened.

  “What would you do?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The Cardinal Secretary and I have a difference of opinion on the matter.”

  “Aren’t you the pope?”

  “Yes, I am. But it isn’t that easy. Cardinal Lucci is a perceptive man. He has counseled me wisely many times. I would be a fool not to consider his opinion.”

  Marco selected a slice of cantaloupe and cut a wedge of cheese; he was famished.

  “What does Cardinal Lucci say?”

  “He is concerned that taking the same approach as John Paul II would invite more attacks. He believes the jihadists would see forgiveness as weakness, an unwillingness to fight back.”

  “I think he has a point.”

  “Unfortunately, so do I.”

  They lapsed into silence, bearing witness to the gathering of the light.

  “On the other hand, perpetuating the cycle of violence is unthinkable. I would just as soon raze the basilica myself.”

  “Is there not a difference between punishing the perpetrators of terrorism and perpetuating the cycle of violence? John Paul II forgave his assailant, Holiness, but he didn’t release him.”

  “But the situations are not comparable. The Bulgarian acted alone, at least if you ignore the report of the Mitrokhin Commission. This most recent attack was a highly organized and coordinated event, requiring significant amounts of time, money, and people. The response has to be larger in keeping with the nature of the crime.”

  “Now you sound like Cardinal Lucci.”

  “I don’t think so, Marco. I certainly hope not, anyway, no disrespect to His Eminence. By larger I mean more comprehensive, not necessarily more violent. But an effort at destroying us such as this has to be addressed, at every level. It is my nature to seek out the more fundamental causes of the problem; it is Cardinal Lucci’s to look for the more immediate.”

  The pope threw more seed into the air, creating another flurry of birds.

  “Cardinal Lucci wants to punish the responsible parties, and you want to correct the underlying conditions that drove the parties to terrorism in the first place.”

  The pontiff nodded.

  “I’d say it’s a lot easier Lucci’s way.”

  “And that is why nothing ever gets solved, Marco. The real problems are difficult to understand, much less solve. But I think we are obligated by our humanity to try.”

  “Is it possible to do both? Or does one choice obviate the other?”

  A black cat, hidden until this point behind a large echinacea plant, made a sudden lunge at the sparrows and succeeded in snaring one. It walked away with its prize hanging limply in its mouth. A moment later, the rest of the flock returned to the path, pecking at the remaining food as if nothing had happened.

  “I think you can’t do both. How can you win the battle for the hearts and minds of the Muslim world when you simultaneously slaughter their leaders?”

  “The jihadists are not the leaders of the Muslim world.”

  “Perhaps not, but sympathy for their cause runs very deep among Muslims. The more we press the attack, the deeper the sympathy runs.”

  “So we lie down every time they attack us, just so we don’t risk making them hate us more? You can’t turn the other cheek when the enemy has Russian-made plastic explosives.”

  “The tenets of Christianity don’t lose relevance with the advance of technology. On the contrary, they become more critical as the destructive power of modern weaponry increases. The price of war becomes impossibly steep with thermonuclear weapons and only God knows what else. The pursuit of peace is the only answer.”

  “But they aren’t playing by the same rules, Holiness. Christian principles mean nothing to them.”

  “But they should mean everything to us. It is our response to this atrocity that will determine if and when the next attack will come. If they provoke us, and we respond in kind, the cause is lost.”

  “I agree with everything you have said, Holiness, I do. But one fact remains: the only reason you are sitting here talking to me is because I did not do as you said.”

  The pope nodded. “I realize that, and it gives me great pause.” He stopped speaking, true to his word, and contemplated the flock of sparrows. “Great pause.”

  Abayd sat behind his desk and stared at his laptop, a rare smile on his round, dark face. His cousin had just texted him the date and time when the mysterious computer program had been installed, confirming that he wasn’t paranoid—not that he ever gave that theory much credence.

  As the head of the prince’s bodyguard, Abayd kept a detailed record of KiKi’s daily schedule, and he kept it forever. As a consequence, he knew for certain that KiKi had not downloaded the program, because at the precise moment of its installation, he had been under sedation during a routine colonoscopy. Abayd also knew that only one other person had been allowed in the room: his personal physician.

  He allowed himself to bask in a short moment of personal satisfaction, and then permitted the angst to settle in his brain. As his instincts had told him, they were in big trouble. Dr. al-Sharim had not risked his life to install a program on KiKi’s phone to monitor his health. He also had not done it alone; Abayd stood ready to bet his pension he was working with a foreign intelligence agency, most likely the CIA.

  He was sure it had started with the doctor’s trip to Monaco several years ago. He had ordered full-time surveillance, but his watchers must have missed the contact. Not that this surprised him; his men were good, but the CIA was better.

  The fucking CIA.

  Small wonder Jibril had been defeated by the encryption. The NSA was second to none in this sort of thing. He picked up the phone and texted his cousin to meet him on the knoll. He waited twenty minutes, and then went out and walked up to the rendezvous.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Never mind that.” He told Jibril about what he’d discovered.

  “How do you know it’s the CIA?”

  “Feminine intuition.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not.”

  “The fucking CIA, Abayd!”

  “We need to know
what’s in that program.”

  Jibril reached inside his black nylon jacket for his Marlboros; he was a nervous man who liked to smoke cigarettes to calm his nerves. Apparently, it didn’t work very well, because he lit one after another. Abayd waited for him to clear his mind with a deep inhalation, looking him over as he waited. Jibril was not your typical bodyguard. He was small and slight, with a narrow, hairless face and thin, wispy hair.

  “There might be a way.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s going to be expensive.”

  Abayd was sure he could hear the cash register sounding in his cousin’s brain. The man was as much of an opportunist as he was—which was saying something. “Go on.”

  “If you’re right about the CIA, there are certain products available if you know where to look.”

  “What kind of products?”

  “Code-breaking software.”

  “Will it work?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never tried anything like this before.”

  “How much is it?”

  Jibril considered this question during a long drag. Abayd could see him punching the calculator buttons in his head, adjusting the price to include his personal fee.

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Get it. I don’t care about the damn cost. I need to know what’s in that program, and I need to know very soon.”

  “I need a few days.”

  “A few days? Can’t you just download the fucking thing and get on with it?”

  A smile crossed Jibril’s face. “If it were that easy, cousin, even a Neanderthal like you could do it.”

  Abayd ignored the barb. “Get going right away. Give me KiKi’s phone and find him a spare to use in the meantime.”

  “What am I supposed to tell him?”

  “I have no idea, but you’re a sneaky bastard; you’ll think of something. And Jibril, I don’t care if you are my cousin; if you breathe a word of this to anyone else, I will kill you myself.”

  Sixteen

  Cardinal Lucci had never been in a CIA safe flat before, so he had no idea what to expect. Even so, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. It was nondescript to a fault and smelled like an old smoking jacket. He wrinkled his nose and looked around. Molded plastic chairs and battered sofas littered the interior; the walls were bare and scored with tack marks; the unpolished wooden floor bore a thousand scuffs. A small kitchenette lay off the living room; an old coffee pot and a battered refrigerator were its only occupants.