The Omega scroll

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Milano

G iorgio Felici flexed his gloved fingers and steadied his breath as Professor Rosselli moved towards the lecturn. He moved the cross-hairs to the centre of his quarry’s chest.

‘Thank you, Dr Bassetti, a most interesting expose. Unfortunately,’ he said, turning back to the audience, ‘for the remainder of the evening you will have to put up with me, although I hope you will find the subject of “The lost civilisation of the Essenes, DNA and the Omega Scroll” intriguing.’

A murmur of expectation echoed through the theatre.

‘In 1962 Francis Crick shared the Nobel Prize for Medicine and Physiology with James Watson and Maurice Wilkins for the discovery of the molecular structure of DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, which contains the genetic code for life. In 1973, the Nobel Laureate wrote a book called Life Itself. In it he argues very persuasively that the DNA helix is so intricate that there was insufficient time on this planet for it to have evolved of its own accord and that it had to have been introduced to our planet from a higher civilisation.’

Professor Rosselli put up an overhead of the complex double helix of nucleotides made up of phosphates, smaller deoxyribose sugar molecules and the bases, adenine, thymine, cytosine and guanine.

‘As Crick describes them, DNA and its sister RNA are the dumb blondes of the biomolecular world. Exquisite to look at and good for reproduction, but unable to cope without the help of a myriad of complex proteins.’ Professor Rosselli was warming up.

Felici inhaled.

‘Indirectly supporting the theory of higher civilisation is the almost unimaginable number of galaxies and planets that make up the cosmos. In our own galaxy alone there are over 100 billion stars, and we need to multiply that billions of times over because there are at least 10 billion galaxies. The odds of planet Earth being the only inhabitable planet amongst billions of other galaxies must stretch the scepticism of even the most fundamental views,’ he said, looking at Walter C. Whittaker the Third. ‘You must now be wondering where the Essenes and the Omega Scroll fit-’

Felici exhaled, felt the first trigger pressure, held the cross-hairs on Rosselli’s chest and gently squeezed through the second pressure on the trigger.

Phut. Phut. No one heard the two shots from the projection room.

Someone in the audience gasped as Rosselli fell backwards, clutching his chest. Allegra saw the bloodstain blossoming on his shirt.

‘Antonio. No!’ Allegra rushed to his side as Professor Rosselli lay on the floor, struggling for life. ‘Call an ambulance,’ she commanded. ‘He’s been shot.’

Giorgio Felici closed the fire escape door and quickly descended to the car park.

Roma

Cardinal Lorenzo Petroni was in his office early. The timing for terminating Rosselli’s investigation into the origins of DNA and the Omega Scroll could not have been better. A massive pile-up of more than two hundred cars on the autostrada just south of Florence had killed eleven people and had pushed everything else off the front page. There had been one or two lines of speculation on the Omega Scroll, but as they had done over the death of the previous Pope, in the absence of any strong leads Petroni knew the media would lose interest.

Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. Cardinal Secretary of State, back in the Vatican in the second most powerful position in the whole of the Catholic Church. He was getting closer and closer to absolute power and the sexual jolt it gave him reminded him of the need to arrange for Carmela, the fallen but beautiful nun, to be appointed to his personal staff in the Holy See. Her guilt was his power, the perfect way to subdue a beautiful woman.

Petroni caressed the arms of his large leather chair, savouring his power. He made a mental note to have his desk raised, then moved to look over his notes on the Vatican Bank. It was time to remove the squeaky-clean Garibaldi. A new director for the bank was needed, one who could be controlled. Despite some meticulous research, there was not a whiff of scandal about this quiet, unassuming priest with a double degree in accounting and financial management. An hour later Petroni buzzed his secretary.

‘Ask Monsignor Garibaldi to come in.’

The double doors were opened and the Head of the Vatican Bank was shown in to the Secretary of State’s opulent and spacious suite.

‘Pasquale, how good to see you again. It’s been a very long time. Please, have a seat.’ Monsignor Garibaldi was shown one of three crimson couches, the soft approach.

‘Thank you, Eminence,’ Pasquale responded, nonplussed as to why he had been summoned on the Cardinal’s second day in office.

‘I was reading your report on the Latin American Bishop’s Conference in Quito. Very insightful, but I fear not much has changed.’

‘A sad indictment, Eminence.’ Pasquale was wary but, who knew, despite Cardinal Petroni’s reputation for ruthlessness, perhaps this Prince of the Church would finally give some support to the desperately poor people of South America. ‘I am preparing a paper as to how we might better use the resources of the Vatican Bank to sponsor the programs they need.’

Petroni already knew that. Given half a chance this bothersome humanist priest would no doubt suggest opening a branch of the bank in downtown Bogota.

‘I would find that very interesting, Pasquale, and when you have finished it I would be grateful if you could submit it directly to my office for my personal attention. Regrettably there are some in these corridors who might oppose your plans. They guard His Holiness’s vaults as if they were their own, non e vero! ’ Petroni’s diplomatic laugh held not a scintilla of mirth.

‘But of course, Eminence. I understand.’

‘Which brings me to the reason I’ve asked you to see me. I think we need a closer look at the problems in Latin America. An independent view. I wondered if you would be prepared to return, as one of my emissaries?’

Pasquale was taken aback and more wary than ever. He had been Head of the Vatican Bank for less than two months.

‘I don’t know what to say, Eminence. Would it be for long? The bank… There is so much to do…’ Pasquale had a sinking feeling that he was being comprehensively sidelined.

Petroni smiled his practised, reassuring smile. He had predicted Garibaldi’s reaction and he smoothly applied his rehearsed response.

‘You will forgive me, Pasquale, but for this task I need people who not only have an understanding in here,’ Petroni said, tapping his forehead, ‘but who really care, from here.’ Petroni clenched his fist and held it to his soutane. ‘Bankers are easier to find.’

‘Of course, Eminence,’ Pasquale responded coolly. ‘Wherever I can be of best service.’ It was a line Petroni himself was fond of using but when he did, it lacked sincerity. ‘You mentioned emissaries. Can I ask if there are others?’

‘Not initially. We have to get the right people and that will take time, which is one of the reasons I would like you to leave as soon as possible. We are making arrangements for you to travel to Peru, which I think you will agree is at the very heart of the Liberation Movement?’

Despite his misgivings Pasquale felt a strange pang of excitement. Peru! It was the home of the founder of Liberation Theology, Gustavo Gutierrez.

‘Of course, Eminence.’

‘San Joaqun de Omaguas. A parish in the eastern part of the country. You will shortly receive some written directions on the more precise requirements, but I am sure you will be pleased to know that I have allowed scope for you to administer the sacraments to the local people and to gain some first-hand experience of the conditions. If only I were in your shoes instead of being stuck here in these dusty corridors, but don’t tell Il Papa I said that.’

Petroni got to his feet, confident that the chances of Monsignor Garibaldi and Il Papa having a conversation in the next five years were about zero.

Pasquale left the Secretariat of State enthused about the prospect of bringing the aims of a church ‘for and of the poor’ to greater prominence in the corridors of power, but the uneasy feeling that he’d been ‘got out of the way’ wouldn’t leave him. He realised that his concern over what he had found, or more to the point, what he had not found in the accounts, was well founded and disturbing, but he needed more time and more proof. Once he had left for Peru he felt sure Petroni would remove anything that might be remotely questioned. Well, he thought bitterly, at the very least the photocopier could do some overtime in the short time he had left. San Joaqun de Omaguas? He had never heard of the place and he headed in the direction of the Vatican library and an atlas. He would find that discovering details of the more remote areas of the Amazon would take a little time; places that were inaccessible by road often did.

Lorenzo Petroni put in a very long day, intermittently monitoring the news for any signs of an escalation of interest in the Rosselli case, but the carnage on the autostrada was overshadowing everything else. It was nearly midnight by the time he turned in, and he slept fitfully, tossing in the large bed in his apartment in the Vatican, trying to push back his recurring dreams.

Lorenzo Petroni’s dreams were hidden memories. Lorenzo at ten, a lonely only child. His father, Emilio, was a small, bald man with a small black moustache, a small man’s complex and a big, violent temper. Lorenzo’s mother, Marietta, was tall, very thin and very, very timid. The Petroni family lived in a run-down house in Pianella, a small town in the foothills of the Abruzzo Apennines. Every day Emilio would travel up and down the east coast, making a meagre living selling shoes, his samples in the boot and stacked on the back seat of his little Fiat. Lorenzo was a difficult and petulant child, prone to violent tantrums followed by long periods of sulking if he didn’t get his own way; and the source of constant tension between his mother and father. On rare occasions his parents would make up and Marietta would go with Emilio on one of his trips. Lorenzo would then be dropped off to stay with his bachelor uncle, Gustavo.

Petroni groaned in his sleep and pushed himself up against the wall, but it was no use. Uncle Gustavo pulled back the covers and climbed into bed with him.

Two days later he would be home again and the next morning he would creep out to the laundry to wash his sheets, terrified that his father would appear from the ramshackle outside toilet.

‘ Stronzetto inetto! You useless little shit!’ his father would snarl, grabbing Lorenzo by the hair and reaching for the big strap that was kept on a nail behind the laundry shed door.

‘You’ve wet the bed again, haven’t you! Haven’t you! Answer me you useless piece of dogshit!’

Lorenzo would say nothing, his bottom lip quivering as his father shoved him on top of one of the donkey’s bales of hay and hit him with the heavy strap.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Lorenzo would sob hysterically.

‘ Stronzetto inetto! You will never amount to anything! Never!’

‘Emilio. Please…’ Marietta would appear at the back door and plead for her son.

‘ Vaffanculo! Testa di cavolo! Butt out, cabbagehead! Or you’ll be next. Il tuo filio e un frocio! Your son is a fairy!’

Suddenly the alarm woke him. Petroni sat up in bed, sweating, a hatred for a father and the curse of never amounting to anything burning deep within his soul.