We’ve got to find out who lives there.’
THIRTY
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS and away from the prying eyes of the media the Cardinal Electors found their assigned places and stood somberly at their tables, hands folded. Three items were laid out before them: The Gospels, a simple plastic pen and a ballot slip.
Cardinal Diaz strode to the podium, surveyed his colleagues and looked upwards to Michelangelo’s magnificent ceiling. He focused on his favorite panel,
When he was done, each Cardinal, one by one, touched the Gospels and simply stated, ‘I do so promise, pledge and swear.’
Diaz took his place at his desk and Cardinal Franconi slowly made his way to the door of the Sala Regia. He pushed it open and called out in a loud voice, ‘
Everyone but the Electors and conclavists were thereby ordered out. Several minor attendants dutifully left. Then Franconi closed the door behind them and slid the heavy bolt into place.
Hackel knocked on the door of Room 202 of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. The long hallway was empty.
Through the door, Giaccone asked who was there.
‘Oberstleutnant Hackel of the Swiss Guards.’
In a few moments the door opened. Giaccone was wearing a bathrobe and slippers. He looked pale, his face even more droopy than usual.
‘Oberstleutnant, how may I help you? Is everything all right?’
‘Your Excellency, I need to speak with you in private on a matter of great urgency. May I come in?’
Giaccone nodded, allowed Hackel to enter and closed the door.
‘So, now there is nothing more for us to see,’ Krek said, sitting down across from Elisabetta. The television coverage had shifted back to St Peter’s Square. ‘The Conclave has begun. We must wait. But not for too long, I think.’
There was a crystal whiskey decanter on the table. Krek twisted off the ground-glass top and poured himself a good measure.
Elisabetta watched him enjoy a mouthful. She didn’t know what, other than curiosity, then compelled her to ask, ‘Do you have them? The tattoos?’
‘Would you like to see?’
‘No!’
‘Pity. It’s been a tradition among us men since the late eighteenth century. Do you know what they stand for?’
‘Malachy is King. Hail Lemures,’ she said mechanically.
‘My goodness! How did you figure that out?’
‘A versus B. Your note to Ottinger with the book.’
‘I’m genuinely impressed!’ Krek knocked back another gulp of amber liquid. ‘It would really be great if you worked for me.’ He glanced at his watch and then at the television. He was drinking faster, becoming more voluble. ‘Marlowe was an important person, associating with the other great English Lemures of his day – Francis Walsingham, Robert Cecil, John Dee. His coded message became a rallying cry for us: Malachy is King! Hail Lemures! It was a prideful thing. The numbers became deeply meaningful. To wear them out of sight where only we would see … well, that was very special.’
Krek poured himself another whiskey.
‘And today you’re trying to turn Malachy into a reality.’
‘Since World War Two, just six popes ago, we began to get really focused on the prophecy and during John Paul II’s papacy the 9/11 attacks happened. So I and some of my colleagues got to thinking, let’s mobilize around this event and make sure that Malachy happens. And the radical Muslims made it so simple for us, with 9/11 and the rest. Just like that – the Crusades are back! And all we have to do is fan the flames a little. So we were completely ready to spring into action when this pope died – and he was kind enough to give us plenty of warning with his nice slow cancer.’
As he was talking, Elisabetta felt clammy. A nausea started in her gut and a bilious rush rose in her throat. Krek wasn’t looking at her anymore. His attention was fixed on the television.
‘So the two hundred and sixty-eighth pope will be the last one. An Islamist group will take credit for what happens today. It should set the stage perfectly for the greatest religious war in history. There will be fire – no, it will be more than fire. It will be a conflagration. We’ll watch it together, then have a little celebration.’
Zazo thanked the police officer in Ljubljana and put the phone down.
‘They gave it to you?’ his father asked.
‘No problem. I told them it was a Vatican emergency. It’s an unlisted number registered to someone named Damjan Krek.’
Carlo shrugged at the name.
Zazo did a search. ‘He’s a Slovenian billionaire. He owns a company that does construction, heavy equipment manufacturing, mining, that kind of thing.’ Zazo stood and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets. ‘So what’s a Slovenian businessman doing with a German professor with a tail and an officer of the Swiss Guards?’
‘K!’ Carlo exclaimed. ‘Krek could be the K who sent the book to Ottinger. This guy Hackel, I don’t know.’
Zazo picked up the phone again. ‘You speak German, right?’
His father nodded.
‘I’m calling Krek’s number. When it rings, say you’re Matthias Hackel calling for Krek.’
‘And if he picks up?’
‘Then I’ll take over, in English or Italian. I’ll tell him the Gendarmerie’s conducting a routine investigation. I’ll improvise.’
‘What’s this got to do with Micaela and Elisabetta?’
Zazo shook his head. ‘Maybe nothing, maybe everything.’ He put the phone on speaker mode and called Krek’s number.
When a man answered, Carlo identified himself as Oberstleutnant Hackel and asked for Krek.
There was a pause on the line and the man replied in German. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Hackel. You’re calling from a non-authorized line. I will have Mister Krek ring you back immediately on your authorized mobile number.’
The line went dead.
‘Damn!’ Zazo said, squeezing the back of his neck.
‘Now what?’ his father asked.
‘Something’s very wrong here. Krek’s at the center of this. I’m going to call the Slovenian police again and see if I can get them to send some men to his house.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Micaela and Elisabetta.’
*
When Hackel left the Domus he avoided the crowds by passing behind the Basilica, the Sistine Chapel and the Palaces of Gregory XIII and Sixtus V to get to his flat. The route obliged him to skirt the Swiss Guards barracks. Just past them a voice boomed out, ‘Hackel!’ He recognized the caller’s voice, closed his eyes in frustration, and turned.
It was his superior, Oberst Sonnenberg, rushing out of the barracks with a squad of plain-clothes men.
‘Hackel, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the Chapel,’ Sonnenberg said.
Hackel turned and reversed his direction. ‘There was a report of suspicious activity outside the Church of Saint Pellegrino. I left Glauser for a short while to check it out.’
