by Martin Rua
In the meantime, Woland, had calmly taken out the nine keys. Along the circumference of the outermost disc, upon which the head of the Baphomet was set, there were nine identical holes, shaped like the sun wheel which is the equivalent of the number nine in the Chaldean alphabet. The symbol of the Lodge of the Nine. Woland inserted the nine keys in the holes, then looked at his watch. His eyes sparkled in the dark as he raised them to Camille’s.
“Vorjas will have already initiated the operation. Call Commissioner Franchi.”
48
Rendezvous
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Fosse Ardeatine Memorial Cemetery, Rome, January, 2013 – 18:00
We had just started searching the Aventino when Oscar received another phone call. Woland and Camille had interpreted the message found in Santa Prisca and wanted to meet us in a completely unexpected place. According to the directions they had found, that was where the Baphomet was.
We reached the Fosse Ardeatine Sacrarium in slightly over ten minutes and left our cars in Via Delle Sette Chiese, then continued on foot. Oscar and Volta walked ahead with a police officer, and behind them came Anna, the other policemen and me. The cold of the night and the dim street lights made the atmosphere gloomy and tense, as though something could jump out when we least expected it. We walked for about a hundred metres then stopped at the corner where the street met Via Ardeatina. We could see the entrance to the Sacrarium from there.
Volta gestured to Ferraris. “Let’s have a look.”
The two of them peered out from behind the trees which grew along the street. The area was right at the beginning of Appia Antica park, where traffic was light even in daytime, and at that moment in particular there was practically none.
“It was them who called us – how come there’s nobody here waiting for us?” wondered Volta aloud.
After a few moments Oscar’s mobile phone rang again.
“Franchi.”
Oscar listened to the call and his face grew dark with anger and frustration.
“You damn murderer. Why did you have to blow up the metro? We’d done what you asked.”
Without adding anything he gave me an intense look and handed me the phone.
“Hello Lorenzo, how are you?” said Raymond’s deep voice slowly.
“I could be better. Why don’t we put an end to all this?”
“In due time. Talking of time, do you know what time it is now?”
His unexpected question left me speechless for a moment. “It’s… 18:10. What’s the time got to do with anything?”
Raymond laughed.
“Because very soon he will be entering the Nervi Auditorium and there’s no longer much you can do to stop him.”
Confused, I held the phone away from me and whispered to Volta, “What’s going on right now in the Nervi Auditorium?”
Volta looked at his watch, then looked back at me. “The foreign delegations should already be there ready to see the concert that opens the summit on human rights. The Pope will enter the hall last.”
A shiver ran through me and I started talking on the phone again with a trembling voice.
“What are you planning? Are you going to blow up the auditorium?”
“Perhaps – who knows? Anyway, I await you here in the Sacrarium. If you wish to avoid more fireworks, I suggest you and Miss Glynz join me immediately.”
49
The Son of the Thunder
From the testimony of Father Luigi Palminteri
Sala Nervi, Vatican, January 2013 – h 18:00
Father Palminteri’s phone started vibrating at the least appropriate moment. As scientific consultant to the summit, he had been granted a place of honour in the front row of the Paolo VI hall, which was almost completely full. Among those present were delegates from the most important countries in the world, well-known figures from the world of culture, some Nobel peace prize winners and not less than a thousand security guards. Swiss guards, Italian police, the FBI and intelligence services from every corner of the globe.
The first reaction to the news of the bomb which had exploded only half an hour before in Piazza di Spagna had been panic, but the master of ceremonies had managed, on the whole, to keep everybody calm, and the concert would take place as planned.
The real summit would begin the next day, while the music that evening, chosen by the Pope himself, would celebrate its opening.
“I want this event to be inaugurated with joy. The same joy we feel when we dance, and which should fill the hearts of all of us when we put our signatures to our work at the end of the summit. I want it too to represent that simplicity which is embodied by these medieval dances – a simplicity we would do well to lead our barbarised society towards once again.”
With these words, Pope James – born Brandon Tyler Sinclair and the first Scottish Pope in the history of the Catholic Church – had explained his choice of medieval dances, and managed to convince the various heads of State to participate in the meeting.
At just over fifty-five, he was an extremely young Pope. One who was refined, very well-educated and, despite his noble origins, had remained close to the poor and humble. Open minded and progressive, his plans included a gradual purge of the privileges and obscurantism which had caused the loss of millions of believers in recent years.
His enemies said that he had chosen his name so as to openly declare his position on the old dispute about Jesus Christ’s brother, known as James the Lesser. It was only a rumour, but it had persisted. The Pope himself declared that his intention was to honour James the Greater, one of the most dynamic and dedicated Apostles – so much so that he had gained the nickname of Boanerges, a Greek word meaning ‘the son of the thunder’. The same nickname that the Pope would jokingly claim for himself. But the truth was different again. Brandon Sinclair had chosen that name in homage to the last Templar master, Jacques de Molay. Pope James was in fact secretly very close to the missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem.
The conclave that had chosen Brandon Tyler Sinclair, cardinal archbishop of Saint Andrews and Edinburgh, had been one of the most surprising in all the Church’s long history. When, after the first counts, the election of the powerful archbishop of La Plata, Caesar Valentin Vorjas, already seemed certain, the young Scot had started to gain support among those who had initially voted for Vorjas, eventually defeating him.
The Argentinian had accepted his defeat with dignity and made much of his willingness to co-operate with the new Pope, though his ideas were much more conservative than those of the ‘Scottish lad’, as some called Pope James. To fulfil the Argentinian archbishop’s ambitions and contain his vast ego, the Pope had named him prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith – head of the modern-day Inquisition.
In spite of all the calumnies, the conspiracies and the gossip, the Pope was now there, ready to take the stage in the Nervi Auditorium together with a host of world leaders, and it would be shown live on TV all around the world. He was about to open the historical summit he had so ardently desired.
Father Palminteri glanced quickly at his phone’s screen.
It was the only number he was willing to answer at that moment.
It was Lorenzo Aragona.
Tension showed in his face and, breathing faster, he discreetly left his seat. The guests sitting in the same row looked at him in surprise as he left, clearly embarrassed and anxious.
The most important guests had just entered the hall and the only person still missing was the Pope himself. Father Palminteri reached the left side of the hall and answered his phone, which was still ringing.
“What’s happening?”
“Father, I’m with the police, Raymond called us and we’re about to meet them. Please, listen to me carefully – it seems there might be problems there, in the auditorium. It would probably be better if the Pope didn’t enter. I would find a way to evacuate the building, if I were you.”
“Oh heavens… how c
an I do that? The concert is about to begin!” cried Father Palminteri.
“Father, do what you can! We’ll try and negotiate. And may God be with us.”
Feeling completely at a loss, Father Palminteri put his mobile away and looked around him: there were heads of countries, foreign delegations, normal people… It was a nightmare, and the worst thing was that he had absolutely no idea what to expect.
He looked at the front rows of the audience. There were dozens of security personnel – not even a fly could have got past them, and the checks at the entrance had been incredibly scrupulous. What should he do? Give a general alarm or just follow Lorenzo’s instructions and attempt to save only the Holy Father?
Putting aside his uncertainties, he decided to take the risk. He walked over to the stage and gestured to the closest Swiss guard. The young man stood as still as a statue, even though the priest was clearly signalling him to come over, until Palminteri’s insistence eventually convinced him.
“Young man, listen to me carefully – you can gain yourself a place in Paradise today,” Father Palminteri told the guard, as he wrote a note on a piece of paper. “You can decide either to let me pass or to give this note to the Holy Father, and him alone. It’s a matter of life or death.”
The Swiss guard looked at him with surprise for a moment. Father Palminteri was known to be a calm and balanced person. He wouldn’t talk nonsense. Even the Swiss guards knew that.
After a moment of hesitation, the young guard lifted his halberd and turned his head slowly towards the backstage to catch the eyes of the security men there and signal to them that everything was Ok, then let Father Palminteri pass.
“You are a wise young man, may God bless you.”
Once he had overcome the first obstacle, Father Palminteri was faced with a second.
“What’s going on, Father?” he was asked by a surprised Inspector General Bernardo Landolfi, head of the Gendarmerie Corps of Vatican City State in person.
“Would you believe me if I told you the Pope’s life is in danger?”
“No, not with the security system we’ve got in place,” he cut short, “and anyway, you’ve been told not to get involved with this matter anymore.”
While the two of them were conversing, Captain Barucci approached them. He and Palminteri exchanged a look, then Barucci asked his superior: “What’s happening, Inspector?”
“Father Luigi claims the Pope is in danger.”
“Father, do you know something that we don’t?” asked Barucci bad-temperedly.
“Lorenzo Aragona is about to meet those criminals, he’s with the police. He just told me that something is about to happen in Paolo VI hall. He told me to get the Pope out of here.”
“Only the Pope? If what you’re saying is true we should evacuate the whole place!” cried Landolfi hysterically. “And anyway, who is this Lorenzo Aragona? Father, please return to your seat – we will take care of the Pope’s safety.”
“How can you ignore this threat after what just happened in Piazza di Spagna?”
Palminteri was as tense and ready to snap as a bowstring. Not being taken seriously was frustrating.
While the gendarmes were trying to discreetly remove the stubborn priest, his eyes met those of the Holy Father, who was standing at the back of the corridor waiting to take the stage, while obviously trying to follow what was going on. Behind the Pope stood cardinal Vorjas, who glared at the arrogant priest with his deep dark eyes. The Pope mumbled something to his personal assistant, Monsignor De Nicol, who made his way through the security men and other priests towards Father Palminteri.
“His Holiness wishes to talk to you, Father Luigi,” said the very young Monsignor gently. Everyone was looking at Father Palminteri, who was approaching the Pope, followed by Landolfi and Barucci.
“What’s the matter, Luigi?” asked the Pope with seraphic calm, making no attempt to hide the intimacy between them.
“Your Holiness, I have reason to believe your life is in danger,” the priest replied immediately.
“Is it because of what just happened in Piazza di Spagna?” the Pope asked again.
“There’s more, Your Holiness,” Landolfi intervened. “Father Luigi thinks the same people responsible for that attack have threatened to set off another bomb here and that it would be better for you to leave, for your own safety.”
At that point, Vorjas stepped forward and gave Palminteri a very hard stare. “Your Holiness, this is very thoughtful of Father Luigi, but I am sure the Italian security forces have the situation under control.”
The Pope nodded gently. “Thank you, your Eminence, I am sure Father Palminteri speaks in good faith.” He stood there in silence for a few moments. At the end of the corridor he was about to walk down he saw Pericle Fazzini’s statue of the Resurrection. It seemed to fill the whole stage, and he suddenly felt that God was trying to tell him to remain calm. He smiled, and the people around him reacted with astonishment. He looked again at Father Palminteri and put his hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go, Luigi – the Lord is with us. We have nothing to fear.”
The small procession proceeded along the corridor, and when the Pope finally took the stage, he was greeted by a standing ovation.
“We are here because God wills it! The God of all of us, no matter what name you give Him. We are here today to attempt to alleviate the sufferings of the billions of people around the world who are the victims of abuse and mistreatment, and nobody – neither tonight nor in the future - will be able to stop us!”
With these powerful words, the Pope officially opened the summit, provoking another wave of enthusiastic applause. He had openly challenged the criminals.
Father Palminteri, who had hung back, watched him sadly. How could he have imagined he could have stopped such a huge event and make the Pope change his mind?
Before going back to his seat, he sent one SMS, hoping that the recipient would read it in time.
It is all in your hands now. Do what you must.
Then he looked around and noticed that Vorjas hadn’t followed the others onto the stage.
Where on earth had he got to?
50
The Masks Come Off
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Fosse Ardeatine Memorial Cemetery, Rome, January, 2013 – 18:30
Oscar cocked his Beretta.
“I’m coming with you.”
“He said just me and Anna,” I pointed out, but Oscar was adamant and headed toward the trees in front of the intersection with Via Ardeatina. I shrugged in resignation and, walking ahead of Anna, followed him to the entrance of the shrine. Just around the corner, we noticed two men on either side of the gate pointing very strange-looking weapons at us.
“Those are the guns that they used against me,” Anna whispered. “The ones that shoot corrosive electric darts.”
I tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry – they need us, they’re not going to kill us.”
The men blocked Oscar’s way. “Just him and the girl.”
I turned to look at him and, seeing the tension on his face, tried to reassure him. “It’s all right, Oscar, nothing’s going to happen. Do as they say.”
Oscar gave in and his face softened slightly, then he nodded almost imperceptibly. “Try and negotiate and play for time, Lorenzo.”
We entered the gate, and the bleak melancholy of the place enveloped us.
Another of Woland’s men was waiting for us at the mausoleum. It was Herzog. “Delighted to see you again, Mr Aragona. And you too, Miss Glyz.”
“Apparently Navarro’s men didn’t aim well enough in Naples,” I said as we walked past him.
For the first time, an expression appeared upon Herzog’s face, and even his voice betrayed a certain emotion. “Quite the contrary – they killed my partner. Now go down there, Mr Aragona, and let us have no more chit-chat.”
We went down the few steps to the mausoleum and found ourselves standing before the vast expanse of t
he tombs which, in the dark, appeared even more ghostly.
“Please, please – come in,” said a voice, whose strange cheerfulness clashed with the gloomy atmosphere around us. “Your grandparents chose a truly depressing hiding place for the Baphomet, did they not?”
Finally, I saw the man who had turned my life upside down. In the half-light, I could only make out that he was of considerable stature, bald and with devilish, mesmeric eyes which cut through the darkness and inspired fear. Next to him, I saw another shadow.
“Hello Lorenzo, nice to see you again,” said the woman, who I had no difficulty recognizing. Her voice seemed strange in a way that I could not quite define, and she seemed to be lacking the arrogant swagger that I remembered.
“I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Camille.”
She shrugged. “Too bad. But I always enjoy my dealings with you, one way or another.”
“Welcome to you too, Miss Glyz,” continued Woland, “and congratulations on your outstanding fighting technique. Do you know Lorenzo, she neutralized nine of my men and managed to avoid our advanced bullets? Your friend has hidden talents.”
Between Camille and Woland, resting on a chest of gold metal and surrounded by candles, there was a strange object, which seemed to be made of the same material as the case itself: a head, smaller than that of a human, set on a square base which was in turn set upon two concentric disks. The grotesque relic had a monstrous face.
Woland opened his hand and pointed to the object. “Meet the Baphomet, Lorenzo – the famous idol of the Templars, the magical prison constructed by the wise Chaldeans to contain the Guardian of the Threshold.”
A glimmer of hope was kindled in my heart. I had the impression that my eyes could see clearly through that object and watch Àrtemis climb out of bed and walk towards me smiling. Woland must have seen me, and held out his hand.
“This object can satisfy all our needs.”