by Lynn Sholes
The cardinal’s hands trembled as he slipped on a pair of cotton gloves before reaching for the cube. Setting it on top of the safe, he repeated the motions John Tyler had shown him to open the box and carefully removed the cloth-wrapped chalice. His ears filled with the sound of his coursing blood—his chest pounding with every thump. Cardinal Ianucci crossed himself, asking God to make him worthy to touch the Cup of Christ.
He opened the titanium travel case and removed the replica of the Grail, carefully jacketing it in the Templar cloth before putting it in the cube. Then he placed the Cup in the foam cutout insulation inside the travel case, closed the lid, and sat it on the floor just outside the door of the safe. After returning the cube to its resting place, the cardinal checked over the interior of the safe while removing his gloves, stuffing them in his pocket. Everything was in place. With his sleeved elbow he touched the sensor, and the vault was instantly in darkness. Slowly, he shut the safe door and spun the combination lock.
Ianucci dabbed the dribble of perspiration at his hairline with the back of his hand, then bent to pick up the case.
“Eminence?”
The voice came from behind him. He stiffened. “Yes,” he said, without turning around.
“What are you doing?”
call waiting
Cotten stretched across the unmade bed, folding one arm behind her head, her other hand holding the phone receiver to her ear.
“Are you going to have to go to Rome?” she asked John.
“No. I don’t think so, since I just got back. And there really isn’t anything for me to do.”
“When will they elect the new pope?”
“The conclave has to begin no less than fifteen days after the pope’s death. That gives all the cardinals who are eligible to vote time to travel to Rome. It also gives them time to get organized, both for logistics and politics, and of course to have the funeral. My guess is about a week.”
“Will they come up with a list first, like nominations? What are the qualifications, anyway?”
“Technically, any Catholic male can be elected.”
Cotten adjusted her head to rest better in the crook of her arm. “That’s it? Any man who’s a Catholic? I thought he had to come up through the ranks—had to be a priest, then a bishop, then a cardinal or something.”
“Nope. Any Catholic man is eligible. Of course, once elected, he’d have to accept the job. In reality, it’s a death sentence. Once you’re pope, there’s no retiring or resigning or taking time off. You’re it for life.”
“Let me get this straight. Mikey Fitzgerald, the barkeep at the Rathskeller, who is Catholic, not necessarily a good practicing Catholic, could be the next pope?”
“You got it, but Mikey’s a long shot. Put your money on one of the senior cardinals—someone like our friend Antonio Ianucci would be a likely choice, but there are half a dozen who have a good chance.”
A beep sounded on the phone. “Hold on a minute,” Cotten said. “I’ve got a call coming in.”
She hit the flash button. “Hello.”
“Cotten, it’s me,” Thornton Graham said.
“I’m on the other line.”
“Can you call them back? This is costing me a sweet penny.”
Cotten grunted an annoyed sigh. “All right.” She didn’t want to hang up on John, but Thornton was calling from Rome. She supposed it was the right thing to do. Again she switched lines. “John, it’s Thornton. He’s covering the pope’s death, and he’s calling long distance. I’m sorry, I need to take his call.”
“Sure. I’ll talk to you soon.”
She clicked over to Thornton. “Okay. I’m back. I hope this is important.”
“I miss you. And it’s not the geographical distance. It’s the distance that you’ve put between us. I don’t want to—”
Cotten rolled to her side. “Stop. Please.”
“How can I? What do you think, I can just flush a handle and everything I’ve felt for you will disappear down the toilet?”
“Good choice of words, Thornton.” Cotten’s eyes closed. Funny, this time she was worried about hurting him, not him hurting her. “I did it. You can, too. It’s time to move on. I think it’s probably better if we only speak about work-related things. I thought we already got that straight.”
“I slummed in some dive of a bar tonight and sat there thinking about nothing but you. Five, six Grand Marniers later I got the courage to call.”
“I’m not going to listen to this, Thornton.”
“I just needed to hear your voice.” He breathed out a long, mournful breath. “Do you know I haven’t had sex since the last time with you? What does that tell you?”
Cotten sat up. “That you’re horny and you’re calling for phone sex. It’s not your heart that’s aching, Thornton, it’s your dick.”
“Come on, Cotten. Missing the feel of your warmth isn’t an insult. I’ve been sitting here with people all around me, and all I can hear in my head are your little whimpers, your—”
She glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock. “It must be about three in the morning. You need to go to bed. Too much Grand Marnier. You’ll kick yourself in the morning.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Trust me. Close your mouth, go back to your room, and crawl under the covers. I’ll make it easy for you. From now on, I’m not going to answer your calls at home anymore. And don’t leave me messages on the answer phone. I’ll know it’s you from the Caller ID, and I’ll delete them without listening. If you need to talk to me about work, call me at the office. Goodnight, Thornton. See you when you get back.”
“I won’t give up.”
“Goodbye, Thornton.”
the code
The last rays of the sun illuminated the chalky trail of the small charter jet streaking toward New Orleans. The solitary passenger, Cardinal Antonio Ianucci, dressed in a black suit and Roman collar, sat in the wide leather swivel chair watching Bogalusa and Picayune pass beneath. Ahead, the fading sunset reflected off the dark waters of Lake Pontchartrain.
After the long flight from Rome, the jet had refueled in New York where two U.S. Customs and Immigration officers boarded. The cardinal presented them with his diplomatic passport—a leftover from his years of service with the Vatican Secretariat of State.
He declared nothing.
Shortly after takeoff he had enjoyed a dinner of grilled calamari, Sicilian style, followed by veal scaloppini with wild mushrooms along with half a bottle of Revello Barolo.
“Your Eminence, can I bring you anything else?” the young female attendant asked just before the pilot announced their final descent.
“No, thank you.” The cardinal was content, his belly full and his insides warm with wine.
Ianucci rested his head on the back of the seat and thought of his encounter two nights previous with the prefect in the Secret Archives. The cardinal had explained that he was leaving the next day to visit relatives in America. He would be bringing them gifts—rosaries and religious medals that had actually touched the Holy Grail. It was enough to convince the prefect that the midnight visit to the Archives was innocent. Clever, he thought.
Afterward, the cardinal had returned to his Vatican apartment, fallen on his knees, and prayed to God to forgive him for lying, but knowing it was necessary to fulfill divine providence, to accomplish God’s will.
The pontiff’s fatal heart attack caused enough disturbance in the Vatican that Ianucci found it easy to slip away, telling his staff he would return to Rome within a few days.
But the upheaval at the Vatican paled to the turmoil inside him. He kept replaying Sinclair’s arguments in his mind and reciting the logic of the scriptures. And the death of the Holy Father . . . that had to be the hand of God delivering a sign to him.
He pried his fingers between his throat and collar, feeling
the need for air. His palms and soles iced, but were wet with perspiration. He was doing the right thing, he reassured himself. The Cup had been delivered to him—God’s hand at work. With the Heavenly Father’s blessing, he accepted the task of leading the Church, preparing the flock for the Second Coming, and . . .
He blinked back tears. God would entrust him to mentor the child.
Ianucci looked down at the city lights spreading across the darkness like the wave of profound faith that spread through him. This had to be right.
The signs were all there.
With a thump, the jet touched down and taxied to a private aviation terminal. As the whine of the turbines wound down, Ianucci took the titanium travel case from the storage cabinet. He blessed the crew before disembarking.
Charles Sinclair emerged from the waiting limousine and walked toward him, his hand outstretched. “Your Eminence, welcome to New Orleans. I hope you had a good flight.”
“Yes, very pleasant.”
“It only gets better from here.” He motioned toward the travel case. “May I?”
Ianucci’s fingers tightened around the handle as one last spurt of doubt sputtered in his brain.
“Your Eminence?”
The cardinal looked at Sinclair. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather hold on to it a bit longer.”
“I completely understand,” Sinclair said, and the two men walked to the limousine.
In another few minutes the black stretch limo sped across the tarmac onto the airport access road and blended into the rush of city traffic.
* * *
Giant, deep green magnolias lined the entrance drive to Sinclair’s plantation estate on the banks of the Mississippi. Ianucci watched the lights from the sprawling mansion appear through the shadows of the trees, first as a distant twinkling and finally a flood of brilliance.
“I thought we would be going directly to the BioGentec facility,” the cardinal said.
“I’ve prepared a long time for this day, Eminence. Everything we need can be done right here. It keeps our work private. I’m certain you will be impressed with our lab. The specifications bore our task in mind.”
The limo pulled up to the main house, and the cardinal waited until the driver opened the car door. Getting out, he looked up at the three-storied, columned mansion, cascades of light from the floodlights washing over the surface. White, all white, how perfect the color. Pure. Unsoiled. Innocent. Immaculate.
“Beautiful, Dr. Sinclair,” Ianucci said, standing on the brick driveway. He found his hand clutching at his chest, the other gripping the handle of the titanium travel case. So this was the place the child would be born. His eyes drifted over the estate and up to the sky—a clear sky, every star shining. Yes, he stood on sacred ground.
Although he couldn’t see it, the cardinal felt the heaviness of the river nearby. In the distance, a tugboat’s horn sounded. The world went on, not knowing what was about to happen here. As a thief in the night.
“Your bags will be brought to your room,” Sinclair said as they entered the grand foyer. The marble floors led to a staircase beneath a massive crystal chandelier. “Would you like to freshen up from your trip?”
“I’m fine, Doctor—and very anxious to proceed.”
“But you must be tired. We could wait until morning. And to be honest, Your Eminence, the lab is somewhat boring—just a jumbled collection of tubs, wires, electronic monitoring devices . . .”
“No, no. I do not believe I could sleep. Besides, in some respects, I feel I’m about to enter the new Bethlehem—the modern-day manger so to speak. I must see it.”
Sinclair gestured. “Then right this way.” He led the way past entrances to rooms that included a library, a video conference center, and his personal office, and then into a barren hallway. At the end of the corridor was a metal door resembling the entrance to a bank vault. Installed in the wall by the door was a combination keypad mounted beside what looked like the bowl of a metallic soupspoon resting on a protrusion extending a few inches.
Sinclair placed his index finger face down in the spoon-like device. Instantly, a digital readout above the spoon scrolled the LED message: Dr. Charles Sinclair. Identity confirmed.
“You use your fingerprint as security?” Ianucci asked.
Sinclair gave the cardinal a condescending smile. “We go way beyond fingerprints here, Eminence.” He pressed a series of numbers into the keypad and the display changed to Learning New User. “Please place your index finger on the scanner as I just did, and I’ll explain.”
The cardinal did as he was told. He looked up at Sinclair. “It has a tickling sensation.”
“That it does, Eminence. We now have a sample of your DNA—the most reliable source of human identification known to man. A minute layer of epidermis has been sanded off your finger—so minute that you only detected a tickle. Within seconds, the skin cells were analyzed and your complete DNA profile is now stored in our databank. Even if you altered your fingerprint pattern, which I’m sure you would not do, Eminence, we could still positively identify you. Our new BioGentec DNA security system is one hundred percent accurate.
Sinclair gave the cardinal another patronizing smile and tapped the screen, making Ianucci look at it.
Enter code.
“What we’re about to do here demands intense safeguards,” Sinclair said. “As accurate as DNA identification is, the system requires a second security check—an entry code. Without it, the system prohibits entry even with DNA identification.”
Ianucci lightly rubbed his thumb against his index fingertip while he watched. “What is the code?”
Sinclair reached for the keypad and pressed the six-digit combination. “One I think you would find most appropriate.”
static
Cotten held the tv remote in her lap while she watched the news she’d taped. Three days ago John had called her early in the morning before she got out of bed and told her the Grail had been stolen. She was stunned. After hanging up, she immediately called Ted who told her Thornton was already on it and would be reporting from Rome on the evening news. She felt unsettled all that day, nervous, apprehensive, looking over her shoulder. For her, hearing that the Grail had been stolen was like a stalker victim learning the perpetrator had escaped from prison. She taped Thornton’s report, knowing she would want to watch it again.
And so she did, tonight.
“As preparations for the pontiff’s funeral are being finalized, it was announced today that a theft of unprecedented proportions has occurred at the Vatican.” Thornton Graham stood in the international press area of St. Peter’s Square and read from the teleprompter.
“Scientists in the antiquities authentication department have confirmed that what is considered the most prized religious relic in the world, the Holy Grail, has been stolen. Although details are sketchy, SNN has learned that the relic, recently discovered and brought to the Vatican by one of our own correspondents, is missing, and has been replaced with a counterfeit.
“The artifact had been brought out of its safekeeping for a brief photo session for National Geographic. It was at that time that the fraud was discovered.
“A source inside the Vatican, who requested anonymity, told us that although the replica was obviously the work of a master craftsman, during close inspection it was determined to be a fake. When the authentic Cup was first examined, a small nick was observed on the back, the opposite side of the engraving. During the photo shoot for National Geographic, the prefect realized the object being photographed had no nick. The magazine session ended abruptly.
“All the news photos that had been released of the relic only showed what is considered to be the front, the side with the IHS monogram. It’s assumed that the counterfeiter crafted the replica from those news pictures and was therefore unaware of the imperfection.
“The area where the Cup
was stored is one of the most secure sections of the Holy City. As yet, investigators have no leads as to how the switch took place.”
Thornton turned to the headshot camera. “We’ll have more on the theft of the Holy Grail during a special segment of Close Up tonight at eight, seven Central. And for continuous coverage of the papal death and funeral, and the upcoming election of the new pontiff, stay tuned to SNN or log onto our Website at satellitenews-dot-org. This is Thornton Graham reporting from Vatican City. Now back to our studios in New York and the rest of the weekend headlines.”
Cotten turned off the television. Thornton had looked good. Didn’t appear to be pining away for her. Certainly didn’t sound like the same man who’d sucked down a half dozen drinks because he was so despondent over their breakup. When Thornton was in front of a camera, he was in his element. She shook her head, got up, and tossed the remote on the couch.
It was a cold, drizzly night, and she wanted to rent Charlotte Gray from Blockbuster, have a glass of wine, and curl up in bed to watch the movie. Almost out the door, the phone rang. “Damn,” she said, turning back. Cotten peered down at the Caller ID. Thornton’s cell phone.
She reached for the phone, but hesitated. “Nope,” she whispered. More head games. He’d probably been out drinking and was lonely or horny or both. She’d see him soon enough.
* * *
“How’s the Wingate thing going, Cotten?”
Looking up from her notes, she smiled at the SNN science correspondent seated next to her. Along with about a dozen other reporters, they were gathered around a conference table for the 7:00 am Monday SNN strategy meeting.
“Very interesting, so far.” Cotten glanced at her watch. “Are we still waiting on Ted?”
“Yeah,” the correspondent said. “I think he’s meeting with Thornton first—they’re both running late.”
“Figures. Thornton doesn’t have a sense of time.”