The Chimera Sanction (6 page)

The morning’s rays were shining through the villa’s angled porch windows and reflecting off the wall mirror, illuminating the dining room with their harsh light and casting a reflection on the video monitor encased into one of the walls. Sitting at the head of the table, Vespoli ordered Paola to close the shutters. While they waited for the
videoconference
to begin, the men sitting around the table conversed in hushed tones, acutely aware of the importance of the impending moment. Suddenly the video screen came to life. A dark human outline appeared on the screen and an electronically-altered voice spoke. ‘Messieurs, bonjour. I’m pleased to announce that Alpha phase was successfully completed yesterday, without incident. Beta phase has begun, and our guest is well. I spoke with him after breakfast yesterday and he asked the anticipated questions.’

‘Does he suspect—’ asked Vespoli.

‘Do not interrupt,’ said the voice. ‘As I foresaw, the Vatican chose not to divulge, trying to buy time. This morning, we forced their hand. Gamma phase has started. It will run concurrently with Beta. Meanwhile I have news from Gstaad. All is on schedule and I will be leaving for Switzerland to see for myself. Any questions?’

‘What about the doctor? Shouldn’t we get rid of him?’ said Vespoli.

‘He stays healthy,’ said the voice.

‘But he can identify any one of us.’

‘We will deal with that later. In the meantime, Vespoli, take good care of our guests, à bientôt.’ The video screen went blank.

Dulac was downing a quick lunch at the Hotel Dante when the news of the Pope’s kidnapping hit the streets. Legnano called and summoned him back to the Vatican immediately. As Dulac’s taxi driver punched incessantly at his horn, trying to weave through the traffic on Via Della Conziliatione leading to St.Peter’s Square, Dulac’s cell rang.

‘It’s me,’ said Karen. ‘I just heard the news on France 2 TV.’

‘I couldn’t phone you. All hell is about to break loose. Up till now, we were all on a mum’s-the-word, need-to-know only basis.’

‘I understand.’

‘They’re preparing a press conference and a public address by Cardinal Fouquet, the Camerlengo. I’ll call you later.’ He flipped his phone shut.

Dulac’s taxi approached the Vatican’s Sant’Anna entrance, and Dulac saw the thousands of faithful already milling about the Square in anxious expectation. At the far end, atop the steps leading to the Basilica, Swiss Guards had formed a line to prevent access.

Dulac showed his pass to the guard at the entrance, and made his way to Legnano’s office.

‘Buongiorno, Mr Dulac,’ said Legnano as Dulac entered and nodded to the assembled prelates, Colonel Romer and Inspector Guadagni.

‘Any news from the armed forces?’ Dulac asked Guadagni.

‘Nothing, except a suspicious radio transcript overheard by a Rome weather station. We’re trying to trace it,’ said Guadagni.

‘What did it say?’ asked Dulac.

‘The voice said: “Tout va bien, Alpha phase now complete.”’

‘Monsignori, gentlemen, may I have your attention,’ said Legnano, a deep furrow on his brow and lines of stress along his cheeks and mouth. ‘Since we’ve been forced to go public, we have convened the press
conference
for 2 p.m. at the Old Study Room. Cardinal Sforza and his people are working on the press release now.’ He turned to the two inspectors. ‘Gentlemen, I ask that you join us for the conference.’

‘Of course, your Eminence,’ said Dulac. Guadagni nodded.

‘Fine,’ continued Legnano. ‘I will chair the meeting and direct
questions
, as appropriate. I need not remind you that we must be truthful, but reserved. If you don’t know the answer, don’t speculate. I will read the opening statement. Are there any questions? None. We’ll convene at the Old Study Room, at 1.50 p.m.’

As the prelates started to disperse, Romer took Dulac aside and handed him an envelope. ‘It’s the people stream report on the Vatican’s personnel in the Pope’s immediate entourage, during the twenty-four hours preceding the abduction.’

‘Has Guadagni seen it?’ said Dulac, opening the envelope and taking out the thick report.

‘Yes,’ Romer said dryly.

‘Colonel, why don’t you save me wading through all this and give me a quick summary,’ said Dulac, pushing the report back into the envelope.

‘Very well. As far as we can find out, only four persons had access to the water supply between the time the bottle was opened and poured into the glass: the two Swiss Guards, Cardinal Signorelli, and sister Vincenza.’

‘That doesn’t get us very far.’

‘Except for one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘There is a permanent video camera taping the Swiss Guards during their rotation on guard. There is no sign of them, or anyone else for that matter, coming close to the tray at any time.’

‘Which suggests, if it’s the bottled water that was tampered with, it was done before that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And of course you don’t have a report on the tap water.’

‘Not yet.’

‘By the way, Colonel, where were you during that period?’

‘I knew you would ask. It’s in the report, page thirteen.’ Romer turned briskly and walked away.

Not since Pope Pius VII in 1809, had a Pope been abducted. The world’s police forces were now reacting, inundating the Vatican’s
security services with offers to access their data banks, alert functions, search and rescue teams, crisis management teams, forensics labs, and research centers. The overwhelmed Secretariat of the Vatican had urgently requested the help of Rome’s main police station, the Questura Centrale di Roma, to help sort out, prioritize, and redirect the huge volume of incoming calls. An otherwise divided world seemed to be galvanizing its efforts in a desperate search to find Pope Clement XXI, preferably alive.

From his previous visit to the Vatican, Dulac remembered that the Old Study Room stood out as somewhat of an anomaly amidst the
customary
opulence of the Vatican’s richly decorated halls and rooms. Its bare columns supporting undecorated vaulted ceilings gave the place an impression of almost monkish, cloister-like austerity. Underneath, rows of wooden desks normally hosted scholars of the Vatican’s so-called Secret Archives, no longer very secret.

Dulac followed Legnano, Sforza and the others as they entered and walked towards the table and chairs that had been set up temporarily at one extremity of the room. They were soon engulfed in chaos. Some reporters, seated at the rows of desks, were shouting like schoolboys while others, not content with the view, were standing on the desks, to the outraged but largely ineffective yelling of ‘sit down’ by their
colleagues
. To the sides, TV crews were busy setting up their cameras and microphone booms. The mob’s cacophony resonated loudly within the room’s arched colonnades and reverberated off its high-domed ceiling.

The prelates and policemen sat down and waited for the din to subside. To no avail. After five minutes, exasperated, Legnano rose,
signaling
the others to leave. Sitting two seats away from Legnano, Dulac was getting up when the tumult began to subside.

Legnano resumed his seat, pushed back his bifocals to the top of his aquiline nose and adjusted the microphone. ‘Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, I am Cardinal Legnano, Secretary of State of the Vatican.’ Legnano proceeded to introduce the others, and handed the microphone to Sforza, sitting next to him.

‘Thank you, Cardinal Legnano. I will give my address, and I ask that you keep your questions till the end.’ The diminutive, balding Sforza lowered the microphone slightly, cleared his throat and began reading his notes. ‘The Pope was abducted yesterday morning early, along with
Dr Bruscetti, the Pope’s personal physician. As of now, we do not know the kidnappers’ identity, or their motive.’ Sforza looked up briefly then continued. ‘We have alerted all police and military forces in Italy and have requested the help of Interpol, as we cannot rule out the
possibility
that this crime transcends Italy’s borders. We have not received any communication from the kidnappers. At this point in time, this is all the information we have.’

A forest of hands shot up.

‘Yes?’ said Sforza, singling out a small woman in front of him with plastered down brown hair and large horn-rimmed glasses.

‘Your Eminence, how did the kidnappers get through the Swiss Guards?’ Sforza turned sideways and looked at Romer.

Romer grabbed the microphone. ‘Ah, they, they broke in at the northern end of the Vatican—’

‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted the woman. ‘Perhaps my question wasn’t clear. What I meant to say is how did they get into the papal apartments? Aren’t they guarded 24/7?’

Romer looked at Sforza, then at Dulac, as if to seek their approval. ‘Well, yes that’s correct, there are two—’

Dulac grabbed the microphone from Romer. ‘No comment.’

‘Don’t you think the public has the right to know?’ said the woman. After all—’

‘Madame, in this case the public’s right to know is trumped by the sensitive nature of this investigation,’ said Dulac. ‘We won’t endanger its progress by revealing classified information.’

‘Classified by whom?’ she said.

‘By me.’

Sforza pointed to a blond-haired man wearing a dark blue blazer and a bow tie, his hand insistently waving.

‘Your Eminence, John Irvine from Associated Press. Who is in charge of the investigation?’

Sforza took the microphone from Dulac. ‘Inspector Guadagni.’ Sforza eyed Guadagni to his left.

‘Does that mean you don’t trust your own security forces, your Eminence?’ said Irvine. Sforza hesitated. Legnano leaned over and grabbed the microphone. ‘Not at all. Quite to the contrary. You must understand that we at the Vatican are not equipped to handle an
investigation of this magnitude. Colonel Romer will give inspectors Guadagni and Dulac his full support.’

‘I see,’ said Irvine, continuing his thrust. ‘Colonel Romer, has there been a breach in Vatican security? If so, please explain why.’

Romer took the microphone. ‘No comment.’

Sforza recognized a middle-aged red-headed woman standing in the second row of desks. ‘Yes?’

‘My question is for Inspector Guadagni. Inspector, is Doctor Bruscetti a suspect at this time?’

Romer handed the microphone to Guadagni. ‘No comment.’

Legnano stood up and in a loud voice said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is all the information we can share with you at this time. I ask for your patience and forbearance during this traumatic time. We will address the public at 4 p.m. at the Great Hall, followed by a mass at the Basilica. Thank you.’

That goddamn Ascari, I should have never trusted him.

Standing in front of track eleven, Mecem Aguar looked furtively and expectantly about the passengers rushing to and from the trains, cellphone glued to his ear, desperation seeping in as he waited for Ascari to answer.

‘Hello?’ said Ascari finally.

‘What the hell is coming off? You were supposed to be here at 10 a.m. My train leaves in less than half an hour. I’m—’

‘I tried to phone you. I—’

‘Bullshit. I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.’ Aguar grabbed a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow with his free hand.

‘Listen. It’s not that easy to gather $200,000 US cash without the risk of a trace. It takes time. I’ve had to go to different banks and—’

‘Not my problem. You should have thought of that earlier. If I miss
that train, I’m screwed. Today was my day off. When I don’t show up at the Vatican tomorrow morning, they’ll send their dogs after me.’

‘Relax, Mecem. You’ll get your money. I just need another day.’

‘Another day? Are you crazy? My ass will be sticking out there like a red flag to a bull.’

‘Cool it, Mecem. How will they know to look for a simple busboy? You’re not exactly tops on their list of suspects.’

‘Don’t fuck with me, Umberto. You’d better show up tomorrow morning here with my cash. Don’t you fuck with me, or I swear I’ll whack you if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll—’

The line went dead.

Bruscetti had obtained permission from Vespoli to visit his patient. Medical bag in hand, he knocked on the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Doctor Bruscetti, your Holiness.’

‘Come in.’

Bruscetti entered the small, windowless room and said, ‘How do you feel, your Holiness?’

‘Better I suppose. Perhaps it was indigestion after all.’

‘First, let’s take your pulse and blood pressure,’ said Bruscetti, taking his stethoscope out of his bag.

The Pope rolled up the right sleeve of his cassock. Bruscetti wrapped his patient’s arm with a Velcro strap and inserted the tube of the small air pump.

‘I would have never thought…. What do you make of all of this?’ the pontiff said, eyes probing into the doctor’s frown.

‘It’s extortion, surely. They know that those Iraqi kidnappers obtained millions for the return of Archbishop Casmoussa. These ones will be demanding much more for the most loved man on the planet.’

The pontiff stiffened. ‘Please, Doctor, no flattery.’

‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to imagine what they think you’re worth.’

‘That’s not important. I’m not for sale.’

‘The cardinals may differ.’ Bruscetti pumped the air into the strap, then opened the bleeder valve slowly, looking at his watch.

‘Then I haven’t been a very good leader.’

‘Your Holiness, I don’t want to think of the consequences if these
criminals were to carry out any, any … threats.’

‘Say it, doctor. You mean kill me.’

Bruscetti didn’t answer, trying to avoid the pontiff’s stare. He took off his stethoscope and started to remove the strap from the Pope’s arm. ‘Your vital signs are completely normal. Of course they could be religious extremists.’

‘Possibly,’ said the pontiff.

‘Possibly?’

The pontiff rose from the bed, walked to the door and turned to face Bruscetti. ‘Following the kidnapping of our bishops in Africa and Iraq a few years ago, the Vatican had experts prepare a report, to see if we could protect our prelates against future kidnapping attempts. The report concluded that each situation was different. Different
kidnappers
’ profiles, different motives, different outcome. There is no set pattern.’

‘I see.’

‘The one common thread was that if you could begin a dialogue, you had a better chance of surviving. We must talk to these men, doctor. We must find out more about them, what their beliefs are. Do they have wives? Children? Is it me they hate? The Church? I must try and reason with them.’

After mass at the Basilica, Guadagni had offered Dulac a lift back to the Hotel Dante. As the dark blue Alfa Romeo headed into the traffic jam ahead, Dulac turned to Guadagni, ‘Can we drop by the Questura Centrale first?’

‘Of course, but why?’ asked a perplexed-looking Guadagni.

‘I’d like to talk to your forensics people.’

‘Something new?’

‘Something I’ve been thinking about that troubles me.’ Dulac looked outside, his right hand gripping the plastic indentation in the door as the Alfa took a right turn. ‘You see, the kidnappers seemed sure the Pope would take water, but weren’t sure if he’d take bottled water, or tap water for that matter. Also, they couldn’t insert drugs in every bottle.
And preferably the seal had to be left intact. A broken seal might arouse suspicion, and the bottle would be put aside. Every element of their plan had to be predictable, otherwise it wouldn’t work.’

Guadagni shot a side-glance at Dulac. ‘What about the aspirin? They could have substituted the drugs.’

‘Correct. But unless they had divine insight, they couldn’t be sure the Pope would take aspirin that night.’

‘I see. So where does that lead you?’

‘To the pope’s water glass.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if it had already been coated with some invisible, transparent substance containing the drugs, prior to the water being poured?’

‘Mannaggia la miseria.’
Guadagni grabbed his cell and dialed the Questura’s number. ‘Guadagni. Get me Cortese.’

Guadagni led Dulac into the main floor’s open-room, and Dulac saw a short man with crew cut black hair wearing a lab coat approach quickly from one of the side corridors.

‘Dr Cortese,’ said Guadagni, ‘meet Inspector Dulac. He’s with Interpol. He has a few questions.’ Guadagni’s tone was anything but sympathetic.

‘Buongiorno, ’spector,” Cortese said.

‘Are you the one that found traces of the drugs on the Pope’s water glass?’ said Dulac.

‘Sì. That is correct,’ said Cortese, beaming with pride.

‘Tell me doctor, can dobutamine or arbutamine be finely ground into some kind of paste and mixed with a gel?’

‘Yes, but we would have seen that.’

‘What if they added a masking agent?’

‘Very difficult to mask a gel, ’spector.’ Cortese’s air of infallibility started to show a small crack.

‘But it is possible.’

‘With today’s chemicals, anything is possible, ’spector. That does not mean it is likely,’ he said impatiently.

‘So if you weren’t looking for the gel, or if it were masked with another substance, you might have missed it?’

‘I suppose,’ Cortese said reluctantly.

‘I don’t suppose you checked for any traces of gel or masking agent
in the Pope’s glass?’

‘We were asked to do a preliminary report. I—’

‘
Mannaggia la miseria
,’ exclaimed Guadagni, glowering at Cortese. ‘You’d better still have that goddamn glass.’

‘Of course. I’ll … I’ll run another test right away.’

Dulac turned to Guadagni. ‘Have Romer send the Pope’s other glasses over here immediately. Get Romer to identify anyone dealing with or near those glasses for the past week.’

Dulac caught a cab back to the Hotel Dante. As he sat in the worn, uncomfortable rear seat, Dulac ran his fingers through his hair,
replacing
a recalcitrant lock back where it belonged. With the background noise of the traffic, Dulac could make out only bits of information over the cabbie’s radio, as the spokeswoman gave the latest news on the Pope’s kidnapping.

‘’orrible. ’orrible. Who would do such a thing?’ the driver said,
throwing
a quick glance at Dulac through his rearview mirror.

‘Many.’ Dulac looked distractedly out the window at the onrushing traffic.

Suddenly, the cabbie’s dispatcher overrode the radio program with staccato burst of his loud voice interspersed with ear-shattering static.

‘Sì, sì,’ replied the cabbie. He eyed Dulac in the mirror. ‘Airport again. My eighth time today. Reporters and TV people. It’s worse than when John Paul II died.’

‘Good for business though,’ said Dulac.

‘I don’t need it. I have enough without it. You know what I think? It’s the Muslims.’

‘Why is that?’ Looking in the taxi’s rear view mirror, Dulac caught that air of undoubting authority that cabbies acquire due to their
position
of temporary control over their passengers.

‘The newspapers. They say it’s the start of the Holy War. The one before Armageddon. It’s predicted by Nostradamus. The Muslims, I’m telling you, it’s the Muslims. Nostradamus says it will start with the
kidnapping
of Jesus’s successor. Then the Antichrist will rise and reign for twelve years. It’s all right there. Nostradamus. He’s always right.’

Before Dulac could reply, the cabbie turned down Via Canaletto. Dulac saw the Hotel Dante’s welcoming shape and breathed a sigh of
relief. Dulac paid, entered the hotel lobby and walked briskly to the elevators.

Just as he entered his room, his cellphone rang. He closed the door and flipped it open. ‘It’s me. Karen. How did it go?’

‘I’m wiped out.’

‘You sound it. Listen, I’ve got some good news. I’ve just received a mandate to oversee a master’s thesis on Roman animal mythology. I’m meeting my student Laura for lunch in Rome tomorrow. How about dinner, or … whatever?’

‘I’ll have the whatever.’

That musical laughter of hers burst into full song. ‘And I thought you French had invented foreplay. I’ll meet you at six tomorrow in the lobby.’

Dulac thought of those long, fit slender legs and suddenly felt
reinvigorated
. He went to the small desk, opened his laptop and scrolled down to the headlines of the world’s major newspapers. The Pope’s picture jumped out from every front page.

‘Kidnappers abduct Pope Clement the 21st. Their identities and motive remain unknown,’ said the
New York Times
. ‘Pope Clement 21st target of abduction,’ read the
Daily Mirror
. ‘Is he still alive?’ ‘Curia members appeal to kidnappers: give us back our beloved pontiff,’ read
The Sun
. ‘Interpol brought in to find Pope,’ said the
Herald Tribune
. ‘No leads on the kidnappers.’

Dulac searched quickly for any encrypted e-mails from Interpol. Nothing. He went over to the minibar and poured himself a scotch. Too tired to change, he sat on the bed and leaned back against the pillows propped on the oak headboard and sipped his drink slowly. Soon, his head fell forward, the empty glass rolled from his hand onto the bed and he dozed off into a dreamless sleep.

The following morning, the shrill pinging of the hotel’s phone snapped Dulac, still dressed, upright in the bed.

‘Guadagni. My forensics people were up all night. The Pope’s glasses, they’re all coated with dobutamine and arbutamine mixed with a gel and a masking agent, some hydra-di-tetra something or other. Don’t ask me to repeat the name. Very sophisticated chemistry, according to Cortese.’

‘Ha!’ For a brief moment, Dulac couldn’t resist enjoying that warm smug feeling of being right.

Guadagni continued. ‘We have another problem. The busboy, the one who cleans and places all the utensils and dinnerware in the papal kitchen….’

‘Yes?’

‘We can’t find him. He hasn’t been back at the Vatican since the day of the kidnapping.’

‘Christ. Why didn’t Romer mention it in his people-stream report?’

‘Apparently, he had a day off yesterday so he wasn’t missed. I put out an all points search for him.’

‘What’s his name?’ Dulac leaned over the desk and pulled out a cigarette.

‘Paolo Valetta. At least that’s the name on his job application. We’re doing a profile search.’

‘While you’re at it, forward the profile to our guys at Lyon. Any news from the Air Force or the Coast Guard?’

‘No sightings whatsoever. They’ve been busy combing a 500 mile radius with everything from Coast Guard vessels and helicopters to fighters and surface ships. Nothing. That helicopter has vanished into thin air.’