The Chimera Sanction

by André K. Baby

  Fifteen minutes later, Dulac entered the Segnatura room where the members of the Curia awaited, some seated, others standing. Sforza, fidgeting with his rosary, stood underneath Raphael’s fresco depicting Ultimate Truth. How ironic, thought Dulac.

  Brentano, seated, kept clasping and unclasping his hands, like Pilate washing himself of the whole mess. Legnano paced back and forth, hands behind his back, his traditional scowl creasing his forehead and lines tugging at the sides of his mouth, transforming it into an inverted crescent.

  Sforza spoke. ‘We will receive their bank transfer instructions at any moment. We must decide now.’

  ‘You’re saying we should comply with their demands?’ said Brentano, his face flushed with animosity. ‘Condone extortion?’

  Dulac sat dumbfounded. The kidnappers want $310 million before five and the cardinals haven’t decided whether or not to pay?

  ‘Monsignor,’ said Sforza, his glare locked onto Brentano, ‘Cardinal Legnano and I have consulted with the Italian security force SISMI and the French Bureau’s ransom experts. They agree with Mr Dulac’s recommendation. We must get these kidnappers to the table. It is essential that we find out who we are dealing with.’

  Sforza looked at the other prelates for approval. ‘Monsignori, we just can’t take the risk that they—’

  Legnano stopped pacing and raised his right hand in protest: ‘Enough, Monsignor, enough.’ His tone was peremptory. ‘Thirty million USD, that’s what the Italian government has agreed to send them once we receive the deposit instructions. That will bring these criminals to the table. Besides, Mr Harris informs us Interpol will cover every bank in Panama City. They’ll trace the movement of the funds tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t think it will be Panama City,’ said Dulac.

  ‘Oh, and why not?’ said Legnano, eyeing Dulac quizzically.

  Dulac leaned forward, his hands palm down on the table. ‘Simply because the kidnappers know we can’t afford to think it isn’t.’

  ‘So you think they, how do you say, set us up?’ said Legnano.

  Dulac ran his fingers through the misplaced curls falling on his forehead and gave the cardinal a quick smile. ‘Yes.’

  The bubble-wrap padded beige envelope had been delivered to the Swiss Guard at the Sant’Anna entrance, addressed to Cardinal Fouquet. ‘Hand-deliver personally urgent’ said the red inscription on its front. After checking the envelope through security, the guard brought it to Fouquet’s personal secretary, Monsignor Dudec. ‘It’s a DVD disk,’ said the guard. The elderly prelate rose and made his way slowly to the Segnatura room. He entered and handed the cardinal the package.

  The assembly looked on expectantly as Fouquet opened the envelope and slipped the disc into the computer. The projector flickered to life and the unfocused images of two men appeared, until the camera zoomed in on a hooded man, then switched to the Pope. Dressed in a simple white cassock, he stared at the camera, his expression one of calm and resignation.

  ‘Monsignori,’ the hooded-man said, ‘as you can see, we are treating your Pope well. His continued good health depends on you. You will remit the $310 million in five deposits by hot wire transfer to the bank indicated here, receipt of which we will confirm today on closed-circuit TV, 5.10 p.m. Rome time. Our technicians will contact the Vatican’s shortly. Any attempt to trace the origin of our transmission will cause extreme prejudice to the hostages.’

  The camera focused onto the inscriptions on a tripod-mounted clipboard, which read:

  Account number 380-4625 $90 million

  273-4723 $55 million

  337-0462 $55 million

  214-0676 $60 million

  395-7837 $50 million

  Hot wire transfer number: 175-362-426-4066

  Recipient: Blue Sky International Bank.

  The camera refocused on the hooded man once again: ‘Upon receipt of the above, Clement XXI and Dr Bruscetti will be delivered to you unharmed, at a place we will disclose.’

  The video screen went blank.

  The prelates shot furtive glances at one another in nervous silence. Legnano turned to Dulac. ‘Where is this Blue Sky Bank?’

  ‘I’m sending the information request now,’ Dulac said as he typed the name into his laptop, linking him to Interpol’s encrypted databanks.

  Legnano continued. ‘So Monsignori, we agree to proceed?’

  ‘We are condoning blackmail,’ said Brentano. ‘They wouldn’t dare harm the Pope.’

  ‘And you want to play Russian roulette with the Pope’s life?’ said Sforza.

  ‘I have the location of the bank,’ said Dulac. ‘It’s a class B restricted offshore bank in San José, Costa Rica. The owner is a numbered company, whose shareholders have bearer shares. It was incorporated three days ago.’

  ‘If I understand correctly, they will have complete anonymity,’ said Legnano.

  ‘Correct,’ said Dulac.

  ‘What can we do?’ said Brentano.

  ‘In a few hours, not much,’ said Dulac.

  ‘Don’t you have an Interpol agent there? Won’t the local authorities cooperate?’ said Sforza, his voice a mix of frustration and anger.

  ‘To answer your first question, Monsignor, no. He was killed three weeks ago in a car accident. We haven’t replaced him yet. As to your second question, we’ll contact the local authorities immediately, but I wouldn’t get too optimistic.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘They receive large bank transfers every day. This one is small in comparison. They can’t risk paralyzing their transfer system unless and until they have proof of a crime. That will take days, and a court order. By that time it’ll be too late. The money will have come and gone.’

  Sicily, 4.30 p.m., Friday 26 May

  The chopper was due to land in a farmer’s field near Loresia at any minute. Moments later Vespoli, seated in the van, watched as the Alouette came into view and he recognized the fake, recently painted call sign on the chopper’s tail. The helicopter landed and within minutes, the door opened. Dressed in a beige desert shirt and khaki pants, a man appeared, his lithe frame uncoiling with the ease of a cheetah as he jumped to the ground.

  Hastening to meet him, Vespoli felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘How was your trip, Mr de Combel?’ inquired Vespoli to the man with dark lustrous hair and fine, chiseled features.

  ‘Tiring.’

  They walked briskly towards the van.

  ‘And the problems?’ the man shot a side-glance at Vespoli with eyes colder than black ice.

  ‘Resolved,’ said Vespoli, his semblance of assurance belying his profound dread.

  ‘Good. I trust all the others are here?’

  ‘They’re waiting at the villa,’ said Vespoli.

  ‘The Bellerophon. Has it arrived?’

  ‘It’s waiting at anchor in the Bay of Augusta.’

  When they reached the van, de Combel looked at his watch: in less than an hour, the Vatican would be transferring the money.

  ‘Keep it frozen,’ he said, handing Vespoli Malenski’s package, then entering and sitting in the back seat.

  ‘Go,’ Vespoli ordered as he sat next to the driver and closed the van’s door.

  The van started up the narrow, bumpy dirt road to the villa. Ten minutes later, the cream stucco villa and its cantilevered steel veranda, jutting aggressively over the cliff, came into view. The van stopped in front of the garage and the passengers exited.

  ‘Take the package upstairs, and put it in the freezer,’ said Vespoli to the driver.

  ‘Damn, Vespoli, you take it,’ said de Combel, pointing a forefinger at Vespoli.

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Don’t think. Don’t take your eyes off that package. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  From the underground garage, the threesome made their way up the narrow wooden staircase, through the hall and into a large room.

  De Combel looked about and smiled. Before him, fifteen descendants of the Cathars who had
escaped the massacre at Montségur sat around an oval table. They rose in unison.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Please sit down,’ said de Combel. ‘For those of you I haven’t met, my name is Pierre de Combel.’ He walked to the far side of the table and sat down. ‘After these years of planning, this is a moment of great joy for me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘… And of course, for you. My dream, I’m sorry, our dream is finally becoming reality. Our prophet once announced “Le pré reverdira”. “Our time will come again.” It is now that time. The Cathar martyrs, your ancestors, my ancestors, will not have died in vain. Today, a new era has begun for us. From my – our project, Alpha, Beta and Gamma phases are complete. Delta will begin this evening. So far, we’ve been fortunate. We’ve only suffered minor, inevitable collateral damage.’ He eyed Vespoli. ‘With a plan as bold as ours, that may not always be so.’ He eyed the table. ‘I see that Mr Vespoli has prepared the next phase. You’ve noticed that some of you have hoods before you on the table. Before Delta begins, you’ll be required to put them on. Vespoli, is the hookup with the Vatican ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Secure?’

  ‘Yes. Our technicians assure me they’ve finished testing the camera and linking of the transmission path through six secure stations. The seventh will be the Vatican.’

  De Combel looked at the other Cathars. ‘As you can see, we’re taking every precaution.’ He turned to Vespoli. ‘And how is our guest?’

  ‘He’s in his room. He says he refuses to cooperate with kidnappers. We’ve had to drug him.’

  ‘I see. Not enough to render him unconscious, surely?’

  ‘No, no, just enough to handle him. But he can’t talk.’

  ‘Good,’ de Combel said, rubbing his hands together. ‘As long as he can sit. Is Godefroi here?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said the bald man with the bull neck, raising his hand.

  ‘You know what you have to do?’

  ‘Yes sir, I do.’

  ‘Fine. Vespoli, distribute the documents.’ De Combel paused for a moment then continued. ‘You have before you the detailed description of two new scenarios, one of which will be played out today, depending on whether the Vatican complies with our demands. There have been some modifications to prior plans. Take a moment to look at them. I don’t want any panic.’ After a brief moment, he continued. ‘Are there any questions?’

  The Cathars looked at each other in silence, a look of dread on many of their faces. Finally, a man wearing a dark blue shirt stood up, trembling. ‘I, I can’t be a party to this.’

  ‘Really? And why not?’ said de Combel.

  ‘I have a young family….’ His hand holding the paper started to tremble. ‘This is going too far…. Surely you aren’t going to, to—’

  De Combel’s right hand pointed towards the door. ‘Out!’ he said. ‘Vespoli, keep him under guard. He must not leave the villa.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Vespoli as he escorted the visibly upset man out of the room.

  De Combel turned and challenged the others. ‘We must be united,’ he said, banging his fist on the table. ‘Anyone else?’ De Combel looked at the Cathars one by one. Nobody spoke.

  Suddenly, the chime of a cellphone broke the silence. It was Vespoli’s.

  ‘That must be the agent from Blue Sky Bank.’ He looked hesitatingly at de Combel.

  ‘Then take it, damnit.’ shouted de Combel.

  ‘Vespoli. Yes, he’s here. Just a minute….’

  De Combel grabbed Vespoli’s phone. ‘De Combel’.

  Vespoli and the others watched, as de Combel’s expression became somber. After a moment, his face turned to crimson, his eyes went black. Vespoli could see, feel the anger as the muscles around de Combel’s mouth contracted and his lips narrowed into a thin slit: ‘Thirty…? You said thirty total? You’re absolutely sure? I see. No other transfers coming in? None.’ De Combel flipped the encrypted phone shut. He paused for a moment, his head bowed. Then slowly he looked up, his jaw jutting forward in defiance. ‘Damn them. $30 million. They’re insulting us.’ He turned to Vespoli, then the others. ‘They leave us no other choice.’

  A Cathar spoke, looking around at the others seated around the table. ‘Surely we, we must wait a little longer. They may send another transfer….’

  ‘Nonsense. The Vatican thinks we’re bluffing.’ said de Combel.’ We’ll show them.’ His eyes sparkled with rage as he shook his fist in the air. ‘We will show them.’

  ‘But, Mr de Combel, we can’t—’ said another Cathar.

  ‘Those of you with hoods, put them on now,’ interrupted de Combel. ‘The rest of you, leave us. Vespoli, make the preparations.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  De Combel walked over to a small drawer beside the dining room entrance, where clothing had been placed. He took one of the dark fatigues and slipped it on easily, as if he’d practiced the move before. He picked up the black hood and put it over his head. After a moment, the door of the dining room opened again and a technician accompanied by a cameraman walked to the side of a small platform, which had been placed along one of the walls away from the dining room table.

  In the Segnatura room, Dulac, along with the members of the Curia, the Minister of State of Italy, Guadagni and Romer, sat nervously around the conference table. Outside, two Swiss Guards guarded each of the room’s two entrances. No one was to be allowed in, under any circumstance. Dulac watched the prelates, sometimes glancing at each other, sometimes at the two video monitors resting on wheeled dollies along one of the walls. Legnano, sitting next to Dulac, looked particularly anxious.

  Dulac turned and said, ‘Anything wrong, your Eminence?’

  ‘The Italian government should have confirmed the bank transfer by now. What’s taking them so long?’

  Suddenly, the monitors came alive. The screens vacillated for a moment, then the picture came into focus: seven hooded figures dressed in dark brown fatigues were seated behind a small platform onto which had been set a microphone and a single chair, empty. Dulac felt a cold chill run up his spine. A mock trial, he thought. A hooded man wearing black fatigues appeared, stood before the microphone for a moment, before reaching down and adjusting its height. He seemed to signal to someone to the side of the platform, invisible to the camera.

  Then a large, hooded man wearing black fatigues walked onto the platform followed by two shorter men supporting a white-robed figure between them. They sat the man down brusquely in the solitary chair, and the camera focused on the lonely figure, stooping slightly, his jaw slack, his head leaning to one side. ‘It’s His Holiness!’ said Sforza.

  They’ve drugged him, thought Dulac, fear seizing his brain like a vise. Not good. The man in the brown fatigue grabbed the microphone: ‘Men of little faith, you dare challenge us? Did you think we weren’t serious?’ The electronically scrambled voice was a chilling, otherworldly monotone. ‘Your token gesture is an insult. Do you hear? An insult.’ The voice’s pitch rose slightly. ‘To us, to your Pope, to the world. Our demands were clear, and you chose to ignore them.’ The voice paused for a moment and the hooded man pointed to the pontiff sitting below him. ‘Now, your Pope will pay the price.’

  Dulac’s stomach knotted. He could hear the hushed rumblings of the incredulous prelates spread like a trail of lit gunpowder.

  Legnano, his eyes glued to the monitor, leaned over towards Sforza sitting next to him and whispered, ‘They’re going to disclose the diary.’

  ‘They’re not going to, to harm him?’ said Sforza.

  The hooded man in brown gestured to the burly man in black, who walked over and stood behind the seated pontiff. At the man’s command, the burly man grabbed the side of his belt and unsheathed a large scimitar in a quick, smooth motion. For an instant, a flash of light reflected off the wide, curving blade.

  The Segnatura room’s occupants sat transfixed, mute, holding their collective breath. ‘Jesus Christ, they’re not going to decapitate him?’ said Gua
dagni, as he crossed himself quickly.

  The burly man raised the scimitar above his head with both hands. ‘Mio Dio!’ exclaimed the Minister of State.

  The burly man waited. After what seemed an eternity, he looked sideways to the other man. The man nodded.

  ‘NO! NO!’ the voices of Brentano, Fouquet and Sforza shouted in unison, as they jumped up from their seats.

  The monitors’ image blurred for an instant and caught the scimitar’s arc as it sliced downwards. A collective gasp rose from the room.

  The Pope fell forward, blood spattering onto the camera’s lens.

  The Segnatura room’s occupants sat motionless, transfixed. No one uttered a word. All stared, hypnotized by the screens of the TV monitors, now blank. After an endless moment, Fouquet crossed himself slowly and broke into tears. ‘In God’s name, why? Why?’

  Dulac sat, staring into space. He didn’t dare make eye contact with the Cardinals. After what seemed an eternity, Legnano said in a barely audible voice: ‘I never thought…. They are mad….’ Legnano turned to Dulac: ‘Who are these barbarians? Who in God’s name would take the pontiff’s life? Why, Mr Dulac? Why?’ Legnano took his head in his hands.

  The other members of the Curia simply sat, looking at each other, unsure as to what to do next. Finally, Brentano broke the mournful gloom. ‘We … we must prepare a statement for the press.’

  ‘The press? Is that all of you can think of?’ said Sforza, indignant.

  ‘We aren’t sure that the Holy Father … I mean, we can hope that …’ said Brentano.

  ‘Do you need to see the body?’ said Fouquet, his voice cracking with emotion.

  ‘Barbarians. They’re insane. They butchered an innocent man,’ said Guadagni.

  The Italian Minister of State rose solemnly from his chair and said, ‘Gentlemen, your Eminences, you have my condolences. I will advise the President immediately. Cardinal Legnano, rest assured we will wait for your permission before advising anyone else.’ From the corner of his eye, Dulac caught a glimpse of Guadagni trying to get his attention: ‘Partial payment, eh, Dulac. That was your recommendation.’