The Inca Prophecy

by Adrian D'hagé

  He’d memorised the plans that had been provided and had decided to enter through the back, where there was less chance of being seen from the street. He stood quietly in the back garden, pulled on his leather gloves and listened. The shower was running in the bathroom. Excellent, he thought, and he chose one of two doors on the back verandah leading straight into the kitchen. Not surprisingly for a safe house, the lock proved obstinate. He chose another pick from his tool kit and eventually it yielded.

  The assassin moved soundlessly across the black-and-white linoleum tiles, down the carpeted corridor, and stopped at the master bedroom door. The entrance to the ensuite bathroom was reflected in a large mirror above the dresser, and the assassin could make out Rodriguez’s naked form through the steamy shower screen. It would be risky to get her in the shower, but Psycho was one of his favourite movies, and now he was poised to re-enact the famous scene. He locked the blade of his KA-BAR Hawkbill Tanto knife into place and moved noiselessly past the bed to the ensuite. The bathroom was filled with steam, but through it, the assassin could see Rodriguez was facing away from him, soaping her breasts.

  In two steps, he crossed the ensuite floor, flung open the shower screen and jammed his right elbow into Rodriguez’s neck, choking off her scream and smashing her back against the tiled corner of the shower recess. For a second, the assassin savoured the look of terror in his target’s green eyes. She frantically clawed at him as he thrust the knife deep under her rib cage again and again. Bright red blood gushed from her wounds and he stepped back out of the recess to let her body crumple to the floor. The assassin calmly wiped his knife on Rodriguez’s towel, snapped it shut and made his way out through the back door and to his car.

  Chapter 32

  Cardinal Felici responded to the beep on his iPhone and opened the text from Monsignor Jennings:

  O’Connor and Weizman identified at Convento de San Francisco in Lima. Brother Gonzáles briefed them on crystal skull removed by Holy Alliance. Will keep you informed.

  Felici was confident O’Connor would never trace the missing skull, but as a precaution he reached for his private line and dialled the head of security at Villa Felici. The call was picked up immediately.

  ‘Pronto, Eminence.’

  ‘I have received information that there may be a threat to the villa. Go to high alert, and double the security detachments until further notice.’

  ‘Certamente, Eminence. Of course.’

  Felici put down the phone, deep in thought. The villa was already one of the most heavily guarded on Lake Como. With security patrols doubled, it would be impossible for O’Connor or anyone else to get near the place. The crystal skull and the documents would be safe.

  At the soft knock on the heavy oak doors to his office, Felici looked up from the file marked Possible Origins of the Crystal Skulls.

  ‘Si.’

  Father Cordona entered and closed the doors behind him. ‘Dr Rossi has asked if you’re free, Eminence. He said it’s urgent.’

  Felici looked at his gold Rolex. ‘Postpone my next appointment and tell him to come across.’

  It took the physician only minutes to walk from the papal apartments on the opposite side of the Piazza San Pietro.

  ‘Doctor, please, have a seat,’ Felici said, gesturing towards one of two blue velvet couches. ‘You said it was urgent?’

  Dr Rossi nodded, his face grim. ‘As you’re aware, Eminence, the pontiff has been in remission for a number of years, but I’m afraid the cancer has now returned. The lab reports last week showed all three cytology tests were positive. I didn’t wish to alarm you, Eminence, until I was certain, but I’ve operated to remove two more tumours, or as much as I could.’

  ‘As much as you could?’ Felici queried, masking his irritation over not being informed earlier.

  ‘One growth was quite large and there is every indication it’s penetrated beyond the bladder wall.’

  ‘You’re certain of that?’ Felici demanded.

  ‘We’re conducting biopsies and further tests on the lymph nodes, but His Holiness is also complaining of chest pains and shortness of breath, and, more seriously, hemoptysis, which would indicate that the cancer has metastasised into the lungs.’

  ‘Hemoptysis?’

  ‘His Holiness has been coughing up some blood.’

  ‘And the prognosis?’

  ‘Very poor. Perhaps less than 15 per cent of patients recover, and at His Holiness’s age … As Camerlengo, I thought you should be aware.’ The responsibilities of the camerlengo of the Holy See included formally declaring the death of a pontiff.

  ‘I see. Is His Holiness able to attend to his official duties?’

  ‘I’ve advised him to rest, but he is stubborn. He seems determined to carry on with a full program.’ Rossi shrugged resignedly.

  ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘His Holiness’s personal secretaries and the sisters in the papal household are, of course, aware that His Holiness is undergoing tests, but they’re not privy to any detail.’

  ‘Please keep it that way, Doctor, until you are certain of your diagnosis. At the appropriate time, I’ll arrange for the Curia to be briefed. How long do you think he has?’

  ‘That’s hard to say, Eminence,’ Dr Rossi replied, taken aback by Felici’s blunt tone. ‘When the cancer is widespread, many patients deteriorate very rapidly, particularly after surgery. In the best case, a matter of weeks or perhaps months, but in the worst case …’

  For a long time after the doctor had gone, Felici stood at the windows of his office, scarlet zucchetto covering his black hair, wide scarlet sash around his black cassock. He stared across the Piazza San Pietro towards the papal apartments on the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. On the day of his ordination, Felici had made an additional vow. He had promised himself that one day he would head the Church to which he’d devoted his life. And now, he mused, that time had come. But there was still one very dark cloud hanging over his candidacy.

  Chapter 33

  ‘I’ll drive,’ O’Connor yelled in Spanish, shoving a fistful of nuevo sol into the startled driver’s face and doubling around to his side. O’Connor shoved him into the passenger seat and leapt behind the wheel. The BMW’s tyres screeched as the driver tore down the narrow street in front of them, and O’Connor knew the Daewoo Tico would be no match for the BMW on an open road, but Lima’s traffic was notorious, and O’Connor floored the little taxi in hot pursuit.

  The BMW turned into the congested Larco and headed north. Brightly coloured buses belched thick, black smoke, and myriad taxis, minibuses and trucks fought for every centimetre of road. O’Connor had done the same driving course that every driver on the President’s Secret Service detail was required to pass, part of the gruelling training at the top-secret James J. Rowley Center to the north-east of Washington, DC. The centre was equipped with a fake airport, mock-ups of Air Force One and Marine One, multiple firing ranges and ten kilometres of roadway for advanced driver training. O’Connor had cut his teeth on retired presidential limos, Dodge Chargers and Suburbans. But this guy was good, O’Connor thought, as the BMW threw a sudden left around the Óvalo de Miraflores roundabout.

  ‘Duck!’ O’Connor yelled to the terrified taxi driver. The teenage thug in the back seat of the BMW, one hand on Aleta’s neck, leaned out of the rear window and fired again and again. O’Connor drew his Glock 21 and returned fire, hitting the gunman in the wrist. The BMW accelerated to the next intersection, in the centre of which a policewoman, dressed in skin-tight jodhpurs with long black boots, was directing traffic from within the security of a colourful yellow and blue box. She held up her gloved hand for the BMW to stop, but the driver ignored her and powered through the intersection with O’Connor in hot pursuit. O’Connor glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the policewoman talking into her two-way radio. A moment later, one siren and then another could be heard in the distance.

  The BMW weaved violently through the traffic and veered into
Malecón Balta and tore towards the Parque del Amor. The lovers’ park on the cliffs of Chorrillos overlooked the Pacific Ocean and was surrounded by romantic quotes laid out in mosaic tiles. The sirens were getting closer and O’Connor took aim at one of the BMW’s rear tyres. The BMW lurched to the right as its tyre exploded, mounted the curb and crashed into the huge statue of the two lovers in the centre of the park.

  O’Connor leapt from the Daewoo. The thug in the back seat was holding his pistol in his good hand, pointing it at Aleta’s head, but then unsure, he wavered, moving his gun towards O’Connor. O’Connor fired twice. Aleta screamed as her captor collapsed on to her and the driver fell forward on to the steering wheel. O’Connor reefed a blood-covered Aleta out of the back of the BMW and bundled her into the Daewoo. Shoving it in to gear, he drove out of the park and mingled with the traffic, turning north towards the Israeli embassy.

  ‘You okay?’ O’Connor asked, squeezing Aleta’s hand.

  Aleta nodded numbly, her eyes glassy. ‘I think so … Thank you,’ she said, squeezing his hand in return.

  Aleta and O’Connor stepped into the back seat of a vehicle, diplomatic plates prominently displayed on the bumper. Not for the first time, Aleta had donned a hijab and O’Connor wore a beret and dark glasses as disguises. The Israeli chief of station, Shaked, sat in the front of the car, and he acknowledged the guard’s salute as they passed through the VIP entrance to Lima’s Jorge Chávez International Airport.

  ‘The hijab must take you back to that little episode at Lake Atitlán,’ O’Connor whispered. Aleta had helped O’Connor recover von Heißen’s diaries in Guatemala by keeping Monsignor Jennings busy with a lengthy confession. To hide her identity she had worn a niqab.

  ‘The things I do for you!’ she whispered back.

  ‘Father forgive me, for I have sinned,’ O’Connor mimicked, adding a touch of levity to calm Aleta’s shaken nerves. The session in the confessional had bought O’Connor priceless time, enabling him to seize most of the von Heißen diaries from the church presbytery.

  The car drew up at the steps to the waiting Lear jet and Aleta, O’Connor and Shaked boarded. They strapped into the plush leather seats and the pilot immediately taxied for take-off. The jet powered down runway 15 as Aleta looked back to the terminal area. Her heart leapt into her mouth: two black cars were racing across the apron. But they were too late. The pilot lifted off and the jet powered into the sky above the Pacific.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ Shaked asked with a smile.

  ‘Definitely not. And thank you!’ Aleta replied. She slumped back into her chair and breathed a sigh of relief. The Pacific coast of Peru receded behind them and she closed her eyes. This is what it must have been like under the Nazis, she thought. Always on the run, always watching over your shoulder. The sooner Ellen Rodriguez testified, the better, she thought, as exhaustion took over and she drifted into a deep sleep.

  Eighteen hours later, the Mossad aircraft began its descent towards Ben Gurion International Airport near Tel Aviv. It was a clear, cloudless day over Israel and Aleta caught sight of the Dome of the Rock, its gold cupola glinting in the distance. Beneath the cupola, a hoofprint of Muhammad’s steed Buraq marked the spot where, according to Islamic doctrine, Muhammad ascended into heaven. Only a stone’s throw from Golgotha and the place Christians maintained Christ had been crucified, the Muslim shrine had been erected in the seventh century on top of the ruins of the Jewish second temple, and Suleiman the Magnificent had ordered that the exterior be covered with exquisite Iznik tiles. Many centuries later, King Hussein of Jordan had sold one of his homes in London to provide the 80 kilograms of gold needed to refurbish the dome. The Dome of the Rock, together with the al-Aqsa Mosque, 200 metres to the south, represented the third most holy site in all of Islam. Any attempt by the Israelis to demolish the two sites and build a third temple would, Aleta knew, likely start a third world war.

  ‘Rome awaits,’ said O’Connor. ‘Although there’s a report on the news that the Pope is gravely ill.’

  ‘What with? And will that affect our plans?’ Aleta asked, lowering her voice.

  ‘The Vatican’s not saying, but the rumour is he has cancer. I wish him no harm, but an ill pontiff might actually play in our favour. It means the attention of the Swiss Guards will be focused elsewhere,’ O’Connor replied.

  Security at Ben Gurion Airport was amongst the tightest in the world, with both uniformed and plain clothes undercover police and Israeli Defense Forces personnel watching passengers’ every move. Unlike the US, where Homeland Security concentrated on baggage, and looked at liquids, shoes and computers, the Israelis searched passengers’ eyes, checking for any suspicious reactions or odd behaviour. With the help of Shaked, O’Connor and Aleta were fast-tracked through customs and immigration and within two hours, they were on an El Al flight bound for Rome.

  Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport immigration was not nearly as tight as Ben Gurion, and within thirty minutes O’Connor and Aleta had cleared Terminal 3 and were in a taxi headed for the city. O’Connor took the same approach to accommodation in Rome as he had in Lima, using an alias and a false passport, avoiding five-star hotels and paying cash in advance.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Aleta said, as she looked through their third-floor window onto the cobblestones and sidewalk restaurants of Borgo Pio. The Hotel Sant’Anna had started life as a sixteenth-century palace. Stylish fountains and murals gave the paved courtyards and breakfast room an ambience akin to the ancient city.

  ‘More importantly, it’s only three minutes’ walk to the Vatican. I’m going shopping for a short while, but the rules remain the same – don’t answer the door.’

  Aleta made a face. ‘It would be nice if I could go shopping occasionally too.’

  ‘As soon as Wiley’s behind bars,’ O’Connor promised. He headed out to purchase some clerical vestments.

  Once he’d left, Aleta got herself a glass of water and flicked on the television to CNN. Her heart started to race.

  ‘In breaking news,’ announced Walter Crowley, ‘CIA officer Ellen Rodriguez, a key witness in the Mayagate case on Capitol Hill, is fighting for her life after a savage attack. We cross live to CNN’s Susan Murkowski on the Hill. What can you tell us, Susan?’

  The feed switched to Capitol Hill, where a fresh fall of snow had blanketed the main steps leading to the Congress. Susan Murkowski, in her trademark red overcoat and dark blue scarf, was standing at the top, microphone in hand.

  ‘Some time last night, Walter, around midnight, CIA agent Ellen Rodriguez was attacked in the safe house she was staying at. She suffered multiple stab wounds, but somehow managed to crawl to her cell phone and dial 911. Ambulance, police and the FBI were quickly on the scene, but I’m told Rodriguez was unconscious by the time they arrived. She was taken to the Walter Reed National Military Hospital where she underwent surgery, and she’s now under heavy guard.’

  ‘Do we know anything about her condition?’

  ‘She’s been described as critical, and is in an induced coma in intensive care.’

  ‘So where does this leave the inquiry?’

  ‘A few moments ago, the majority leader Senator Mary Wheeler made a statement, and here’s a little of what she had to say.’ The vision switched to the elegant Democrat senator fronting a hastily called media conference in the panelled Senate committee room.

  ‘Our thoughts and prayers are with Ms Ellen Rodriguez that she might yet recover from these horrific injuries. As to the inquiry itself, it will not be suspended, as some in the media have suggested. There are a number of key witnesses who will be called before the Senate.’

  ‘Susan Murkowski, thank you. And now to the day’s main stories …’

  Aleta, numbed by the news, rose and double-checked the room was locked.

  Chapter 34

  Cardinal Felici’s irritation was fuelled on a number of fronts. Ferdinando Sabatani, the Cardinal Secretary of State, had called a meeting of the Curia, wh
ich meant the urbane, articulate and well-respected Sabatani would be in the chair. What’s more, the meeting was being held in his suite of offices in the Apostolic Palace. Felici glanced around the huge polished oak table, scrutinising those who might be a threat. The prefects for the congregation of bishops, for Catholic education, for the clergy, for the causes of saints, for the oriental churches – all the key Vatican power-brokers were there. Felici was even more incensed by the agenda. There were only three items, but each of them was explosive: celibacy, contraception and sexual abuse.

  ‘I know how busy you all are,’ Sabatani began, ‘but this morning’s agenda is important. Put simply, my office is being bombarded with daily reports that the Holy Church is facing a crisis on several levels around the world.’

  ‘That sounds unduly pessimistic, Ferdinando,’ Felici interrupted, determined to stamp his own authority on the meeting. ‘The latest statistics on my desk show that out of a population of seven billion, 1.2 billion are now Catholic, a healthy increase of around 10 per cent.’

  ‘I’ve seen those figures too, Salvatore,’ Sabatani replied evenly, ‘but that increase is over ten years, so in fact, it represents a paltry one per cent a year. But the most alarming statistic is the loss of priests. Hundreds of seminaries around the world are empty, and if we take the United States as an example, 90 per cent of its seminaries have closed. By 2020 the number of priests worldwide will have halved, and of those that remain, half will be seventy or older. And it’s even worse for the sisters. In a generation there will be very few nuns left and thousands of parishes will be without a priest.’