“What do you mean?” asked Rossi.
“They want to go beyond interviewing and examining the individuals. They wish to...conduct experiments. See if there is a way to distill the healing forces. Replicate them.”
MacLeod: “Doesn’t sound remotely pleasant.”
Nardini’s complexion turned gray. “The man I described – the one who was resurrected - disappeared. The bricklayer’s body was found days later. It appeared they’d cut his head a second time, to see if...” The cardinal’s voice trailed off, and he dragged a hand down his face.
“I’m going to be ill,” said MacLeod.
“Were these violent few responsible for the priest’s death last night?” asked Rossi.
Nardini sighed and nodded. “Si.”
“So why aren’t the police or the military involved?” asked Rossi.
The cardinal shook his head. “This must be a secretive war. If the general populace knew of the ceiling, of the disasters it predicted and the miracles...”
“Imagine the panic,” finished the priest.
“What happened in Sao Paulo would be the beginning,” Nardini said. “You will have additional resources as you need them, but your work must be conducted quietly.”
“Why did you wait to bring us into this?” Rossi asked. “Shouldn’t we have started work about five disasters ago? Isn’t this team getting thrown into the game a little late?”
“There was an earlier team,” said the cardinal. “Your own bureau formed it: Project Megiddo.”
“Ancient history.” She turned to Khoury and MacLeod to tell them. “The bureau identified and studied who might become violent in reaction to the new millennium. White supremacists. Apocalyptic cults. Religious extremists. They were all examined. A report came out the fall of 1999 and that was pretty much the extent...”
“That was the extent of what the public knew,” said the cardinal.
She folded her arms in front of her. “What are you saying?”
“In secret, your agency kept a core group working on the millennium matter. When the shadows started to appear, we informed your government and they sent the Megiddo team to investigate.”
“Megiddo,” repeated the Scot. “That means apocalypse, doesn’t it?’
“It’s a hill in northern Israel’s Jezreel Valley, and was the site of many decisive ancient battles,” said the priest. “The Hebrew word Armageddon translates into Mount of Megiddo. The word itself occurs once in the Bible, in the sixteenth chapter of The Book of Revelation. It’s the name given to the place where the Antichrist and his armies will assemble before the final battle between good and evil. ‘And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon.’ So in naming a team Megiddo, the FBI was actually paying homage to...”
“What happened to that team?” Rossi asked impatiently. “Where are they? Why aren’t they here?”
“They did not wish to continue their work,” Nardini said. “It was too...stressful.”
“I’ll bet,” said Rossi.
“You three are taking over for them. The bureau and the Vatican each handpicked an individual.”
“And what about me?” MacLeod asked indignantly. “Am I the player to be named later?”
“The European nations wanted you - to lend a certain skepticism, a neutrality to the work.”
“Pure!” MacLeod smiled broadly and pulled down on his vest. “I’m the Euro team’s draft pick.”
“What is the work?” asked Rossi. “I’m still foggy on this.”
“You will investigate the events that follow the appearance of the shadows, and report back. Is this a genuine miracle, or an act of man or nature? Protect those involved and...”
“The violent few,” said Rossi. “How few are we talking?”
“They are well-hidden, and our intelligence on this matter is not good,” said Nardini. “We suspect some of them are...well-placed in the business and political arenas.”
“Great,” said Rossi. “We’re already outnumbered.”
“Takes but twelve highlanders and a bagpipe to make a rebellion,” said MacLeod.
Rossi lifted the binoculars to her eyes. “I can’t believe my bosses threw me into this.”
“We realize we are putting the weight of the world on your shoulders,” said Nardini.
“Hope we’re getting paid by the kilo,” said MacLeod.
“You will be compensated,” said the cardinal. “Essentially, you will be given a...How do you say it?”
“A blank check?” asked the Scot.
Khoury remained unconvinced that the shadows were being accurately interpreted. “Eminence, I do believe something otherworldly is occurring in this magnificent chapel, but I need to see more documentation.”
Rossi lowered the binoculars. “Ditto.”
The cardinal shut off the construction lights. “You shall have more documents than you can absorb.”
The three new team members gave one last look to the newest shadows and followed the cardinal. Deep in thought, Khoury brought up the rear of the line. He wrestled with the notion that God or any other entity could signal humanity through some sort of coded message on a painted wall. The very idea was ludicrous. Yet he’d been standing right there when the ghostly hands seeped through the fresco. Was it evidence of the afterlife?
Khoury always believed that superstitious, weak-willed people bought into stories of heavenly miracles and signs. Tales of the Virgin Mary’s image materializing on the bark of a dead tree and Christ’s face turning up on a billboard. Such nonsense did nothing but distract from the true teachings of the church. Since the death of his wife two years earlier, however, he’d searched for signs. Prayed for them. He needed to know that his Amira, his princess was waiting for him in heaven. When he went for walks around campus, he asked God to allow her to send him a small signal. A white bird landing on a low-hung tree branch. A lone, blue flower blooming in a patch of yellow. A cloud matching the profile of her face. Yet he saw nothing.
His wife had died in a bombing in a Beirut market. She’d been shopping for groceries while he was teaching a class at the American University. She was pregnant, and the infant died with her. A daughter. They’d already picked out a name for her. Durrah. It would have been their first child. Putting up a brave front, he returned to teaching after a short mourning period. Inside, he was screaming at God. Asking why. Perhaps his question would be answered by these shadows on the wall. More likely, he would go on searching, joining the ranks of those weak-willed people.
Instead of taking them back to the library, the cardinal led them down a dim hallway behind the Sistine Chapel’s altar and up to a door. He fumbled around the voluminous folds of his robe until he found a key, shoved it in the lock and opened the door.
They crowded into a small room with a white, arched ceiling and walls covered in red damask. A red chaise lounge and a small side table were the only furnishings, and the only thing decorating the walls was a small mirror. Khoury realized they were in the Room of Tears, where new popes traditionally retreated to dress and contemplate following their election by the conclave of bishops. Why had they been brought to this private place, so rarely in the public eye?
The cardinal closed and locked the door after them. Stepping over to one of the red walls, he reached for a light sconce, turned the fixture slightly to the right and pulled. The wall opened, revealing another door with a brass gate. A secret elevator. The cardinal pulled open the old-fashioned accordion gate and waved them inside. “Please. Quickly.”
They all jammed into the box. The cardinal entered the car last, closing the red door and the gate after himself. The elevator was pitch black. Khoury could feel it moving. The cardinal and the woman were in front of him, and the Scot was to his left. The tight, hot cube smelled of male sweat and the woman’s perfume. The trip down seemed to take an eternity.
With a slight jolt, the car stopped. The cardinal pulled aside the gate and pushed open a door. They spil
led out into a cool, dim hallway with stone floors and walls and a low ceiling. “This way,” said Nardini.
While they walked, the woman jogged up next to the cardinal. “Where are we?”
“Far beneath the Vatican Secret Archives, signora.”
She fell back with her new partners. “This is something else, isn’t it?”
“Which?” asked the Scot.
“All of it.”
Khoury knew the Vatican Secret Archives weren’t really a secret. Scholars carrying the proper paperwork could gain admission to its collection of papal records and other historic materials. He doubted many people outside the Pope’s immediate circle of advisors knew about this subterranean world beneath the archives, however.
After a long walk with little conversation between the four, they got to the end of the tunnel. The cardinal pushed open a door and motioned them through it.
The three visitors ran their eyes around in amazement.
“Combination situation room, library and dungeon,” the woman whispered to Khoury.
The long, narrow room had a low ceiling and stone floor topped by a lush oriental carpet. In the middle of the carpet was a long, gleaming library table with elaborately carved trim and legs. The antique was surrounded by a dozen modern office chairs, each with a laptop in front of it. At the far end of the room, a bank of televisions was built into the wood-paneled wall. All the sets were turned to news programs from around the world – CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera – but the volume was off.
The long wall to their right was covered by a series of flat screens.
“For secure videoconferencing and to watch,” Nardini explained.
“Watch what?” asked MacLeod.
The cardinal picked up a remote and pushed a button. One of the massive screens was filled with rushing water and fleeing people, their screams drowned out by the roar of the wave. “We have recordings and still photos of all the disasters, much of the footage never made public.” The cardinal punched it off. “The miracles are not as well-documented, but we have some materials.”
The long wall to their left – the low-tech wall - was lined with a dry erase board, world maps stuck with pins, and bookshelves bearing fat, embossed volumes.
The cardinal looked heavenward. “Sensors have been installed in the ceilings to detect signals, to prevent unauthorized communications and guard against...how do you say it?”
“Bugging?” offered Rossi.
“Si, bugging.” Nardini nodded toward a wall-mounted phone. “You may use this to call out. All conversations are monitored and taped, of course.”
“Of course,” MacLeod muttered.
Pointing to a door at the end of the low-tech wall, the cardinal said: “Sleeping quarters. Each suite has a secure phone line and its own toilet and shower. There is a communal kitchen and a small exercise facility.”
The three partners stared at each other and Rossi protested. “My stuff is back at the...”
“Your things have been moved to your accommodations here.”
Nardini waved a hand toward a side table stacked with folders. “Become acquainted with each other and the files, then get to work. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
Indeed, thought Khoury.
“I will send food and drink later.”
Rossi tried to protest again. “But...”
“Later,” repeated the cardinal, and with that he left the room.
CHAPTER TEN
The three stood at one end of the library table.
“Thoughts?” asked the Scot, resting his hands atop one of the chairs.
“This is nuts.” Rossi went over to the telephone, picked it up and punched in some numbers while checking her watch. “Sorry to get you out of bed, sir.” Hunching over the handset, she continued her conversation in a whisper.
Keeping an eye on Rossi, MacLeod grinned lasciviously. “She’s a bonnie lass.”
“Your focus seems to wax and wane like those shadows in the chapel,” Khoury said.
“I’m a man of varied interests, your holiness.” He pulled down on his vest. “You don’t much care for me, do you?”
“I don’t know you.” Khoury looked over at the woman bent over the phone. “Either of you.”
“I can repair that.” The Scot went over to the side table, plucked a file off the pile and opened it. Cleared his throat. “Bachelor’s degree in Philosophy from the American University of Beirut. Master of Divinity from Princeton Theological Seminary. Doctorate from the same aforementioned joint. Lecturer at the Near East School of Theology in Beirut. Professor at the Lebanese American University.”
“Thank you for the dramatic reading,” Khoury reached for the folder.
MacLeod turned his back to the priest and kept reading while walking the length of the library table. “Editor of the Theological Review. Author of innumerable books, articles, treatises, opuses and tomes, casting much needed light on a wide variety of arcane subjects.”
“Enough,” said Khoury, snatching the folder away from him.
“I saw you’re married,” said MacLeod.
“Widowed,” said Khoury, returning his file to the stack and rummaging around for the one with MacLeod’s name on the tab.
“My sincerest condolences,” said the Scot. “I’m very sorry you lost your pearl.”
Pearl. That was the English translation of Durrah. Only he and his wife had discussed their unborn child’s name. Khoury stopped breathing for several seconds. “I...appreciate it,” he exhaled.
“If I may be a wee bit bold...”
“You already have been,” said Khoury, resuming his rummaging through the pile.
“How is it that a Catholic priest can be married?”
“Maronites may be married before we’re ordained. Other Eastern Catholic churches also allow this.” Khoury found MacLeod’s file and extracted it from the mound. “Noticeably thinner than mine.”
MacLeod pulled down on his vest and shot back, “It’s not the size of the curriculum vitae that counts, your holiness, but rather what you do with it that matters.”
“Bachelors in Psychology from the University of Edinburgh. Masters in Psychology from the University of Edinburgh. PhD in Psychology from the University of Edinburgh. Lecturer in the Department of Psychology at the University of Edinburgh.” Khoury paused. “I’m beginning to see a pattern.”
“No one else would have me,” said MacLeod.
The priest continued with his commentary on MacLeod’s file. “Ah, here we have something new. Lecturer in Parapsychology at the University of Edinburgh.”
“Know thy enemy,” said MacLeod. “And it was more specifically lecturer against.”
“President of the Psychology section of the British Association for the Advancement of Science,” continued Khoury. “Author of innumerable books, articles, treatises and tomes...”
“Don’t forget opuses.”
“And opuses, shining much needed light on a variety of arcane topics.”
MacLeod bowed at the waist. “Thank you.”
Khoury scanned the list of books written by MacLeod. “This could be mildly amusing.”
“Which?”
“Fooling Ourselves: The Psychology of Miracles. And this one: Illustrated Encyclopedia of Frauds and Hoaxes.”
“It’s almost a how-to guide,” said MacLeod. “I can tell you how to manufacture a UFO photograph, conduct a believable séance, reproduce stigmata...”
“How do you know so much about defrauding people?”
“I come from a long and distinguished line of charlatans,” said the Scot. “Fortune tellers, palm readers, mediums. Know all the tricks. When I was a lad, my dear mum hid me under the floorboards during her séances. I was in charge of ghostly knocks and the odd moan.”
Rossi hung up the phone and went over to them. “You’re stuck with me, gentlemen.”
“Tried to call in sick, did you?” asked the Scot.
“Had to make sure my bosses aren’t sick in the head
for buying into this...whatever this is.”
“What did the high and mighty FBI have to say about all this?” asked MacLeod.
“Something weird is going on and the bureau needs to be involved.” She took the folder from Khoury and started reading about the Scotsman. “Is this your first time out of Edinburgh, Mr. MacLeod?”
“Spent summers with my dad in Ireland when I was a lad. Lived in and around London for a time. So I am quite well-traveled.” He pulled down on his vest. “That’s why I don’t possess much of an accent.”
She raised a brow. “No accent. Right. I was wondering how you managed that.”
“And it’s Padruig,” MacLeod added in a thick brogue.
“Like that’s going to work.”
“Patrick. Paddy if you’re in a particularly playful mood.” He handed her the priest’s file. “Try not to strain your back.”
She examined the file tab and frowned.
“Call me Abouna,” said the priest. “That’s Arabic for Father. Father Khoury is fine. Father Ryan is acceptable.”
“How about Ry Guy?” asked MacLeod.
“Father Ryan is acceptable,” Khoury repeated.
“I am Sam. Sam I am.” said Rossi.
Both men frowned.
“Dr. Seuss,” she said.
They looked at her blankly.
“Never mind,” she said, and began skimming the priest’s file.
The Scot picked Rossi’s file out of the pile and opened it. Flipped through a couple of pages. “Why did you leave FBI headquarters to go to Los Angeles, sweetheart? Isn’t Washington considered the pinnacle?”
“I wanted the experience of a large field office,” she said stiffly.
“The real reason,” he said.
“You’re a cocky bastard,” she said.
“Don’t turn the crack.”
“What?” she asked.
“Don’t change the subject, Misses,” translated MacLeod.
“The workplace politics in D.C. were disgusting and...” she stalled.
“Aye?”
“And I needed to get away from my ex.” She took a seat at the table and continued reading while adding, “So for the record, it’s Miss.”
The Devil's Own Crayons Page 9