Chapter IV

There was a stagnant, cold draft that worked its way through the maze of circular tunnels underneath the Vatican in ebbs and flows like incoming ocean waves.

PEDRO WALKED WITH A DELIBERATE tension in every step, as if he expected an ambush or deadly surprise at any moment. He glanced down at his watch. It was just after 2 a.m. His eyes darted back and forth as he walked. Anything that wasn’t either a wall or a yellow-painted pipe-fixed along the corner of the wall and ceiling-was suspect.

Soft yellow light lit up small circular areas of the grey-walled corridors almost like street lamps spread along a lonely highway in the desert. But these halls and tunnels were much more claustrophobic than any deserted highway. Every so often he would pass a thick steel door, or perhaps one of dark oak. These doors had such bulk and girth that they would seem to be securing the elixir of life, or some other such items of incalculable value.

It is well-disseminated lore and legend that the Vatican guarded riches and wealth beyond any sane person’s comprehension. From antiquities and priceless art works, to intricate jewels and artifacts. There was also the issue of six or seven hundred million dollars worth of gold that had been smuggled out of Nazi Germany at the end of the world war, but . . . such are the ways of a thriving church. Pedro knew that this wasn’t just fiction, but fact.

He also knew that time was running against him. He was wrapped up in possibly the most valuable of all of the church’s possessions-the ‘Prophecies.’

This current situation had to be dealt with quietly, and delicately.

Thomas had to be dealt with. Soon, if not already, an investigation would be moving full speed ahead, like a large locomotive train. Then the carnage would begin. Well, more of it, anyway. Pedro wanted more to be the window during all of this, and less to be the bug.

It was unfortunate for Thomas that things had to be this way. As it turned out, Thomas was just too talented, to precise, for his own good, the tragedy of genius. He was making gains in the understanding of the illusive religious documents where everyone else had failed. Cardinal Delatorre had been told, on more than a couple of occasions that the prophecies were untranslatable, unsolvable.

The Secret Gospels of Thomas had been mere child’s play when compared to the Prophecies. Thomas, however, did not share that sentiment. Then again, he was as apathetic as could be expected. Society and the Church had never truly convinced him of the importance of such documents. He was probably as emotionally attached to the work he did as would be an office manager attached to his daily memos to the mailroom in some large corporation.

It was little more than daily life, work, and tedium-or so Pedro assumed. It was difficult to ever get to know Thomas. Impossible to relate.

The Cardinal, having previously thought that the meanings would never be correctly interpreted and translated, had been very impressed by Thomas’s progress, and at the same time worried. What might Jesus have been trying to say . . . in his own words untainted by politics and censors?

He had personally seen to the care and precision for which Thomas’s work was handled. He had met with Pedro on several occasions to discuss the scribe’s mental and physical well-being.

Spare no expense to keep him producing, had been the Cardinal’s decree. And coming from Delatorre, that meant quite a lot.

Delatorre was, in some ways, the most influential Cardinal. He was in complete control over the ‘transcribing’ and ‘translation’ operations. He was among a very small few who had access to the texts. He placed the proverbial lids on the compartmentalization of the texts and documents of religious nature, a fancy way to say the prophecies.

And . . . he was probably going to become the next Pope in the event that an unfortunate accident were to occur. He was the cardinals’ cardinal, and he had the almighty power of the vote.

As Pedro walked, considering his next moves, and looking in all directions like a stalked animal, he pulled out a small cellular phone from his brown jacket. He pressed a single button and a greenish glow illuminated his face making him look like a cadaver being prepared for autopsy. He waited as the call bounced around trying to connect.

Strangely, though he was below a mountain of steel and concrete structures and pipes, his call found a way to escape the confines of ‘no-service,’ and permeated the Vatican tunnel system. It was easier for a call to do so than for a human.

He waited as the call started to ring. On the fourth ring the call picked-up.

“Si,” a static-laden voice answered. The connection was being bombarded by interference.

“I’ve lost my way, do you have any idea how to get to St. Peter’s Basilica?” Pedro said like a lost tourist.

“How much time do we have?” the voice asked, now very stern.

“Not sure,” Pedro answered, “Ritti and Pasquale are back soon. Probably landing and dealing with the body as we speak. I figure that heads will be rolling by lunch. John Paul will be arriving later. Might be in the air by now . . . I can’t be certain.”

“Can you handle the cleanup on your end?”

Pedro switched the phone to the other ear, as he scanned the tunnel again.

“I’ll do whatever I can to slow them down, but I’m going to be in a ..• well, quite a hornet’s nest. And soon.”

“Documents?” the voice said, sounding concerned.

“I’ve been doing my thing for quite a while. Maybe they buy it . . . maybe not.”

“Has Thomas talked to anyone?”

“An investigator who works for Ritti.”

“Who?”

“Donnie. Works with a guy named Peter, up top,” Pedro answered, lowering his voice cautiously.

“I don’t know them.”

Pedro sighed, frustrated, “Well, we need to make a go of this, or not . . . but I need to know right now.”

The voice sounded muffled, “Hold on a second,” as if the person on the other end had placed his hand over the receiver. There was a short, garbled discussion and then the voice returned. “Ok.”

“Ok, yes?” Pedro asked, his heart starting to race with anxiety.

“Yeah, it’s a go. We’ll be ready in six hours, give or take.”

Pedro snorted wearily, “It had better be take instead of give. We’re really cutting it close, here.”

“Trust me,” the voice assured.

“Easy to say on your end, from the outside.”

“This will work out, my friend. We’re doing God’s work,” the voice reassured.

“Somebody

Pedro answered skeptically, “maybe it’s us, maybe not.” A cold chill was starting to crawl down his spine.

“We’re the good guys.”

Pedro moved his eyes from left to right, and back, staring out into the yellow accented darkness. “Then why doesn’t it feel that way?”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the voice offered as an explanation.

“No argument here,” Pedro offered into “Leave your phone on,” the voice said, the abyss. and then the line disconnected.

Let the games begin . . . and the darkness unfold.