Rome — The Vatican
A driving spring rain pelted the slick cobblestones covering Saint Peter’s Square, making it difficult to see the outline of the red BMW sports car as it materialized from the curtain-like downpour and raced through the gate leading into the San Damaso Courtyard before sliding to a stop at the entrance to the Apostolic Palace. Peering through the car’s rain-streaked windows, water ran off the pointed end of the Swiss Guard’s steel helmet as he snapped to attention and saluted the blurred image of the driver inside.
The impending arrival of the car had been cleared moments earlier by the head of the Vagili, the Vatican’s secret service sworn to protect the pope, but in all actuality any scrutiny given to the vehicle was more or less a formality, for the little red car was just as familiar to the Vatican’s security force as the pope’s armored limo.
Dressed in a dark blue suit, a member of the elite palace guard ran through the downpour to extend an umbrella over the visitor’s head as he climbed from the low car and made his way into the building. Once inside, the new arrival stopped to brush the rain from his long black cassock before heading straight for a hidden elevator that would whisk him to the papal apartments three stories above. The visitor needed no directions to the pope’s living quarters, for he had made this trip many times before.
Stepping from the elevator, the man’s footsteps echoed over the patterned-marble floors as he approached a pair of tall wooden doors guarded by two very large Swiss Guards holding long pikes and wearing the famous yellow and blue uniforms designed during the Renaissance by none other than Michelangelo himself. The guards remained statue-like, staring straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to the man’s presence as he waited patiently for the doors to be opened from the inside by an old Jesuit priest by the name of Enzo Corelli, the official Papal Secretary.
Finally, the huge doors to the papal apartments began to swing open, revealing an opulent reception area. Antique Baroque furniture dominated the decor, while a large, crystal chandelier cast an ethereal glow over the priceless art spaced around the red and gold papered walls. Ushering him forward, the priest led the man into a side corridor and seated him outside the entrance to the pope’s private chapel.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Bishop?”
Bishop Anthony Morelli gazed up at the aging face and smiled. “No … thank you, Enzo. I think I’ll just sit here until His Holiness is finished with his prayers.”
Eyeing the bishop’s ruddy complexion and slight paunch, the pope’s secretary smiled.
“Holding out for some of Pope Michael’s private stock of French wine, eh, Anthony?”
“You know me too well, old friend. His Holiness always lets me sample one of his special wines when I visit, although I hear he’s developed a taste for the California reds since his last trip to America.”
The old priest’s eyes widened. “I just finished e-mailing a new order to a Napa winery this morning. I’m beginning to think what people say about you is true, Anthony.”
“And what would that be, Enzo?”
“That somehow, you really do know everything that goes on within the Vatican.”
The two men smiled at one another before the elder man turned and walked slowly back down the corridor, shaking his head as he disappeared into his private office.
Bishop Anthony Morelli had known the old Jesuit for over thirty years-ever since that memorable day when Morelli first arrived at the Vatican from America as a very young and newly-ordained priest with a PhD in archaeology. After an exhaust spewing green and black-painted taxi had dropped him off, he had stood in the courtyard next to his small suitcase and stared up at the imposing structure of the Apostolic Palace, afraid to go forward but not daring to retreat.
Peering from a fourth-floor window of the poorly-lit offices of the Vatican’s Department of Archaeology, Father Enzo Corelli had spotted the lost-looking priest standing alone in the courtyard below and had rushed down the stairs to welcome him.
Morelli had never forgotten the old man’s kindness for coming down to greet him that day, or the fact that during his first few months at his new job, Father Corelli had taken the young priest under his wing in an effort to educate him in the subtle game of avoiding the politics that existed within the Curia-the Vatican’s equivalent of a governmental civil service. The Roman Curia controlled the bishops, the bishops controlled the clergy, and the clergy controlled the laity. In short, the Curia oversaw all aspects of Vatican life, including all of its governmental offices.
Over time, Morelli’s superiors began to take note of the young priest’s talent for discovering long-forgotten libraries that lay hidden in plain sight. In tiny villages that dotted the ancient landscape around the Mediterranean, Morelli had uncovered dusty repositories of ancient wisdom that held previously unnoticed clues to the past-clues that would lead him to dig in weed-covered patches of ground where he would discover the remains of civilizations hidden from view for thousands of years. In less than two years from the day of his arrival in Rome, it was apparent to all that Morelli was rapidly becoming one of the most forward-thinking archaeologists in the world.
Morelli’s star continued to rise at the Vatican along with that of an old classmate by the name of Marcus Lundahl. The two priests had been friends since their days together in Jesuit seminary in America. Born in Norway, Lundahl, a quiet man with a superior intellect, was destined to become a Prince of the Church, but his appointment with destiny was yet to come. After becoming an authority on Canon Law and serving briefly as the Vatican’s Secretary of State, Lundahl had gone on to achieve the greatest title of them all, a title that would change his very name forever, for Cardinal Marcus Lundahl had become Pope Michael-the first Norwegian pope in Catholic Church history.
Known in Italian as the appartamento pontificio, the papal apartments were made up of ten large rooms and included a beautiful rooftop garden. The front section of the papal suite held the reception area, the secretary’s office, and a complete medical facility. Running through the center of the apartments, a long marble corridor led to the supreme pontiff’s private chapel located next to a vast library that contained over 20,000 books. From there, a passage through the thick inner walls led to a formal dining room, the kitchen, the pope’s private study, and finally, the papal bedroom.
Those few who had entered the papal bedroom were always surprised by its spartan appearance. In fact, in the early days of the palace, the small room had actually been the sleeping quarters of a servant-a very fitting analogy to the fact that one of the pope’s many titles was Servant of the Servants of God. A simple wooden cross hung over the bed, and instead of the beautifully inlaid marble floors found throughout the rest of the palace, the wooden floor in the pope’s bed chamber dated back to the palace’s original construction in the 1500’s. The worn flooring was polished daily to a high sheen by a group of nuns who watched over the papal apartments with a fierce dedication that resembled a mother lion guarding her young. It is said that, if an intruder ever made it past the Swiss Guards, he would never live to tell of his encounter with the nuns who watched over the pope.
Elected for life as the supreme ruler of the Catholic Church and known to millions the world over as the Vicar of Christ on Earth, the pope is also a world leader who wields extraordinary power over the political, ideological, and economic policies of millions of people all over the globe. And, as a monarch whose rule is absolute, he does so without the constraint of any legislative or judicial control to hinder his decisions.
Because of the pope’s immense worldwide power, along with the fact that the Vatican is a country unto itself, there must be a second in command waiting to step forward in case the pope suddenly dies or is incapacitated. In the Vatican, this distinction falls upon the Secretary of State. This position is always occupied by a cardinal who, by necessity, also happens to be one of the pope’s closest associates.
These facts were very much on Bishop Morelli’s mind as he waited in the hallway outside the private chapel, for he had just received the terrible news that the private jet carrying the much beloved Cardinal Orsini, the Vatican’s longtime Secretary of State, had just slammed into the side of a mountain in Spain.
Without fanfare, a tall man with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes emerged from the papal chapel, his long white cassock trailing on the floor behind him.
“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.”