The Seventh Commandment

by Tom Fox

  ‘We’re getting thousands of similar reads an hour,’ Corso continued. ‘But the algorithms Pietro coded are doing a great job of monitoring each IP to see if subsequent online activity suggests anything more than casual interest.’ He nodded in the third man’s direction, and the other coder simply shrugged at the recognition.

  ‘However,’ Corso added, raising a hand from his mouse to point at an IP trail he’d highlighted on his screen, ‘then there’s this one.’

  Vico adjusted his glasses and leaned forward. A large window contained a text-based log of the web sites accessed by the flagged IP address since, and simultaneous to, viewing the various stories about the tablet.

  ‘Shit,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’ Corso smiled. He’d done his work well. ‘Then the same IP started accessing a morphological analysis database hosted at Tufts University in the USA.’

  ‘Morphological analysis?’

  ‘It’s an online tool that lets you input various cuneiform symbols and it analyses grammatical forms, variant readings, comparisons with other texts, that kind of thing. Really quite advanced.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Vico’s breath exhaled slowly.

  ‘And yes, to answer your next question, it definitely allows for searches in Akkadian.’

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Vico began to pace the expanse of their little room. Then he spun towards Corso.

  ‘I presume you can locate the IP source?’

  ‘I can do you one better than that,’ his friend answered, his grin now covering the whole of his pockmarked face, ‘and give you something more. The IP address traces to a public terminal in a hotel, here in the city.’ He picked up a tablet on which he’d already scribbled down an address.

  ‘And the something more?’ Vico asked.

  ‘The morphological analysis database I mentioned? It requires access credentials to log in.’

  Vico’s face brightened as he realised what this meant.

  ‘They were easy enough to hack,’ Corso confirmed. ‘The person who logged in from the IP address of a computer in that hotel, a few minutes ago, is Dr Angelina Calla.’

  47

  St Peter’s Square

  Vatican City

  The whole of the famous circular piazza had been cordoned off by uniformed members of the Swiss Guard for the past two hours. A handful in their ceremonial garb still stood at their official posts with halberds and pikes in hand, guarding the main points of access to the papal quarters as they had for hundreds of years, but the mass of their fellow Guardsmen were in combat uniform: navy fabric tailored much closer to their bodies for unobstructed movement and their halberds replaced with Swiss Arms SG550s and Heckler & Koch MP5s.

  They had taken up positions around the square in a formation that had been practised and rehearsed dozens of times by each of them. The moment that the general alarm was sounded and the piazza identified as the focal point of instruction – with the extra code 1187 broadcast over their earpieces, indicating active gunfire – the procedure had been automatic and efficient. Two teams swept into the Palace to encapsulate the Pope in a protective enclave three layers deep. His location was always known through a small broadcasting microchip woven into each of the three white cassocks he wore in public, as well as into his bedclothes and any other items he might wear in private settings, and there were always at least four Guardsmen within earshot of the Supreme Pontiff. At this moment, there were more than a dozen.

  Outside, the three fully armed SWAT-style teams had ringed off the city-state: two taking up positions round the whole of the piazza, while another divided up and supplemented the usual presence at each of the access points to Vatican City. Until the situation was cleared, God’s earthly city was closed to the world.

  Filtering out the few terrified pilgrims who had remained as the Guard locked down the piazza had been made easier by the fact that the city-wide blackout, which then had still rendered the whole area dark, had greatly reduced the number of visitors in the large space. The gunshots themselves had depleted it significantly more, as everyone in earshot had run for all they were worth. By the time the Guard arrived en masse, supplementing the ten who were always in position at or near the square and who had sprung into action immediately, the piazza was almost empty.

  That had been two hours ago. Since then the power across the city had come back on, each person in the square had been photographed by the Guard and interviewed prior to being permitted to leave, and pressure was mounting to reopen the ‘borders’ between Rome and the Vatican: the few streets, gates and public access points which were in most cases also major arteries of movement through the city.

  But Hans Heinrich had no intention of recommending to his superiors that they be reopened until he had more material to work with.

  The same generators that had earlier been called into service to power the Swiss Guard’s operations centre hardwired electric current not only into their bunker-like underground compound, but also to certain vital security systems throughout Vatican City. These included the CCTV cameras and security equipment in the papal chambers and offices, ensuring that the Guard had access to the systems used to ensure the Pontiff’s safety at all times. They also included cameras positioned along all the feasible escape routes from Vatican City, in case in some sort of attack situation the Guard would be required to secrete the Pope away to safety – permitting them to see their paths and choose the best available option.

  They also included the CCTV cameras aimed around St Peter’s Square.

  ‘The gunshots were reported after the power outage, correct?’ Heinrich had asked his men once their equipment had been operational on the generators.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘If it was more than a few minutes after,’ he’d continued, ‘then that means the cameras would have been back online already.’

  His colleague had immediately understood where Heinrich was going, and began to pull up the feeds from the piazza on his monitor. There were fourteen of them in total, covering every square metre of space, but only four had night-vision infrared capacity. Normally it wasn’t required, even at night, as the square was always kept well lit and all the cameras were more than adequate in such settings. Tonight, however, they were the only four that mattered.

  It had taken a bit of searching, zooming and filtering, but after a few hours of work, Heinrich had what he wanted.

  He had video of the attackers: two men with guns drawn. And he had enlarged stills of their faces, which, taking into account the circumstances, were surprisingly clear.

  They should be more than enough to run through facial recognition software.

  Heinrich finally had something concrete to go on.

  48

  Hotel Majestic

  When her time on the public Internet terminal was up, Angelina returned to the hotel room. Her left leg was throbbing beneath the bandages Ben had affixed, but at least the painkillers were muting the effect a little. She tried not to demonstrate her limp as she walked across the lobby to the lift and made her way back to room 402. Behind her the few guests in the lobby were huddled together in small groups, seemingly still fazed by what had been going on throughout the day and night. A tension, Angelina’s thoughts noted, a tension real and concrete in the air. Lord knew she could feel it, too.

  As the brass key rotated in her grip and she pushed open the heavy door, she could immediately hear the sounds of Ben’s shower coming to its end. The flow of water stopped, and the familiar sound of a towel being slid off a rack echoed from tiled floors and gloss-painted walls. As Angelina closed the door behind her, she noticed that the bathroom door across the room was still ajar, steam leaking out in softly rolling billows.

  ‘I got the shot of the tablet,’ she announced, deciding quickly that it was best to let Ben know she was back in the room in case he’d thought his surroundings a little more private than they actually were. ‘Came through on the email. Decent resolution. I printed out a couple
of copies.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Ben answered from within his cloud of steam. She could hear the motions of a body being towelled off. ‘Were you able to translate it?’ he asked.

  ‘Parts of it. You know how it goes.’ Ben Verdyx was one of the few other people in the world who, indeed, did. ‘It’s not easy to piece together all the symbols, and many words didn’t come up in the online databases. Still, I managed a fair amount. And the craziest thing of all: there’s a translation already out there on the Net.’

  ‘A translation?’ Ben was audibly startled.

  ‘Cardinal Forte told us the tablet had been released to the public,’ Angelina answered. ‘Apparently, so was a translation. I don’t know who could have done it, but I got a copy and compared it to my notes. Seems to line up pretty well with the pieces I was able to translate myself just now. Not perfect, but you know.’

  The towelling sounds resumed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The Internet’s abuzz, of course,’ Angelina answered. She sat herself down at the small writing desk, depositing her printouts and the notepad she’d used. ‘All sorts of crazies out there trying to make links to prophets and revelations. Christ, the day’s barely over.’

  Ben said nothing. A moment later, he emerged from the bathroom with the towel now wrapped around his waist. His hair, still wet, glistened atop his head, and Angelina found herself puzzlingly unsure how to look at him without staring.

  She forced her eyes to bore into his.

  ‘Er, sorry,’ Ben said uncomfortably. ‘I, uh, forgot to grab the robe before I went in.’ He reached to the back of the room door and grabbed the terrycloth robe still hanging there, then stepped back into the bathroom with a bit more haste than the move required.

  Angelina shook her head. It was not at all helpful to find she was attracted to the body in the other room. She had texts and bullets and kidnappings to worry about; she didn’t need another distraction.

  Hell, woman, what’s wrong with you?

  She peered down at the desk, urgently seeking a distraction. The night together was going to be more challenging than she’d first thought. Maybe separate rooms would have been a good idea.

  The printouts of the tablet lay in front of her, the notepad on top. To their left, the single sheet on which Ben had scribbled a few words earlier. Her eyes wandered towards the page, noting the angular nature of his penmanship, which would count as sloppy by even the most generous of assessments.

  Yet the uneven strokes and loops eventually revealed themselves as words, and it was when Angelina read those words that her skin started to tingle again – this time, not from the steam of the shower or the rising sensations of unexpected lust.

  She bolted forward in her seat, grabbed the single sheet of paper in both hands. Ben had jotted only a few words there.

  Words that Angelina knew.

  Words that Ben could not.

  She read them again, and again, and again. As she did, her blood went cold.

  Seconds later, Ben re-emerged from the bathroom, this time snugly wrapped in a robe that exactly matched Angelina’s, his features clean-shaven. He looked refreshed, even something approaching confident, as he strolled from the steaming bathroom, but within an instant, his confidence was shattered and his gait frozen.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Angelina demanded, bursting up from her seat. The sheet of paper on which Ben had written his notes was clutched in her grasp. ‘What the fucking hell is this?’

  Her face was fierce, her skin almost matching her hair’s redness. The vision jolted Ben. He’d never before seen her – or anyone – in such a state.

  ‘I’m not sure what you me—’

  ‘How are you involved, Ben?’ Her accusation cut across his faltering reply. ‘In everything that’s going on? How are you involved?’

  Ben went cold from his core to his skin. Angelina had discovered something. She knew . . . something.

  ‘I’m not going to bloody ask you again!’ she nearly shouted, controlling her volume only when she remembered they were still in a hotel room and too loud a cry would be noticed by others. ‘Tell me how you know these things!’ she demanded, brandishing his page. ‘These words that I’ve just translated off a tablet neither of us had seen before, but which you clearly knew beforehand!’

  It was clear that Ben was going to have to face this moment.

  ‘I’m not . . . involved,’ he said hesitantly, repeating Angelina’s accusation. ‘I was just . . . just . . .’ His skin paled as he fumbled for words, threatening to match the bleached palette of his robe.

  ‘You were just what?’ Angelina demanded.

  ‘I was . . . forewarned.’

  49

  Hotel Majestic

  Angelina glowered at Ben, fury and confusion blending within her into a mixture she couldn’t grasp.

  ‘What is that supposed to mean, you were “forewarned”?’ Her tone telegraphed her incredulity. ‘These words you’ve written here – “river”, “darkness”, “fog”, “fire” – shit, Ben, they’re the key words from the tablet!’ Her pitch ascended as her anger unfolded. ‘There’s no way you could know that, Ben! Not unless you’ve seen a hell of a lot more of this tablet than you let on before!’ With her free hand she reached down and swiped up one of the printouts she’d made downstairs, shaking it accusingly at him.

  Ben’s face looked as if it might burst in a befuddled mixture of surprise, shame, anxiety and shock. He walked slowly to the centre of the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Until you and I were in the bunker a few hours ago, I’d only ever seen the first four lines, just as I said when we were with the Guards.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Angelina shot back. ‘These words, these phrases, they’re not contained in the opening. They’re spaced out through the contents.’

  ‘I told you, I was—’

  ‘Yes, forewarned! I don’t buy it, Ben. You’ve either seen this text before, and for some reason you’re hiding that fact from me, or you were involved in . . . in . . .’

  ‘Angelina—’

  ‘In producing it.’ Her features widened as the accusation emerged from her throat, the full meaning of her own words only gradually occurring to her. ‘Of course,’ she finally added, sinking back down into the swivel chair before the desk, her voice suddenly barely more than a whisper, ‘Cardinal Forte and Major Heinrich said they suspected the tablet could have been forged. My God, Ben, you?’ Her eyes were bewildered orbs as they peered deep into him. ‘Forging ancient artefacts?’

  ‘Angelina, I’m—’

  ‘No, no, of course,’ she said, speaking to herself as her gaze wandered into the distance, ‘it makes sense. Who else could forge a text in Akkadian, apart from an Akkadian scholar?’ Her eyes snapped back to his, fierce with the sudden awareness of betrayal. The Swiss Guard had it right from the first. ‘As was pointed out to us today, Ben, there are only two of us in Italy.’

  ‘Angelina, I haven’t forged anything!’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Her words were flat, emotionless. ‘It’s the only explanation.’

  ‘You seem to be forgetting, I was shot at today, too!’

  It was the one thing Ben could have said that could truly give Angelina pause. She sat silent, her face still accusing, but her features involuntarily softened as she considered what it meant.

  He has a point. Had it not been for Angelina yanking him out of the way of one shot in particular, Ben wouldn’t be here to protest his innocence.

  ‘Then how, Ben,’ she asked, a pleading now ripping through her voice, ‘how can you explain knowing what that tablet says, if you aren’t somehow caught up in it?’

  Ben rubbed his palms over his terrycloth-covered thighs. His nervousness was ripe.

  ‘There’s something you don’t know about me,’ he finally confessed.

  ‘Of that I’m bloody well certain!’ Angelina snorted. Ben held up an open palm, his eyes pinched closed, signalling he wanted her to keep silen
t until he could get the truth off his chest.

  ‘You know about my academic life,’ he continued, ‘my scholarship, the sorts of things one professor learns about another.’

  She said nothing. Of course she knew Ben’s background. It was nothing short of professional idiocy to walk into an interview without knowing personal data on the people who would be interviewing you, and Angelina had researched every member of the Vatican Secret Archives’ staff before she’d gone in for her disappointing interview eighteen months earlier.

  ‘But there’s more to me than just a fixation on history and antiquity,’ Ben said. ‘I love it, I really do. But I’m also . . . I’m also . . .’

  Anticipation of how Ben might finish the sentence was an acid churning at Angelina’s insides. A crook? A fraud? Christ, what could it be? A committed, practised liar?

  The only words Angelina truly did not expect were those that next came out of Ben’s mouth.

  ‘I’m also a . . . deeply religious man.’

  She stared at him in utter disbelief. The wind of her accusations had gone from Angelina’s proverbial sails, replaced by sheer confusion.

  ‘You’re a religious man.’ She repeated the words slowly. Then, with increased vigour, ‘What the bloody hell has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It has everything to do with our present circumstances,’ Ben answered. He firmed up his posture, attempting to bring a backbone of resolve into the discussion. ‘If you’ll let me explain, I’ll tell you how.’

  Angelina took the subtle reprimand and said nothing more.

  ‘I grew up religious,’ Ben continued, what sounded like a familiar story taking up its first refrains, ‘a good Catholic, like just about everyone else in this country. And I went to church, just like everyone else. Mass on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. Confirmation, first Holy Communion, Sunday school. All the norms.’