Dominus

by Tom Fox

  “What about the girl?” Gabriella asked. “Abigaille Zola? Is that also a fraud?”

  The man turned tenderly toward her. “What do you think, Gabriella? Do you believe this precious child has been restored to life?”

  Gabriella hesitated. Her heart suddenly felt torn. Unsure. “But she was . . . There could be other explanations.”

  The man smiled. “There can always be other explanations—for everything. Faith rarely exists in the absence of other possibilities.”

  Gabriella’s eyes moistened. They looked ready to brim with tears. But Alexander’s visage was bolder. He was unsatisfied.

  “That’s all well and good, but I’m afraid none of your philosophical talk can answer this.” He reached over to Raber, who instinctively handed him the small photograph. Alexander laid it down on the Pope’s desk. The whole group, save the stranger, stepped closer.

  “I suppose that is the famed photograph?” he asked. “The one of the unfortunate soul found in the river.” Once again his tone was mystifyingly non-defensive. There were only hints of sorrow in his voice, without any echoes of self-justification.

  “It’s damning,” Alexander answered. “We know this man had a twin who’s been on and off the grid for months. We know he disappeared weeks ago. Then you appear, lone and spectacular in the midst of miracles that aren’t miracles.”

  “Why don’t you simply say what’s in your heart, Alexander?” the stranger prompted calmly. “You believe I am this man’s twin. That I killed my brother to cover up who I really am.”

  “Or had someone else do it.”

  Alexander’s full accusation was laid bare, but in this moment what shook his confidence was the fact that the stranger only nodded his head knowingly. It was as if the charge laid against him were an expected and reasonable idea. Yet at the same time he looked sorrowful that Alexander had given it voice. As if he had been betrayed. As if someone he loved had rejected that love. That seemed to wound him more than the accusation of murder and duplicity.

  “And if I were to tell you,” the stranger finally answered, “that this man’s brother would be found, within a few days, hiding from his creditors in a run-down boathouse somewhere in the north, trying to avoid being captured for murdering his own kin, would that satisfy you?”

  “You’re saying you’re not him? You’re definitively claiming that you’re not this man’s brother?” Alexander questioned back.

  “I’m asking how you would respond if you discovered that his story and mine are not connected. That a man with similar features to mine was found dead at a time when men are looking to explain away something they cannot comprehend. And so similar becomes identical, and mystery becomes deception. I’m asking how you’d react if it turned out that coincidence could be just as heavily manipulated as design.”

  Gabriella’s voice was suddenly anxious. “Do you have proof of the whereabouts of this man’s brother?”

  “Oh Gabriella, we’ve spoken before of faith,” the stranger said, turning again toward her. “Why ask me what I know? It’s what you believe that will give shape to what comes next.”

  “I believe what I can see,” Alexander answered accusingly, pointing again to the photograph, “and I see the face of a man who plugs the gaps of a story filled with holes.”

  The stranger’s eyes were back on him. He smiled. “We see what we want to see.”

  He took a gentle step toward Alexander. His voice remained soft.

  “I am standing here before you, normal and usual. There’s nothing beautiful before your eyes, no majestic appearance. I imagine I look like many other men.” Alexander made to speak, but the stranger gently held up a hand. “But then so do you,” he continued. “So do we all.” He took another step closer. “That’s the way of human perception. We see what we want to see, when we want to see it.”

  He pointed to the photograph on the Pope’s desk. “You want to see deception, to see liars and deceit. So you look at that man’s features, you know his story, and you see me. Because doing so will help . . . explain me away.”

  He picked up the photograph and looked at it a moment contemplatively. Finally he took the last remaining step to bring himself alongside the man who was, in this moment, his main accuser.

  “Alexander,” he said, “this man in the photograph, this man with golden-brown hair, green eyes and gentle cheeks. It could be me. It could be anyone. It could even be you.”

  At that moment, with profound gentleness, the stranger reached out and turned Alexander to his left. An enormous mirror was mounted on the west wall of the papal study. He positioned Alexander so that they were both facing it, then held up the photograph between them.

  Alexander’s breath caught. When the photograph was held next to his face, something in his perception changed. Side by side, he could start to see his own features in the deceased twin’s face. Their hair was a similar color. Their eyes were nearly the same shade of green. It wasn’t an exact likeness by any means, but if one were determined enough to look for it—determined in the way that Alexander and others had been to find a likeness to the stranger—one could see a profound resemblance.

  “We see what we want to see,” the stranger said again, softly, “and especially when we want to see deception and lies, we find them everywhere.” He waited a moment, then slowly lowered his hand, leaving Alexander to gaze only at their two reflections, side by side in the mirror.

  “The question is not always what you know, Alexander,” he finally said. “Sometimes it’s what you believe.”

  “I believe,” said the Holy Father, the first time he’d spoken in several minutes. He turned toward the stranger. “So tell me, what would you have me do?”

  The man smiled gently. “What must always be done for the sake of truth. You must speak out against the lies.”

  68

  The Apostolic Palace: 7:12 p.m.

  Breaking into Vatican City is significantly more difficult when one is not welcomed at the door by the Cardinal Secretary of State in all his crimson regalia. In the absence of such an escort, the chances of unexpected entry are almost nil. With it, there are very few in the Vatican equipped with the authority to stand down the second-highest-ranking figure in the Church.

  Caterina Amato’s Mercedes was met at the famous Bronze Doors by Cardinal Viteri. He was flanked by a small entourage from the curia. Each was a member of the Fraternity, each aware that this was no normal reception. Behind Amato’s car were two large SUVs, and as the ranks of men climbed out of them looking like anything but ordinary visitors to the Vatican, Viteri gave every visible impression of having expected them all.

  “Ms. Amato, I’m so glad you could join us,” he said, stepping to the curb and extending a hand in traditional episcopal style—palm down, fingers slightly curled, ring ready to be kissed. He noticed the instantaneous glimmer of resentment in Caterina’s eyes, but she bowed and brought her lips to within a few millimeters of his hand, deftly avoiding actually kissing his ring.

  “We’re glad we could get here so soon,” she said, righting herself and keeping up the scripted charade. “It is gratifying to think that in this time of trials, the Holy Father should feel us useful.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” Viteri muttered, smiling and glancing over the troop of men who had accompanied her. He didn’t give a shit what silly utterances Amato gave. The only question that any of the guards stationed here would ask was whether she was invited, whether she had clearance, and whether Raber had authorized her breaking of the general cordon.

  All of which the Secretary of State could assure them of. And because of the cardinal’s stature, none of them would question the lie.

  “The pontiff has requested a private session with Ms. Amato and her colleagues,” he announced to the nearest guard. “Check the duty log, I’m sure you’ll find the visit indicated.”

  Because my men have planted it there. The Fraternity knew how to pull on the strings of the great puppet show that was Vatican City p
rotocol when it suited them.

  The guard disappeared into a booth, stared at his screen a few seconds, then returned. “Everything checks out, Eminence,” he said. “The visit has been approved by the commandant himself.”

  Like hell it has, Viteri thought. Raber would rip Viteri’s throat out if he knew how the cardinal had forged his credentials.

  But rough as his thoughts were, his words remained the picture of political formality. “Then please see that this lady and these gentlemen are escorted in quickly.” He gave a faint smile—the kind old bishops give that wax paternal and wise. The guard nodded, and within seconds he and his counterpart were escorting Caterina Amato and her group into the heart of the Vatican.

  Inside the Bronze Doors, a broad flight of steps led from the ornate foyer up to the main corridor that tunneled into the heart of the Apostolic Palace. Viteri and his companions from the Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris assisted the members of the Swiss Guard in escorting their guests—thirteen, by the cardinal’s count—up the steps.

  It was when they were all there, standing under a crystal chandelier that hung beneath a fresco of the assembled angelic ranks, that Caterina Amato nodded to one of her companions.

  It took less than two seconds for the swarm of men to produce weapons from hips and shoulders, each suppressed, each expertly handled. The two ceremonially dressed Swiss Guards were dispatched each with two bullets through the chest and one through the head. A third in a connected control room had two shots through his skull before he realized anything was happening. A few steps down the corridor, a page awaiting his function of guiding the group toward its meeting place was taken out with a bullet through the side of his neck, spraying a crimson mist across a white brocade collar and on to the stone floor.

  Three more shots took out the cameras—the Fraternity had provided Amato’s team with the locations long ago. And that was it. They were alone, unguarded, in the house of the Vicar of the Lord.

  “Christ, Caterina! Was that really necessary?” Cardinal Viteri protested, disgusted. “They were barely more than boys!”

  “Grow some fucking balls, Your Eminence,” she answered, looking at him as if he were a frightened teenager cowering at a fight meant for grown-ups. “And don’t think it’ll be the last of it.”

  She turned toward her men, signaling four of them. “You know the route to the apartments and the office. Sweep ahead. Kill everyone, everyone, you encounter, until you get to the door to the Pope’s office.”

  As she completed her command, they were already in motion.

  Caterina turned back to Cardinal Viteri. “So, this is your ‘state.’ Be a good secretary, then. Take me to the man in charge.”

  69

  The papal apartments: 7:14 p.m.

  Within the papal study, Christoph Raber leaned close to Pope Gregory. At last the stranger had spoken words with which Raber agreed. The Pope had to speak out against the lies, and not in some diplomatic or pastoral way. The time for such things had passed. Raber’s task now was to convince Gregory that it was no longer simply the truth that was in danger, it was his very person.

  “Your Holiness, I beg you to think carefully about what’s coming next. The plot to discredit you has failed. Too many people found out about it: I did, these two did . . .” He motioned to Alexander and Gabriella. “But your enemies are not the kind of people to give up. They won’t have abandoned their plot. They’ll have changed it.”

  Finally realization dawned on the Pope. “To my life,” he said, slowly.

  Raber nodded. “It doesn’t seem that was their wish at the outset. Why risk exposure, or stirring up conspiracy theories? Much better to implicate you in spiritual deception and financial scandal. Make it seem you’d destroyed yourself.”

  “But,” Alexander stepped in, “now that we can show the scams to have come from other groups, that discrediting won’t work. They could still embroil you in scandal, but only at the cost of their own involvement being exposed. I don’t think going down with your ship is something they’re willing to risk.”

  “They’re going to kill you, Gregory,” Raber insisted. “It’s the most logical plan now. You end up dead, and those who had wanted to discredit you pass the blame on to someone else.” He nodded again toward Alexander and Gabriella. “Scapegoats. The real culprits will appear as horrified as the rest of the world at what these ‘fanatics’ have done. Then they’ll quietly go about their business as usual, you and your desire to clean up the Church forever off their charts.”

  “What’s the solution?” Gregory asked. “What can we do?”

  “You have to act,” Raber answered. “Expose them, expose it all, right now. We have the means here in the Vatican. Go on live television, attack the deception, and name those involved in this plot.”

  The Pope was pale. “But who, Christoph? I can understand forces on the outside wanting to get rid of the Church’s influence. But who within our beloved Mother Church would do this to me?”

  The answer came from outside the walls of the study.

  A series of thumps were the only reports of suppressed rounds being fired into the bodies of the guards who stood post outside the papal office. A moment later they were followed by the sickening thuds of bodies collapsing to the ground.

  Then silence, and then a voice.

  “Your Holiness.” It sounded from beyond the wooden entry. “Please, it’s important that you open your door. I have urgent need to speak with you.”

  Gregory blanched, his eyes bulging with recognition.

  “Cardinal Viteri?”

  A long pause filled the tense air. Then: “Yes, Gregory. I’m afraid it is time that we put a stop to this.”

  The Pope stuttered, staggered by the betrayal.

  “Were it any other man who betrayed me,” he muttered, quoting the scriptures, “but it was you, my own familiar friend . . .”

  There was a moment of silence, of broken, shattered communion between the two men who had worked together for so long.

  Then a woman’s voice claimed authority.

  “Screw this,” was all she said. A second later, the gunfire began.

  70

  7:22 p.m.

  It didn’t take long for the firefight outside the papal office to have its effect. The guards who had been stationed outside had been dispatched with ruthless efficiency, the element of surprise offering them little chance to fight back. Now the firepower of Caterina Amato’s men was concentrated not on opposing forces but on the ancient frame of the door. Holes began to pierce the wood immediately, splintering a ring around the lock and in equal measure around the hinges.

  “Your Holiness, take up a position at the back of the room,” Raber ordered. The men he’d stationed inside the office moved immediately into action. Two took the pontiff to the corner of the office furthest from the main door. Sliding out a massive armoire, they positioned him behind it, providing a bare modicum of cover.

  The other guardsmen took up key positions in the room: two on either side of the entry, weapons drawn and ready to cut down anyone who stepped through the door, which looked ready to disintegrate at any second. Two more were a few paces back at oblique positions. Raber himself pushed Alexander and Gabriella as far from a projected line of fire as he could, then stepped backward. He took a position immediately in front of the armoire that was the only barrier to the Holy Father.

  It was his post. Captains stood firm on the bows of their ships. Generals held up standards when their men could no longer fight. The commandant of the Papal Swiss Guard stood before the Holy Father, ready to sacrifice everything before he let the head of the Church come to harm.

  At the side of the room, the stranger stood calmly.

  The door exploded. Shards of Renaissance woodwork flew to the ornately carpeted floor and two men with legs as thick as tree trunks kicked in the remaining panels.

  Raber’s men were firing before the splinters came to rest. The two guards at either side of the door sawed throu
gh the intruders’ kicking legs with a spray of fully automatic fire. Behind them the other men, standing back at forty-degree angles, obliterated their chests with fusillades of unrelenting fire. Medieval swordplay this was not. The air rang with the non-stop report of the powerful weapons and the smells of sulfur and cordite filled the normally incensed surroundings.

  But outside the door, Caterina Amato’s troop had also positioned themselves carefully. The two men who forced the door were a calculated sacrifice. Somebody had to be at the front line, and such souls rarely lived to tell of the experience. But behind them, armed men had been placed at angles similar to those the Swiss Guard inside the room had taken. As they calmly watched the source of the fire that took down their comrades, these gunmen sighted their targets and, with only a few trigger pulls, passed 10mm full metal jackets through their heads.

  Which left only the two guardsmen directly to the interior sides of the entryway. There was no way to get an angle on them, so only one other possibility presented itself. Stealthily, one of Amato’s men slid along the wall to the edge of the door. The low-yield grenade in his hand had a destructive radius of only ten feet: plenty to knock out the two gunmen without risking the others deeper inside the room.

  He pulled the pin, counted, then gently rolled it a few inches to the center of the empty door frame and lunged out of the way.

  The blast was like a ball of white light, at first silent and peaceful. A millisecond later came the thunder—a blast that seemed to deliver a blow to every organ, every bone in every body in the room. But it only did real damage to the two of Raber’s men stationed at the entry: they were knocked completely backward, dazed. In that instant of disorientation, two of Amato’s men stepped in, fired three rounds into each man as he lay sprawled on the floor, then stepped back to safety.