Brotherhood of the Tomb

by Daniel Easterman

  Overall responsibility for security lay with Cardinal John Fischer, President of the Vatican’s Central Security Office. Fischer was as clean as a whistle. Born in Chicago to German immigrants, he had worked his way up the Catholic hierarchy there under Cardinal John Cody. All they had had in common was their first name. As soon as he was able, Fischer had left Chicago to work for Catholic Relief Services in the Third World: Africa, the Philippines, Mexico. In the early seventies, shortly after Cor Unum had been set up to co-ordinate Catholic charity work, he had been called to Rome to serve on its board. Once in the Vatican, his considerable abilities as an administrator had led to repeated preferments. His move to Security five years earlier had been seen as a major step towards closer involvement with the papal household.

  Finally, O’Malley had left a message for his old friend, Monsignor Giuseppe Foucauld, the Pope’s private secretary. Born in Rome of Italian-French parents, Foucauld was one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. He had the Holy Father’s trust, and anything that was destined for the Pope’s ear had to pass through him first. O’Malley had still not decided whether or not the Pope should be told of the plot or, for that matter, of the Brotherhood itself. In the long run, he would have to know, of course. But O’Malley was frightened of the consequences of a premature revelation.

  A meeting had been set up in Fischer’s office, on the second floor of the Governor’s Palace, a long four-storey building behind St Peter’s which serves as the City Hall of the Vatican State. O’Malley had suggested this venue himself, thinking it better to meet there, away from curious eyes in the Apostolic Palace. The Brotherhood would be on the lookout tonight.

  They drove straight through the Arco delle Campane to the left of St Peter’s: the Guards on duty at the gates were expecting them. A few moments later, O’Malley parked in front of the Governorato. He took a large bundle of papers from the rear seat and stepped out.

  The cardinal was waiting for them in a private reception room behind his office. The building was quiet: all staff except for security personnel had left for the day. A young priest escorted them upstairs, gave them directions, and left discreetly.

  Fischer greeted them himself, advancing with an outstretched hand and a warm smile. He was a cheerful-looking man in his early sixties. Over the years, he had put on more weight than was altogether good for him, but he managed to carry it with dignity. His skull-cap was perched far to the back of his head, giving him a rather jaunty appearance.

  ‘Father O’Malley? I’m pleased to meet you at last. I’ve heard a great deal about your work. You may not know it, but we’ve crossed paths more than once. Used to have problems with new religions out in Africa - Kimbanguists, Aladura, all those native churches. Pretty crazy. But the worst are the new cults getting into the old mission fields. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, Baha’is. Your people used to give us a lot of help.’ He shook hands firmly, then turned to Assefa.

  ‘Tenastillin. Indamin adderu.’

  ‘Dahina,’ answered Assefa.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s about the extent of my Amharic,’ said the cardinal, smiling broadly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think Father O’Malley mentioned your name.’

  ‘Makonnen. Father Assefa Makonnen.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Father Makonnen. Are you attached to Father O’Malley’s office?’

  Assefa shook his head.

  ‘No, Your Eminence, I’m ...’

  ‘Father Makonnen will explain who he is later,’ interrupted O’Malley. ‘I think it would make more sense that way. There are some things I have to explain first.’

  The cardinal raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You sure believe in keeping things mysterious, Father. You weren’t too forthcoming on the phone either.’

  ‘No. No, I wasn’t. I...’ O’Malley hesitated. ‘Your Eminence, have Colonel Meyer and Monsignor Foucauld got here yet? I’d rather not start without them.’

  Fischer glanced at his wrist.

  ‘I’m expecting the colonel any minute now. Monsignor Foucauld sends his apologies and says he’ll be joining us later. He’s having dinner with the Holy Father tonight. They have a few important guests, so he can’t really get away until about ten. Do you mind if we start without him? I have some very important business to attend to myself tonight.’

  Well, it’s about that I’ve come. The ...’

  There was a loud knock on the door. A moment later it opened and a tall man dressed in the gaudy Renaissance uniform of a Swiss Guard entered the room. He saluted the cardinal, then the others.

  ‘Hans, come on in.’

  The cardinal stepped forward, drawing the colonel into the room.

  ‘Hans, this is Father Dermot O’Malley, the Director of fraternitA. You know? The guys who deal with the Moonies and loonies for us. And this is Assefa Makonnen. Father Makonnen’s some sort of mystery man. But not for long, I’m assured.’

  Once the introductions were finished, the American had them draw up easy chairs round a small table.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got some great Scotch my brother sent me for New Year. No? Nothing? Well, let me get one for myself. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Before we start, Your Eminence,’ O’Malley broke in, ‘would you mind if I made a telephone call?’

  ‘Sure, be my guest. There’s a phone right over there. Is it an outside line?’

  O’Malley nodded.

  ‘You’ll have to go through the switchboard. Just give them the number. They’ll put you through.’

  While the cardinal fixed his whisky, Father O’Malley made his call to Francesca. He explained briefly where he was and promised to ring again before leaving.

  Cardinal Fischer came back to his seat, an ice-filled tumbler in hand.

  Who was that, Father?’

  ‘Oh, just a friend who might be anxious about me.’

  ‘Anxious? You’re not in any trouble, are you?’

  ‘No more than any of us, Your Eminence. But it’s trouble I’ve come about this evening. Serious trouble. I have evidence of a plot against the life of the Holy Father.’

  The cardinal put down his glass. He looked keenly at O’Malley, then at Assefa.

  ‘I think you’d better tell us all you know, Father.’

  It took a long time. Now that he had made his knowledge public, O’Malley took care not to throw everything away by rushing. He took Fischer and Meyer step by step through the evidence he had collated, showing them documents to back up each statement. The more bizarre features of the Brotherhood and its history he left till last, saving them until his audience had been well prepared. Finally, with Assefa’s help, he outlined what he believed to be the scenario for the morning.

  ‘I have no proof that this is what they intend. Perhaps we have leapt to conclusions. But I’d rather be safe than sorry. It can do no harm to step up security for the audience tomorrow, even to call it off. The Holy Father’s life is at risk, I’m certain of it.’

  The cardinal nodded.

  ‘Yes, Father, I think you’re right. You’ve made a very good case for yourself. Your evidence is extremely convincing.’ He turned to Colonel Meyer, who was seated on his right. ‘Do you agree, Colonel?’

  Meyer said nothing at first. He picked up some papers from the table and examined them carefully. Finally, he laid them down and looked up.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can’t comment on most of this, it’s outside my competence. But you’ve told me enough to make me very worried indeed. There isn’t time to organize fresh security. I’d have to bring in the Carabinieri’s anti-terrorist unit, the GIS. But they’re already up in Venice handling the business of Cardinal Migliau’s disappearance. I’d say we have to look very seriously at calling tomorrow morning’s audience off.’

  ‘You don’t think that’s a little alarmist, Colonel?’ Cardinal Fischer leaned across the table. ‘I’m pretty sure Father O’Malley’s right about this thing, about this Brotherhood. But surely you have enough men a
t your disposal to handle any threat they may pose. Your men are well-trained and well-armed. Now you know the danger, you can seal off the Sala Clementina.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but I’d prefer not to do that. If there is some sort of assault, I may lose men holding it off. Innocent bystanders could be hurt. As a professional soldier, I can’t recommend any other course of action: the audience must be called off. But I will need your authority to persuade the Holy Father. Perhaps Monsignor Foucauld could be asked to expect us and to arrange for us to see the Pope at once.’

  The cardinal seemed to hesitate for a moment.

  ‘Very well. I’ll see what I can do.’

  He picked up the telephone.

  ‘Interno due, perfavore.’

  There was a pause, then a voice came on the line.

  ‘Monsignor Foucauld, please. Tell him this is Cardinal Fischer. Thank you.’

  Another pause, a longer one this time.

  ‘Hello, is that you Giuseppe? ... John Fischer here. I’ve got Father Dermot O’Malley with me. He spoke with you earlier tonight, asking for a meeting ... That’s right... Yes, I know. Look, Giuseppe, I’ve had a long chat with him and Colonel Meyer. There’s

  really nothing to worry about... No, nothing at all. A false alarm.’

  O’Malley looked at Assefa. He could not understand. Fischer went on speaking.

  ‘I’m sure his Holiness is tired. There’s no need to worry him tonight. Everything can go ahead in the morning as planned ... The same to you, Giuseppe. Please give the Holy Father my greetings. I’ll be praying that everything goes as planned tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be a great success. Ciao.’

  Both O’Malley and Meyer were already on their feet by the time the cardinal replaced the receiver. O’Malley spoke sharply.

  ‘Your Eminence, what ... is the meaning of this? We agreed that the Holy Father’s life may be in danger. I must protest. Please let me speak to Monsignor Foucauld.’

  ‘Please sit down, Father. There’s no reason to be upset. Everything’s under control.’

  Meyer stepped forward.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but Father O’Malley is right. We cannot afford to take any risks with the Holy Father’s life. Or any other lives.’

  Fischer pushed himself out of his chair.

  ‘I asked Father O’Malley to sit down. I would like you to do the same.’

  ‘I cannot...’

  ‘Colonel, you are on the verge of insolence. Remember your place.’ Fischer’s face had reddened. His eyes glinted with anger. The colonel stood his ground.

  Father O’Malley made to take Fischer by the shoulders. The cardinal drew back a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek.

  ‘You will remain seated, Father.’ The voice was hard. ‘It’s time you understood just how matters really stand.’

  Fischer reached for a second telephone, a white office model, and dialled a single digit. It rang briefly, then a voice answered. The cardinal said, ‘Could you come up now, please?’ and replaced the handset.

  No one spoke. Assefa glanced at O’Malley nervously. He could not understand how it was possible for Cardinal Fischer not to believe their story. They had evidence. Assefa had provided full details of events in Dublin. What more could the cardinal want? He glanced at the American.

  The cardinal had resumed his seat. He sat impassively, all anger gone, hands folded calmly in his ample lap. His red-piped soutane was perfectly creased. His shoes were immaculately polished. His rosy cheeks glowed with contentment. He seemed like a large wax doll.

  Assefa’s eye was drawn by something on the wall, just behind Fischer’s head. It was the cardinal’s personal coat of arms, painted on a ceramic plate. Assefa had noticed it several times that evening, but now it was as though he saw it properly for the first time.

  At the centre of the heraldic design, beneath a red cardinal’s hat with long, hanging tassels, sat a broad shield. And in the centre of the shield a man stood upright in the prow of a small boat, one arm raised high above his head, about to cast a net on the water.

  Fischer. Fisher. The fisherman. Il Pescatore.

  FIFTY

  The door opened. Two priests stepped into the room and inclined their heads towards the cardinal. They were carrying small sub-machine guns in what seemed a very professional manner.

  ‘Colonel Meyer,’ Fischer said, ‘I regret to inform you that you are being placed under arrest. If you would be so kind as to accompany these gentlemen, they will see you are treated properly.’

  ‘Verfluchte Scheisse!’ Meyer spluttered and leapt out of his chair. At the door, there was a sound of bolts being drawn back.

  ‘I demand to know what you think you’re playing at,’ the colonel raged. ‘You have no authority to do this. Who are these men? No one but my Guard is authorized to carry arms here. I don’t care if you...’

  ‘Take him away,’ Fischer waved a dismissive hand at Meyer. The priests - if priests they were - stepped forward and grabbed the colonel roughly, each one taking an arm. Before he had time for further protest, he had been bundled through the door. It slammed behind them. There was a sound of footsteps clicking across the marble floor outside, followed by another door slamming, then silence.

  Fischer leaned back in his easy chair.

  ‘So,’ he said, smiling first at O’Malley, then at Makonnen. “What am I going to do with you two?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing at all,’ the Irishman replied. ‘And, contrary to expectations, you’re going to have Colonel Meyer brought back here. He is going to make his telephone call to Monsignor Foucauld after all.’

  ‘Is he indeed? I’m interested to hear that. Perhaps you could tell me why you think that is.’

  O’Malley gestured towards the table.

  ‘What do you see there, Your Eminence?’ There was more than a hint of sarcasm in the way O’Malley used the title. ‘A list of names, documentary evidence of their connection to an organization called the Brotherhood of the Tomb, documents proving that this Brotherhood exists. As valuable a bundle of papers as ever existed, don’t you agree? Now, did you think I’d come here tonight bringing the only copies in existence? Did you imagine I was that trusting?’

  He paused and reached for the list of names. He lifted it from the table and waved it in front of Fischer’s face.

  ‘Copies of this list, together with xeroxes of every relevant piece of documentation, have been deposited in the vaults of three major Italian banks. I have prepared letters for the Public Prosecutor, the Minister of Justice, the Prime Minister, and the editors of Il Tempo, Messaggero and the Giornale d’ltalia. By now, they will all have been delivered by hand by a colleague of mine.’

  He laid the list back on the table.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I want you to listen carefully. If I do not contact each of the individuals I have mentioned by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, they have instructions to open the envelopes. Equally, if any major act of terrorism should occur anywhere in Italy within the next few days, they will open the envelopes. In any event, they will under no circumstances destroy them. Inside, as you will have guessed, they will discover my letter, together with written authorization to open the vaults and extract the documents I have deposited in them.

  ‘Do you understand? You can harm me or not, as you choose. You can go ahead with your plan for tomorrow morning, knowing that it may be preempted. In either case, your Brotherhood is finished. Migliau is on that list. Fazzini. Well, you have seen for yourself. I’m sure you can complete the rest.’

  He let out a deep sigh.

  ‘It’s finished, Your Eminence. It’s all over.’

  Fischer said nothing. He sat watching O’Malley, his eyes unblinking. At the end of a minute, still silent, he got up. He walked slowly into an adjoining room. Another minute passed, then he reappeared. In his arms he was carrying a large pile of papers, all packed in neat brown files and tied with string.

  ‘Are these the papers you mean, Father O’
Malley?’

  He put the files down on the table. O’Malley stared at them like a man who has just been shown an open grave and told that it is his own. The life seemed to have gone out of him. His body sagged, his head bent, his shoulders seemed bowed beneath an intolerable weight.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Avanti!’ Fischer called.

  The door opened and a thin man dressed in the robes of a cardinal stepped into the room.

  ‘Tommaso, please come in,’ said Fischer, welcoming him. ‘We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Really?’ The new arrival raised his eyebrows. ‘How flattering.’

  ‘I don’t think you know Father Dermot O’Malley.’

  ‘But I’ve heard so much about him.’ The stranger held out his hand, waiting for O’Malley to rise and kiss his ring. But the Irishman did not move.

  ‘I see we have forgotten our manners.’ The cardinal lowered his hand.

  ‘And this,’ said Fischer, ‘is Father Makonnen. I think you already know one another.’

  Assefa said nothing. He knew Fazzini well enough.

  ‘Please, Tommaso, come and have a drink.’

  ‘Just a fruit juice for me, please. I’ve been dining with the Holy Father. My mind should be clear for tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Fazzini took a comfortable chair beside Fischer.

  ‘And how was the Holy Father?’

  ‘Fine, fine. He has great hopes for tomorrow, great hopes. Oh, by the way, before I forget. I dropped into my office before coming over. I have the letters you wanted.’

  He reached inside his soutane and drew out a bundle of about half a dozen thick envelopes. Father O’Malley closed his eyes as though in pain.

  ‘Thank you, Tommaso. I’ve dealt with Meyer. I think we’ve taken care of everything.’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘Ah, you’re just in time for the news bulletin.’

  He stood and went across to a small television set in the corner. It warmed up in seconds. He switched it to the local channel and returned to his seat.

  They did not have to wait long. Half a minute later, a female announcer appeared. The second item was the first public announcement of tomorrow’s audience and the conference that would follow it. A photograph of the Pope greeting Presidents MacMaolain and Mirghani was followed by film of other dignitaries arriving at Fiumicino airport. A professor from Rome’s Istituto di Studi Orientali mumbled platitudes about Muslim-Christian relations, only to be outdone by a spokesman from the SNCR, the Secretariat for Non-Christian Religions, who managed to slip in quotations from Saint Francis, the Qur’an and Herman Hesse.