The Chimera Sanction

by André K. Baby

  Dulac’s phone rang. It was Karen. ‘I’m looking at it too,’ he said.

  ‘This is unbelievable. This can’t be just a coincidence,’ said Karen.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m beginning to get this, this ugly feeling of déjà-vu.’

  The other members of the inner Curia were waiting in the papal library for Cardinal Legnano to join then. The cardinal entered, accompanied by a middle-aged woman wearing a white smock.

  ‘Your Eminences, this is Dr Cavallo, from the trauma department of the Agostino Gemelli Clinic,’ said Legnano.

  The continuous twitching of her left eyelid did nothing to dispel their collective anxiety. ‘She will give us her preliminary report. Dr Cavallo,’ said Legnano.

  ‘He’s had a massive stroke,’ said the doctor as she sat down, resting her hands on the conference table. ‘It’s impossible to assess the amount of brain damage, but the preliminary diagnostic indicates his left side is more affected than the right, which means motor skills will be impaired.’

  ‘Is his life in danger?’ asked Fouquet.

  ‘His vital signs are steady, but you must make a decision.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Cardinal Gonzales.

  ‘He must be put into an induced coma, to reduce the swelling of the brain. If not, the brain risks being flooded by the oversupply of blood; that could kill him.

  ‘What decision is there, then?’ said Sforza.

  ‘There is an alternative, your Eminence,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That we try to operate now to relieve the cranial pressure. I don’t recommend it, in his present state. The operation is very stressful and could also prove fatal.’

  ‘What are the risks with the induced coma?’

  ‘Although the patient’s brain slowly heals itself, so to speak, there is severe risk of infection due to the slowing of his metabolism and weakening of his immune system. Pneumonia is a distinct possibility.’

  ‘Mio Dio,’ said Legnano.

  ‘The more we wait, the more the flooding and damage. There are risks in both options, and my role is to inform you. The final decision however is yours.’

  The cardinals looked at each other uneasily, waiting for someone to take the initiative. ‘I must warn you that even if he survives the induced coma, he could come out of this completely paralyzed. On the other hand, there have been cases of miraculous recovery,’ she said.

  Legnano spoke. ‘Monsignori, we must hope that the Holy Father has the necessary strength and stamina to heal. I favor the induced coma. What do you say, Cardinal Gonzales?’

  Before the cardinal could answer, Fouquet interjected. ‘I think we should wait until we have more information; we can’t decide intelligently without more facts.’

  ‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear, Monsignor,’ said the doctor, looking at Fouquet. ‘You don’t have the luxury to wait. I must leave this room with your decision.’

  The first ring from Dulac’s phone jolted him from his light sleep. He recognized Gina’s number.

  ‘What is it, Gina?’

  ‘Sorry I woke you, Mr Dulac. I couldn’t wait. I just finished the diphthong and rhythm pattern analysis,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Plus the overlapping wave amplitudes are completely out of synch and—’

  ‘Gina, slow down. Speak to me in plain English.’

  ‘It’s a 95.4 per cent to 98.6 per cent mismatch with any of the samples I was able to get.’

  Dulac sprang up from his bed. ‘I knew it! Gina, If you were here I’d kiss you. You’re the greatest.’

  ‘Now don’t jump to conclusions. As I told you, these voice analyzer tests—’

  ‘Gina, send me an encrypted copy by email then lock your file on this. You must keep this confidential. Understood?’

  ‘Pretty hot stuff, eh?’

  ‘That’s the understatement of the decade.’

  ‘Cardinal Legnano is extremely busy, Mr Dulac. Under the circumstances, I doubt he has time to see you,’ said Legnano’s assistant over the phone.

  ‘Have you any news on the Pope?’ said Dulac.

  ‘His condition is stable.’

  ‘Is the cardinal in his office now?’

  ‘Mr Dulac, Cardinal Legnano is very busy.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dulac hung up. He’d scheduled a meeting with Roquebrun, but following the events of the previous day, he’d called and canceled it. There were more pressing issues to be resolved. He dialed Legnano’s number again, using his cellphone this time.

  ‘At least let me speak to him. I promise I’ll be brief.’

  ‘Just a minute, I’ll see if he’ll talk to you,’ said the assistant.

  ‘Yes Mr Dulac,’ said the cardinal, his voice a mixture of annoyance and impatience.

  ‘Your Eminence, I must see you. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Mr Dulac, the Pope went into an induced coma last night and we are on vigil. He may not make it. If it’s about the diary and de Ségur—’

  ‘I’ve canceled my meeting with Roquebrun.’

  ‘Who is Roquebrun?’

  ‘The man we hired for … your mandate.’

  ‘Yes, under the circumstances, that was the best thing to do.’

  ‘I must talk to you about something else. Believe me, I wouldn’t be phoning if it wasn’t vitally important.’

  ‘I see. What is this about?’

  ‘I can be in Rome by early afternoon.’

  ‘You’ll have to take your chances, Mr Dulac. If the Pope’s health deteriorates, I won’t be reachable.’

  ‘I’ll be at your office at two o’clock.’

  Dulac’s flight arrived late and the traffic from the airport was in gridlock. The cacophony of Rome’s impatient drivers leaning on their cars’ horns had nothing melodic to offer Dulac’s ears, those of a classically trained musician. Carrying his computer, he hurried through the Sant’Anna entrance to the Vatican, flashing his pass to the Swiss Guards. He rushed along the dark corridors and into the reception room of Legnano’s office. Dulac stood at the doorway, trying to catch his breath. The bespectacled assistant secretary looked up from his desk, acknowledged Dulac’s presence and gestured him to one of the empty chairs.

  ‘Please wait while I inform His Eminence.’

  A half hour passed, and there was still no sign of Legnano. Dulac’s patience was wearing beyond thin. He stared at the young priest, who seemed to consciously ignore him, busying himself in his correspondence.

  ‘Any chance of seeing him now?’ Dulac said.

  The prelate shook his head. Another fifteen minutes passed in oppressive silence. Suddenly, Dulac stood up and bolted towards the cardinal’s office door.

  ‘You can’t! You can’t go in!’ said the bewildered priest. Dulac paid no heed and opened the door.

  Legnano looked up, surprised. ‘What is the meaning of this, Mr Dulac?’

  ‘I’m sorry, your Eminence, but this can’t wait.’

  Dulac sat down in front of the cardinal, put his computer satchel onto the cardinal’s desk and opened it. Turning it on, he scrolled down to ‘voice comparison analysis’, and double-clicked on the icon.

  ‘Mr Dulac, the Pope’s condition is deteriorating and I don’t have time—’

  ‘Your Eminence, I think you should see this. It’s a digital wave analysis and comparison of the voice of the man who gave the speech yesterday in St. Peters Square, and previous speeches given by Pope Clement XXI.’

  ‘Get to the point, Mr Dulac.’

  ‘It’s not the same voice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve had a voice analyzer test done. It’s not the same voice.’

  The cardinal slowly removed his glasses and put them on the table. A frown started to form on Legnano’s wide brow.

  Dulac continued. ‘Every speech pattern is picked up: inflections, pauses, word choices, articulation, density of the consonants, pitch of the vowels, highs and lows. Nothing matches.’

  ‘T
he Holy Father has been under severe stress. Surely a person’s voice can change in such circumstances—’

  ‘That’s taken into consideration and factored in, Your Eminence.’

  Cardinal Legnano reclined in his chair. ‘Come, Mr Dulac, surely you are a little tired.’

  ‘Please, your Eminence. At least look at the wave patterns.’

  The cardinal put his glasses back on his thick, aquiline nose and peered warily at the computer.

  Dulac pointed to the open pages in front of the Cardinal. ‘These are yesterday’s speech wave patterns on the left. Now look at the wave patterns on the right page.’

  ‘They’re quite different.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  ‘I’ve heard His Holiness speak many times, and I didn’t see any difference yesterday, or for that matter last week.’

  ‘The human ear can be easily tricked by good acting and possibly a larynx operation. Not so with the voice analyzer.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Mr Dulac?’

  ‘The man who spoke at St Peter’s yesterday is an impostor.’

  There was an uneasy silence, while Dulac waited for Legnano’s reaction of shock, negation, or confrontation. To Dulac’s amazement, Legnano remained impassive.

  ‘Where did you get this, this voice analyzer information, Mr Dulac?’

  ‘I became suspicious when I read about the leak in Le Monde, so on a hunch, I ordered a voice analysis comparison between his recent speech and earlier ones. The wave pattern analysis is fresh from our lab in Lyon. It’s 98 per cent reliable. Yesterday’s pattern is a 92 per cent mismatch with the earlier patterns, and—’

  ‘So you’re convinced that the man who is in a coma is not the Pope?’

  ‘We need a DNA analysis to confirm it, of course. That’s why I—’

  ‘For the moment, that won’t be necessary, Mr Dulac.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You see, Mr Dulac, I already know the man in a coma is not the Pope.’

  Dulac felt his lower jaw drop to his chest. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, staring at the cardinal in bewilderment.

  ‘You’ve just confirmed what I already suspected. Yesterday, after the meeting of the Curia with Dr Cavallo, the doctor pulled me aside and we spoke privately. She’s new to the hospital and she wanted some information concerning the Pope’s medical records. She assured me there was no breach of confidentiality, but that she was simply curious. She asked me if I knew why the plastic surgery operations on the Pope’s face had not been recorded in his medical history.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Who knows about this voice analyzer test, Mr Dulac?’

  ‘To my knowledge, besides ourselves, only Gina Marino at Interpol forensics.’

  Legnano rose, walked slowly to the window, hands clasped behind his back and looked outside. ‘Do you realize the scandal this will create if this information were to be made public?’

  ‘I’m beginning to.’

  Still at the window, Legnano turned and faced Dulac. ‘For the moment, I must ask you to keep this information completely confidential, Mr Dulac.’

  ‘It’s bound to leak out.’

  ‘Perhaps, but not through us. You may not be aware of the seriousness of the crisis within the Curia. The recent announcements by the – let’s call him the Pope for the moment – have wreaked havoc within the Curia. It’s a complex situation. I must deal with this in the best interests of the Church. For the moment I need you and Miss Marino’s complete discretion.’

  ‘I understand. Yes, of course, your Eminence.’

  ‘Are you planning to stay in Rome?’

  ‘I hadn’t given it much thought.’

  ‘I would prefer it if you did. I’ll schedule a meeting with the Curia tomorrow. I’ll need you to corroborate this, this information.’

  ‘They know, I’m telling you, they know,’ said the panic-stricken voice over the phone.

  ‘Who, they?’

  ‘Dulac. He’s just advised Legnano. And someone else from Interpol knows. A Gina somebody at their forensics section. They did a voice analyzer test. If they go public, we’re finished—’

  ‘Calm down. They won’t go public with only a voice analyzer test. They’ll need more than that.’

  ‘Dulac said it was 98 per cent accurate. A mismatch of 92 per cent.’

  ‘Damn that Dulac. He’s becoming a major pain.’

  ‘They are going to trace this back to me!’

  ‘Don’t panic.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘You stay calm and keep your ear glued to that bug. I want you to keep me informed of Legnano’s every move. That’s what you’re going to do.’

  ‘Yes but if they give those test results to—’

  ‘I’ll take care of it. What hotel is Dulac staying at?’

  ‘As far as I know, he stays at the Hotel Dante.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not here in the Vatican. If—’

  ‘I said I’ll take care of it.’

  Leaving Legnano’s office, Dulac felt uneasy. Legnano’s decision to wait till the morning to advise the rest of the Curia did not sit well with his conscience. With such stupendous news, why hadn’t Legnano called an emergency meeting of the Curia?

  He grabbed a cab back to the hotel. Inside the taxi, he called Gina.

  ‘Gina Marino.’

  ‘It’s me, Dulac. How many copies of the voice analyzer test do you usually keep?’

  ‘Well, normally I keep two copies on CDs. One for the file and one for myself. But since I didn’t log the use of the analyzer I’ve only kept one CD for myself.’

  ‘I’m going to ask that you keep that CD under wraps. Don’t let anybody see it, not even your cat.’

  Back at the hotel, Dulac grabbed a copy of the Corriere Della Sera from the front desk, crossed the lobby and sat himself down in one of the plump sofas. The headline read: Pope Clement XXI’s condition serious but stable. He went to the arts section and the striking face of Renée Fleming adorned the page reserved for concerts and recitals. La Traviata was playing at the Teatro dell’Opera.

  Dulac though for a moment. He needed to clear his mind, unload if only for a moment the oppressive burden weighing down his conscience. Nothing I can do tonight. I’ll see tomorrow how Legnano wants to play this. Dulac rose, went to the main desk and summoned the manager.

  ‘I want you to get me a ticket to this performance. Tonight.’ He pointed at the newspaper.

  ‘But sir, that’s impossible. That concert has been sold out for weeks,’ said the tall man with thick swept back hair, looking at Dulac with an air of reproach.

  ‘Do you have an envelope?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The manager handed Dulac an envelope bearing the hotel’s logo. Dulac took out his wallet, counted four hundred euros, and put them inside the envelope.

  ‘Put the envelope in my inbox. I’m sure a seat can be found at that price. Do we understand each other?’ Dulac smiled.

  ‘I’ll, I’ll see what I can do.’ The manager’s expression softened slightly.

  ‘Fine. I’ll be in the dining room.’

  Dulac was finishing his scotch when the waiter came over with a small silver tray bearing a white envelope in the center. ‘With the compliments of the manager, Mr Dulac. Have an enjoyable concert.’

  As his taxi headed for the Teatro dell’Opera, Dulac’s brain broiled with conflicting thoughts. Gina said it was a 92 per cent mismatch. What about the eight per cent? What if I’m wrong? No, the microsurgery. And the helicopter incident. And the monumental changes. There were too many coincidences. He had to be right. He could feel the burden of a secret growing, becoming heavier by the minute, till he thought it would burst, that he couldn’t contain it. He had to share it with someone. He thought of phoning Karen. After all, she knew his theory. Yet she didn’t know it had been confirmed. No, he promised Legnano to keep it secr
et. He had to wait.

  ‘Sir, we’ve arrived,’ said the perplexed cabbie as Dulac sat immobile in the back seat of the stopped taxi.

  ‘Yes, yes of course. How much?’

  ‘Thirty-five euros.’

  Dulac paid and got out. Inside the opera house, the rich golden rococo ornamentation of one of the world’s most acoustically perfect opera houses enveloped him, as he made his way to his seat under the soft light of the Louis XV style chandeliers.

  Dulac sat down and perused the program. Verdi’s La Traviata. After an ill-received first performance in 1853 in Naples, it had taken many years before the public and critics recognized this opera as Verdi’s ultimate masterpiece. Dulac leaned back and let the opening chords of the orchestra engulf him in a world of ineffable delight.

  Back at the hotel, Dulac went to the front desk. ‘Any messages for room 3416?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Well actually, no,’ said the clerk. ‘A gentleman was here earlier and left a message in your inbox.’

  Dulac eyed the empty mailbox quizzically.

  ‘A few minutes later, he came back and retrieved his message,’ said the clerk. ‘He said he will contact you personally tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Really? What time was he here?’

  ‘Around 10, 10.15 p.m. or so.’

  ‘Did he leave his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘A short man, rather heavy set, dark hair, mid-forties I’d guess.’

  ‘Did he leave his name?’

  ‘No. I asked him and he didn’t answer.’

  ‘So he just left?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I remember him asking where the washroom was. I pointed to the ones near the elevator, over there.’

  ‘After, did you see him leave?’

  ‘Sorry sir, I didn’t notice. I was busy with the—’

  ‘All right,’ interrupted Dulac.

  Dulac took the elevator to the third floor, turned right down the dimly lit corridor and stopped beside his room’s door. He pulled out his short-nosed .38 Benelli from his leg holster and cocked it. His heart began pounding and he felt a mist of sweat form under his arms. Dulac inserted the electronic card into the slot and the light turned green. He kneeled beside the door, turned the door handle gently, then flung the door open as hard as he could. The inside door knob struck the wall with a resounding crash. Dulac, two hands on his pistol in front of him, panned from left to right in the darkness. Nothing. He waited a full minute, then turned on the light. He swept the room, his right eye peering down the Benelli’s gun sight. Clean. He cautiously approached the bathroom. He turned on the light, pointing the gun at the shower stall. Empty. He returned to the bedroom. It looked undisturbed: his bathrobe was on the chair where he’d left it, the courtesy slippers at the foot of the bed. He went around towards the desk. Shit, the computer. It’s on!