The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pope Pius rested comfortably at Gemelli Polyclinic, his bed raised so he could better view the television. Beside him sitting in a chair was Cardinal Vessucci.

“Bonasero.” The pope reached out to him with a bony and frail hand, and Vessucci grabbed it with ease. “You’re a good friend and favored by the College to succeed me—”

“Let’s not talk about this, Your Holiness.”

“Bonasero, death is only a new beginning. It’s a way of life.”

“Of course it is, but yours is far from over.”

Pius smiled, becoming passive. And then: “I’ve lived a good life, my friend. But we both know that I’m in the twilight of my existence. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that. I know just as you do.” The pontiff sighed and laid his head against the pillow, their hands still clutching. “It’s time to see my Heavenly Father,” he added.

“Amerigo—” The cardinal cut himself off.

“Bonasero, you’re my good friend and the College favors you to succeed me. You have the tools to win the masses, and the gift to give hope when hope is needed the most. Use them wisely.”

The cardinal relented. “If I should succeed you, if the College of the Cardinals deems me fit to sit upon the papal throne, then I will not disappoint.”

The pope smiled. “I know that.” And then the pontiff fell into a severe coughing fit, more blood, his face growing crimson. Red flecks ended up on the back of Pius’s liver-spotted hand, which the cardinal wiped clean with a tissue.

Within moments the pontiff eased back into a calm repose with a hand to his chest as his breathing fell into a more rhythmic, a more normal pattern.

“On my passing,” he told the cardinal, catching his breath, “you’ll need to fill the vacant seat within the Society of Seven. There are those who are too conservative to see the need for the Vatican Knights. But there are those who recognize the Church’s right to protect its sovereignty, its interests and the welfare of its citizenry. Choose wisely, Bonasero, to avoid an insurrection by conservative factions within the Vatican, those who are most politically minded.”

The cardinal nodded in agreement. “The secrets of the Knights will be well kept and held to the Society of Seven. There are many within who recognize the right of the Church to protect itself. So don’t worry, Amerigo. I’ll find someone to fill the void without a setback.”

“What about the status of the Vatican Knights?”

“Isaiah and Leviticus are meeting with marginal resistance and no collateral damage, but far from being relieved of duty to aid Kimball. We still haven’t found those on sabbatical.”

Pius sighed. “And have you heard from Kimball?”

“No. But he did land safely in Las Vegas where he was met by SIV who informed him of Mr. McMullen’s fate. From what I understand he’s now on his way to the next perceived target.”

A man of Lincolnesque statute, tall and lanky with wispy limbs beneath his medical coat, entered the room wearing a feigned, if not uneasy, smile. As he stood at the foot of the pontiff’s bed the man rung his hands nervously.

With an encompassing smile magical enough to sooth the man, the pope put the doctor at ease. “And how are you today, Doctor Simonelli? Blessed, I hope?”

“Your Eminence—” The man took a step closer, the pretend smile gone. “Your Eminence, I’m afraid I have some rather disturbing news regarding your condition.” The physician hesitated for a brief moment, the lapse of time, however, seemingly long and surreal. “I’m afraid you have cancer.”

“Advanced?”

“Yes, Your Holiness, I’m afraid so. The cancer has metastasized to tissues to both lungs and neighboring organs. You’re at stage four, in fact.”

“Stage four?”

“I’m afraid it’s terminal.”

There was another pregnant pause, the moment awkward.

And then: “How long?”

“I’d say anywhere from three to six months. It all depends upon how your body responds to chemo and radiation.”

“There’ll be neither,” he said. “I’ll simply let nature take its course.”

“But, Your Holiness—”

Pius raised a halting hand. “No, Bonasero, God is calling me home. There is no need to prolong the inevitable.”

“Are you in any pain?” asked the doctor.

“No, just tired. I thought I was just overworking myself.”

“If you want, Pontiff, I can prescribe morphine.”

“There’s no need, Doctor.” He turned to the cardinal. “I’ll need around-the-clock care until I can perform no longer. You’re the secretary of state, so I’ll need to groom you to cover my duties until my passing. From then the Cardinal Camerlengo will take over the duties upon the moment I die, and continue those duties until a successor is chosen.”

The cardinal nodded sadly. “Of course, Your Holiness.”

The pope laid his head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I’m going home.”