“Good evening, Anthony. I heard you were coming.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Your Holiness.”
The pope smiled as he clasped Morelli on the shoulder. “You are a welcome sight this evening, Bishop. What’s so important to bring you out in this horrible weather?”
Morelli paused just long enough for the pope’s blue eyes to focus in on him with a steely gaze.
“I’m afraid I bring Your Holiness some bad news.”
“Is it someone close to us?”
“Very close, I’m afraid. It’s Cardinal Orsini. We received word a short time ago that his plane disappeared from radar as it passed over the Pyrenees on the return trip home from America. We were waiting for further news when the Spanish Ambassador called to confirm that their military had found the plane’s wreckage on the side of a mountain in the northern part of the country.”
“Were there any survivors?”
“No, Your Holiness. The military rescue teams on the scene reported that it must have been a very high-speed impact. The weather at the crash site was clear, so the implication at this point is that there was some sort of mechanical malfunction. There was no radio communication from the aircraft.”
The pope glanced down at the gold papal ring on his right hand before removing his rosary from beneath his robes and reciting a brief prayer.
“Why don’t we go to my study and have a glass of wine, Anthony.”
The two men passed down a short corridor until they reached a tall-windowed room that looked out over Saint Peter’s Square. As the pope looked for an appropriate selection from inside a wood-paneled wine cooler built into the wall, Morelli took a seat on a facing sofa and casually scanned the selection of books lying on a side table.
Next to a few leather-bound editions of classic works by well-known theologians and philosophers, he noticed several copies of the International Defense Review along with other surprising titles like The Problems of Military Readiness, Military Balance and Surprise Attack, and Worldwide Terrorist Organizations. Then, next to these, he saw another interesting title: Spiritual Warfare.
Although it was well known that Pope Michael was a prolific reader and that his grasp of geopolitics was formidable, Morelli smiled with the knowledge that the subject matter of the books the pope was reading had always provided him with a window into the pontiff’s thinking at the moment.
Turning his attention away from the side table, Morelli saw that the pope had finished pouring the wine and was looking straight at him with an unwavering gaze as he stretched back in the red leather chair behind his desk.
“Have any of our people made it to the crash site to offer prayers for the souls of those onboard?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Holiness. Apparently, the plane went down in a very mountainous region of the country.”
Sipping his wine, the pope turned toward the window and looked out at the dark, rain-drenched skies. “You know, Anthony, over the years you have always been one of my closest and most trusted friends, but I have purposefully kept from promoting you to a higher office so that you would be free to work behind the scenes for me. Your strength lies in your obscurity. A man can accomplish much without the hindrance of a title, and as much as you deserve to become a Prince of the Church, I hope you understand my desire to keep you out of that particular political mix.”
“Titles have never been my goal in life, Your Holiness. My only desire is to serve God and the Church.”
“That, my friend, is what I have always known about you. Your faith is what makes you one of the Church’s most valued soldiers of the cross, and your earthly reward will come in time. Now that Cardinal Orsini has passed over, we must find a replacement.”
Morelli managed a weak smile. “I sincerely hope now is not the time Your Holiness is thinking of rewarding me.”
Both men smiled at one another, their facial expressions frozen in a diplomatic dance.
“What about Cardinal Amodeo?” Morelli asked, watching the pope’s stark blue Norwegian eyes in an attempt to spot the tell-tale flash that would answer his question just as surely as any spoken words.
The expected flash never came as the pope’s expression remained neutral. “Yes, I suppose Leopold would make an excellent Secretary of State. He’s one of the finest Jesuit scholars in Church history, but as much as I would like to see him in that position, the ceremonial obligations of that office would make him completely miserable. He already complains about his duties as a cardinal. Sometimes I think I did him a great injustice by making him a Prince of the Church.”
“I’m afraid Leo’s hopelessly lost in the past, Your Holiness. He loved teaching. Just last week, he was talking about how much he missed the intellectual stimulation of academic life at Boston College. He seems distracted lately. In fact, I took the liberty of encouraging him to take a much needed sabbatical at my country house near Sermoneta. I left a message at his apartment for him to call me as soon as he returns.”
“Phones?”
“Turned off. He has only his thoughts for company.”
“Good. I only hope our brother is well-rested when he returns. I will need both of you at my side when I make my final decision concerning Orsini’s replacement. How did you ever convince our good friend the cardinal to take a sabbatical?”
“It was easy. I simply told him you ordered it.”
Both men laughed as Morelli took a sip of wine and rolled it over his tongue.
“California Cabernet Sauvignon?”
“Yes, excellent, isn’t it?” The pope held his glass up and watched the light pass through the red liquid swirl. “But I’m afraid you know your wine too well to have to ask me a question like that, Bishop. Something else is troubling you, my friend, and you’re stalling for time. What’s on your mind?”
Morelli realized his friend had seen right through his efforts at small talk. Setting his glass on the table, he clasped both hands together before leaning forward.
“Yes, Your Holiness, there is another problem. It concerns our old friend, Lev Wasserman.”
“Was he also on the plane?”
“No, sir. He’s quite safe at his villa in Israel.”
A look of relief crossed the pope’s face, for it was well known that Lev Wasserman, the famous Israeli mathematician who had discovered the hidden code in the Bible the year before, was also a close friend of the Church and sometimes flew to meetings with top Vatican officials.
“What’s our Israeli friend got to do with all of this?”
“It has nothing to do with the plane crash, Your Holiness. He’s requesting a meeting with you.”
“Of course. Lev knows my door is always open to him. What’s on his mind?”
“He’s just informed me that …” Morelli’s words drifted off as he stood to watch the rain pelting the windows in the darkness outside.
“Informed you of what, Anthony?”
“The code, Your Holiness … it is speaking to us again.”
CHAPTER 3
Closing the back door to her condo, Sarah Adams stepped out into the early morning darkness and shivered in the cold air as wisps of steam rose from the cup of hot coffee in her hand. Her only consolation at being awake at this hour of the morning was the realization that the days were growing longer and that her drive to the train station would soon be in brilliant sunlight as the seasons rotated in a slow dance with the rhythms of life.
Although she sometimes complained about the time it took to travel from her suburban home on Long Island to her new job at a Madison Avenue advertising agency, she secretly loved the train ride into the city. Now that it was springtime, she was looking forward to watching the new green leaves re-populate the trees outside the windows of the fast-moving commuter train as it sped toward the faint gray outlines of the giant skyscrapers that rose in the distance.