As if to emphasise Patrick’s observations, everything in Patrick’s house started shaking. It continued for about twenty seconds and the bottles and glasses in his well-stocked sideboard rattled alarmingly.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Patrick said. ‘Just a tremor. We get them from time to time over here but the whiskey’s still intact, so it won’t have damaged much.’
Patrick was only half right. The damage in Jerusalem was negligible, but out amongst the marl and salt cliffs of Qumran a rock that had not moved for nearly two thousand years shifted ever so slightly. It was a movement that ultimately would have a far greater impact than any earthquake.
‘What do you think the chances for peace are here, Yossi?’ Giovanni asked.
Yossi shook his head. ‘With the present regime? Very slim. Neither the present Israeli Government nor Yasser Arafat’s Palestinian Authority is capable of bringing peace to this country. Neither is prepared to compromise. It will take two totally new governments and a much greater involvement of the international community before the killing stops.’
‘Have you ever thought of running for prime minister?’
Yossi smiled. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve been thinking about starting a new party, based on nothing more revolutionary than a just peace. It will probably take years to build the support but I think it’s worth a try. Why do you ask?’
‘Because there is someone I would like you to meet. Someone on the Palestinian side who shares your views. He knows how hard it will be to sell a compromise but, like you, he believes that the average person wants nothing more than to be able to live their lives normally.’
‘Your opposite number?’
‘Yes, Ahmed Sartawi, the Imam in my village. I’m sure you would enjoy talking with him.’
‘Marian and I still have our little holiday house in Acre. Perhaps you and Ahmed could join us for a weekend?’
‘There may not be time for that,’ Patrick said. ‘I was telling Giovanni before you arrived that Il Papa has discovered he is here and wants his talents put to work in the Vatican.’
‘I doubt they’ll want him back before next weekend,’ Yossi said. ‘Let’s see if we can organise it.’
As if on cue the telephone on Patrick’s desk started ringing.
‘Patrick O’Hara. Guilio.’ Patrick covered the mouthpiece and whispered, ‘Guilio Leone, Il Papa’s private secretary.’
‘What crisis of state in the Vatican has you ringing me at this hour?’ he asked. ‘Am I at last to be made a cardinal then? Papal Nuncio in Paris perhaps?’ A wicked smile spread across Patrick’s face. ‘But the tailors here are so reasonable, Guilio. I had my robes made up ages ago and still I wait for the call.’ He winked at his guests.
‘So few bishops who speak Arabic? That’s what you always say, but you can be telling him yourself, he’s right here.’ Patrick handed Giovanni the phone.
‘They hate it when I rib them,’ he said to Yossi. ‘No sense of humour in the Vatican.’
‘Do you want to be a cardinal?’
‘Good grief no! Unless it was somewhere I could do some good. Too much powerbroking in the Vatican. I might as well become a politician.’
Giovanni replaced the receiver, a slightly stunned look on his face.
‘Well?’ Patrick asked, feigning ignorance.
‘Il Papa wants me back in Rome. He wants to make me a bishop,’ was all Giovanni could say.
‘First name terms at last, and about time. Congratulations, my boy. This calls for a drink.’
‘Congratulations, Giovanni, well done.’ Yossi stretched out his hand.
Giovanni was too surprised to resist Patrick’s renewed assault with the whiskey bottle. He realised now that the Spirit did indeed move in mysterious ways.
Mysterious things were also happening in a cave above Qumran, not far from the Dead Sea, as another few grains of sand trickled through a crack in a rock wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Milano
G iorgio Felici flexed his gloved fingers and steadied his breath as Professor Rosselli moved towards the lecturn. He moved the cross-hairs to the centre of his quarry’s chest.
‘Thank you, Dr Bassetti, a most interesting expose. Unfortunately,’ he said, turning back to the audience, ‘for the remainder of the evening you will have to put up with me, although I hope you will find the subject of “The lost civilisation of the Essenes, DNA and the Omega Scroll” intriguing.’
A murmur of expectation echoed through the theatre.
‘In 1962 Francis Crick shared the Nobel Prize for Medicine and Physiology with James Watson and Maurice Wilkins for the discovery of the molecular structure of DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, which contains the genetic code for life. In 1973, the Nobel Laureate wrote a book called Life Itself. In it he argues very persuasively that the DNA helix is so intricate that there was insufficient time on this planet for it to have evolved of its own accord and that it had to have been introduced to our planet from a higher civilisation.’
Professor Rosselli put up an overhead of the complex double helix of nucleotides made up of phosphates, smaller deoxyribose sugar molecules and the bases, adenine, thymine, cytosine and guanine.
‘As Crick describes them, DNA and its sister RNA are the dumb blondes of the biomolecular world. Exquisite to look at and good for reproduction, but unable to cope without the help of a myriad of complex proteins.’ Professor Rosselli was warming up.
Felici inhaled.
‘Indirectly supporting the theory of higher civilisation is the almost unimaginable number of galaxies and planets that make up the cosmos. In our own galaxy alone there are over 100 billion stars, and we need to multiply that billions of times over because there are at least 10 billion galaxies. The odds of planet Earth being the only inhabitable planet amongst billions of other galaxies must stretch the scepticism of even the most fundamental views,’ he said, looking at Walter C. Whittaker the Third. ‘You must now be wondering where the Essenes and the Omega Scroll fit-’
Felici exhaled, felt the first trigger pressure, held the cross-hairs on Rosselli’s chest and gently squeezed through the second pressure on the trigger.
Phut. Phut. No one heard the two shots from the projection room.
Someone in the audience gasped as Rosselli fell backwards, clutching his chest. Allegra saw the bloodstain blossoming on his shirt.
‘Antonio. No!’ Allegra rushed to his side as Professor Rosselli lay on the floor, struggling for life. ‘Call an ambulance,’ she commanded. ‘He’s been shot.’
Giorgio Felici closed the fire escape door and quickly descended to the car park.
Roma
Cardinal Lorenzo Petroni was in his office early. The timing for terminating Rosselli’s investigation into the origins of DNA and the Omega Scroll could not have been better. A massive pile-up of more than two hundred cars on the autostrada just south of Florence had killed eleven people and had pushed everything else off the front page. There had been one or two lines of speculation on the Omega Scroll, but as they had done over the death of the previous Pope, in the absence of any strong leads Petroni knew the media would lose interest.
Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. Cardinal Secretary of State, back in the Vatican in the second most powerful position in the whole of the Catholic Church. He was getting closer and closer to absolute power and the sexual jolt it gave him reminded him of the need to arrange for Carmela, the fallen but beautiful nun, to be appointed to his personal staff in the Holy See. Her guilt was his power, the perfect way to subdue a beautiful woman.
Petroni caressed the arms of his large leather chair, savouring his power. He made a mental note to have his desk raised, then moved to look over his notes on the Vatican Bank. It was time to remove the squeaky-clean Garibaldi. A new director for the bank was needed, one who could be controlled. Despite some meticulous research, there was not a whiff of scandal about this quiet, unassuming priest with a double degree in accounting and financial management. An hour later Petroni buzzed his secretary.