Father Auciello took a step forward with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. “Any intercepts?” he asked, his eyes remaining fixed on the monitor.
Essex nodded. “From the imprecise data collected from Mossad, it appears that an Arab faction may have taken the Ark and left behind the staff of Aaron and the golden pot of manna as proof of the true Ark. Apparently this faction contacted Mossad, saying the Ark would open its ills against all the infidels in the world. No further explanation was given.”
“Do we know anything about the faction group?”
“No. From what we can surmise from the intercepts, the Lohamah Psichlogit believes the illegal excavation was conducted by al-Qaeda. But they’re basing this on an encrypted message they received and translated from an unknown source. Keep in mind, however, that this is nothing but inference, since the partial communication has not been confirmed as viable. But as of three hours ago it’s the only thing they have. And because it’s the only thing they have, it’s the only thing we have.”
Auciello nodded. “Keep monitoring the channels.”
“Will do.”
For a brief moment both men eyed the monitors in silence, both wondering if the holiest of treasures was truly in the hands of al-Qaeda. And both wondered the same thing: What will they do with it?
As that thought hinged on their minds the access door behind them whooshed open and a man wearing vestments stood silhouetted against the backdrop. “Gentlemen,” he said, “how good it is to see you both once again.”
Fathers Auciello and Essex stood rapt as the shape came forward.
Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci lifted the hem of his robe and carefully took the steps to the Tomb of the Egyptians. The air was dry and cool, the smell musty and moldy as all underground chambers were. The cardinal had ventured these steps many times in the past as the Vatican’s secretary of state. Now he ventured them as a man stripped of his hierarchy, but a man respected by the ranks of the SIV, nonetheless.
With the alacrity of an aged man, he took the steps slowly as he descended, the way lit by electric lanterns. When he set foot on the bottom he noted the old stone walls and the pathways, once erected by pagans, leading to the old burial chambers. He also took note of the trail that led to the SIV command center, a bullet-shaped archway that gave entrance to a vaulted doorway that had a mirror polish to it. Beside it was a keypad.
After punching in the buttons the door opened, giving entrance to a pristine white booth where he was being scrutinized by a security camera, which was a small globe that hung at the top of the booth’s corner marking the landmarks on the cardinal’s face for facial recognition as he stood there. Once done, a second set of doors opened and the cardinal was given access to a small, rounded chamber that was so ethereal in its whiteness that it seemed to give off a glow.
“Welcome, Cardinal Vessucci,” said the security officer monitoring the facial recognition scanner on his console. It was a 3-D picture of the cardinal along with a brief dossier of the man’s profile. “It’s good to see you again.”
The cardinal smiled. In the room’s center was a single white desk. And the officer sitting behind it wore the traditional garments of the security staff, a pair of black pants and a scarlet jacket with the symbol of the Vatican on the coat pocket, the crisscrossing keys of St. Peter — one gold, the other silver — set beneath the papal tiara. The colors of the man’s uniform were in dark contrast against the entire whiteness of the room.
“Ah, Emilio,” he said, holding out his hand. “If only the circumstances were different.”
The officer took the cardinal’s hand and shook it. “I see you’re part of the conclave once again.”
“Twice in six months,” he responded. “And in my book that’s twice too many.” He looked past the officer to a smoked glass doorway. “Would the good Fathers Auciello and Essex be in by any chance?”
“They are.”
“Would you be kind enough to give me access to the SIV Chamber? There are matters I must discuss with them.”
“Of course, Cardinal.” The officer pressed a button and the smoked doorway gave access to a feebly lit stairway. “Be careful,” he told him. “The rails will guide you.”
The cardinal smiled. “I’m no stranger to the chambers, my dear friend.”
The cardinal descended the stairway with a tight hand on the railing. Once he reached the bottom he noted the reinforced glass, the myriad of blinking lights and monitors, the casts of light coming from the faces of the PC monitors sitting along the consoles. Against the opposite wall stood a massive screen that offered a view similar to looking out a glass window. The clarity was that exceptional.
After punching in a code to access the chamber, the door whooshed open and a blast of cool air met the cardinal as he stepped onto the threshold. Fathers Auciello and Essex turned and the old man could see the surprise on their faces.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “how good it is to see you both once again.” And the good Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stepped inside, the door closing behind him.
Arms were extended and hands where shaken. Fathers Essex and Auciello had missed their old friend, which was evident by the genuine smiles and congenial pats on the shoulders. After the greetings ended, the cardinal then took on a more sober look as he ushered the priests away from the monitors so that he could pull them into close counsel, so as not to be heard by the Jesuits.
In a tone barely above a hushed whisper, the cardinal said, “It’s a shame about Pope Gregory.”
Both men nodded.
“So tell me, what do you know about his passing?”
Auciello took the advance and spoke for Father Essex as well. “That it was an accident, the pontiff leaning too far beyond the railing.”
But Bonasero’s instincts had always been quick and sharp, his assumptions not always correct but at least close to the truth. In his regard he had viewed Gregory as a deeply careful and prudent man who took into account every facet of life with utmost caution, which was an embedded trait of his polished conservatism. So what was he doing at such an early hour on the balcony? Was there something on the cobblestones below calling him from the shadows of blue night like a siren? Or was it truly an accident as everyone believed: that the man simply fell to his death?
The questions nagged at him and wouldn’t let go, a marked trait as staunch in him as conservatism was in Pope Gregory.
“Is everything all right, Bonasero?” asked Essex.
Bonasero feigned a smile and placed a caring hand on the Londoner’s forearm. “Everything’s fine,” he told him. “But tell me, when I left, did the good pope inquire about the nature of the Vatican Knights?”
Auciello nodded. “He did. But only through the good Cardinal Angullo, who wanted to know everything including the activities of the SIV.”
“Such as?”
“Angullo wanted to be apprised about everything regarding the Knights,” he said. “As well as all SIV matters pertaining to the Knights, and how deep the SIV looks into on-site matters and situations across the globe. To me it seemed as if the cardinal was acting more on his own interests rather than that of Pope Gregory’s, since the pope already knew about the magnitude of our responsibilities — global or otherwise. It appeared to me that the good cardinal was gleaning knowledge for his own sake rather than the sake of the pope.”