just mystical nonsense, but if someone like Weizman were to find it and line up the scientific data with ancient Mayan predictions of a catastrophic pole shift, uncontrolled media headlines could blow this way out of proportion. Any suggestion that the financial centres of the world might finish up a thousand metres under water would cause investors to panic and seek safety in gold. There’d be a run on the banks and another stockmarket crash – one far worse than the 2008 panic. Worse even than the crash of 1929.’
Felici nodded, deep in thought, his mind more focused on the dangers the codex posed for the Holy Church.
‘The President thinks any alignment with the current scientific data and what might be in this codex is sheer coincidence, but he agrees the public should be shielded from it.’
‘I think your president is right. The Maya were uneducated savages who worshipped any number of pagan gods, and it’s a pity that all of their codices were not destroyed, but I agree: fear breeds fear. When it comes to the financial markets, investor panic is an uncontrollable phenomenon that defies logic.’
‘If this codex thing is not handled sensibly, Salvatore – and by that I mean if it gets into the wrong hands – it could threaten the entire financial system.’
‘If this Maya Codex exists, it will need to be kept from public view, at least until after 2012… and perhaps beyond,’ Felici said, still more mindful of the threat the codex might pose to Catholic doctrine than the stockmarket. Cardinal Felici paused, reflecting on a more recent warning that had been delivered to the faithful by the blessed Virgin Mary when she had appeared at Fatima. Was her warning coming to fruition? Could the third warning and the Maya Codex be connected? Pope John Paul II had released a ‘translation’ of the third warning in June 2000, but Felici knew that the real warning was still buried in the Vatican’s archives. ‘We should maintain close cooperation on this, Howard,’ he concluded.
‘There is one other issue,’ Wiley said carefully. ‘When you and I were in Guatemala, one of our assets was based in San Pedro.’
‘Ah, yes. Father Hernandez.’
‘He kept detailed diaries… ’
Felici felt a chill run down his spine, but in a habit born of long years of practice, he gave nothing away. ‘Really? I thought Hernandez retired years ago. He must be in his late eighties by now?’
‘Early nineties actually, but still very sprightly for his age, or he was the last time he was seen around Lake Atitlan. He and his diaries disappeared three years ago, we think possibly to Peru. He apparently received a tip-off that certain enemies were on to him.’
‘Do we know what the diaries cover?’
‘Not exactly. But I’m led to believe he recorded a considerable amount of information on this missing codex.’
‘So if we find the diaries, they may lead us to the codex?’
‘They may. But more importantly the diaries may also contain details of our operations in Guatemala, and Hernandez’ escape from Nazi Germany. The CIA is not the only one looking for Hernandez – Mossad is more than a little interested as well.’
The blood drained from Felici’s face. ‘It would be extremely unfortunate if these diaries were to fall into the hands of the Israelis or anyone else, Howard. I will ask our papal nuncio in Guatemala City to keep his ear to the ground. Our papal nuncio in Lima can also be trusted, so I will make some enquiries on the possible Peruvian connection.’
Like two grand masters of the epee and the foil, Wiley and Felici watched each other’s every move, revealing neither their fears nor their plans for the diaries and the missing codex.
32
VIENNA
A leta lit the fire and poured herself a glass of wine. She was now determined to find the missing figurines and the Maya Codex, whatever it took; but first she would make the nine-hour train journey to Bad Arolsen, a spa town in central Germany. From there she would head to Mauthausen on the Danube, not far from Linz, where her beloved grandfather had last been seen alive. The Mauthausen concentration camp might not yield any clues, but she had to see it for herself.
Aleta retrieved her folder on the Bad Arolsen records from the bedside table. The six barrack buildings used by Himmler’s elite Waffen SS, who were stationed in Bad Arolsen during the war, now contained shelves of documents stretching for twenty-six kilometres. The card index system alone occupied three whole rooms, providing critical links to medical records, transport lists, registration books and myriad scraps of paper. The records were not yet fully digitised, and in any case, having come this far, Aleta was determined to check them personally.
Schindler’s list was there, with the records of more than a thousand Jewish prisoners whose lives Oskar Schindler had saved, convincing the Nazis he needed them to work on the production of enamel and munitions. So too were the records for ‘Frank, Annelise M.’ But even more important to Aleta than Anne Frank was her discovery that the Mauthausen concentration camp’s Totenbuchen, or Death Books, were also at Bad Arolsen. She shuddered involuntarily at the thought of finding her grandfather’s name. The Mauthausen Totenbuchen had been meticulously handwritten, and amongst the entries was one that was particularly chilling. Every two minutes, for ninety minutes, by order of the commandant, Obersturmbannfuhrer von Hei?en, a prisoner had been shot in the back of the head as a birthday present for Hitler. Had her grandfather met his fate on Hitler’s birthday?
Aleta rose and wandered over to one of the old heavy bookcases that held a framed photograph of her grandparents. Levi and his tall attractive wife, Ramona, together with Aleta’s father, Ariel, as a boy of ten, and his younger sister Rebekkah. It had been taken in 1937, when the Nazi juggernaut was already massing, but back then they were a smiling and happy family, standing on the deck of a riverboat cruising through a steeply rising gorge on the Danube. Behind them, the vineyards of the famous Wachau wine-growing region rose in rocky slate terraces above the church steeple of the village of Joching. Her father’s smile was mischievous, just as she remembered it.
Aleta wiped away a tear as the memories came flooding back: sitting on his shoulders as he jogged down to the shores of Lake Atitlan. Together they would paddle the family canoe over to a secret fishing spot. She knew now that it wasn’t secret, and she suspected some of the fish she’d pulled in on her line had been put there by her father when she wasn’t looking, but he had always been able to infuse her life with a sense of mystery and magic. Now, like her grandfather, he was gone. Weary and flat, she headed for the bathroom and shook a purple-pink capsule from the jar labelled Sarafem. The pills and a good night’s sleep would allow her to function, but she knew they would do nothing to help her lack of energy and the pervasive sense of hopelessness that was her constant companion.
Three floors below, Antonio Sodano quietly entered the courtyard to Aleta’s apartment block. Using a lock pick remarkably similar to O’Connor’s, he dealt with the steel security door at the bottom of the stairs. Sodano pulled a balaclava over his pockmarked, rugged face and soundlessly ascended to the landing outside Aleta’s door.
33
C ardinal Felici examined the latest file on Monsignor Jennings, forwarded from the papal nuncio in Guatemala City. A series of photos showed him emerging from a seedy bar in La Linea, a crime-infested, prostitute-ridden, gang-controlled ghetto on the outskirts of the city. The two boys either side of him looked to be no more than twelve. Another photo showed Jennings with the boys, booking into an even seedier ‘motel’, the rooms of which were made out of metal scrounged from shipping containers. Felici closed the file and pondered. So far, the Vatican
