‘Your name came up in conversation during my last trip to Israel. He was very interested in your research on DNA and the Dead Sea Scrolls. I’ve taken the liberty of sending him a copy of your doctoral thesis and he will use that to evaluate your candidacy. I’ve already raised the issue with the academic board here and they’re prepared to give you leave for up to four years if you’re successful. Access to the Dead Sea Scrolls held in the Shrine of the Book Museum is guaranteed but for some reason there seems to be considerable opposition to any access to those housed in the Rockefeller Museum. A Monsignor Lonergan on the staff of the museum is kicking up quite a fuss. The usual academic jealousy I expect but that shouldn’t bother you too much, assuming you’re successful, of course,’ he added with a warm smile.
Allegra left the Vice Chancellor’s office with her mind in a whirl. Jerusalem, Bethlehem and the Holy Land. Who knows, her search for the Omega Scroll could continue more closely there. Giovanni would have all the contacts, she thought, then she pulled herself together.
‘Get a grip, girl!’ she said to herself. ‘They don’t give scholarships for study of the Dead Sea Scrolls to Italian scientists.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jerusalem
M onsignor Derek Lonergan woke with a splitting headache and waited until the room came into focus. The old metal clock indicated 4 a.m. and he stared at it uncomprehendingly, realising that he had forgotten to wind it, again. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It felt dry and furry, as if an animal had done something nasty in it during the night. As he rolled his head off the pillow there was a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. An empty whisky bottle had fallen on the tiled floor.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered.
Derek Lonergan slowly swung his legs off the bed, his feet still in his sandals, wrestling to try to gain some freedom for his ample girth among the folds of the robes he had fallen asleep in.
‘Fuck these bloody cassocks,’ he swore again, addressing his remarks to the long-suffering walls of his room. Putting his hand to the side of his head he got to his feet and squinted out of his dormitory window at the road that ran past the walls of L’Ecole Biblique et Archeologique Francaise de Jerusalem. The sunlight caught the reddish grey of his bearded jowls and it felt hot on the pink skin at the front of his balding head. Judging by the length of the queue of the bloody Palestinians clamouring outside the cramped quarters of the Ministry of Interior on the other side of the road, and the bored looks on the faces of Israeli soldiers covering them with their Uzis, he supposed the sun was well past the yard arm.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered again to no one in particular. He had missed the morning meeting, as he had the morning before. This would no doubt earn him another rebuke from the director, Father ‘po-face’. Father La Franci’s idea of productivity was measured by the number of meetings that he could jam into a week. Dickhead. Fuck ’em. Fuck the lot of them. If the Vatican wanted him to work in this hell hole and protect their secrets and edit anything out of their bloody journals that remotely questioned their precious dogma then he would do it on his terms. Two doctorates in archaeology and geology said that he could, as he was fond of reminding anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He had friends in high places, as he was also fond of reminding them. Although Cardinal Petroni could be a right royal pain in the arse as well. Fuck him, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Roma
T he paperweight hit the far wall of the Secretary of State’s office with a resounding crash and fell soundlessly on the thick blue carpet. Two pieces of paper in his afternoon dispatches had brought the Cardinal Secretary of State close to incandescence.
The first, a confidential list of archbishops to be made cardinal. At the top of the list was Giovanni Donelli; to be made Cardinal Patriarch of Venice.
Cardinal Petroni tapped his heavy polished desk with his fingers as he considered the threat Giovanni Donelli’s appointment might pose. More than one cardinal from Venice had been elected Pope in the past. Pope John XXIII had been one and Albino Luciani another. Petroni unlocked the top left-hand drawer of his desk, extracted his small black leather book, turned to Donelli and, irritably, made another entry against Giovanni’s name. He grudgingly allocated him a third star and noted that Donelli was ‘still B-list at best but bears watching. Not being widely canvassed amongst the Curia. Not widely known.’ The last comment was a rare error of judgement. Petroni’s anger was starting to get the better of him. He replaced the book, locked the drawer and picked up the next offending dispatch from his in-tray. As he re-read it he sniffed loudly. It was a letter from that infuriating Jew, Professor Yossi Kaufmann, from the Hebrew University. Dear Cardinal Petroni, I refer to your request for the Hebrew University to reconsider the granting of the inaugural Medina Archaeology Scholarship to Dr Allegra Bassetti of the Universita Statale in Milano. You will appreciate that such a prestigious award gives the candidate unprecedented access to those scrolls that have already come into our possession. We are also negotiating an agreement for access to the scrolls housed in the Rockefeller Museum. As a result, the Medina Archaeology Scholarship has generated intense interest worldwide and the field of candidates has been nothing short of outstanding. We have given careful consideration to the Vatican’s sensitivities in regard to the Dead Sea Scrolls. I regret that on this occasion we cannot accede to your request for a Catholic scholar to take the place of Dr Bassetti. Although your candidate has very strong recommendations, Dr Bassetti is a brilliant scientist of quite exceptional potential and the Selection Board’s decision was unanimous . Sincerely, Yossi Kaufmann Hebrew University Mount Scopus
Petroni considered his options. To openly deny the troublesome woman and the Israeli scholar access to the scrolls held in the Rockefeller might be a mistake. The Tom Schweikers of this world were already proving to be a threat and it might give the Israeli Department of Antiquities unnecessary ammunition. A more cunning approach would be to instruct Lonergan to appear to be cooperating while ensuring that none of the more controversial scroll fragments were accessed. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock in Jerusalem and there would be no point calling Lonergan now. He would be in a bar in the American Colony Hotel. Lorenzo Petroni decided to call him in the morning when Lonergan would be closer to being sober. A red haze blurred Petroni’s vision briefly and he fought an urge to feel his fists against an innocent’s flesh. His power was threatened and his anger was betraying his judgement. The Keys of Peter were as elusive as ever. The red haze lifted and Petroni regained his feeling of control.
Lonergan. How he detested having to deal with the pompous fat academic priest in Jerusalem. Academic priests were invariably more trouble than they were worth – always that smug satisfaction and oozing self- confidence. But for the moment it was Lonergan’s academic qualifications that made him useful to Petroni. He had put the disgraced priest into the Rockefeller Museum for one reason – to ensure that the Vatican’s carefully crafted ‘Consensus’ on the age and origin of the Dead Sea Scrolls had credibility. Lonergan was the perfect puppet, for it had been Petroni who had saved his worthless hide. That had been over forty years ago when that irksome woman in Idaho had refused the Church’s generous offer of compensation to alleviate the upset over a priest playing around with young boys. The incident had been badly handled in the local diocese and eventually the fallout had threatened to overwhelm the Holy Church itself. So much so that the Vatican had taken charge and quietly arranged for a very young Bishop Petroni to take over damage control and protect the image of the Holy Church. Petroni’s strategy to protect the priest had not been without risk. Many had insisted that the Church should revoke the priest’s orders and accompany that dismissal with an honest apology.
‘I fear that would encourage others to take similar action and expose the Holy Church to many other damaging claims,’ Petroni had argued. The Cardinal Secretary of State at the time had agreed and the priest in question had been summoned to Rome. Petroni had dealt with the priest in a face-to-face interview. The personal exercise of power. It would be something he would regret.
‘You will be posted to the Middle East,’ Petroni had intoned dispassionately. ‘To a little known parish in
