the mistake of sending her to the State University in Milano to further her education, which is where she went off the rails.’
‘Don’t you normally send your priests and nuns to Catholic Universities?’
‘Normally yes, but against my advice the Holy Father decided that the Church should better understand the youth in a secular world, and Bassetti was part of the pilot program.’
‘She is a doctor?’
‘Chemistry. After she resigned from her Order she took a research doctorate in applied archaeological DNA. The details are in her dossier,’ he said, pointing to the file. ‘Kaufmann’s details are in there, too.’
‘Ah yes, from the reports we are getting they seem to spend a lot of time together. Any relation to Professor Yossi Kaufmann, the Israeli mathematician?’
‘His son.’
Conversation was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of the main course. Petroni had ordered his favourite dish, bucatini all’Amatriciana; thin hollow tubes of pasta with a sauce of tomato, garlic and ham. This time it was delivered by a young boy who could not have been more than sixteen. Had the other patrons been remotely interested it would not have escaped their attention that Petroni gave the boy more than a casual look as he topped up the wine glasses and then quietly withdrew.
‘Does the fact that he is Professor Kaufmann’s son matter?’ Petroni probed, suddenly wary of how much P3 might know about Professor Kaufmann and the Dead Sea Scrolls.
‘It might,’ Giorgio responded. ‘The recovery of anything in the Middle East these days is not without difficulty, Lorenzo, and this David Kaufmann is obviously very well connected. His father is not only a world-famous mathematician and archaeologist, he is a General in the Israeli Defense Force Reserves and an honorary Director of the Shrine of the Book. And you are no doubt aware that he is also running for Prime Minister.’
Cardinal Petroni reflected that Giorgio Felici was extraordinarily well briefed. He said nothing.
‘It might be quite an expensive operation, Lorenzo.’ Again, the quick, mechanical flash of uneven white teeth.
Petroni had expected nothing less. On previous occasions when it had been necessary for someone to meet with an accident, Giorgio Felici had never come cheaply, but he was the best in the business and the protection of the Holy Church demanded nothing less. Whatever it took, the Vatican Bank would pay.
‘It is essential that we recover this scroll quickly,’ Petroni replied, leaving the issue of Felici’s expenses and undoubted profit unanswered. ‘I want you to see to it personally.’
‘As difficult as that might be, we are not without our contacts, Lorenzo, and for a price I am prepared to go to the Middle East and oversee the operation.’ Giorgio Felici didn’t elaborate but he knew that terrorist groups had a constant need for funds to buy expensive arms and ammunition. Even a group like Hamas could be distracted from blowing up buses for long enough if the price tag was sufficiently attractive. ‘But it raises another issue.’
Petroni was immediately on guard, although he was careful not to show it. ‘Oh?’ he said offhandedly.
‘My colleagues in P3 have been considering offering you membership. Again,’ Felici said pointedly. ‘We met last night and that offer is now confirmed and I’m very happy to be the one to pass on their decision. I’m sure there will be just as many benefits for you as there might be for us,’ Felici opined casually.
‘Membership of P3 is out of the question,’ Petroni responded, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘Freemasonry has long been banned by the Vatican. Have you forgotten 1978?’
‘You will not be surprised to learn, Lorenzo,’ Giorgio continued quietly, ignoring Petroni’s protest, ‘that once again we count amongst our members some of the most influential men in Italy and the United States. But perhaps you would be surprised to know that several of them are cardinals?’
Petroni was not surprised at all. He had a very good idea of who was on Felici’s list. That sort of information could be valuable currency should a cardinal or bishop be reluctant to take a particular direction.
‘That does surprise me, Giorgio,’ he said. ‘You must have been very persuasive.’
‘We have our means, my friend. I won’t divulge any names of course, but let me give you an example. One or two of our members are quite prominent in the Comune di Roma. It is perfectly normal for a very senior cardinal to have a luxury apartment outside the Vatican. But,’ Giorgio added pointedly, ‘if, come si dice – how do you say? – the “other arrangements” were known publicly there might be some very awkward questions.’ For once Giorgio Felici’s mechanical smile held a touch of mirth. Like a fisherman who had just hooked a very large fish.
Petroni’s lips compressed into a thin line as he felt a rush of cold, hard anger. He eyed his adversary with barely disguised contempt.
‘Clearly I have been careless.’
‘Not really,’ Giorgio replied. ‘It’s just that P3 has very good intelligence. Keeping track of someone as important as you is nothing personal, Lorenzo, purely business. Besides, we’re all men of the world, and look on the bright side: when it comes to dealing with rivals for the Papacy, it is much better to have P3 backing you than the other way round.’
Cardinal Petroni had chosen his apartment with the same meticulous care he had chosen the restaurant. Via del Governo Vecchio was close, but across the Tiber and far enough away from the Vatican. It was fashionable, but eclectic. On one side, the narrow twists and turns housed expensive and richly decorated apartments and exclusive jewellery salons and designer fashion stores. On the other, there was anything from Abbey’s, the Irish pub, to a servizio for motor scooters. Anonymity, but apparently, not anonymous enough.
Lorenzo Petroni’s housekeeper was petite with dark shining hair. Quiet but determined, Carmela was used to his odd hours and she was waiting for him. He would need to leave before the grey winter dawn reached the dome of St Peter’s, but that thought quickly evaporated. Carmela caressed Lorenzo gently with her tongue until he was wet and hard. She had a way of using the forbidden ‘ il preservativo ’ to heighten Lorenzo’s arousal and without losing the moment she fondled him as she reached for the already prepared condom in the bedside drawer. She murmured softly and took him inside her.
Back in his own apartment Giorgio Felici punched a code into the scrambler in his study and dialled a number for Hamas in the Gaza Strip.
CHAPTER SIX
Langley, Virginia
M ike McKinnon closed the door to his office, put the file marked ‘Top Secret – Special Atomic Demolition Munitions’ on his desk and walked to the window of his office that overlooked the lawns and the fishpond of the New Headquarters courtyard in the CIA’s complex.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. ‘The world is going fucking mad!’ Osama bin Laden and God knows how many of his mad mullahs had the means to destroy Western civilisation, and now some equally wacky Bible basher from his own side had enough pull with the White House to have the President concerned about the recovery of a mythical Dead Sea Scroll. Hans Christian Andersen had moved into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he thought ruefully. Religion had a lot to answer for, and so did the politicians. At least his latest assignment would give him the opportunity to get out of Washington for a while. It had been years since he’d been to Jerusalem and apart from the constant bombings, neither the city nor his favourite hotel, the American Colony, would have changed. He made a mental note to look up his old buddy Tom Schweiker. They had got to know each other well during the years Mike had been posted to the Middle East, and Schweiker owed him one. After all, if it hadn’t been for him carrying on about a Dead Sea Scroll on CCN the White House knickers would still be in reasonable order. If there was anything to this scroll, he mused, journalists were often a good source of intelligence, particularly those of Schweiker’s calibre.
Mike McKinnon rubbed his eyes wearily and went back to his desk. Since the arrival of the new Director, the Central Intelligence Agency had been under siege and his own boss, the head of the powerful and covert Operations Division, had resigned. At fifty-four, Mike had also thought about chucking it in. With the wreckage of a couple of marriages well behind him, and being ruggedly fit and healthy with no ties, perhaps it was time to enjoy life. Yet he had decided to stay on, armed with the knowledge that this time the human race seemed to be on the brink of destruction. He reached for the top file in his tray. Unusually for Langley, it was a buff-coloured folder marked ‘Unclassified,’ containing a summary of Osama bin Laden’s speeches and remarks, aired on the Arab channel Al- Jazeerah as well as through major Western media outlets. Praise be to God, who says, ‘O Prophet, strive hard
