by Rene Fomby
Clearly something had to change, and in 1274 pope Gregory X issued the papal bull Ubi periculum that finally established the papal conclave as the approved method for selecting a pope. Although the rules have since changed to some small degree, the general procedures have not: the cardinals of the church are called to meet in one place, where they are locked into a building (now the Sistine Chapel) almost completely out of contact with the outside world, and then vote with secret ballots until a new pope is selected, an election requiring at least two-thirds of the votes.
Cardinal Orso gathered up his letters and summoned an aide to take them to the Vatican post office, where they would be dispatched immediately to the foreign Cardinals who were already deep into preparations for the trip to Rome and the papal conclave. Hopefully, some of the papal electors would be swayed enough by Orso’s obvious generosity to tip the scales in his favor.
He checked the clock. He was due in thirty minutes to join a small group of cardinals and bishops in St. Peter’s Basilica to pray for the old pope and seek God’s wisdom and guidance for the trying days that lay ahead. As he rose to leave, though, he paused for just a moment to slide open his top desk drawer. There lay a sealed yellow envelope General Boucher had given him several months earlier in a darkened café near the Vatican, an envelope that supposedly detailed just exactly how Orso was to handle events inside the sealed Sistine Chapel during the conclave. And just exactly what to do if the vote looked like it was somehow slipping away. He knew he would need to open that envelope, and soon, but for the moment he just needed to pray. And hope fervently that God was listening.
7
Cappadocia
Mary Ellen Tulley was just kissing her father goodbye as Peter Boucher entered Constantine’s private chambers. Boucher nodded to her and received a withering look in reply as she brushed past him, barely acknowledging his presence.
Constantine, however, greeted him with a wide smile.
“General! Have a seat!”
Boucher sat down across from Constantine, a well-polished and mostly barren walnut desk sprawling between them. He nodded his head toward the door behind him. “Did I do something to make her angry?”
Constantine glanced in the direction of his now-departed daughter and smiled grimly. “No, I think she simply doesn’t approve of your—methods— is all. Particularly as they apply to women. She thinks you’re unnecessarily cruel.”
“Oh? And what do you think about my methods, may I ask? Should I be more gentle with my little playmates?”
Constantine shook his head, irritated. “Frankly, I don’t really give a damn what you do, General, as long as it all gets done. In fact, I think you’ve been way too easy on my son’s whore.”
“Samantha Tulley? As I told you, I have plans for her, just as soon as we’re finished with the federal agents. And those plans won’t be gentle in any way, trust me. I’m looking forward to a twofer with her before I’m done.”
“Well, it should have been a twofer when you arranged that little auto accident for my son, Luke. Then both of them would have been out of my hair for good.”
“As I explained to you and your daughter back then, that would have been a horrible idea. If your granddaughter’s mother and father both died in that wreck, the courts would have been forced to appoint a guardian ad litem to watch over her affairs and make sure her inheritance was properly cared for. And that almost certainly would have led to an investigation of Luke’s financial affairs, including the fact that he was secretly worth billions, something Samantha was clueless about at the time. Then our hands would have been tied. As it was, by conning your daughter-in-law into believing she was being cared for by one of Luke’s colleagues from the hospital, and using that as a pretext for loading her up with narcotics and keeping her on the sidelines, Mary Ellen had more than enough time and opportunity to raid Luke’s estate and move it all under your control. Killing her could come later, when it was more convenient.”
“And yet it didn’t. Three attempts, all failures.”
“You can’t blame me for that. I hired professionals, the best in the business. And yet each time she managed to escape. I still can’t figure out how she got out of that house alive. She was in bed asleep, on the third floor, with every exit completely covered in flames.”
“And yet she did.”
“All I can say is, that woman is the luckiest person on the planet. But that kind of luck isn’t inexhaustible. Even in Vegas you can only throw snake eyes so many times in a row before your luck runs out and the odds stack up against you.”
“Well, see that you get it done this time, no more excuses.” Constantine fidgeted with a small Bible on his desk, straightening it and moving it off to one corner. “Anyway, enough about all that nonsense. I need an update on our battle plans. E-Day will be upon us before we know it. With the old pope now lying in state, I assume you have everything well in order to ensure that his successor will be amenable to everything we’ve set in motion?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Orso is, as you Americans say, safely in our back pocket.”
“And we’re certain he will be the next pope?”
“As certain as we can be. We’ve already bribed, threatened and blackmailed enough cardinals to control the election. And I’ve made sure we have backup plans in place, as well, just to be sure.” Boucher glanced in the direction of the door where Mary Ellen had made her hasty departure. “I take it your daughter is well. And the baby?”
“Yes, the Christ child is fat and happy, as they say, albeit a little more fussy than I would prefer. And my daughter has recovered nicely. She’s headed out to Paris on a shopping trip, looking for something appropriate to wear for our announcement.”
A look of concern passed briefly across Boucher’s face. “Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, other than you and me, she’s probably the most wanted person in the Western world right now. I’m sure every police officer in Europe has a picture of Mary Ellen—”
“Mary. Her name is Mary,” Constantine corrected him.
“I’m sorry. Old habits are hard to break, Your Grace.”
“But it is of vital importance, General. You must remember that. The new Christ child was born of a virgin Mary.”
“Okay, now that you’ve brought up that subject, may I ask who the father is? I’m asking purely from the perspective of all the unique security issues that might entail.”
“There is no father. I’ve told you that before. Mary is still a virgin.”
Boucher glanced back at the door again, carefully considering his next words. “But—how does that work, exactly? I mean, I understand the game plan, how Jesus has returned to earth to lead God’s army against the forces of Satan, and all that. But I’m sorry, I just can’t buy into the notion that Mary El—Mary—was somehow filled with the Holy Spirit and left pregnant with a baby boy. You sure there’s no father out there somewhere? Not even a donor?”
Constantine stared off into space, scowling. After several long seconds, he turned back, his face clearing, but only by a fraction. “When I bought that pharmaceutical company and put you in charge, surely you didn’t think it was my only investment.”
“You mean—”
“I put money into several other promising ventures, as well. And one happened to be an in vitro fertilization lab, with an expansive expertise in the creation of embryos using only a single donor.”
It took Boucher a moment to think that through. “You mean—cloning? You had your daughter cloned?” he gasped, hoping he had somehow misconstrued what the emperor had said.
“Yes, you can call it that. Hence, our Mary became pregnant without ever having sex. And since there is no earthly father, it was an immaculate conception of sorts.”
Boucher knew from growing up in the Catholic Church himself that having a child without a father was not what that phrase meant, but he also knew better than to call out his emperor out on that one little mistake. One other thing still bothered him, though.
“I’m not a doctor, but if the embryo was developed using only your daughter’s DNA, how did it become a boy? Where did they get the Y chromosome?”
“I never said the new Christ child was a boy. And her name is not Jesus. It is, in fact, Sophia. Wisdom. The Holy Spirit incarnate once again.”
“A female version of Christ? And you think that will sell to the masses how?”
A copy of the Bible was resting all alone on one corner of Constantine’s desk. He placed his right hand on it and pierced Boucher with a long look.
“The scriptures do not tell us that Christ claimed he was a man. He did refer to himself as the Son of God, but those words meant something quite different in those days. Israel herself was often referred to as the Son of God, as were her Kings.” Constantine removed his hand from the Bible and clasped his hands together in front of him, as if in prayer. “But in the end, my general, it doesn’t matter. Jesus didn’t live a life of sex, or of gender. No, he existed well above that plane, as does Sophia. Christ is divine of spirit, formed from the essence of the Holy Spirit herself, as was all of creation. And it is only fitting that Her second incarnation would be in the form of a woman. A form of nurturance, a form of peace. For Sophia’s miraculous appearance on earth marks the beginning of the final chapter in God’s plan for all of us. The end of the old era of suffering under the yoke of Satan, and the beginning of a new era of peace, the promised Kingdom of God, over which our new Messiah will reign with benevolence over all of mankind for ever and ever.”
Boucher thought to respond, then thought better of it. He still couldn’t figure out whether William Tulley actually believed all this crazy nonsense about being the reincarnation of Emperor Constantine, and how this new grandchild of his was supposed to lead the coming Apocalypse. Or whether it was all just an act, something designed to confuse the masses. For everyone’s sake he prayed it was the latter.
Constantine had grown tired, and a persistent, throbbing headache had developed behind his eyes, making the room go dark for him along the edges. He motioned for Boucher to leave, then hobbled over to the cold niche in the wall where the Nanteos Cup—the Holy Grail—lay waiting. Just a small sip of water from the cup, and everything would be right again …
8
Rome
Roma Termini is the main railway station of Rome, Italy, named after the ancient Baths of Diocletian (in Latin, thermae), which lie directly across the street from the main entrance. The current station, completed in 1950, features a large open space with floor-to-ceiling glass walls and a vaulted concrete roof, a modern take on the architecture of a classic Roman bath.
Sam stepped off the train from Grosseto and followed the crowds to the entrance, where she easily snagged a taxi to take her to the Vatican. A little over fifteen minutes later she was deposited in the Piazza San Pietro in front of St. Peter’s Basilica, and scurried over to the private entrance reserved for VIPs with the highest security clearances. Like the one inscribed on the Vatican ID she pulled from her purse and showed to the guard.
He glanced at the ID, then her face, and quickly sized her up as American. “Can I help you with directions?” he asked with a raised left eyebrow.
“No grazie. Conosco la mia strada,” she answered, not willing to yield an inch to his condescension. “Buon pomeriggio.”
Tossing her ID back in her bag, she turned right, past the post office toward the Via Sant’Anna. Just past the Apostolic Palace—where camouflaged members of the Swiss Guard covered every single doorway and window—she pulled out her ID once more and pressed it to a card reader mounted next to an unmarked bronze door. When the lock clicked, she pushed the door inward and entered.
The room was very small, the only thing in it a modern-looking elevator set dead in the middle of the room. She punched the down button as the heavy bronze door closed behind her with a loud click. Almost immediately the elevator opened and she stepped in, the only passenger for now. She pressed 10, and the doors closed, the elevator now softly humming as she descended.
The floors were numbered in reverse, with 1 being the floor below ground level, and about a half minute later the elevator door opened once again and she stepped out. The lowest level in the complex was four more stories further down, but she’d been carefully instructed that her security clearance stopped at 10.
The dark gray hallway stretching out before her was dimly lit, with other dim hallways branching off to either side. She stayed to the right, counting as she passed each entrance. With nothing marked, her only guide to Mehmed’s lab was her memory, and since this was only her second time to visit him down here, that memory was being stretched to its limits.
Finally she came to a plain gray metal door set into a sturdy-looking metal frame. Once again she swiped her card, pushing the door open when she heard the distinctive click.
The lighting in the room was shockingly bright in contrast to the darkened hallway, and she had to pause for a moment to let her eyes adjust. Before she could continue forward, however, a familiar face rounded the corner to greet her.
“Sam! I’m so glad you could find me down here. I was just thinking I should have waited for you at St. Peter’s.” Mehmed Çelik extended a hand, giving hers a light squeeze and leading her back into the depths of the laboratory complex. Originally from Istanbul, Mehmed had studied for several years at Harvard before taking up a post as a religious studies professor at a state university in Ankara. He and Sam had become fast friends during two quick outings when he had served as her tour guide in Central Turkey and Istanbul, and they later cemented their relationship during their search for the lost treasure of the Templars. When a colleague he and Sam had trusted completely suddenly turned traitor and absconded with a fourth of the Templar treasure—36 of the original 144 amphorae—Sam arranged for Mehmed to take on the job of restoring and cataloging the contents of the remaining Roman jars instead. A daunting task, since the jars presumably contained the Lost Library of Solomon as well as its companion, the Library of Eusebius, the Greek-speaking Christian scholar who had compiled the very first copies of the New Testament.
“I’m fine, really,” she protested, glancing around as they walked, noting all of the changes he had made in the laboratory since she was last there two months earlier. “Wow, I like what you’ve done with the place.”
Mehmed smiled. “Yeah, well, the family is still back in Ankara until we can find a good school for the children out here in Rome, so I don’t have much else to do with my time but work.”
They were standing in front of a clear glass cage, inside of which stood a single reddish-brown ceramic amphora, about five feet tall with large handles on either side of its thick neck. The jar was surrounded by a sturdy metal framework, from which slim metal rods jutted out to hold the jar in place. The base of the jar rested on what looked like a memory-foam pillow, which itself was tied securely to a two-ply metal platform, with springs between the layers.
“Which jar is this?” Sam asked, kneeling slightly to get a better look.
“This is amphora number two. Numbering from the most recent jar to the oldest. We are almost done filming and X-raying the contents of the first jar, and my plan is to preserve and catalog each jar in turn before moving on to the next one. Slow and steady wins the race.”
“One down, one hundred seven left to go,” she noted before rising up to follow him further down the hallway to his office. “At this rate you’ll be done in just over two hundred more months. Good steady work if you can get it.”
“Well, for this phase of the Project, at least, the pace will start to pick up pretty quickly. As is true with almost everything in life, the first time you do something is always the trickiest. Making sure you’ve covered all the bases before you accidentally screw something up. And in this case, screwing up something that is quite irreplaceable. I wouldn’t want to have to face you and Dr. Hall if I let that happen.” He ushered her into his office and motioned for her to take a seat. “So, Sam, your message on
the phone was rather cryptic. What’s going on out there?”
“So you haven’t heard about the pope?” she asked, her brow slightly wrinkled.
“No, what about him? I hope he’s not sick or something. The last time I saw him, over a month back, he looked pretty good for his age.”
Sam leaned forward. “He’s gone, Mehmed. Found dead in his apartment just this morning.”
“Dead! What happened? Was it a heart attack?”
“That’s what the Vatican doctors are saying. But then, from what I gather on the Internet, that’s what they always say when a pope dies unexpectedly. Then they rush in immediately to embalm the body, wiping away almost all of the evidence of what really might have happened.”
“Isn’t that against the law?”
“Against Italian law, yeah. But the Vatican isn’t in Italy. It’s a whole other country. Literally. So the Catholic Church can do pretty much anything it wants inside the walls of Vatican City.”
“I see. That makes sense, I guess.” Mehmed leaned back, rubbing his chin. “But why would they want to cover anything up? If someone’s running around killing popes, wouldn’t they want to know?”