‘Over the ensuing days,’ Mike continued, ‘many hundreds of thousands more will die of radiation poisoning and burns. New York, London, Sydney or any other city that is attacked will be uninhabitable for years. Unless you have any further questions, Mr President, that concludes the brief.’
The President shook his head and leaned toward his Director of Central Intelligence. ‘McKinnon’s background includes the Middle East and Islam?’
The Director nodded.
‘Good. I’d like to see you both in the Oval Office after the briefing.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Roma
T he Swiss guard on Saint Anne’s Gate snapped to attention and saluted as the Secretary of State’s black Volvo slipped quietly out of the Vatican. Petroni, dressed in civilian clothes and seated in the back, waved dismissively. Rome had come to life and the traffic was heavy as the car headed into the tunnel under the Tiber and wound its way along the Lungotevere Tor di Nona on the east bank. Over on the west bank the grisly Castel Sant’Angelo maintained a silent vigil over the river, the floodlights playing eerily on the battlements that for centuries had protected her archers and ancient catapults. Within the castle’s grim walls, countless atrocities had been committed in the name of Christ – Pope John X had been smothered, Benedict VI had been strangled and John XIV poisoned. Tonight the Castel Sant’Angelo looked no less forbidding, but if there was a parallel between earlier atrocities and the ones Cardinal Petroni was now contemplating, it was a thought that did not occur to the urbane Secretary of State.
The car drove on towards the ancient part of the city. Towards the Colosseum that for nearly two thousand years had stood testament to the gory history of Rome. Past the Roman Forum and the ruins of the triumphal arches and the temples to the gods where at the height of the Roman Empire the marble pavements and steps were as busy as any modern city. Past the Circus Maximus that was now a public park. And finally, up the hill to an old Roman house on the Piazza del Tempio di Diana. Apuleius, Petroni’s choice of restaurant, had been deliberate. The food and wine were excellent, but more importantly it was small and relatively out of the way. Once home to an influential first-century Roman family, its decor had not changed much in the intervening millennia. Red marble pillars supported the low roof and the remains of marble tablets decorated the frescoed walls. The ancient fireplace was intact and Roman pottery had been tastefully added to the small alcoves in the two living rooms in which guests could now choose to sit.
Cardinal Petroni had reserved a table that was partly shielded from the main areas by an old leather screen. Just in case. Although Petroni was confident he was unlikely to be recognised by anyone other than Giorgio Felici, who was already seated at the table.
‘ Buonasera, Eminence.’
‘No titles please,’ Petroni replied, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice.
‘ Mi dispiace. Forgive me,’ Felici said, instant understanding combining with the shiftiness of his green eyes.
Giorgio Felici had been raised in the Sicilian hillside town of Corleone. At a young age he had moved to Palermo when the Felici family had taken a stake in the cattle and heroin trade. More than one member of the competing Bontate and Buscetta families had met a grisly death at the hands of the young Giorgio as the Felici family gradually took control. It was a skill he still practised with ruthless efficiency. When the business expanded the family needed a safe means of laundering the proceeds and Giorgio had moved into the banking sector. Short, fit and muscled, with smooth black hair and tanned skin, he was immaculately dressed in an expensive cream suit. Giorgio Felici had become feared around the corridors of La Borsa di Milano, but his contacts in merchant banking were not of interest to Petroni tonight. Giorgio Felici had also risen to be Grand Master of Propaganda Tre or P3, the successor to P2, the infamous secret Freemason’s Lodge of the 1970s. Like its predecessor, P3 boasted among its members Italian cabinet ministers and judges, the head of Italy’s financial police, several of Italy’s top bankers, industrialists and media executives, as well as serving and retired armed forces chiefs and two of the secret service chiefs. P3’s tentacles stretched into the most influential Mafia families in Italy and the United States, into the CIA and the FBI, and, more importantly for Petroni, into one of the terrorist groups in Israel’s Occupied Territories.
‘Your message sounded urgent?’ Giorgio ventured, coming straight to the point. Crooked white teeth showed in what was more a quick mechanical action than a smile. Petroni waited while the young waitress delivered their first course of scallops, sauteed to perfection in the finest olive oil and garlic, with just a touch of chilli, served on a bed of steamed spinach. The Cardinal was struck by the young girl’s face. Her olive skin was flawless, her hair as dark as her eyes.
‘ Vi verso il vino, Signor?’ she asked, proffering a bottle of Vigna Colonnello Barolo for Petroni’s approval. Petroni savoured the bouquet. A powerful wine from the Italian nebbiolo variety, it was recognised around the world as being comparable to Burgundy and to the clarets of Bordeaux. Lorenzo Petroni had long been accustomed to the perks of high office.
‘ Si. Bellissimo,’ he replied. ‘I hope you don’t mind the break in tradition, Giorgio?’
‘ Scusi?’ Giorgio asked, somewhat puzzled.
‘Red wine with seafood.’
‘Oh! Non importa. An unnecessary restriction.’
‘The contracts on Schweiker and Donelli are in place?’ Petroni asked quietly.
‘The journalist is under surveillance. If he gets too close to your past, he will be dealt with. The threat from the Cardinal is more difficult.’ Despite not yet having a solution for the troublesome Cardinal Patriarch of Venice, Giorgio smiled. He was enjoying the stickiness of the web that Petroni had woven around himself. As long as Petroni remained useful, and he might be very useful as Pope, Felici would continue to solve his problems, for a price.
‘We have another small problem, Giorgio.’
Giorgio Felici smiled once more, bemused by the powerful Cardinal’s ability to give other people ownership of his problems. ‘Small’ invariably meant blowing someone’s brains out, but he said nothing.
‘There is some property that may have fallen into the wrong hands and the Church would be grateful for its recovery.’
‘That does seem a small request, Lorenzo. What sort of property?’
‘You have heard of the Dead Sea Scrolls, non e vero?’
‘ Naturalmente, but I thought they were international property?’
‘They are. The Catholic Church is cooperating with L’Ecole Biblique et Archeologique Francais, the French Biblical and Archaeological School in Jerusalem, as well as the Rockefeller Museum where these scrolls are rightfully housed for translation.’
Felici looked sceptical.
‘Are you a good Catholic, Giorgio?’ Petroni asked. It was a time-honoured attack. No matter how unscrupulous the target, there was always that small doubt of how one might fare in the afterlife. The theology of fear. It was something the Vatican had practised for centuries.
‘But of course.’ The uneven teeth flashed.
‘Then you would understand that anything that impinges on the Faith is properly in the domain of the Holy Father.’
‘And this clearly impinges on the Faith,’ Felici mused cynically. ‘So who might have these wrong hands?’