The Chimera Sanction

by André K. Baby

  ‘But we haven’t passed Customs,’ said Karen.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Mr Garcia’s diplomatic immunity extends to members of his family and their guests.’

  As the chauffeur, Karen and Dulac approached the limo, the rear door opened and a sun-glassed man in a pink open shirt and beige slacks stepped out.

  ‘Thierry my friend, how was your trip?’ said Garcia, with a smile as wide as the Rio Orinoco.

  ‘Terrible, thank you. Juan Garcia, meet Karen Dawson.’

  ‘Delighted, Madame. Please.’ As Garcia bowed slightly, he gave her a lecherous smile and ushered them into the limo’s backseat.

  The threesome exchanged banalities on the weather, Belizean beaches and the tribulations of flying, while the Mercedes glided silently along the sparsely travelled road through the subtropical countryside, the turquoise ocean to the right, the jungle’s dense green to the left. Fifteen minutes later, the imitation ante-bellum, gray stucco columns of the Hotel Mirador’s presumptuous façade surged into view.

  After check-in, Garcia led them through the lobby into the adjacent, pink walled lounge. ‘Did you receive my e-mail?’ asked Dulac, as they settled into the brown wicker chairs.

  Garcia waived the waiter over. Turning to Dulac, ‘I’ve looked into it. It will be difficult. The people I’m thinking of are expensive.’

  ‘My client understands.’

  The waiter, a white-haired man in his seventies, wearing a worn black suit and a morose scowl, ambled over. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Miss Dawson?’ said Garcia.

  ‘Perrier, no ice.’

  ‘Thierry, my friend?’

  ‘Scotch on the rocks.’

  ‘And I’ll have a Campari soda,’ said Garcia. The waiter shuffled away towards the bar.

  Turning to Dulac, Garcia said, ‘If you insist, I can arrange a meeting.’

  ‘I do. But I’m a bit worried,’ said Dulac, leaning towards Garcia.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘How can I be sure they won’t double-cross me and warn him?’ Dulac could feel Karen’s increasing discomfort, as he continued to ignore her and concentrated on Garcia.

  ‘Trust me. They won’t,’ Garcia said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the ones I’m thinking of work for my father.’

  ‘Then do it.’ Dulac could hardly believe the sound of his own voice, and that he was getting in so deep, so quickly.

  ‘Not so fast. Remember, we are in Belize. You’ll have to be patient. Don’t look for the wind. The wind will come to you, as we say in the sailboat racing game,’ said Garcia.

  ‘I have until tomorrow,’ said Dulac.

  Karen leaned forward and glared at Dulac. ‘Hey, am I supposed to just disappear, or do you mind telling me what this is all about?’

  Garcia looked at Dulac in unease.

  ‘No, I didn’t brief her,’ replied Dulac, timidly returning Karen’s angry stare.

  ‘Brief me? Brief me about what? This is a vacation, isn’t it?’ Karen bent forward again, eyes ablaze. ‘Well?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Dulac meekly.

  ‘Sort of? This takes the goddamn cake.’

  ‘Calm down, will you.’ Dulac looked around as guests at other tables started to stare. ‘Of course it’s a vacation. Just a little side business, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Dawson I didn’t mean to ruin your—’ said Garcia.

  ‘Mr Garcia, you’re not ruining anything. He’s doing the ruining all by himself,’ she said, pointing an angry finger at Dulac. ‘I’ve obviously been led down the garden path, thinking I could spend a relaxing vacation with your friend here.’

  ‘I, ah, I really don’t know what to say,’ said Garcia, fumbling with his napkin and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ Karen said, her stare still locked onto Dulac, her arms crossed over her pale-blue blouse.

  ‘Groundwork. Call it preliminary groundwork,’ said Dulac.

  Karen rose abruptly from her chair. ‘Do all the groundwork you want. I’m going snorkeling.’ She rushed towards the exit.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I thought you had told her,’ said Garcia.

  ‘About it all being a front? No.’

  ‘Lots of character,’ said Garcia. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  An afternoon in the warm, cobalt waters off the Belize Barrier Reef and swimming amidst schools of blue tang, yellow parrotfish, angelfish, lazy groupers, and large loggerhead turtles had managed to dull the edge off Karen’s wrath. After Dulac’s purchase of two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, the most expensive Hermes scarf in all of Belize City and a scorching night of reconciliatory sex, Karen had absolved Dulac of his sins of omission. The following morning, Dulac’s meeting with the Belizean government officials had been cordial, expensive, but fruitful: the promise of a $5.2 million US dollars anonymous donation to the Belizean Horticultural Development Corporation had secured their non-interference in Dulac’s plans to abduct de Ségur from Belizean soil. His mission accomplished, Dulac had had to apologize to Karen, yet again. He had to return to Paris on urgent business. ‘Suit yourself. I’m staying here,’ had been her reply to his query as to what her plans were. He’d taken the afternoon flight back to Paris.

  The next morning Dulac, tired and jet lagged, was finishing the last of his bowl of café au lait and croissant and about to call Roquebrun when the France 2 announcer attracted his attention on TV:

  ‘There’s been another leak at the Vatican. We have been told that Pope Clement XXI is about to make history. His Holiness has convened an ecumenical council to make major changes in dogma. According to our well informed source, the changes would allow women access to the priesthood. Also, in an effort to streamline the Church’s heavy bureaucracy and antiquated structure, the Holy See plans to abolish the function of archbishop, and at a later date that of cardinal. We tried to interview the Camerlengo, Cardinal Fouquet, who won’t officially confirm or deny.’

  Really? Dulac thought. Dulac always preferred the written word to the sensational, truncated news on TV. He turned off the monitor, dressed quickly, walked to the newsstand on the corner of the street, and was soon standing in a tumultuous line-up, people jostling about for the few remaining copies of Le Monde.

  ‘Sorry, no more,’ said the harassed looking vendor to the clients, as Dulac saw a young boy buy the last copy.

  Dulac approached the lad. ‘I’ll give you five Euros.’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Thief. Here.’

  Dulac grabbed the newspaper, walked briskly home and as he hurried up the stairs to his flat, he tripped, just managing to hang on to the railing before falling. Good God, he thought. Continuing to read below the bold headlines, he felt a strange mixture of curiosity, exhilaration, and fear.

  Chapter 33

  The Vatican, 8.30 a.m., 20 June

  ‘It’s me, Cardinal,’ said Sforza, anger in his voice as he knocked on Fouquet’s office door. The door opened and Sforza rushed in, newspaper in hand, shaking it at Fouquet. ‘Have you read this?’

  ‘What could I do?’ said Fouquet. ‘I couldn’t deny it, could I?’

  ‘A bit more vagueness wouldn’t have hurt.’

  ‘I reacted as best I could.’

  ‘The Pope planted this. He leaked the information to the press. Now the truth comes out. He plans to eliminate cardinals as well,’ said Sforza, still shaking the newspaper at Fouquet. ‘He’s trying to pre-empt any deposition procedure on our part. This is a declaration of war. War to the finish.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ said Fouquet.

  ‘First we have to find out who our allies are. Who we can count on. We must draw up a list of all the conservative archbishops, cardinals, bishops, everybody. We must call them before it’s too late.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I won’t allow him to take the Church down the path of heresy,’ said Sforza. ‘Catholic dogma is not to be determined by a popularity contest.’ />
  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘You can gather the complete Canon law legislation and jurisprudence on the procedure to depose the Pope. There’s no time to waste.’

  The Vatican, later the same day

  The Vatican’s telephone lines were swamped. Calls were flooding in from everywhere. Calls of congratulations, calls of support, threats and expressions of joy, anger, disbelief and admonition: atheists, agnostics, priests, bishops, archbishops from Uruguay to Greenland, all wanted to be heard.

  The following morning, fuelled by the news of the upcoming reforms, St. Peter’s Square was filled to capacity, as word spread that the Pope would make a loggia appearance. Situated over the main doors of the Basilica and overseeing the Square, the loggia – or balcony – was reserved for the Pope’s special announcements, such as the beatification of a recent candidate for sainthood, or the official papal reaction to a world event.

  At 10.30 a.m., Cardinal Legnano, standing next to the French doors which gave access to the balcony, pushed aside the drapes, and peered discreetly outside. He looked at his watch. At that moment, Gonzales rushed in. ‘Sorry your Holiness, your Eminence. I was delayed.’

  ‘Never mind, Cardinal. Where are the others?’ said Legnano.

  ‘They should be joining us any minute,’ said Gonzales.

  Through the space of the slightly ajar doors, Legnano could hear the dull murmur of the crowd’s anxiousness and impatience.

  ‘We can’t wait much longer, your Holiness,’ said Legnano, looking out the window.

  ‘You’re right, Cardinal. The people have waited long enough.’

  Legnano opened the large, glass paneled doors, and the three most influential men of the Catholic world walked outside onto the balcony. At the sight of the prelates, suddenly the crowd broke into a thunderous cheer, rising into a crescendo of joy. ‘Viva il Papa. Vi-va, Vi-va, Vi-va!

  The words became a rhythmic incantation of 100,000 voices chanting in unison.

  ‘You have certainly won their hearts, your Holiness,’ said Legnano as he responded to the cheering crowd by waving discreetly.

  At the western extremity of the Square, a scuffle had broken out between a handful of dissenters and some of the faithful. Members of the Vigilanza, the Vatican’s security forces, were already intervening.

  ‘You can’t please all of them, your Holiness,’ said Gonzales.

  ‘I know. Not even all of the Curia.’ He threw a critical glance at Legnano.

  Directly below, fervent followers waved hastily-made placards bearing Finalmente, and Papa te amo, in bold, handwritten letters.

  ‘It’s time you joined them, your Holiness,’ said Gonzales. ‘I’ve had the pope-mobile prepared.’

  ‘Yes, I should,’ he said, waving to the crowd.

  Gonzales walked to the entrance of the papal chamber and talked briefly to one of the Swiss Guards standing in the doorway.

  Moments later, the threesome walked downstairs to the entrance of the Basilica. As the pope mobile pulled up and stopped in front of it, Gonzales signaled the driver over.

  ‘Your Holiness, your Eminences,’ said the driver as he bowed. ‘Your Holiness wishes to have the top up, or down?’

  ‘Down. I want to shake hands with members of my flock.’

  Moments later, the white customized Mercedes started its slow tour of St Peter’s square, to the tumultuous applause of the crowd. Cries of joy erupted from well-wishers, who would rush out, sometimes briefly clutching his offered hand, sometimes prostrating themselves in front of the car. ‘God bless His Holiness. We support you. We love you.’ The crowd would not let the popemobile return to the steps of the Basilica, so the driver started another slow tour of St Peter’s Square, stopping now and then before overenthusiastic worshippers standing in front of the Mercedes and blowing kisses. The crowd chanted louder still: ‘Viva il Papa. Vi-va. Vi-va.’

  After the triumphant tour, the popemobile slowed and came to a stop at the entrance. Still the well-wishers grabbed his hands, touched his cassock, and prostrated themselves before him.

  Cardinal Gonzales walked up, embraced him, and whispered in his ear. ‘Congratulations. You have won. They won’t dare depose you now.’

  Chapter 34

  Paris, 10.45 a.m., 22 June

  As Dulac walked down the corridor and neared Roquebrun’s suite in the Hotel Durocher, his palpitations started again. I don’t believe it. I’m participating, no, instigating the very crime we’re arresting de Ségur for. How the hell did I get into this? I should tell Roquebrun to take a hike, phone Legnano, and call the whole thing off.

  The door at room 237 opened.

  ‘Come in, Dulac, come in. Meet my assistant Fernando. Good news. I’ve just received the deposit money and the team is a go.’

  ‘Great,’ said Dulac apathetically, barely acknowledging the short heavy set man with a scar running down his left cheek.

  ‘We’ve just chartered a helicopter in Belize. Fernando and I were going through the logistics of the oil truck hijacking. Care for a drink?’

  You’re bloody right I’d care for a drink. ‘Scotch, no ice. On second thought, make it a double.’

  Later that afternoon, Dulac returned to his flat and sat in front of the Steinway, trying to park his conscience in a faraway place. He attacked the fortissimo first chords of Chopin’s Polonaise in A flat major and rushed the piece at double the normal tempo. Two mazurkas later, his hands cramped and useless, Dulac repaired to the kitchen to toss a frozen macaroni into the microwave. After drowning the tasteless pasta with a half-bottle of Julienas red, he retired to the study and went to his bookshelf. He glanced at his collection of assorted, often read books on French history, and something undefined, subconscious drew him to his copy of Zoe Ogdebourg’s The Cathars and their beliefs: Massacre at Montségur. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read it, but some vague pulsation buried deep in his subconscious resurfaced, summoning him to read it anew.

  A few hours, Gitanes and scotches later, his book having fallen beside his recliner chair, Dulac fell into a deep, sonorous sleep.

  The following morning, Dulac’s conscience had returned, somewhat mollified by the previous night’s workings of his subconscious. He could justify the hiring of Roquebrun. After all, had anyone criticized the Mossad’s methods when they’d abducted Eichmann from Brazil? On the contrary, they’d earned the world’s admiration and praise. Surely, there would be no reproach if de Ségur was brought before the French courts. It was the ‘if’ that bothered him. A thousand things could go wrong, any one of which would turn his plan into a well-publicized fiasco: Interpol plot to illegally abduct French citizen backfires, would read the headlines of Le Monde. His fragile tenure at Interpol would come to an abrupt end.

  But that could wait. Something else bothered him: the curious similarity between the papal announcements and what he had just finished reading the previous night about Catharism and its basic tenets. The coincidence started to foster an intuition, and the strange, bizarre insight hatched in his mind, took hold, and grew. He went to the bathroom and started to shave.

  No, impossible, he thought. It couldn’t be. Just a bit too wild, even for you. And the helicopter incident.

  ‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course!’ He phoned Karen. ‘Still mad at me?’ he said.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘All right, so it was wrong to bring you to Belize.’

  ‘Not at all. The rest of my vacation, if I can call it that, was fabulous. I—’

  ‘Listen, you’ve seen the news about the Pope.’

  ‘So? It’s about time they let the other half of the world into their private club.’

  ‘Never mind the details. I’ve got to see you this morning.’

  It was the urgency in his voice that made her accept.

  An hour later, they sat at Dulac’s favorite morning hangout, the Café Montfort, waiting for their croissants and espressos.

  ‘Why the sudden interest in Catharism?’ Kar
en said.

  ‘I studied Catharism in my law courses at Montpellier University. Everybody in the south does.’

  ‘You mean the French south.’

  ‘Certainly not the American,’ said Dulac, as the waiter deposited their breakfast on the table.

  ‘It’s just an expression.’

  ‘You Americans are so damn ethnocentric.’

  ‘Touché.’

  Dulac took a bite of his coffee-dipped croissant and continued. ‘Know anything about the Cathars’ beliefs?’

  ‘If I remember from my mythology courses, it’s a sort of dualistic religion, with a greater and a lesser God. But it’s been a while since I’ve delved into the subject.’

  ‘I’ll give you a quick summary. They recognize the Pope, but have only one layer beneath him: bishops. No archbishops, no cardinals, just bishops. They have women priests, they have a credo that has nothing to do with the Catholic one. They do not believe in the physical resurrection of Christ or the virginal birth. They—’

  ‘And what does Cathar doctrine have to do with my otherwise enjoyable breakfast with you?’

  ‘It may be just a coincidence, but the reforms proposed by the Pope….’

  ‘Surely other religions have the same beliefs. Take my friend Anna Singer. She’s an Episcopalian minister in Montana. Women pastors are becoming common in the Anglican Church. It’s about time Catholicism finally caught up to the 21st century.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. But let me tell you something that I can’t explain, but that has been troubling me since….’ Dulac’s gaze trailed off into the distance.

  ‘Since?’

  ‘I can’t pinpoint it exactly. Karen, I have this, this strange feeling about the Pope.’

  ‘So do a lot of people. They’re saying he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Then there’s the disturbing parallel with Jean-Paul I and his sudden death after he proposed to revamp the Church. Every newspaper has brought this story back to life. Crass reporting at its worst, but it sure sells newspapers.’