The Lost Testament

12

The calm male voice on the end of the line said the single English word ‘Yes?’ in a neutral tone before lapsing into silence.

‘The code word is “Angharad”,’ Morini said, replying in the same language. ‘I will call you back in ten minutes.’

‘No,’ the voice said, suddenly louder and instantly commanding. ‘Remain where you are and I will call you. Five minutes.’

Before Morini could reply, the line went dead. For a few seconds the priest just stood there, looking at the telephone handset he was holding, then he replaced it and stepped away from the booth. There were no seats anywhere nearby, but there was a low wall a few yards away, near enough to the booth that he’d certainly hear the phone when it rang, but not so close that he would appear to any passers-by to be waiting for a call.

About two minutes after he’d ended the call, a middle-aged woman with badly dyed blonde hair partially obscuring her face, and wearing old jeans and a shapeless jumper, despite the heat of the day, walked up to the phone booth, slid coins into the slot and embarked on what looked like a lengthy and somewhat acrimonious call. She wasn’t shouting, but it was the next best thing.

Morini glanced at his watch, counting the seconds, but he knew there was almost nothing he could do about it. The last thing he wanted to do was attract attention to himself, and if he did anything to cut short the woman’s call, that would certainly result in some kind of a scene.

Five minutes came, then six. When his watch showed that seven minutes had elapsed since he’d ended his call, and despite his misgivings, Morini decided he had to do something. He got up and walked across to the phone booth, stopped right beside it and fixed his gaze on the woman using the phone. After a few seconds she became aware of his presence and turned to stare at him, an irritated expression on her face. Embarrassed but determined, Morini stared back at her, pointed at the telephone in her hand, and then tapped the face of his watch for emphasis. The woman turned her back on him, but Morini simply walked around to the other side of the booth and repeated his actions.

A few seconds later the woman angrily slammed the phone down on its rest and stepped out of the booth. Morini moved to one side to allow her to pass, and received a mouthful of invective for his trouble, the insults liberally laced with a scattering of descriptive words that the priest had not heard in a very long time.

But Morini didn’t care because as the woman walked away, simmering anger evident in her every stride, the telephone began to ring, and he immediately snatched up the handset.

‘Hullo?’

‘This is the fifth time I have tried to call you back,’ the cold voice at the other end of the line snapped. ‘What happened?’

‘This is a public phone box,’ Morini began, ‘and a woman stopped here to make a call.’

‘The next time you use a public telephone to call me — if there is a next time — you will remain in the booth until I call you back. Is that perfectly clear? My time is too important to waste.’

‘I understand.’

‘I hope you do. Now, I know who you are, or at least the position you hold and the organization you represent. And if your documentation is current you will know my name — or one of the names that I use — and the group that I control.’ The man’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper, and his tone seemed to exude a cold menace that Morini found instantly alarming. ‘I hope for your sake that you have not contacted me for some trivial problem. What has happened? And before you speak, be aware that it is possible that this call may be monitored, so choose your words with care.’

Morini had anticipated that he would need to explain the circumstances to the man, and had prepared a simple overview. He talked for less than ninety seconds, taking care to mention no names or any other definitive information.

Almost as soon as he’d finished, the other man replied.

‘I hope that you and your masters realize that this is an entirely self-inflicted problem,’ he said. ‘If there was anyone in your organization with a functioning brain, they would have made sure that the relic was destroyed centuries ago. Instead, you not only kept hold of it, but you failed to keep it in a secure location, which is why you’re now in this mess.’

‘I’m sure that the people responsible believed they were doing the right thing,’ Morini couldn’t help but plead.

‘They were wrong,’ the man replied flatly. ‘Now, I hope you have an untraceable mobile phone because you must send me a text message giving me all the information I need to resolve this situation. I want names, addresses — IP addresses as well as geographical locations — a full description and photograph of the relic, and any other information that you have about it and what happened to it. You already have my number, and as soon as you send me the text I will have your mobile number as well. From now on, we will mainly communicate using mobiles rather than landlines. When I reply I will send you a list of times when you are to be available to take my calls. At those times you must be outside your place of work — your entire place of work, I mean.’

‘That may not be possible,’ Morini objected. ‘I have duties that I need—’

‘You will adhere to the schedule. Your duties are of secondary importance to resolving this situation. You will also need to advise your masters that this may end up being a costly operation, and I do not anticipate any disputes over my expenses. One last question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Which languages do you speak?’

For a moment or two, Morini didn’t reply, because he couldn’t see the relevance of the question.

‘English,’ he said finally, ‘and Italian, obviously. I’m reasonably fluent in French as well. Why do you ask?’

‘Because you will be relaying my instructions to the contractors who will be carrying out the work.’

‘That was not my understanding,’ Morini replied, in surprise. ‘I believed that your organization would take over and resolve this problem. You must have people who can speak as many languages as I can.’

‘I do, but they will not be employed for this job. Either you translate my instructions as I have ordered or I’ll take no further part in this situation and you can solve the problem yourself, using whatever resources you have. I will not allow the Vatican to deny their involvement if this matter ever makes the news. We won’t be your scapegoat any more.’

‘But I have no resources,’ Morini protested. ‘You know that.’

‘Then it should not be a difficult decision for you.’

‘I really don’t like this.’

‘I’m not asking you to like it. I’m just telling you to do it. I expect to receive your detailed text message within the next fifteen minutes.’

The line went dead, and Morini stepped out of the telephone booth with a feeling of relief, and a hint of apprehension.

He had all the information to hand, some in his head, other pieces of data — such as the IP address of the Egyptian market trader in Cairo — written down on a folded piece of paper tucked inside his wallet. He walked a few yards down the road to one of the cafés that dot the streets of Rome, sat down and ordered a drink, and then quickly composed a message that included all the information that the Englishman had demanded. He read it through twice to make sure that he’d covered all the details, then pressed the button which would send the text into the ether.

Rather sooner than he’d expected, his phone beeped to signal the arrival of not one, but two text messages. The first one listed the times of day when Morini was to be available on his mobile phone and outside the physical limits of the Vatican City. When he saw these, Morini knew it was going to be difficult for him, but it was at least possible. The second message was longer. It contained a name and a telephone number in Cairo and then a very detailed list of orders, which Morini was to pass to this man.

When he read through this section of the message — and began to understand the implications of the instructions he was about to give — Morini’s resolve began to waver. The cold and clinical directions sent by the Englishman admitted of only one possible result. Morini knew, without the slightest hint of a doubt, that if — when — he contacted the P2 representative in Cairo, within a matter of days, or possibly even hours, a human being, a man he’d never met, was going to die.

For several minutes, Morini walked the streets of Rome, lost in thought and struggling to reconcile what he knew had to be done with what his conscience was screaming at him. Eventually, he stopped on the corner of a narrow alleyway where a wood and metal seat was positioned, and sat down with a deep sigh. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head in prayer.

But whatever help or inspiration he was seeking didn’t materialize, and after a short time he stood up again, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and took his mobile out of his pocket. He knew he really had no choice. No choice at all.

He made sure he could not be overheard, and then dialled the number he had been given for a man named Jalal Khusad in Cairo.

For a few seconds after he’d ended the call Morini didn’t move, just bowed his head in prayer again, his lips moving silently.