God's Lions - The Dark Ruin

by John Lyman

  As news from around the world flashed up on the large screen at the far end of the room, the cardinal walked down a sloping aisle past a scene of controlled chaos before stepping behind a podium below the screen. “May I have your attention, please?”

  The room instantly stilled as the cardinal’s eyes roamed the rows of seats that rose toward the back wall. “Before we get started, we will offer our silent prayers for the safety of the Holy Father.”

  After a brief interlude of silent prayer, the cardinal withdrew a white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow as he cleared his throat. “Good morning, Cardinals. Because time is of the essence, I will get right to the point. As all of you know by now, the Holy Father has disappeared. The Swiss Guard and the Italian authorities have launched a massive search, but as of this moment we still have no idea what could have precipitated this event. Vatican City has been searched from top to bottom, as has most of Rome, yet no trace of the Holy Father has been found ... not even a note. It is also my sad duty to report that Cardinal Leopold Amodeo is also missing ... another deeply disturbing development in an already distressing situation. His good friend, Bishop Anthony Morelli, has just returned from Israel and will be joining us here shortly.”

  A subdued murmur arose around the room as the cardinal struggled to continue. “Under the circumstances, our duty now is to provide leadership for the Church, and it is to that end that we must consider electing someone to take the Holy Father’s place until he returns.”

  A chorus of angry voices greeted the cardinal’s ears, but he had anticipated this. Reaching under his robes, he produced an envelope with an official papal seal that had been broken. “I hold in my hands a letter addressed to the College of Cardinals. It was found in the pope’s safe this morning by his personal secretary, and it contains instructions from the Holy Father himself. In his own words, the pope has left us a guide to follow should he ever be incapacitated or disappear without proof of his death. According to what I have read, it is his wish that we all meet to elect a temporary leader until he is able to resume his sacred duties.”

  Cardinal Ian McCulley raised his hand. A hulking ex-cop from New York City, McCulley had traded in his badge to become a Jesuit priest, eventually becoming one of the most trusted cardinals within the pope’s tight circle of friends. “Are we talking about the day-to-day running of Church business,” McCulley asked, “or are we talking about electing someone to step in and become the actual spiritual leader of our faith?”

  Tucci shifted uneasily behind the podium and cleared his throat once again. “Uh ... I’m afraid that part is unclear, Cardinal.”

  Angry shouts once again filled the room before Tucci called for order. “Please, gentlemen ... please. We must remain calm. Any dissention within our ranks will only serve to make an already painful task even more difficult. Please try to keep in mind that I am only the messenger. Personally I believe we’re being a little premature here, but the Church has clear rules that must be followed in the absence of a functioning leader. We all know that no one can truly fill the Holy Father’s shoes, but should he ever be unable to perform his duties, the day-to-day administration of the Church falls to the Secretary of State. Since Cardinal Leo is also missing, then it would be the camerlengo who would step in and run the affairs of the Church until the pope returns.”

  Cardinal McCulley continued watching the reactions of those around him as eyes that had once patrolled crime-ridden ghetto streets caught every glance and every change in body language, no matter how slight. “It is my understanding that the camerlengo is responsible only for the running of the government of the Church during sede vacante ... the vacant seat ... the period after the pope dies and before a new one is elected by the College of Cardinals. We have no evidence that the pope is dead.”

  “That is true, Cardinal McCulley,” Tucci replied, “however, nothing like this has ever happened before in the history of the Church. What we’re facing here is an interregnum ... a period of discontinuity. The closest the Church has come to a situation like this was when Pope Pius XI was on his deathbed and Eugenio Pacelli, who held the position of Secretary of State as well as that of camerlengo, stepped in to keep things running. Now, with Cardinal Leo also missing, we must rely on our camerlengo, Father Leonardo Vespa, to step in and fulfill his duties as the overseer of the curia until the Holy Father returns.”

  McCulley continued standing. “But Father Vespa is only a priest, and this is not a period of sede vacante ... at least not yet. What about Cardinal Delacroix ... the Dean of the College of Cardinals? He has been designated the primus inter pares ... the first among equals. Why not let him run things until the Holy Father returns?”

  “Another Jesuit, Cardinal McCulley?” A thin cardinal with a thick, raspy voice stood and waved a crooked finger in the air. “We are not all Jesuits here!”

  “Are we not all of one faith here, Cardinal?” McCulley asked. “Do we not speak with one voice? We must still the hostility that has become all too evident over the past several months. If anyone here is offended by our Holy Father’s decision to allow only Jesuits into his inner circle, then I suggest you ask yourselves why? Look around you. Who would you have run the Church now? As we sit here arguing among ourselves, a dark star hovers overhead ... a sign to the world that a period of spiritual warfare is imminent, and our Holy Father may be the first casualty in that war. Now is not the time to fight among ourselves, but to join together in his absence. A war doesn’t stop when a general falls on the field of battle. We must pick up his flag and continue the fight while we pray he returns.”

  A tall, black cardinal representing an African diocese stood in the front row. “Maybe the Holy Father is testing us!”

  “We are all tested on a daily basis,” McCulley shot back, “but I can assure you that the pope would never pull a stunt like this just to test our ability to react in a crisis. The disappearance of a pope is a world-shattering event, one that could potentially trigger panic among the faithful. The decision of who shall run the Church in the absence of our Holy Father will have far-reaching effects, and we must speak with a unified voice. We are all brothers here together... brothers with many voices in the service of our God, and it is our duty as cardinals to find the right path. We are about to make Church history, and the choices we make in the next few hours could well decide whether we will win or lose our fight with the evil that is headed our way. No decision made by man will ever be one hundred percent correct, but I caution you that someday the light of the future will undoubtedly reach back in time and shine down upon this gathering to reveal the wisdom of our decisions.”

  An elderly cardinal stood, wavering on his cane. “Since Cardinal McCulley oversees the Vatican intelligence section, I for one would like to ask him how it is that the Holy Father managed to disappear from Vatican City without anyone seeing him leave.”

  McCulley glanced over at the man with the short-cropped military-style haircut seated next to him. “Since I’ve just arrived from out of town, I’m going to defer any questions concerning the pope’s alleged disappearance to our trusted friend, Commander Francois Leander, the head of the Swiss Guard.”

  The raspy voice once again sounded from the back of the room. “I would think this matter would fall under the auspices of the Vatican’s intelligence section, Cardinal McCulley. Surely you can tell us something of this mystery without deferring to the Swiss Guard.”

  Turning in his seat, McCulley knew without looking that the gravelly voice belonged to Cardinal Serafino ‘Fino’ Acone, a Dominican cardinal with a mysterious past who rarely visited Vatican City, much to the relief of the other cardinals in the room.

  McCulley exhaled impatiently. “May I remind you, Cardinal Acone, that the Vatican’s intelligence service is tasked only with information gathered outside the borders of Vatican City. However, in answer to your question, none of our sources have heard anything of value pertaining to the pope’s sudden disappearance. As of late we’ve been
working overtime in our efforts to prevent attacks against the Church from terrorist networks around the world who are involved in an all-out war against the followers of Christ. Just last week, Muslim extremists in Nigeria killed over five hundred Christians in separate church bombings. My plane had just landed there when I was informed of the pope’s disappearance. If you want to ask questions about security here in Vatican City, I would once again invite you to direct your questions to Commander Leander of the Swiss Guard.”

  Without waiting for Acone to respond, Francois Leander stood and pointed to a color-coded map of Vatican City on the large screen behind the podium. “Over the course of the past two years, we’ve been upgrading our security capabilities to match those of any government on Earth, and the facility we are now sitting in is the result of just one of those upgrades. In addition to the hundreds of human eyes watching everything that goes on inside the walls of Vatican City, we have installed cameras on every rooftop and in every imaginable corner of every building. We’ve also added the most advanced biological, chemical and radioactive scanners currently available, and we feel confident that our sensors can sniff out any potential threat within a mile of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Added to that, anyone entering or leaving Vatican City is carefully screened and is subject to a full body scan, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The rest is classified.”

  Cardinal Acone stood once again to hurl a patronizing comment at Leander. “Then pray tell, Commander Leander, how, with all of this security, could the Holy Father disappear into thin air?”

  Leander’s eyes didn’t blink. “That I cannot tell you, Cardinal. We’ve looked at all the digital recordings and were able to document the movements of the Holy Father up until the time he disappeared. Up to now we’ve found nothing out of the ordinary. As for Cardinal Amodeo, he refused a Vatican security detail when he left for Turkey with Bishop Morelli on an archaeological dig. We currently have men on the ground there who are now working with Turkish authorities in a search that encompasses almost five hundred square miles.”

  “Well, clearly something has happened to both the pope and Cardinal Amodeo ... yet you with all of your high tech security measures appear to have failed miserably.”

  Leander remained ramrod straight, his eyes locked with those of Acone. “Yes ... clearly something has happened, Cardinal. When Father Corelli went to awaken the Holy Father for breakfast two days ago, he was nowhere to be found. Apparently his bed had not been slept in, and even the nuns who watch over him saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary during the night. As far as Cardinal Leo is concerned, he was in a very remote part of Turkey. We’re hoping that he is just out of reach and will be contacting us soon.”

  “Or with his girlfriend,” Acone’s raspy voice responded.

  Leander paused as he gripped the seat in front of him to avoid becoming embroiled in a verbal conflict with the cardinal. “Are there any other questions?”

  Cardinal Tucci blinked at the two men as he mopped the sweat from his brow once again and looked out at a sea of questioning eyes facing the podium. “I believe the commander has told us all that he knows, and at this point I think we should let him get back to his work. Thank you, Francois. We are all aware of how hard you and your men work to protect the Holy City.”

  Holding his back erect, Leander gathered up his briefing papers and left the room just as a young priest walked up on stage and handed a note to Cardinal Tucci.

  “Ah ... good. It appears that Cardinal Delacroix has just arrived in Vatican City, as has Bishop Morelli. As soon as they join us we shall begin the vote.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The ship-sail outline of the towering Rock of Gibraltar appeared to be floating on the horizon when the Israeli sub Tekuma rose from the depths and bobbed at the rendezvous point. Less than a minute later, the sea boiled a hundred yards away when the bow of the HMS Ambush shot into the air and splashed back down with all the force of a giant whale breeching the surface.

  For several minutes the officers of the two subs stared at one another through their binoculars, each wondering if they were following the correct protocol for a secret meeting at sea between two submarines from different countries. With their sophisticated sonar, each had known the exact position of the other when they had approached the rendezvous point below the surface, but because the encrypted satellite phones they normally used on the surface had been compromised, they were forced to use powerful lights to flash messages to one another across the water.

  Finally, the captain of the British sub gave the order, and within minutes a rubber boat from the Ambush was motoring through the swells toward the Tekuma. Standing on the deck of the Israeli sub and breathing in fresh air for the first time in two days, Leo and Lev counted two British crewmembers and nine passengers. In addition to Alon and the four Israeli security men who had accompanied him to Paris, they could see John and Ariella, Eduardo Acerbi, plus someone else.

  “Who’s that tall guy sitting behind Ariella?” Lev asked.

  Leo strained to see. “I don’t believe it! That’s Pope Michael!”

  Lev’s eyes widened. “What the ...

  As soon as the small boat had closed to within twenty yards of the Tekuma, the two men could clearly see Pope Michael clinging to the side, his blond hair blowing in the wind as he ignored the sea spray stinging his eyes.

  Transfixed by the scene, Leo found himself holding back when the nine passengers clamored aboard the Israeli sub and waved to the British sailors who were already heading back toward the Ambush at full speed.

  “Leopold ... are you alright?”

  Stirred from his reverie, Leo saw that the pope was standing right in front of him. “Your Holiness ... yes, of course. I was just surprised to see you here.”

  “We have much to discuss, Cardinal. Everything will be revealed in time.”

  The Klaxon dive horn on the HMS Ambush interrupted the reunion on the deck of the Tekuma as everyone watched the British sub disappear beneath the blue surface of the Mediterranean Sea in a frothy swirl, the only sign that remained of the sub’s brief visit with the surface.

  As soon as they were gone, Leo saw the Israeli submariners pointing at a sail that had suddenly appeared on the horizon—and it was headed straight for them. Strangely, the Tekuma made no attempt to evade being spotted by the approaching sailboat, for its arrival had been planned well in advance. Closing in on the sub, the forty-five-foot sloop was only a boat-length away when her crew turned into the wind and quickly lowered the sails before motoring up alongside the sub’s black hull and bobbing to a stop.

  “What’s this?” Leo asked. He watched fascinated as a scraggly-looking young man and a girl wearing a T-shirt over a tiny bikini expertly tied the bow and stern lines to the sub’s retractable cleats before hopping onboard—all without being challenged by the Israeli crew.

  After two days without a smoke, Lev lit one of his beloved stogies with a match. “Must be a couple of Danny Zamir’s people.”

  “That would be my guess,” Alon said. “Those people have Mossad written all over them.”

  The group continued to watch as the Tekuma’s security officer climbed up on deck and consulted with the young couple before walking over to speak with Lev. “We’re transferring all of you to the sailboat. As you’ve probably already guessed, Professor, that hippie-looking couple are employed by the Mossad, and you’ll be sailing with them the rest of the way into the harbor at Gibraltar. You’ll all have to hurry, because we’re sitting in one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world and we don’t have much time. We have to submerge before the next surveillance satellite passes overhead six minutes from now.”

  “That’s cutting it pretty close,” John said.

  “Yes it is my young friend. That’s why you need to hurry.”

  The security officer frowned at the military shirts and pants worn by the group that had just arrived from the Ambush. “Why did they do that?”

  “Do what?” John asked.


  “Why did the British crew give you clothes like that to wear?”

  “Our clothes were wet so they gave us these.”

  “We need you to look like tourists on holiday. If anyone’s paying attention when you arrive in Gibraltar, those uniforms will give the entire mission away.”

  Listening to the conversation, the scraggly-looking man yelled from the sailboat. “Satellite in five minutes! Don’t worry about what they’re wearing. We have civilian clothes down in the forward locker. Get those people onboard now!”

  Two minutes later the sailboat was backing away from the Tekuma as the sub’s ballast tanks flooded and she dove below the surface with a full minute to spare before the surveillance satellite came into range and snapped a picture of a lone sailboat gliding peacefully over the swells of the Mediterranean.

  As soon as the sailboat rounded the southern end of the Iberian Peninsula, the group rummaged through a pile of loose-fitting, summery clothes in the sailboat’s forward locker, all the while speculating about the prospects of cold beer and boiled shellfish in a seaside café after they docked. Motoring through the narrow channel lined with sharp rocks, the youthful skipper expertly guided the boat into the crowded civilian yacht harbor and docked in a pre-arranged slip manned by a lone customs officer who quickly cleared them with a wink.

  Handing out baseball hats and sunglasses to further disguise their disembarking passengers, the two Mossad agents pointed to a white van parked at the end of the dock. By now it was high noon, and it was obvious that there would be no cold beer or boiled shellfish waiting for them in some picturesque seaside café as they climbed into the van.