Butler heard the latter exchange and decided to spare the two priests and the pretty young nun further harassment. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” he called from the Sick Bay. “The prognosis for Mr. Montague is a full recovery. Whoever chose Ketamine as the agent knew what they were doing. It’s a relatively safe anesthetic...in reasonable doses.”
“But his heart stopped,” Maria protested.
“Perhaps...but I doubt it,” Butler responded. “Likely you just failed to find a pulse.”
“Sure, he wasn’t breathing neither,” Murphy said, in his heavy Irish accent. He immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut when he received another glare from the bishop.
Aquila looked back at Butler, nodded and then made his way up to the detective’s side. His relief was evident. “He’ll be okay?”
“A little groggy over the next few hours but after that he’ll come round.” Butler decided to stretch the truth a bit and give Murphy and Langevin a hand. “Mind you, the man’s chest will be a little sore, but if Father Murphy and Father Langevin hadn’t acted so quickly in extracting the darts, he might have received too much narcotic to recover; it might have been much more serious.” In fact, the complete dosage had been delivered on impact. Prompt or slow removal of the darts didn’t affect the volume of the drug delivered one bit.
Somewhat mollified Aquila grunted and nodded. “Very well. What now?”
“I’m going to try and get him up very soon and walk him about.”
“Doctor, this will be a long trip to Rome and I’d rather avoid this gentleman’s questions till we reach there,” Bishop Aquila said. “Could we keep him lightly sedated for the remainder of the trip?”
Doctor Butler looked at him strangely.
“Without endangering him, I mean,” the bishop said, hurriedly.
Butler shrugged and nodded. “After he responds initially we can let him sleep it off.”
“That’s excellent news, Doctor. We’re in your debt.”
Butler and the nurse remained with Clay while the rest retired to a small office where a careful debriefing of every single thing that had happened that evening took place.
The aircraft had leveled off and had now settled on its transatlantic course. Exhausted from their ordeal Murphy and Langevin finally flaked out in a small double cabin, Maria curled up on the sofa and Bishop Aquila retired to a slightly larger sleeping cabin over the wing. Doctor Butler offered to stand the first watch over their patient. The nurse accepted his offer and gratefully retreated to her small aft cabin near the tail.
~ 12 ~
They had been cruising for three hours with the morning horizon still far away when the tedium of the overseas flight suddenly gave way to terror.
Gostini was gazing out the windscreen at the beauty of a bloated moon hanging like a self-illuminated ball. It sent shimmering silver moonbeams through the black velvet sky to sparkle like distant diamonds on the ocean far below. He checked their position with Gatwick Control. Suddenly the A320 staggered in flight. There was a huge bang and a thud as though something hit the aircraft.
Bowden, immersed in a novel snapped the book shut and shot upright in his seat, eyes scanning the instruments.
“What the hell was that!?”
Gostini, his eyes concerned, stared back in surprise then looked out the window off to his right.
“I don’t know. Something hit us!” He didn’t believe it himself.
“At three five zero? I doubt it. Unless it was a damn meteor.”
Bowden satisfied himself that their instrument readings were okay as Gostini bent sideways and stared out his window, looking back towards the wings of the aircraft which he couldn’t see. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed, suddenly recoiling from the glass for an instant.
“What is it...what’s wrong?” Bowden’s voice was tense.
“N-Nothing.”
“Dan...what did you see?”
“N-Nothing...I’m a little tired, Wayne...m-my imagination is running away with me.” He was almost hyperventilating from shock. What he had just witnessed spawned the physiological “fight or flight” reflex. Adrenaline surged into his system and increased his breathing to infuse his muscles with much-needed oxygen to accommodate whatever action was needed. Cautiously he peered out again. He breathed a sigh of relief, his heart rate slowed. There was nothing there.
Bowden was about to press him further when he spotted the needle on the airspeed indicator unwinding. For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The ASI was now reading three hundred and seventy-five knots and quickly unwinding to three hundred and sixty...three hundred and fifty...three hundred and forty!
“We’re losing airspeed!” Bowden switched off the auto pilot and eased the nose down fully expecting to see their airspeed increase. Instead, the erosion continued.
At the rate they were losing speed they could expect to stall out in less than a minute or two. The pilot felt his mouth go dry as he grabbed the throttle levers and eased them from their cruise position towards the second to last detent near the front of the pedestal.
The engines whined, eating up the Jet A-1 fuel on increased thrust as the readouts showed them advancing their engine power. The EPR gauges showed healthy engine thrust but the ASI showed continued erosion in airspeed.
Another 25 knots bled off.
“What the hell is going on?” Bowden muttered, over the roar of the engines. He scanned his instruments. Engine thrust was near maximum and all systems appeared to be functioning normally except for their airspeed that continued to unwind at an alarming speed. “We need another flight level.” He pushed the stick forward.
Suddenly the urgency of the stall warning indicator assaulted their ears.
He stared at the altimeters. They showed them at flight level three five zero, thirty-five thousand feet. And yet he had the stick shoved as far forward as possible. At this moment they should have been in a screaming dive. Instead they seemed to be hanging in the sky, as though a hook was attached to their tail.
The stall indicator continued to sound, their air speed dropped to 110 knots and yet their altitude remained constant at three five zero; they shouldn’t have been flying at that speed. There was only one possible conclusion....
“Instruments are haywire,” Bowden said, through gritted teeth as he peered out the window at the ocean still far below.
Suddenly they heard another tremendous bang, followed quickly by another. The EPR numbers plummeted just before the cockpit went black. The aircraft lurched and the nose dropped. As both pilots watched in shock, their glass cockpit went dark. The giant aircraft staggered, yawed to starboard and began plummeting towards the moonlit sea.
“Flameout!” Gostini said, tightly. “Sweet Jesus...we’ve lost both engines...!”
~ 13 ~
For many of those invited to the Sunday morning Papal Breakfast in the Vatican, it was an opportunity to make up for any fasting done through the week, for others, merely a tempting feast and an opportunity to spend some time with friends and co-workers from other functions within the Vatican. It was a time to share stories and concerns, and relax in the solidarity of ecclesiastical camaraderie. The invitations were carefully rotated so that most major players in the Romana Curia had the opportunity to attend a few times a year.
But sadly, like at any major gatherings of like-minded individuals, it was also used for internal politicking, gossip, innuendo, character assassination and the forming and breaking of alliances. Careful observation of who sat with who, who avoided who, and in what direction surreptitious glances were cast while discourse took place in hushed tones among the noisy babble, quickly allowed even the most casual observer to realize a certain reality: beneath the surface of joviality, the busy rattle of plates and cups and the pious serenity permeating the gathering, lurked a living, breathing web of intrigue.
As silverware clinked and more dishes rattled, Cardinal Malachi helped himself to another piece of whole wheat toast and sopped up the remains of his b
roken egg yoke. He had barely managed to resist the overflowing plate of crisp Canadian bacon to his left and the croissants, eggs Benedict and platters of pancakes and waffles waiting to be smothered in imported Quebec maple syrup to his right. If he gave in, he knew that his blood sugar would go through the roof initially and then drop him like a broken freight elevator.
He glanced around the room.
The Roman trattoria in which they ate was composed of a single, stucco-covered, grotto-like room. Measuring 120 by 80 feet, and longer than it was wide, the side walls gradually curved inward to form a rounded, dome-like ceiling.
At a height ten feet above a man’s head, arches had been cut into the walls; each arch featuring an intricately carved, decorative plaster molding or archivolt framing it with the work of an artist dead for at least the last nine hundred years. Gladiators wielding swords, mothers carrying well water in urns on their heads, and warriors whipping crazed chariot horses lay etched into the mortar. The colors, though faded with time, were still vivid enough to render a certain life-like quality to the artist’s work.
Along the far end of the room, opposite the entrance, was small scaffolding, on which some folded polyethylene and closed paint cans revealed that the initial steps towards the preservation and restoration of the fading artwork had begun.
Eight and 16-foot tables had been carefully arranged in rows facing the west side of the room where the head table, draped and elevated on a small platform faced all the others. From here, His Holiness smiled benignly down on the regular tables occupied by legions of clergy engaged in a feeding frenzy of food and gossip. The Pontiff seemed to take great satisfaction in his breakfast initiative that gathered his senior people more closely about him and gave them a forum and an excuse to rid themselves of the silo mentality so prevalent in large organizations. The message to his flock was simple: Despite your often solitary disciplines, we are a family.
Malachi, seated near the end of a table, felt the comforting bulge of the envelope in his breast pocket; it was stuffed with down-sized copies of sections of ancient scrolls, newspaper clippings and a transcript of his recent air-telephone conversation with Bishop Aquila. The Bishop, now en route to Rome with the ex-soldier who Father Gallo had initially discovered, as well as Sister Maria and the two Jesuits, had called immediately after take-off. His words, though seemingly innocent, had been grim. There was little doubt that their “friend” was back. Some friend.
Malachi sighed and thought of the immediate future. At best it seemed bleak, at worst laden with dire nuances of doom. Fussing and worrying wouldn’t help, he told himself sternly. Instead, he congratulated himself on a brilliant series of strategic table maneuvering that secured him a spot beside Archbishop Dominique Bortnowaska, the pope’s personal secretary. Of course it was also fortunate that, rather than staying at the head table near His Holiness, which was his perfect right, Bortnowaska seemed to view each Sunday morning as an opportunity to spend time with his brethren occupying positions not quite as exalted as he.
Bortnowaska was a heavy set man with a round, beaming face framed by two cauliflower-like ears. A pugnacious, red nose featuring a prominent bend to the left, the only remaining evidence of his early career as a prizefighter, was set in the middle of his good-humored countenance. A confirmed pragmatist to all who knew him, he was not a man to take advantage of his station nor throw his weight around as had been the case with some previous papal secretaries. He was well liked and respected by most.
Across, and much farther down the table, Malachi saw the thin, reedy face of Monsignor Lopez eyeing him suspiciously. Doing his best to ignore the look, Malachi reached over and poured Bortnowaska more coffee. Bortnowaska, seated to the cardinal’s left, thanked him and spooned two heaps of sugar into his cup.
Leaning forward, Malachi happened to catch Lopez’s eye again and smiled innocently back at the man while raising his coffee cup in a silent toast.
The Prefecture of the Pontifical Household flushed beet red, rapidly averted his eyes and attacked a double plateful of sausages and pancakes with religious zeal. He was obviously worried that Malachi was now trying to circumvent his authority and obtain a private audience with the Holy Father through means outside his personal discretion. Of course, he was dead right, but Malachi wasn’t eager to telegraph his intentions.
The cardinal motioned towards Lopez and mused to Bortnowaska that being such a staunch guardian of the Holy Father’s calendar certainly seemed to give Lopez a huge appetite.
Bortnowaska eyed the Monsignor, chuckled and added cream to his coffee. “When you work as hard as he does at being a major prick, it’s inevitable that you burn up calories,” he said.
Malachi stared at him in surprise but then couldn’t hold in a laugh. He’d never heard Bortnowaska speak ill of any man, much less in such crude street language. He tried to recoup and said innocently: “Yes...I understand he can be difficult.”
“Difficult...crap! He’s an ass!”
Malachi laughed again.
“Anyhow, Your Eminence, you said you wanted to ask me something?” Despite his momentary candor, Bortnowaska’s tone had now become polite and respectful in deference to Malachi’s station. He smiled quizzically at the cardinal.
Malachi dropped the pleasantries and gave the Archbishop a serious look. “I have a matter of grave importance which I must present to His Holiness.”
“And when will you do this?” Bortnowaska inquired, politely.
“Never...if Monsignor Lopez has anything to say about it,” Malachi returned.
“Ah...so that’s it.”
“Regrettably he says that he can’t fit me in until December.”
“And even as we speak, we are being watched,” Bortnowaska confided, his tone amused. He’d obviously locked horns with the Prefecture before.
Malachi picked up a silver sugar bowl, and using its reflection, managed to steal a clandestine glance at Lopez. He was watching them alright, a fork full of dripping pancake pieces halfway to his mouth.
“The syrup is at our end of the table now,” Bortnowaska continued. “Maybe you could trade with Lopez; the syrup for an audience with the Holy Father.”
Malachi shook his head: “Were it so easy....”
Bortnowaska fixed him with a stare. “Anyhow, since when can a Prince of the Holy Roman Catholic Church not squeeze in a few moments with his revered leader?”
“Since the Curia has initiated dozens of new rules and even more new forms demanding reasons for access and a bunch of other useless minutia. Alas, I alone need a good hour at least to present my case, plus I have six other committee members who must bring certain facts to light to substantiate our needs in this matter. Ideally we could use two, maybe three hours. And, as you know, I am not privileged to stroll into the inner sanctum at will. His Holiness and I are not particularly close.”
Bortnowaska studied Malachi closely. “You’re a free man, Mustavias,” he said, using Malachi’s Christian name in a friendly gesture. “After he has his third coffee – you’ll find him semi-civilized then – march over and ask him for the time.” He pointed to the head table covered with flowers where the white-robed, rotund bulk of the Pope could be seen sipping coffee.
As Malachi watched the Pope seemed to be smiling wearily and nodding in reply to the animated conversations of a group of visiting North American Bishops seated on either side of him. Each appeared to be vying with equal determination for his attention. The Holy father’s head movements resembled someone watching a tennis match.
“You know how he is about protocol. He’d send me back to Lopez.”
Bortnowaska sighed. “Yes...I suppose you’re right. And by trying to bypass Lopez, you’d turn him into an enemy for life.”
“Exactly.”
“But if I get you in through the back staircase, Lopez will still not be pleased.”
“But I’ll be in...” Malachi said, with a slight smile. “After that, I’ll gladly take his arrows in my back; this matte
r is critical.” He extracted the envelope from his pocket. “This must be held in the utmost confidence but I can show you –”.
The Archbishop held up his hand. “Not necessary. I’ll do what I can for you. Of course, Lopez still controls his calendar so my only chance will be during some of his personal time or when I hear of a cancellation before Lopez does. My reward will be to stick it to the Prefecture for a change.”
Malachi grinned, smiled his thanks and added: “You haven’t asked me what it’s all about.”
Bortnowaska returned the smile. “Well, it must be none of my business or you would have told me.”
“I do find it hard to understand what satisfaction Lopez gets out delaying me.”
“Power...exercising his power,” the Archbishop said, with a chuckle. “Much the same as goes on in some of our smaller parishes. You know why local church politics can be particularly vicious?”
Malachi shook his head.
“Because the stakes are so small,” he responded, with something akin to a giggle.
Malachi smiled and put a hand on Bortnowaska’s shoulder. “You’re a rare bird, my friend.”
“So I’m told,” the Archbishop answered, rising as he unsuccessfully tried to stifle a loud burp. “Your leave, Eminence?”
Malachi smiled at the formal respect for his rank and gave a good-natured shrug. If Bortnowaska managed to get him in, he would be in this man’s debt forever. The Archbishop gave him a wink and a wave, stifled another burp and made his way out of the room. It seemed he wouldn’t have to give the man the envelope after all. He was being taken on faith.
Malachi caught sight of Lopez watching Bortnowaska leave. He hadn’t been fooled; as the man disappeared he immediately shifted his gaze to Malachi. They found themselves staring at each other and Lopez quickly looked away. The hatred in his beady little eyes fairly crackled.
The cardinal sighed and wondered why men felt so compelled to establish personal fiefdoms on earth and guard them with the jealousy of mad lovers? Life would be so simple if everyone practiced what Jesus preached and stored up spiritual treasures in Heaven rather than seeking petty victories on earth. But, in all fairness, Malachi also couldn’t help enjoying a certain amount of inner pleasure over having taken the first step towards thwarting the Curia’s bureaucracy, so who was he to give lessons in humility?
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