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

by Hogenkamp, Peter

  He found the Holy Father sitting on a stone bench overlooking the Fontana dei Delfini. The pontiff was leaning forward, resting against the mahogany walking stick he had brought back from his shortened trip to Nigeria. Lucci had seen him on only two occasions since his return; once to tell him of the aborted plot to annihilate Vatican City in a nuclear firestorm, and the other at a formal Curial dinner a few weeks later.

  “Your Holiness.”

  The pope nodded at the seat next to him, and Lucci sat down, disappearing behind the fronds of a banana tree.

  “What do you hear from Father Venetti, Eminence? I understand you saw him recently.”

  Lucci had been expecting this question. It was no secret that the pope was quite fond of the Jesuit priest from Monterosso, and it had been a few weeks since Lucci had arranged for the two of them to meet in Florence.

  “I had some business in Milan. On the way back, I stopped in Monterosso to see how he was. I suppose he is well enough.”

  “Well enough?”

  “Yes, considering everything he has been through.”

  The breeze picked up, carrying with it a line of low gray clouds that scudded over the ancient walls.

  “What now, Eminence?”

  “Now we carry on like we have for over two thousand years.”

  “That sounds like something I would say.”

  “Perhaps you are rubbing off on me, Holiness.”

  “Let us pray I don’t. That isn’t the reason I decided to appoint you as Secretary of State. Nor is it the reason I didn’t interfere with the deal you made with the Americans.”

  The air stuck in Lucci’s throat, just for a second, but long enough for him to feel it sitting there, like a large hairball in his craw.

  “You knew about my deal with the Americans?”

  “I am not the doddering old fool you think me.”

  “How did you find out?”

  The pope gave a dismissive wave, then rose and walked over to the large pomegranate tree bordering the walkway. He plucked off one of the dark red fruits and tossed it up and down. “Do you know what happened after the Saracens razed St. Peter’s Basilica in 846?”

  “Yes, Holiness, I do. Pope Leo IV built walls around the Vatican. I just walked past them on the way up.”

  “He also made an alliance with the fleets of Naples, Amalfi, and Gaeta to defend Rome from the Saracen fleet massing in Sardinia. The attackers were destroyed off Ostia.”

  “Aren’t you the same person who told me to beware of history?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think you were listening.” The pope flashed his pearl-colored teeth. “I came up here the day I found out about your plan, and as I walked past those walls, it struck me: if Leo hadn’t acted decisively, the whole course of history would have been changed. So I allowed your deal with the Americans to stand, and as a consequence, the basilica stands too, as do we.”

  He lobbed the fruit into the fountain in front of them, where it bobbed in the flow of water splashing down from above.

  “And as in all wars, it is the foot soldiers who pay the biggest price.”

  “You are referring to Father Venetti, Holiness?”

  “The Americans kept the communists out of Brazil, and you and I preserved our precious country, but what became of the man who was actually responsible?”

  Lucci considered pretending he didn’t know anything about Brazil’s presidential election, but it was clear the pope had excellent sources of information. He let the comment go unrefuted, thereby confirming his involvement.

  “He has returned to his parish, Holiness. Exactly what he requested.”

  The pope said nothing, but Lucci could see his disbelief in the purse of his lips and the furrow of his ebony brow. “And the nuclear weapons?”

  “Do you remember me telling you I had a lead on Giampaolo Benedetto?”

  The pope nodded.

  “I believe we are very close to locating him. If we can find him, he may be able to lead us to the weapons.”

  “I assume you are making plans to apprehend him?”

  Lucci nodded.

  “I also assume Father Venetti will be a part of these plans?”

  “Yes, Holiness, a big part. Do you have a problem with that?”

  The pope didn’t answer. He clapped Lucci on the shoulder with his huge hand, then started down the gravel path toward the college, using the walking stick to lead the way. Lucci watched him go, and then turned his gaze to the pomegranate, which was still pirouetting gracefully in the current.

  Fifty-Three

  The night was unusually warm for September, even for the little village in Crete tucked away high in the mountains that Giampaolo Benedetto was now calling home. He paced back and forth in the lovely courtyard of the rented farmhouse on top of a hill overlooking a valley of grape arbors and olive trees, a glass of his favorite white wine in his hand—several cases of which he had had shipped here months ago—waiting for his satellite phone to ring. Cell reception was excellent in these parts, but Giampaolo had left his cell phone—as well as so many other things—back in Italy, where it could not be used to track him down.

  “Buona sera, Giampaolo.”

  “Buona sera.”

  “I trust you are well.”

  The electronically modulated voice was devoid of any such sentiment; Giampaolo suspected this was on account of the speaker and not the software.

  “Very. You?”

  “Not well, not well at all.”

  “How unfortunate. Hopefully it’s nothing serious.”

  “Of course it’s serious. That Nigerian impostor still wears the Ring of the Fisherman.”

  It was true. Giampaolo had just seen him on television, bragging to all who would listen that he was building a large Muslim community center in Rome, including a clinic that would provide free medical care for immigrants.

  “You failed me, Giampaolo.”

  “On the contrary.” Giampaolo took a sip of wine to give himself a second to choose the right words. “I did everything I was asked.”

  “Everything except for the one thing that mattered, you mean.”

  “Some things were out of my control.”

  “Quite a few things seemed to be out of your control. They intended to blow up the basilica? That was not part of the plan.”

  The voice stopped speaking; in its place, Giampaolo’s ear was filled with the bleating of goats and the barking of the dog assigned to herd them.

  “St. Peter’s Basilica is a priceless treasure. Thank God the terrorists were stopped.”

  “Now you sound like the Nigerian.”

  “Please don’t ever say that again.”

  It was a threat, which Giampaolo recognized despite the flat electronic tone and lack of inflection.

  “I am afraid I am not going to be able to deliver the final payment of five million euros.”

  “That was not our arrangement.”

  “Do you recall telling me that you would not fail?”

  “Yes, of course, and I didn’t fail.”

  “Pope John Paul III still breathes. That is failure by my way of looking at it.”

  Giampaolo tried to remedy the dryness of his mouth with a large swallow of the wine, but his glass was empty. He made his way over to a rustic wooden table hewn out of the trunk of a massive fig tree, on which a bottle of Avignonesi Vin Santo di Montepulciano 1983 rested inside a marble wine cooler, and refilled his glass.

  “I am going to give you another chance, however.”

  He took another sip, letting the subtle tone of apricot seep into his palate.

  “I am very concerned that the people with whom you … contracted will try again.”

  “Why is this concerning? We want the impostor killed.”

  The voice fell silent. If possible, the silence was more chilling than its cold threats.

  “Because I don’t want them destroying St. Peter’s Basilica and perhaps all of Vatican City in the process.”

  An
other silence. Giampaolo drank more wine.

  “I don’t want the next pope—and who knows who that will be?—to celebrate his first mass in a tent erected upon the rubble of what used to be the greatest monument to God ever created.”

  A cricket chirped. Another joined in, accompanying the first in a shrill duet.

  “So that means we have to kill him first. Understand?”

  “Very well.”

  “I’ll pay you ten million euros.”

  Another ensemble of crickets struck up from the tamarisk tree next to the stone barn on the other side of the property.

  “Half up front.”

  “None up front. All upon completion of the job.”

  The dog barked from the hill below them, causing the crickets to cease their chorus.

  “Agreed?”

  “Yes, agreed.”

  “And one more thing …”

  The crickets started back up, discordant and eerie in the night air.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not a patient man. Don’t fail me again.”

  Fifty-Four

  Marco heard the slap of feet coming down the aisle and reached for his rosary beads. For a second, he thought it was his last penitent coming back—perhaps she had forgotten one of her husband’s sins—but the tread was too light. The door to his left swung open, and a woman sat down on the chair in front of him. Her face was familiar, but he couldn’t quite make it out in the murky light of the confessional.

  “I heard you were back.”

  “Elena?”

  There was no mistaking that voice. He took a second look at her. Her hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail, and her skin had taken on the healthy sheen of a sun worshipper.

  “Cardinal Lucci told me you had moved to Rome.”

  “He said my family would be better off there.”

  Judging by her expensive-looking black leather jacket and silk blouse, Lucci had been right.

  “You look good, Elena.”

  “So do you.”

  It wasn’t true, but he thanked her all the same. His cheeks had been sunken and hollow ever since he had spent three days hiding in moldy cellars, dusty hay mows, and unused garages across Germany, waiting for Pietro to get him and Sarah out of the country. Even Signora Grecci’s cooking hadn’t helped fatten him up, and he was starting to think he would appear malnourished to the end of his days.

  “You heard about what happened to me and Dr. al-Sharim?”

  He nodded. “Thank God you are both all right. I would never forgive myself if something had happened to you.”

  “You do remember, Marco, who got you into this in the first place?”

  He did remember, with absolute clarity, that fateful afternoon in this very same confessional, recalling even the slightest details: the sheen of her long, dark hair; the sweet smell of her; the warmth that radiated from her body like an oven.

  “The nuclear weapons … After everything we did, all that we risked, I feel terrible about it.”

  “There was nothing you could have done. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Marco smelled the acrid reek of a smoldering Marlboro; the caretaker had come to close up the church. He felt like getting some air. “Want to take a walk?”

  She nodded, and they left via the front door leading out to the cobbled piazza. It was cold for September, and the square was empty and dark. Marco threw on the wool peacoat he’d grabbed from the hook in the vestibule and led Elena to the Sentiero Azzurro. They walked side by side along the deserted path, listening to the crash of the breakers below and the rustle of the olive leaves. Something, perhaps the fresh air, sparked his appetite, and they stopped at a trattoria and shared a large bowl of zuppa di datteri, a soup made from the local shellfish. Marco washed it down with a carafe of Sciacchetrà; Elena drank only mineral water. She paid the bill, and they took the ferry back to Monterosso.

  They disembarked and walked along the darkened quay, past the tied-up umbrellas of closed cafés and a line of abandoned benches.

  “What’s her name, Marco?”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The woman on your mind.”

  They skirted a shuttered kiosk and started ascending the stone staircase leading to the village square. “How did you know?”

  “A woman knows these things.”

  He told her about Sarah.

  “Do you love her?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but I think about her all the time.”

  They walked past the taverna, which was still buzzing with laughter, and turned into the quiet alley in front of his church.

  “At night especially.”

  The alley let out onto the small parking lot next to the rectory, and they stopped in front of Elena’s car.

  “I need to see her again, to explain …”

  “To explain what?”

  “Why it could never work between us.”

  “She doesn’t want to hear that. Take it from me.”

  “I still need to tell her. It’s important to me.”

  A curtain flickered in an upstairs room in the rectory; Marco saw Signora Grecci peering at them from the small slit in the faded fabric.

  “There might be a way. I didn’t come here just to say hello.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lucci sent me.”

  The wind picked up, the air turned damp, and a light drizzle fell, slicking the cobbles.

  “What does he want?”

  “You heard about Giampaolo Benedetto?”

  “The Inspector General of the Security Office? The man that conspired with the Saudis?”

  “Yes, him. Lucci thinks he may have located him.”

  “Where?”

  “In Crete.”

  Marco had been to Crete many times, ostensibly to practice the language, but also to stroll the paths that had been laid at the beginning of recorded time, to sip the local wine, and to taste the honey the bees made from the blossoms of the thyme that grew in abundance on the rocky slopes.

  “Let me guess; he wants me to find him.”

  “He wants us to find him. I am to bring you there on a boat, and bring you and Benedetto back to Palermo after you’ve located him. Lucci thinks that finding Benedetto is the key to finding the nuclear weapons.”

  Marco waited for the pit to open in his stomach, but nothing happened. The pope had already prepared him for this moment.

  ‘Am I not going back to Monterosso, Holiness?’

  ‘Yes, you are, but I am certain that opportunities will arise in the future, perhaps the very near future. When they do, I want you to be ready.’

  “We’re supposed to leave from Palermo in a few days.”

  “How does this involve Sarah?”

  “Lucci already asked her to help.”

  The wind lessened, the drizzle ended as quickly as it had started, and a patch of stars appeared on the southern horizon.

  “Did she agree?”

  “I think so … but I’m not sure.”

  “Do I have time to think about it?”

  “I have to return to Rome in a few hours. I’ll stop by before I leave. If you decide to go, have your bag packed.” She kissed him on the cheek beneath Signora Grecci’s disapproving stare and hopped into her car.

  Once her taillights had disappeared behind the café on the other side of the square, Marco jogged down the stone steps leading to the beach. His old boat was gone, but another one had taken its place between the two large rocks that served as a mooring. He clambered aboard, flipped on the search beam bolted to the bow, and headed out to sea. The swell was heavy, but he had a practiced hand, and the boat had a broader keel than his last.

  He docked at his usual spot and tied the line to an iron ring bored into the rock. The cove was protected, and the sea was smooth, making it easy for him to climb out with his fishing net in hand. He had inverted the search lamp, and he could see that its luminescence had already attracted a school of anchovies.
He looped the cord around his wrist, tossed the net over the fish, and watched as its weighted ends closed over the prey. He pulled the cord taut and hauled the fish out of the water, depositing them in an old pail filled with seawater.

  It wasn’t long before the gulls found him and gobbled down his catch as fast as he could haul it in. But he didn’t mind; at least they were company. When his hands had grown too cold to work the net and his ears had grown weary of the continual arguing, he returned the few remaining anchovies to their home, and boarded the boat to return to his.

  About halfway back, he cut the engine, killed the light, and sat with his hands gripping the gunwale as the boat rocked in the growing swell. The pope’s words floated to him on the soft night-time breeze: ‘You will be my eyes and my ears.’ He watched the moonlight scatter over the disquieted waters, and for a moment it was as if he had never gazed into the cold blue eyes of Cardinal Lucci or kissed the warm lips of Sarah Messier. The moment faded, and then passed altogether, and he fired up the motor and started home to pack his bag.

  * * *

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  The Vatican Conspiracy is truly a book I have been writing in my head for many years. Its very first origins can be traced to my days at College of the Holy Cross, where I got to know a number of the Jesuit priests. As I interacted with them in their roles as professors, dormitory heads, and mentors, I was so impressed by their intelligence, their thoughtfulness, and most especially their humanity. I’d like to think that Father Marco was born there, on the hill overlooking Worcester, Massachusetts.