Michelangelo_s Notebook

9

Dawn was breaking over the Vatican, the secret city behind the high walls still deep in shadow, the trees along its winding paths and around its ancient buildings whispering between themselves in the faint morning breeze.

Lights were on here and there. The man in the long black soutane could hear the faint sound of chanting as he came out of the State Department offices in the papal palace and turned down the narrow gravel walkway that led between the Belvedere Palace and the old brick power plant.

He clutched the decoded message from New York in one hand and quickened his pace down the path, his plain black lace-up shoes making crunching sounds on the dew-damp gravel. Once, early in his career, he had been in awe of this place and saw it as the active seat of God’s will on earth.

Over the years his hair had thinned and his vision began to blur, but if anything, he now saw the Vatican with much clearer eyes. Once, he’d seen himself as a privileged priest, brought here for his piety and his love of Christ. Now he knew better; he’d been brought here for his facility with cryptography and his language abilities. If he’d gone to Harvard instead of Notre Dame he’d probably be working for the CIA right now.

Ah well, he thought, even God had need of spies, it seemed.

He continued down the path, then found a small entrance and went up into the library. It was not really the Vatican’s library, but rather a tourist showpiece with its dozens of frescoed arches and its display tables of manuscript artifacts that were more colorful than important. He found a second staircase and went up to the floor above.

A long hall led down to a heavy wooden door guarded even at this time of day by an ornately uniformed Swiss guard complete with pantaloons, helmet and halberd. The priest knew that underneath the puffy-looking jacket the guard had a Beretta S12 submachine gun on a quick release sling on one side and a Beretta M9 service automatic on the other. The secrets of the Prince of Peace were guarded with some very sophisticated ironmongery.

The priest dug his plastic laminated ID card out of the pocket of his soutane, held it up where the guard could see it and watched him snap to attention. The priest gave the young man a brief nod then opened the door marked ARCHIVO SE-CRETO, the secret archives of the Vatican.

The man he had come to see was in the first of a score of rooms in the archives, waiting patiently at a plain wooden table, seated on a plain wooden chair. Around him were deep wooden shelves piled with documents. There was a small window looking down into the Pigna Courtyard. The man in the chair was Carlos Cardinal Abruzzi, presently the secretary of state, the second-highest position in the Vatican next to the pope himself. The priest knew that Abruzzi was far more powerful than the slight old man who sat in Peter’s Chair. All the threads of power came to Abruzzi’s hands eventually, and he plucked them like a well-played harp. He was aware, as few Catholics, or even Catholic clergy were, that the Vatican was less a center of religion than it was a center of business and government. In point of fact it was the second-largest corporation in the world and had an international population of almost two billion to govern, at least spiritually.

“What have you got for us, Frank?” Abruzzi asked, using the diminutive of the priest’s first name. The priest handed over the decoded cable.

“Dear me, Crawley murdered,” murmured the cardinal. “How unfortunate.” The tone of his voice held no compassion or regret. “A Moroccan dagger?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then we know who the killer is.”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least he’s come to light after all this time.”

“Rather dramatically.”

“He’ll have to be found and dealt with before the police trace him.”

“Yes.”

“An intern photographed one of Michelangelo’s drawings?”

“Yes.”

“How do we know this?”

“She was seen on the security camera at the museum.”

“Was any attempt made to recover the photographs?”

“Yes. It failed.”

“She’ll have to be stopped as well.” The cardinal continued to stare at the note thoughtfully. “This could be a great opportunity for us, especially with Crawley dead.” The cardinal paused. “Is there any connection between his death and the girl?”

“Doubtful.”

“But it could be made to look that way.”

“Presumably.”

“Who will you need?”

“Sorvino.”

“Is he available?”

“Yes. He is waiting for your order, Eminence.”

“Your order, Francis. I can have no part of this. You must understand.”

“Of course, Eminence.” He would take the fall if things went wrong.

“It would be a great thing if this could be brought to a conclusion once and for all. There is a great deal at stake, not the least of which is the integrity of the Church.”

“And the sainthood of one of her popes,” said the priest.

“If you can end this you might be beatified yourself.” The cardinal smiled. “We could always use another St. Francis.”

The priest returned the smile but there was no humor in it. “There are no saints consigned to the fires of hell, Eminence,” he said. “And I’m afraid that will be my fate after this is done.”

“Conceivably,” said the cardinal. “But perhaps I can see to it that you wear the bishop’s miter while you are consigned to this particular hell on earth. Would you like that, Francis?”

“I look for no rewards, Eminence. This is my job. It is how I serve.”

“This is no one’s job, Francis, man or priest, to clean up the moral defecations of someone who should have known better.”

“No priest is anything but a man, Eminence. First and last, he is a man. And the pope is only a priest.”

“You would teach me religious ethics?” The cardinal smiled gently.

“It is simple doctrine.”

“Which we all learned long ago in the seminaria, but an ordinary man would be deemed a fiend for what this vicar of Christ did. There was a time when he would have burned. Now he is to be a saint.”

“It is a clichй, Eminence, but God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”

“I doubt that this has anything to do with God or His wonders, Francis,” said the cardinal. “I doubt that very much.”