Chapter IV

London’s busiest airport was remarkably quiet for this time of morning.

“ARE WE GOING TO SEE YOUR FRIEND IN CUSTOMS?” Carnathan asked Singleton as

they entered through the sliding glass doors.

Singleton shrugged, “Never know with that one. One minute she’ll be ignoring you . . . the next, she’s offering you a little how’s yer father.”

Singleton turned, his eyebrows raised conspiratorially. “Know what I mean, Don?”

“Shit, I’d be lucky to get a girl to curse in my general direction.”

“The angry guy thing not working for you?” Singleton posed.

Abbot jumped into the conversation, “He’s abrasive to women, and is sometimes thought to be shallow.”

“I’m misunderstood, goddamnit!” Carnathan barked with a twisted smile. They all giggled like schoolboys.

Special Agent Don Carnathan was on his way back to Washington, D.C. to run more tests, look for more money, find microbes. Demons in the details. That’s the name of the investigative game. Some details of a crime become leads, others . . . dead ends. When you find something that looks like a lead you follow it as far as it will go, alone, without comparing it to anything else. From all the leads and details, these little trees of information start to form the foundations for your theories.

You mix and match this tree and that one. There will be overlap and redundancy, and that is valuable. Of course, none of that really means that the crime will be solved; nor does it necessarily follow that the trees of information will lead to any logical conceptualization about the crime. In truth, very few crimes are actually solved. Murders are among the most difficult acts on earth to figure out.

Why?

Because the logical progression of leads and details don’t ever really uncover the human mind. Nothing but echoes and suppositions. It seems cliché, but it’s true: if you don’t find a murder suspect in the first 48 hours, you’ll likely never solve the crime.

Sure, there are rare occasions when you’ll find a body, find a note, or a print or two . . . low and behold, the husband has a gun in a duffel bag. Gun matches the bullets found in the dead body.

Case closed.

Maybe.

Luckily, it’s enough to convict. But, here’s the thing . . . you never really know. Even with a confession, and those are flimsy most of the time, you know what the confessor wants you to know. It, like your theories, is nothing more than clever prose.

Prose would not be enough on this one.

Carnathan would do the background legwork, and Abbot would be heading to Rome with Ritti and the Papal Nuncio. If everything went well, Abbot would be able to bumble around, or at least look like he was incompetent. He would remember almost every obscure detail of the investigation so far, and would be able to innocently put pieces together that might not otherwise be available to outsiders. They would conference a few times a day, and if they got lucky, they’d find out what was going on in that place. Somehow they all knew that it started there . . . or at least, ended there.

Singleton would work with Don, continuing his research. His main objective would be two-fold. First, he would track the transfers of money out of England, to the United States, and so forth. Second, he would analyze the microfiche.

It seems that Singleton might have forgotten to mention that minor detail of evident to Ritti and Pasquale.

A minor omission, really. Especially when considering the limited amount of disclosure of the Vatican during this affair. So the Scotland Yard scientists had found a couple of microdots—tiny pieces of film, about the size of the sentences on this page (.)

In those tiny dots were miniaturized photographs containing all sorts of strange markings. It all looked very ancient and religious.

All signs pointed back to the Vatican.

Singleton and Carnathan had spoken, late last night, about the uncovering of the Microfiche . . . almost by accident.

“Let’s get ourselves a couple copies,” Carnathan had said, “Before we step up to the plate and turn this stuff over.”

Single bon instantly understood why Pasquale had been so insistent about getting the bibles back. He had to know something about that. Back in the late archbishop’s chamber, Pasquale had concentrated all of his interest on the glass case where the bibles had been.

Coincidence?

Doubtful.

So, maybe the Vatican was doing a little cleanup. What, they all wondered, were they cleaning?

Abbot’s first theory was that it had to do with something that would deeply embarrass the Vatican, or an individual within its ranks. But that could be almost anything.

No, it was about something else. There were large sums of money bouncing around. Dead priests and clergy.

Bodies of men who were supposed to be on the other side of the world were popping up in London. And now, tiny, secret photographs that had been cleverly hidden as periods in the bibles of a murdered archbishop.

There was definitely something going on, of that they were certain. Was it still going on, or had it now been concluded, and everything else was just a cover and concealment effort? Million dollar question.

They passed the first line of metal detectors, slowing to present their paperwork and identification to the armed guards. Post 9/11, and post 3/11/2004, security had taken on a new level of vigilance. Unlike the Americans, the English were not so easily persuaded that life was back to normal. For all Europeans, terrorism was a way of life that they all had to embrace and contend with.

The guard was polite, but firm, “You’ve permission to accompany him to the customs office Mr. Singleton.”

Carnathan smiled, “You can’t fight your animal urges, Shane. Just strip down naked and head-butt the glass case. Take your bounty.”

“Cheers, mate,” Singleton replied as he and the two Americans passed the outside of the metal detectors.

“When are you heading out with the Italians?” Singleton asked Abbot as they walked.

“Hour, hour and a half,” he said as he pleadingly eyed a small restaurant that displayed all kinds of sweet, sugar-coated, yummy, baked goods. He was in sensory overload.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Singleton agree.

“Nah, I’m a pleasure delayer, now. It’s my new religion,” Abbot answered like a born-again Christian who had just been baptized.

“Ahh, yes. Descartes,” Singleton said as he waved his hand regally.

Abbot was impressed, “You’re well read, Paul.”

“That’s how we anal English types do, you know. Since we’re not really living, we just read about it and wax philosophical.”

“Comic books, pornography, and bathroom urinals,” Carnathan quipped.

“That’s the poet’s real canvas.”

They made their way to the customs office, where the attractive girl had been the last time they had been there. She, unfortunately for the group, was not working. Without much ado, they presented the appropriate documents, and traded niceties.

Seventeen signatures,

five photocopies,

and three handshakes later . . . Carnathan was on his way to the gate.

“Keep me posted,” he had said to both Abbot and Singleton as they stood at the gate. He and Singleton shook hands.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Carnathan.”

“Good . . . show . . . old . . . chap,” Carnathan said, trying to mimic his saucy new English accent he had created.

Singleton laughed. “Like a chameleon, you are.”

Carnathan turned to Abbot, “Let’s make sure we figure this thing out before any more priests take a dirt-nap.” He looked at Abbot . . It was good to have been working with him again. Sure, there was water under the bridge, but like all good friends . . . they would eventually deal with it. When the time was right. But for now, a firm handshake and a salutation would do just fine.

Carnathan nodded and said, “Now fuck off, let me catch this plane and get a couple scotch’s into my system.” He looked accusingly at Abbot and Singleton, “Hanging out with a couple squares, like you two, will drive a man to drinking.”

They all laughed a bit and Abbot said, in a more serious tone, “I think we don’t yet know what’s really going on. I think this thing is going to be much darker and twisted that we can imagine.” He looked at the other two, “Anything, no matter how ludicrous or insane . . . follow it. If it sounds crazy, it’s probably right on the money.”

They nodded, exchanged ‘there’s a long road ahead’ expressions, and then split. Abbot was heading with Singleton to meet the Italians. Carnathan was going to catch the next flight to Washington, D.C.

All of them were about to try and solve a puzzle, wrapped in an enigma, hidden in a dark closet. That closet was probably somewhere in Rome. In a quiet, unspoken recess deep within the Vatican.