by Tom Fox
The communication ended swiftly and the man turned back to Alexander and Gabriella. With a nod, another man stepped behind them and removed their cuffs.
“Stay between my men at all times,” the lead officer said. “I’ve been instructed to take you to Cardinal Trecchio immediately.”
61
Headquarters of Global Capital Italia: 5:56 p.m.
Caterina Amato had gathered her board of directors around her for an evening meeting. The day had been fruitful, but it was time to swing the next phase of their operation into action.
“The Pope’s statement this morning worked in our favor beautifully,” she said. “Though he didn’t endorse his visitor, he sure as hell endorsed the miracles.”
The men around the table smiled. The world was so eager to believe. A little manipulation of money, a little modern science, and it saw miracles everywhere.
“Captain D’Antonio has made a trip to Piombino to interview the girl,” Caterina continued. “You’ll be relieved to know she remembers nothing.”
Sighs of satisfaction.
“But nothing of what?” the man with the slick appearance asked. “Do we have any idea what actually happened to her?”
“Does it matter?”
“She was . . . in her casket,” he protested.
“There are ways to fake a death,” Caterina snapped. “Perhaps her father was hiding something. God only knows. An insurance scam, maybe a publicity stunt.”
“But the whole nation watched the announcement of her death. It was on every news report,” another board member protested. “The public is only going to read this one way: a return from the dead.”
“Then there’s nothing to be complaining about. Everything’s to our advantage. Her only memories are the kinds of things that could easily be the results of a faked experience. Blurry lights, indistinct voices.” Caterina paused, allowing the implications to sink in.
“You’re suggesting she was drugged? That she was kept in a coma and her death was staged? Whatever for?”
“More irrelevant questions!” Caterina boomed. “Are none of you paying attention? The only thing that matters is that her situation can easily look like a fraud. Who cares what the real story is? We can make her return appear illegitimate, and that’s enough. Once the world has caught miracle-deception fever, illegitimate is all they’re going to see.”
She was right. They’d staged the medical events in Pescara and Rome themselves, so everyone in the room knew that proving them to be hoaxes was not going to be a problem. Abigaille Zola’s strange return to life in Piombino had happened without them, just as had the Pope’s restoration; but at the end of the day, that really didn’t make any difference.
“It’s time for the campaign to begin,” Caterina announced firmly. “We need to transition the people from faith to doubt.”
“Why the rush? I thought we’d agreed to wait until the Pope more clearly aligns himself with his guest.”
Caterina’s angry face reddened. “Because that bastard reporter and his cop girlfriend have been able to find out too much. With his family connection inside the curia, it’s too risky to wait. If they know something, and they share it,” she continued, “all our work turns against us.” Her glare conveyed the understood details. The miracles they’d produced needed to be exposed from the outside, so the world would discover that its great spiritual leader was a feeble toy caught out by fraudulent deception. If the discovery came from within the Vatican, the whole plan would go the other way: the Pope would come out looking adept and more insightful than ever, moved by apparent miracles but industrious enough to recognize when he and his church were being manipulated.
“Can we stop them?” one of the board asked.
“It’s already being taken care of. I’ve ordered Trecchio and the girl removed from the scene once and for all. The cardinal is being dealt with from the inside.”
Caterina looked slowly over the collection of associates. Her features were stone.
“It’s time to step it up,” she said. “Release the photograph of the twin. Get it on every television station, internet blog and magazine in the country. Within the next twenty minutes, I want it to be the most recognizable image in Italy.”
62
The Apostolic Palace: 6:01 p.m.
At Oberst Raber’s instruction, guards had been posted every twenty meters along the main corridors of the Apostolic Palace. The progress made by Alexander and Gabriella toward the door of Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio’s study, flanked by their team of guardsmen, was undertaken in a kind of rigid silence. There was little that could happen in a compound so well guarded as this. And despite the dangers and stresses of their arrival here, neither Alexander nor Gabriella could be entirely unmoved by the resonant antiquity of the space. These were corridors that had been crafted by some of the finest architects and adorned by some of the greatest artists Europe had ever known. Pinturicchio had painted here. Michelangelo. Raphael. Their spirits seemed to hover in the cloistered spaces, stuck close to the ornate images they had bequeathed to the centuries.
“My uncle’s just down at the end of that corridor, then on the left—”
“We know the location of Cardinal Trecchio’s rooms,” the head guard grunted dismissively. It was apparent that he remained unhappy with these intruders being led into the Apostolic Palace rather than immediately arrested. Orders, however, were orders, and he had never questioned one before. Instead he marched ahead of the two captives while one of his men walked behind them and two others held flanking positions. All with their hands fast on their weapons. Everything about their demeanor suggested that if Alexander and Gabriella’s motives for being inside the palace were not quite as pure as they’d let on, the guards were going to give them no opportunity for escape.
“Wait here,” the leader instructed as they reached the end of a long marble-floored corridor, its walls covered in elaborate red and orange oil frescos speckled with every color of the rainbow. He stepped carefully into the three-way intersection where a corridor of equal length and grandeur crossed perpendicularly. Despite the video coverage and the presence of guardsmen everywhere, he made a visual inspection of the space before instructing his men to move their small diamond formation forward and to the left.
Ten or fifteen meters later, they’d arrived at a wooden door, bold and imposing, waxed to a mirror-like shimmer. It, like every other door in the wing, was unmarked. It was assumed that anyone who had business being in this part of the palace knew which doors he needed to access.
Alexander stepped forward, a hand already extending, ready to knock on the familiar door of his uncle’s office.
“Back away,” the lead guard ordered, holding out an arm and blocking Alexander’s way.
“He’ll know it’s me.”
The guard merely stared him down. Alexander finally stepped back.
The guard turned, straightened his flak jacket and beret, then knocked firmly three times on the wooden door.
“Your Eminence, this is Hauptmann Remo Deubel of the Guard. I have with me a man claiming to be your nephew, as well as his companion.”
The announcement boomed through the air of the long corridor, stone and polished wood granting it a ghostly reverberation.
Alexander stood impatiently. He knew Gabriella would be unhappy with being described as his companion, so he tried not to look at her.
No answer came. The whole group stood silently a few moments, then the captain knocked again.
“Cardinal Trecchio, I’m ordered by Commandant Raber to present these individuals to you. It is imperative you receive us.”
Silence again, after the echoes faded. No footsteps from beyond the door. Alexander began to feel a constriction in his chest. Something here wasn’t right.
After a few moments, Deubel spoke into his shoulder mic.
“Control, give me the location of Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio.” A pause, then the chirped response in his ear, audible to all in the otherwis
e complete silence of the space.
“The cardinal’s in his office. He entered at 2:56 p.m. and hasn’t left since.”
The group’s tension increased. Deubel’s earpiece chirped once more, and this time a new voice crackled into the waiting space.
“Remo, this is Raber. Break down the door.”
The guard’s eyes went wide, but an instant later he furrowed his brow with the intention to comply.
“Move away,” he instructed the others, already taking a step backward himself. Then, his handgun raised before him, Deubel swung a leg hard and fast, his right boot coming into contact with the door only a centimeter from the knob and lock.
The wood groaned, there was a distinct crack—but the door didn’t give. The guard drew in three swift breaths, tightened his muscles and kicked again.
This time the wood beneath his boot shattered, splinters flying away from the frame. The door didn’t swing open, but the lock was gone. The guard pulled out his foot, righted himself, then shouldered open the door.
There was no need to cry out in search of Rinaldo Trecchio. The cardinal’s body was slumped across his desk, face down, his arms limp at his sides and the shattered remains of a teacup littering the floor beneath his dangling fingers.
Alexander lunged forward. This time the guards didn’t stop him. He raced to his uncle’s side, horror on his face.
“Uncle!” he shouted, groping for the man’s shoulders. He tried to lift him, but the cardinal’s frame was heavy and stiff.
Captain Deubel was at his side almost as fast and thrust a finger deep into the cardinal’s neck. A silent pause, and then he announced what everyone already knew.
“The cardinal’s dead.”
“No!” Alexander shouted, genuine emotion tearing at him. “He can’t be!” Gabriella moved to his side, placed a hand on his back, trying to provide a comfort she knew couldn’t suffice.
Deubel was on his radio again, muttering quietly and swiftly up the chain of command. A moment later he stood before Alexander and Gabriella.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said emotionlessly. “May your uncle’s soul find rest. For now, we’re going straight to central command.”
63
Headquarters of the Swiss Guard: 6:20 p.m.
Christoph Raber was livid. Somehow a cardinal, a prince of the Church, had been killed on his watch. Not just that, he had been killed inside the Apostolic Palace—the very heart of his jurisdiction and the most secure section of Vatican City. And he knew Rinaldo hadn’t died of natural causes. Not like this, not today, not under these circumstances.
Raber’s worst fears were coming to fruition.
He’d immediately ordered a third cohort of guards to move to the papal apartments. Two were already stationed at every access point, on every staircase and in every passageway that led anywhere near the pontiff. But this third he instructed to enter the apartments themselves and stand guard alongside the Pope within constant line of sight. Gregory wouldn’t be pleased, but there were rare moments when even the Holy Father simply had to accept Raber’s professional decision. The Pope might be a man accountable only to God, but the Lord had appointed Raber over a group of men whose sole duty was to protect God’s earthly vicar. He didn’t mind incurring the pontiff’s displeasure if it meant he could keep the Holy Father safe.
Raber would join them shortly. He would explain the situation to the Pope himself. But first he wanted to know exactly what Alexander Trecchio and Gabriella Fierro were doing breaking into the city.
From the moment of their arrival at the central office, Gabriella’s nervousness increased dramatically. Everything about the Guard’s headquarters spoke of the kind of technology-orientated, hyper-vigilant security service that modern society had been programmed not to trust. NSA surveillance networks, CIA enhanced interrogation practices, military rendition—the emotionless atmosphere of this underground complex struck her as resonating with them all.
She and Alexander were led further into the complex until they reached the etched-out glass door of Commandant Christoph Raber. There they were told to stand still while a digital eye scanned them from above. When the glass finally slid aside, they were pushed into the room.
The interior was an office, sleek and modern, and the man who sat behind the central desk was immediately hard to read. He wore civilian clothes: a dark-blue pinstriped suit beneath which a firearm was obviously holstered at his chest. His hair was cropped short and neat, the wrinkles in his face more those of experience than age. He looked friendly and forbidding at the same time.
“Mr. Trecchio, Inspector Fierro,” he began as they entered, “my name is Christoph Raber and I am the head of the Papal Swiss Guard. I want to begin by impressing upon you how little I enjoy anyone breaking into Vatican City.”
Alexander tried to speak. “We were—”
“Even if,” Raber cut him off, “one of the intruders is the nephew of a cardinal and an ex-priest who used to wander the grounds with a degree of freedom.” He glared into Alexander’s eyes. The man clearly knew everything about him. A moment later he turned to Gabriella. “Or a mid-ranking police officer who, my sources tell me, has been removed from active duty for insubordination.”
Gabriella sensed there was no point in making a response.
“But,” the commandant finally said, turning back toward Alexander, “you are indeed the nephew of Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio, a man I respected greatly. And I happen to know he respected you. You’ve told my men that the Pope is under attack. Right now the only thing keeping you out of a holding cell is that you say you’ve brought proof.”
Gabriella suddenly found a charge of courage. “We need the files we brought with us. The proof is there.”
Raber nodded and one of the guards handed her their confiscated dossiers. She tossed the first, the material that had been collected by Alexander, on to Raber’s desk.
“That folder contains full details of three medical firms we believe have staged the healings of the past two days. It highlights their connection to pay-offs originating here in Vatican City, at the IOR. It also links them to an outside source we’ve not been able to pin down.”
Raber sat back slightly and shrugged his shoulders. “This is not news to me. Our investigation has found the same.”
“There are men inside the Vatican helping with this deception,” Gabriella continued.
Raber waved aside the revelation. “The curia is hardly white as snow. We suspect everyone, including our own, as a matter of course.”
“Even of murder?”
Raber’s features hardened. “Cardinal Trecchio’s death will not go unpunished. Of that I can assure you.”
“That’s not the murder I’m talking about,” Gabriella countered, and for the first time, Christoph Raber looked surprised.
“You’re referring to the two professors.” The commandant had obviously found his way to the same information she and Alexander had.
“Not those murders, either.”
Now Raber stood. “Then just what murder are you referring to, Inspector Fierro?”
Gabriella stared at him, then turned to Alexander. He nodded his support and she turned back to Raber. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t make me ask again,” he warned.
Gabriella reached down and opened the snap on the second plastic folder.
“One other death has come to light today. So far it’s been heavily concealed, which is suspicious by itself. But once you see the body . . . well, you’ll understand.”
Raber waited as she leafed through the pages until she found the one she wanted.
“I know you all experienced something in the presence of the man you’re housing here with the Pope. I saw the video footage of the Mass. I watched you all kneel. But whoever you and others believe him to be, I can assure you this man is not a divine visitor. He’s the troubled runaway brother of a set of twins, whose other half washed up in the Tiber earlier today.”
“Whoever you’ve got upstairs,” Gabriella continued, “he’s a plant. Whether he’s planted himself or been manipulated by others I don’t know. But there is an attack in progress, on the Church and on the Pope. He’s a part of it, whoever else may be involved. And so far, those people have left a trail of blood and death in their wake.”
A tense silence lingered in the office. Then, all at once, Raber snapped into action. He grabbed the photo and slid it into his jacket pocket. His eyes flew to Gabriella, then to Alexander.
“Gather your things together.”
“Where are we going?” Alexander asked.
“We’re going to see the Holy Father.”
64
Throughout Italy: 6:31 p.m.
On ten thousand televisions in ten thousand homes it began.
On wall-panel displays on shopfronts in the heart of Rome.
On LCD billboards lining the way to chic city centers in the Tuscan Riviera and the more discreet public television displays that cornered classic boulevards in Florence. In every city, in the towns, all the way down to the tiniest villages.
One image, everywhere, flooding the consciousness of a confused public: the face of the stranger.
The one they had seen walking down the central corridor of God’s cathedral.
The one who had called silence upon the masses.
The one who had felled the Swiss Guard in synchronized obeisance.
The one who had ascended the high altar and spoken to the Vicar of Christ.
The one who had healed a pope.
The one whose mere presence in their midst had given sight to the blind and bodily health to the diseased. The one who had raised the dead.