Dominus

by Tom Fox

  And from the television set that blared at his side, the Pope’s words resonated in the air.

  “The lost child returns, and the dead are restored to life.”

  SECONDO

  39

  The same day

  Vatican City: 11:30 a.m.

  In all his years serving in Rome, Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio had never seen anything like the disarray currently consuming the most senior administrators of the holy mother church.

  These were men, himself included, who were used to predictability. Having functioned continuously for almost two thousand years, the Church was an institution that rarely operated on the unknown. Non-believers and the secular world as a whole might regard the spiritual realm as something ethereal and void of concrete substance, but to the men who led the Church it was known territory, firm and absolute. They were comfortable with it and cherished it.

  Rinaldo had known Pope Gregory for nearly nineteen years. They had been made cardinals within a year of each other, had concelebrated together more times than either of them could possibly remember. Rinaldo considered the new pontiff a close friend as well as spiritual brother and father. And that made the events of the past twenty-four hours all but impossible to understand.

  Of the veracity of Pope Gregory’s healing there could be no doubt. He had been a cripple; now he walked upright. It was a miracle, as sure as any recorded in the Bible or in the centuries-long annals of church history. Even the skeptical bones in Cardinal Rinaldo’s body—of which there were only a few—could not fail to be persuaded of it.

  But it was still a surprise, and surprises were never good. Moreover, it had come as the first of a chain of surprises that were threatening to destroy the peaceful equilibrium in which the Church preferred to operate.

  And then the Pope had spoken to the press. What the hell was Gregory thinking? The conference had launched the curia and assembled cardinals into its current state of uncertainty. Why was the Holy Father speaking to the press, to the world, when so little was yet known about what was going on? Why was he speaking to cameras and reporters more readily than to his own bishops and advisers?

  And why, in the Lord’s holy name, had he talked of resurrection? The angels in heaven might be able to see some good in the strange words of the Vicar of Christ, but Rinaldo could only see danger. The Pope had all but given ecclesiastical endorsement to the healings in Pescara and Rome. Before they’d been understood. Before they’d been investigated. God knew the media wouldn’t hesitate to stand in for the Congregation for the Causes of the Saints and the famous Miracle Commissions normally set to verify the seemingly miraculous. What if they should find something untoward, something scandalous?

  All this, and without any public mention, yet, of the source of it all: the stranger whose arrival in the Vatican had been the catalyst for this worrying cataract of miraculous activity. The man remained within their closed walls, gathered together with the pontiff. A man that none of the princes of the Church had yet met face to face, though there were whispers that the Pope was planning to introduce them later in the morning. A man unknown, unexamined, just like the miracles.

  Cardinal Trecchio was well aware that faith had once been defined as the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things unseen, but he had been in the Vatican long enough to know that what was unseen in this place was all too often sinister. There were forces at work who wore faith only as a banner under which to exercise their interests, and whose plottings in dark corners far exceeded the scope of the works they undertook in the translucent light of day.

  The outward appearance of current events was all positive. Suffering was being alleviated, the sick were being healed. And this strange man, whoever he was, seemed to be at the heart of it, working not evil, but good.

  It was perverse that the presence of such goodness brought Cardinal Trecchio no peace. It only made him nervous. It felt like the rise before the fall. And as every good Catholic knew, when man fell, he fell hard.

  Two minutes later, he could sense the fall beginning.

  A clergy assistant walked into his office carrying a single sheet of paper. A worried look stretched across the whole of his face.

  “Your Eminence,” the young priest said, deferentially but in a voice plagued by anxiety, “the Holy Father has called for a meeting between the senior members of the curia in his study in five minutes’ time. I think he means to introduce you to . . . to . . .”

  It was clear he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Absolutely no one in the Vatican knew what to call “that man.” Rinaldo, however, understood his meaning perfectly. His heart raced. The meeting was not just a whispered rumor. He was at last going to meet the stranger. He stood abruptly, anxious and ready.

  “But before you go, Eminence, I feel you should read this.”

  The priest handed the single page to Cardinal Trecchio—a printout from his computer. Rinaldo, hardly the world’s most technologically literate ecclesiastic, nonetheless recognized the visual pattern of a blog entry.

  “It’s from a site run out of Piombino by a teenager with an eye for local news,” the assistant explained. “Given its subject matter, I thought you’d want to . . . I thought you’d . . .”

  Rinaldo barely heard him stumble his way to a mute, confounded halt. The cardinal’s eyes were on the page and his world was changing yet again. The headline of the blog entry ran in capitals along the top of the short text:

  RESURRECTION: DECEASED DAUGHTER OF FILM LEGEND GIANNI ZOLA RETURNS FROM THE DEAD, MINUTES AFTER THE POPE SPEAKS ON LIVE TELEVISION OF THE DEAD RETURNING TO LIFE.

  40

  Headquarters of La Repubblica newspaper: 11:38 a.m.

  Alexander stepped into the bullpen on the fourth floor of La Repubblica’s main offices, Gabriella in tow, with an apprehension he’d never felt in the years he’d worked there. He knew he was unwelcome now in a way he’d never been before. Laterza would be sitting in wait, relishing the opportunity to pounce on the man who’d formerly been his least favorite reporter. Formerly, because Laterza had given him the boot the previous night—something Alexander still hadn’t shared with Gabriella. And he’d given it remotely. Bastard. Moreover, since he hadn’t yet seen him face to face, Alexander knew his former editor would be cherishing the opportunity for that confrontation, and he hoped more than anything that he might be able to avoid it. He scanned the broad space carefully before leading Gabriella inside, moving toward his cubicle in the far corner.

  “This place is buzzing,” Gabriella noted as they walked. The room was packed. Every desk was occupied and the air was electric. “Is it always like this around here?”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “What are they all doing?”

  “What do you think? They’re working on the same story we are, though I doubt from quite the same angle.”

  “They’re all allowed just to step into your territory?”

  “It’s not mine anymore. My editor dropped me yesterday, by tweet,” Alex said, dodging between desks. He tried to avoid her glance, feeling a certain embarrassment at having to admit he’d been sacked. “Apparently I was too busy getting shot at to do my job, so he gave it away.”

  “I’m sure he’ll reconsider once he learns what we’ve been working on.”

  Alexander shook his head, stepping into his cubicle and motioning for Gabriella to join him. Right now his future employment was the least of his worries. He wanted to get into the paper’s network and gain access to its databases before he was removed from the system. One thing he knew about the administration of La Repubblica: it might move stories quickly, but internal business was managed unpredictably. He might have access for weeks, but there was no point in cutting it close. He needed information now.

  “Sit low,” he instructed Gabriella. He motioned her toward a small chair as he crouched before his desk. “I don’t want us seen in here.”

  “You’re going to be that unwelcome?”

  “I wasn’t e
xactly my editor’s favorite before this began. I don’t particularly want to be seen by others who might let him know I’m here.”

  “I’m willing to bet he changes his opinion of you the moment you show him the photograph of the body from the river. It’s still being kept under wraps downtown, but that’s front-page material if ever there was any. You’ll go from pariah to favorite son in a flash.”

  Alexander swiveled toward her, his face suddenly serious.

  “Gabriella, that photograph—for the moment, I think we should keep it to ourselves.”

  She was startled. “It could debunk the whole fraud in an instant. I thought you’d be as eager as possible to get it into the hands of your colleagues.”

  Alexander shook his head. “It will definitely raise questions about the man at the Vatican, but I know how the press cycle works. That will become the sole focus and everything else will get shoved aside. We’ll do better to sit on it until we can prove a definitive link between the stranger and whatever is going on with the IOR and the medical firms. Material like this is far more powerful when it’s exposed together.”

  Gabriella dwelled on his suggestion a moment. “Fine. Your call. Of course, that’s assuming nobody knows about the body yet, outside the precinct office.”

  “I’ll go with that assumption till we’re proven wrong. For the next few minutes, our sole focus is the financial questions.”

  She nodded in agreement. A few seconds later, Alexander had extracted his laptop from his rucksack and connected it to the office’s internal network.

  “We’ve done plenty of investigating on the Vatican Bank here at the paper, before and since I came on board. I should have access to all the filed stories as well as a good number of research notes. And the business section has probably profiled at least a few of the companies on that list.”

  “We could start with knowing precisely what those companies do,” Gabriella said.

  Alexander was already typing, searching the paper’s records for whatever facts they could disclose about the mysterious partners of the Vatican Bank.

  It took several minutes to begin collating information from the archived articles and stored research. When at last he had worked his way through everything likely to be relevant, he started printing off the most important files.

  Amongst the institutions in the IOR’s listing, several were invested in medical research and considered to be at the cutting edge of their fields. Few specifics were available. A common trait of medical research groups appeared to be their attachment to secrecy: concealing the precise details of their work from rival companies until they were ready to announce their next big breakthrough, patented and profit-protected. But what Alexander was able to discover was enough to reinforce his previously held suspicions.

  The projects detailed in public records included CygnaGen’s advanced research on treatments for genetic blindness, and Alventix’s work on pharmaceutical treatments for various cancers thus far deemed terminal by the medical community.

  Blindness and cancer.

  But there was nothing yet that directly related to the first miracle: the healing of the Pope.

  “I’m trying to search for any connection between the research of the firms on our list and . . .” Alexander hesitated. “It’s aggressive spinal stenosis, right?”

  Gabriella nodded. She, along with the rest of the Roman Catholic world, had learned the name of the Pope’s condition in the days following his election. Every news program in the world had featured little medical moments on the new pontiff’s “crippling ailment”—a narrowing of the spinal canal that could range from causing minor aches and pains in its sufferers to crippling disfigurements of the spine and extraordinary, constant pain.

  But at least as far as the materials databased in the paper’s collection were concerned, there were no links to the condition. Even orthopedic ailments more generally seemed absent from the remit of the firms linked to the IOR.

  “Nothing there,” Alexander said, “but what we’ve got on the others is damning enough. Two of the companies attached financially to the Vatican Bank engage in research that directly connects to the healings that have taken place since the stranger’s arrival at St. Peter’s.”

  “I understand that, but don’t jump to conclusions. These are broad realms of research. Even you have to admit that. What large-scale medical companies aren’t doing research on potential cures for cancer? Or looking to cure blindness?”

  Alexander wagged his head. Gabriella had too much faith. She was resisting the obvious.

  “It’s circumstantial, Alex,” she added, “though I’ll admit it doesn’t look good. But we need to get something more concrete.”

  Alexander sat forward. “This is the extent of what we’ve got on file here. Any suggestions?”

  She was already moving, fidgeting in her pocket until her phone emerged.

  “We first got on to this track through money,” she said. “Money’s going to be where we find more specifics.”

  “Who do you suggest we call?”

  “My admirer down at central. Officer Tito Tonti, of he’s-willing-to-overlook-my-being-blacklisted-and-provide-us-with-photos fame. Maybe he can pull up more detailed financial information on these three firms.” She paused, then, with a grin, “I’m sure he’ll be responsive to a little . . . feminine flirtation.”

  Alexander grimaced as Gabriella dialed. There was a glimmer in her eyes. In amidst the humor, the fire of a police officer’s zeal was doing battle with the faith of a believer and, for the moment, winning. Damn, I’ve missed her.

  A second later, his attention was pulled away. A colleague peered over the top of the cubicle wall, his face a smile. He’d been discovered.

  “Alexander, wasn’t expecting to see you here! Heard you were sacked.”

  “Not sure it’s official until I get it in writing,” Alexander answered, smiling back. He’d always liked Donald Branson, a particularly forward English nineteen-year-old interning at the paper on his gap year.

  “What you in for?” Branson asked, eyeing Alexander’s open laptop. “Trying to gather up your old files before you’re cut off the network?” A devious wink contorted his left eye. With his penchant for bluntness and general lack of reserve, Branson would last fifty years in this industry if he survived his internship.

  “Just pulling up a bit of information. Sacked or not, I’m following through with some leads on the medical miracles from yesterday—the ones being associated with the arrival of the man at the Vatican.”

  “Medical miracles? You mean the blind kids and the cancer lot? Fuck, Alex, that’s old news!”

  Alexander pinched his eyebrows. “Old news?”

  “Hell, yeah. Haven’t you been keeping your ears open? Our stranger’s doing a whole lot more than healing the sick.”

  Alexander didn’t know what to say.

  “Come on, Alex, you’re really in the dark?” Branson shook his head, floppy hair bouncing boyishly, tut-tutting with the joyful expression of someone who had the privilege of sharing big news. “Zola’s daughter, the up-and-coming teen star, the one who was crushed out surfing last weekend . . .” He watched Alexander for recognition, and when he didn’t see it: “Abigaille Zola. In a coma since the accident, pronounced dead last night. Seriously, it’s been huge.”

  Alexander’s face started to whiten. He remembered seeing news of her death pop up in his search engine when he’d started in on his investigation, hogging the top of the search results. Celebrity did that. But he had been entrenched in his new work all morning. He hadn’t seen anything else.

  Finally Branson simply came out and said it.

  “Alex, she’s alive. The girl just—I don’t know, sat up in her own coffin. Her father was out on the balcony of his house a minute later, proclaiming the miracle to thousands of fans who had gathered in mourning, announcing that it took place at the precise moment the Pope read out his statement about the dead returning to life on live television.” />
  Branson seemed to consider the strangeness of it all, then laughed.

  “Healing the sick is small potatoes,” he continued. “Our stranger’s graduated to raising the dead.”

  41

  Head office of Alventix Ltd., Rome: 11:45 a.m.

  Oberst Raber walked into the office of Arseniy Kopulov, the publicity-loving director of the massive Alventix medical research firm, awash with conflicting emotions. The head of the Swiss Guard was not a man accustomed to this state of inner turmoil. There was duty, there was honor and virtue. In his world, their parameters were generally clear. But in the past twenty-four hours he’d felt the increasing presence of this new sensation, unwelcome and uncomfortable.

  There was going to be hell to pay for the Pope’s comments. The public interest and media obsession had all been over the red line before the statement. Now there would be a circus, especially with news coming in that the Holy Father’s “prophecy” of resurrection had come true in Piombino. That meant new security concerns for Raber’s men to handle.

  But the Guard were trained to deal with such situations. The need for increased public protocols didn’t worry Raber. Rather, he was concerned with precisely what was going on within the fortified walls of the Holy See. And the first step in resolving that question lay in the meeting he was about to have: a meeting with the man he’d spotted on the CCTV footage from yesterday’s Mass.

  “I’d say welcome to my office,” the enormous Russian said, his expression half-sneer, half-grin, “but I think we both know you’re hardly that.” Kopulov was well over six foot four, which made him an imposing figure even when seated. His precise age was hard to determine behind the hair dye and skin treatments, but Raber knew it was fifty-eight, which made him almost eight years the oberst’s senior, though he appeared just as fit as Raber himself.

  “I’m grateful you were willing to meet with me.”