The Inca Prophecy

by Adrian D'hagé

  ‘Is there any chance we can compare this ingot with those you found at Lake Atitlán?’ Cardoza asked.

  ‘Only if it becomes absolutely necessary,’ said O’Connor. ‘We’re not on top of Washington’s Christmas card list at the moment. The less said about our being here the better. But you said you had your own contacts?’

  ‘My turn to ask for confidentiality. There is a Franciscan friar here in Lima, one Brother Gonzáles, who has contact with an old shaman in Puno. Gonzáles and I have been friends for years, and he tells me the shaman in Puno thinks the ingot originated from somewhere near Lake Titicaca. I can give you the friar’s details if you like.’

  Aleta and O’Connor exchanged glances as the professor wrote down Gonzáles’ name and number.

  ‘Good luck with convincing the media that the Lost City of Paititi hasn’t been discovered yet,’ O’Connor said as they shook hands and took their leave.

  As they left the campus, Aleta said, ‘Talk about six degrees of separation. Brother Gonzáles moves in interesting circles. That ingot has von Heißen stamped all over it … and if it was recovered in Puno, that’s one hell of lead. I know we should be at Machu Picchu, but have we got time to go to Puno?’ Aleta’s eyes were misty. The injustice of the murder of her grandparents and millions of others once was again at the forefront of her mind.

  ‘Only just. But I agree. If this is a von Heißen ingot, we can’t risk him getting away a second time. We owe it to your grandparents to bring this bastard to justice, and we still don’t have the critical diary. There’s enough in the ones we recovered from Lake Atitlan to ensure von Heißen hangs, but they don’t specifically connect him with the Vatican and Felici’s father. I suspect he kept that one as insurance. Next stop, Brother Gonzáles, and then we’ll head for Puno, via the Israeli embassy. If von Heißen’s there, we’re going to need some help.’

  From a distance, Monsignor Jennings watched O’Connor and Aleta disappear into the Convento de San Francisco’s ancient library with interest. Jennings had wondered if the pair might return, and he’d secreted a digital surveillance transmitter underneath one of the library’s carved wooden chairs. It was a long shot, but one that had paid off. Jennings retreated to the tiny office he’d been allocated, retrieved the surveillance receiver from his safe and switched on the system.

  ‘You’ve done much better than I expected,’ Brother Gonzáles observed, once O’Connor had brought him up to speed on the Lake Como operation. ‘Your success may be confirmation that your mission to recover the crystal skulls has come from the cosmos itself.’

  ‘Well, I wish the cosmos would do something about the opposing forces,’ Aleta replied ruefully.

  ‘The best results are often achieved under adversity,’ Gonzáles responded, ‘and you still have a long way to go. Although I suspect there’s more to your visit to Lima than a chance to update me?’

  ‘You’re right,’ O’Connor said. ‘We plan to head to Machu Picchu, but there might be a short diversion in store. We’ve just come from Professor Cardoza’s office at the university.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The gold ingot from Lake Titicaca.’

  ‘He said you had a contact … a shaman in Puno?’

  Gonzáles nodded. ‘Diego Chávez. The last time I saw him, he told me about the rumours of gold from Lake Titicaca.’

  ‘The Lost City of Paititi?’

  Gonzáles shook his head. ‘The gateway to Paititi lies north of here, beginning with the Inca at Machu Picchu,’ he replied. ‘But as I’m sure you know, the ingot Professor Cardoza is examining is not Inca. More than once, Chávez has mentioned a retired priest who lives on one of the floating reed villages. In return for the villagers’ patronage, the priest has quietly supported the community financially. The rumours of gold are just rumours, nothing more, but Diego has always wondered where the old priest gets his money.’

  ‘How old is this priest?’ O’Connor asked.

  ‘Diego thinks he’s in his nineties. The priest doesn’t come into town very often, but he’s still quite spritely, apparently.’

  Aleta looked at O’Connor. ‘Von Heißen.’

  ‘Every possibility,’ O’Connor agreed.

  When O’Connor and Aleta returned to their hotel, the CNN coverage of the papal conclave was beaming live out of Rome.

  The camera panned across what seemed like a sea of red. As they had since 1492, the cardinals filed into Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, each wearing a scarlet cassock, white lace vestments and a scarlet zucchetto, and as the last two disappeared from view, the image faded back to the news anchor, Walter Crowley.

  ‘And we cross now to Rome, and one of that city’s most experienced Vatican watchers and journalist for the Vatican Insider, Luigi Campioni. Your article this morning has caused quite a stir, Luigi. For those of us not familiar with the process of electing a new pope, what will happen inside the Sistine Chapel now?’

  ‘Well, as we’ve just seen, 121 of the 203 cardinals – those under eighty and eligible to vote – have retired to the Sistine Chapel, where they will stay until they elect one of their number as the 266th pontiff. Once inside, there is absolutely no communication with the outside world.’

  ‘So how does the Vatican police that?’

  ‘Since 1978, when Pope John Paul I died after only thirty-three days in office —’

  ‘In circumstances that still haven’t been adequately explained,’ Crowley interjected.

  Campioni nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, the Vatican refused to carry out an autopsy and would not disclose who had discovered the body. There were a number of leaks from the 1978 conclaves, and since then, the rules on secrecy have been tightened considerably. The Sistine Chapel in its entirety will be swept for bugging devices each day.’

  ‘And the cardinals will actually live there until they reach a decision?’

  ‘Not quite. They used to, sleeping in cells adjacent to the chapel, but in 1996 the Vatican built a new residence on the edge of Vatican City. The cardinals will be bused to and from the chapel for the twice-daily voting sessions. It’s an improvement on the previous sleeping quarters, but it’s not a five-star hotel,’ Campioni added with a smile.

  ‘In your article, Luigi, you indicated that the Church is heading for a lot of controversy, and there’s been speculation as to what sort of a leader they will need to restore confidence … Given your inside knowledge, is there any one candidate who stands out?’

  ‘There are a number of likely candidates,’ Campioni intoned diplomatically, ‘but if it comes down to an Italian, then it will likely be a choice between Cardinal Felici, the Camerlengo and Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, and Cardinal Sabatani, the Secretary of State.’

  ‘And is this likely to be a lengthy process?’

  Campioni looked to the heavens and shrugged. ‘It can be. The conclave in 1268 went for nearly three years, even after they rationed the cardinals’ food supplies. It was only when angry locals began to tear the roof off the meeting room that they elected Gregory X. The election of Pius XII in 1939, however, lasted less than a day.’

  ‘Luigi Campioni, thank you very much for joining us tonight.’

  Across the Atlantic, Wiley’s mood had not improved. Rodriguez was still alive, threatening to bring him undone, although he took some satisfaction from the fact that she was still in a coma. And he was relieved that the Italian authorities were no closer to solving the mysterious speedboat chase on Lake Como, which had destroyed the marina at Sala Comacina, along with a dozen luxury cruisers. He scanned his encrypted emails and opened the one marked immediate from his counterpart in the Entity. Felici might be tied up in a conclave, but as Camerlengo, he was still managing to keep tabs on Tutankhamun, it seemed. Wiley read the latest intelligence report from Rome:

  O’Connor and Weizman headed for Puno. Expect on return that pair may travel to Machu Picchu.

  Wiley headed down to the ops room. ‘Get me Lima on the video link, now,’ he ordered Davis.
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br />   Megan Becker observed Wiley with interest. The longer O’Connor evaded capture, the more obsessive the DDO became. There was a desperation about his hunt for O’Connor that fascinated her. A few years back, she’d met O’Connor at a conference in Moscow, where they’d connected in more ways than one. They’d wangled a few days off afterwards for a blissful break in a secluded dacha in the mountains overlooking stunning Lake Baikal in Russia. He was a good man, and an even better agent. As ‘Jarhead’ appeared on screen, Becker silently willed O’Connor on.

  ‘Tutankhamun and Nefertiti are headed for Puno. I want an asset down there immediately,’ barked Wiley.

  Cameron Reyes nodded numbly. ‘Yessir.’

  The Lima chief of station looked exhausted, and Megan sympathised with him. As the failures mounted, sleep had been in short supply even in Washington.

  ‘If you can’t take them out in Puno, I want someone in Machu Picchu, and this time I don’t want any fucking mistakes!’

  ‘Yessir.’

  Wiley strode from the room, leaving Becker wondering about the source of his intelligence.

  Chapter 43

  ‘Whatever the world might think of Israeli politicians,’ O’Connor said, after they had booked into an unremarkable hotel in Puno, the harbour town nestled on the Peruvian shores of Lake Titicaca, ‘Shaked and his Mossad people will be here within the hour. At grassroots level, they’re outstanding.’

  ‘Not so outstanding when they steal innocent Israelis’ passports and identities so they can assassinate someone in a Dubai hotel,’ Aleta shot back.

  ‘That island doesn’t accept any outsiders,’ the old boatman protested. It was early in the morning, and the city of Puno was just waking up. A light mist floated over Lake Titicaca. At 4200 metres above sea level, it was the highest navigable lake in the world and the largest in South America. The mists drifted amongst the forty natural islands between Puno and the eastern shores of Bolivia, but after discussions with Shaman Diego, it was only one of the man-made islands that O’Connor and Mossad were interested in.

  Eli Shaked waved a large wad of nuevo sol in front of the old boatman. ‘I’m sure we can convince you otherwise,’ he said.

  The boatman smiled, revealing gaps where four of his front teeth should have been, but he shook his head. ‘I can take you to one of the main islands, señor, but not that one,’ he said. ‘That island is off-limits.’

  Shaked looked around. The pier was quiet. Most of the boat people were still asleep. Shaked reached inside his jacket and withdrew his pistol.

  ‘We go now,’ Shaked said quietly.

  ‘But my deckhand … he …’

  ‘We’ll handle the ropes. Now!’ Shaked emphasised, cocking his weapon.

  ‘Si, señor. Si, si. We go.’ The old boatman’s brown face paled visibly as he watched Shaked’s men file on board, followed by O’Connor and Aleta, both carrying bags of scuba gear.

  The sniper had found a hotel away from the centre of Puno, on a peninsula overlooking the lake and the harbour. He stood on his private balcony, scanning the old wooden ferry through his binoculars, and shook his head in frustration. It might have been possible to take out one of the targets, but not both, and the company they were in made him wary. The men looked like military. He’d been paid over 80 000 nuevo sol, but that wouldn’t be much use to him if he didn’t live to collect. He settled down to wait for a better opportunity.

  The old boatman may have been scared, but he could have done it blindfolded. For decades he’d been ferrying tourists around the sacred waters, and he set course for the narrow channel through the reed beds and the open lake beyond.

  ‘They’re up early,’ O’Connor remarked, returning the waves of the locals.

  ‘They have to be,’ Aleta explained. ‘Have you been here before?’

  O’Connor shook his head.

  ‘The islands are all manmade, constructed out of totora reeds, but they only last for about three months. The reeds on the bottom rot away and have to be replaced with new ones on top. These days the locals can’t afford to take a day off to do it, because they’d miss out on the tourist trade, so they work before the tourists arrive.’

  ‘And there’s three or four metres between the bottom of the islands and the bottom of the lake?’

  ‘Sometimes a little more. The islands are tethered to heavy poles driven into the lake bed.’

  ‘So there’s more than enough space to hide something underneath an island,’ O’Connor mused.

  ‘Yes … but when this is all over, we’ll come back here as well … for a holiday, and no guns,’ Aleta said, dropping her voice.

  ‘I’d feel very naked.’

  ‘If I’ve got anything to do with it, you will be.’ O’Connor didn’t respond, just touched her arm softly, his eyes locking onto hers.

  The islands were a further five kilometres past the channel and as they passed, the locals waved, expecting the ferry to land their cargo of tourists. The women wore bright dresses and blouses of primary colours, and broad-brimmed felt hats. The houses, like the islands, were woven out of totora reeds, and smoke from the stone-enclosed cooking fires drifted across the lake.

  They powered on towards the furthest island, which had been constructed a little away from the main group. As they approached, two men appeared at the edge of the reeds and angrily waved them away, shouting in the local dialect.

  ‘Not very happy to see us,’ O’Connor said, fingering his Glock.

  The boatman brought his ferry alongside the totora amid a torrent of abuse, but the Mossad team ignored the locals’ protests. They fanned out and began to search the huts, angering the locals even further.

  Suddenly, a figure emerged from one of the reed huts and stumbled towards a small dinghy moored at the side of the island. He was carrying a rifle, and paused to fire four quick shots in the direction of the ferry, one of them shattering the windscreen. The Israelis, the ferryman, O’Connor and Aleta dived for the reed ground.

  ‘We want him alive,’ Shaked cautioned his men as they began to leopard crawl towards the man, who had made it into the dinghy.

  ‘I’m losing count of the number of fire fights I’ve been in since I met you,’ Aleta said to O’Connor, as another volley of shots crackled overhead.

  ‘Ah yes, but it’s worth it. Stay down,’ O’Connor urged Aleta, and he ran towards the hut closest to the lake. The tinny had set off and was now gaining speed. O’Connor steadied his aim and fired once, and the rifle flew out of the man’s hand and the boat’s speed faltered. O’Connor dropped his Glock and took a running dive from the nearby reed jetty, surfacing in the water of the lake in time to grab the gunwale as the tinny drew level. The old man inside reached for an oar but O’Connor pulled on the flimsy craft, tumbling the black-cassocked figure into the lake. In an instant, he had the gasping man in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Struggle and I’ll kill you, Standartenführer,’ O’Connor hissed in von Heißen’s ear.

  ‘Any time you want a job, you’ve got one,’ Shaked said to O’Connor as a shaken, trembling and bitter von Heißen was led away by Shaked’s men.

  ‘Doesn’t pay enough.’ O’Connor grinned as he walked over to Aleta. ‘You okay?’ he said, putting his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I will be,’ she said, wiping away tears. ‘It’s a shock to finally see him in the flesh.’

  ‘Are you up to a dive? I can grab one of Shaked’s boys if you like.’

  ‘No, I want to do it. I owe it to my grandparents.’

  Chapter 44

  ‘Extra Omnes,’ Felici ordered. The ancient Latin phrase was the order for all advisors, private secretaries and medical staff to vacate the Sistine Chapel. From this point on, the election would be run by the cardinals themselves. Six long, draped tables had been placed on each side of the chapel underneath Michelangelo’s creation fresco, each table seating ten cardinals. More desks had been placed near the altar for three scrutineers and three revisers; the latter’s task was to double-
check the work of the scrutineers. The chapel’s inlaid marble floor had been protected by carpet and Felici had ensured that radio and cell phone jamming devices had been installed in the space underneath.

  Cardinal Sabatani took his seat on the left of the chapel and looked around. Cardinal Felix Schäfer, Bishop of Munich and Freising, nodded from across the room. Schäfer was young, but precisely what the Church needed, and Sabatani had been working quietly in the background to gain the necessary numbers for him. Schäfer, for his part, had been working equally hard to garner support for Sabatani. Sabatani glanced at Felici. There would, he knew, be stiff opposition from the conservative camp.

  ‘It is distressing to have to raise this at the beginning of a conclave, Eminences,’ Felici intoned after he’d introduced the opening prayer, ‘but before we convened in lockdown, many of us were confronted with confidential Vatican discussion papers in this morning’s media, so I would remind you all of our oath of secrecy and the grave duty we have before us. We must proceed with the clear intention of doing what is right for the good of the Universal Church … solum Deum prae oculis habentes … having only God before our eyes.’

  Sabatani’s gaze was inscrutable, but there was little doubt in his mind as to who had leaked his discussion papers. The damage was done. The ruthlessly ambitious Felici would stop at nothing.

  ‘I would also remind you to disguise your handwriting when filling out the ballot papers in front of you.’

  Sabatani wrote Cardinal Schäfer’s name on the small, rectangular ballot paper marked Eligo in Summum Pontificem – I elect as supreme pontiff.

  One by one, in order of seniority, the cardinals approached the altar, each holding his ballot above his head so that everyone could see it. Sabatani placed his ballot on the gold disc covering a large silver and gold urn embossed with the keys of St Peter and quietly recited the oath: ‘I call to witness Christ the Lord who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one before God I consider should be elected.’ He up-ended the paten and dropped his ballot into the urn under the watchful gazes of the three scrutineers.