Chapter IV

There was a slight chill, and the air carried the aroma of old books.

WITHOUT SO MUCH AS a word they walked forward, finding themselves standing against a railing. They were above everything, looking down into history. To estimate the size would have been difficult, but the large rectangular space was close to the size of a football field, and it descended several floors. There were rows and rows of climate controlled cabinets that were high enough that one needed rolling staircases to access the different items. The lights in the Research Vault were a soft yellow, like those that were found in the tunnels.

Inside the various cabinets and sealed boxes a soft blue diffused light could barely be seen. It protected the documents, artifacts, and treasures that were stored there.

Row after row, column after column, their eyes tried to grasp the sheer scope of what they were witnessing.

Centuries of collecting, cataloguing, crusading . . . and pillaging.

And not everything was available for review.

Along the bottom floor of the Vault were several large steel doors like the one they had originally entered from the tunnels, hidden behind those large doors.

“Well, now,” the Pope said softly. “Let us bring this all to a closure. God only knows what was Shall we?”

And with that he started to walk down the side of the large balcony they were standing on., towards an industrial elevator. Right next to the elevator was a large staircase.

Slowly they descended into the guts of the vault. When they reached the bottom the Pope led them to one of several large tables that were fitted with computers, projectors, all types of measuring equipment, recorders, and a flat, white light board for. illuminating documents.

This place was as much a storage facility as it was a place of

scientific study. They slowed near one of the large tables and the Pope laid his hands flat down on the table. “I want all of it placed in front of us No more dancing, no more silliness. I want the Prophecies of Jesus Christ, and any related material placed on this table.” His eyes looked over toward Pasquale and Cardinal Delatorre.

They both nodded, not seeing any sense in arguing at this point. Slowly they began to head towards the computer and type some key words that led them to the documents in question.

As the Pasquale typed, Cardinal Delatorre glanced over at Ritti, who did little more than to acknowledge his presence.

Abbot seemed to notice the nonverbal exchange. He figured that there was bad blood there.

“I feel a little out of place,” he said to Ritti. “What would you like me to do?”

Ritti spoke just above a whisper, “Your a detective . . . detect. Observe these three men, because somebody in this room is dirty.”

Abbot eyed him with a walking-on-thin-ice glance. “Any idea who?”

“The one wearing a robe,” Ritti said between clenched teeth.

They watched as Pasquale, aided by his two Swiss Guards, made their way past the table, and several rows away, past cups and daggers and crowns and swords.

Within minutes they were slowly pushing a rolling cart that held several documents sealed in metal frames with see-through lexan windows. Each of these frames had a keyhole if somebody needed to touch or take fragments from the documents that were safely pressed behind the bulletproof glass. One by one they carted over the frames, laying them out in sequential order on the large table.

“Those look old,” Abbot said, appraising the segments of scroll. “And fragile.”

Cardinal Delatorre nodded as he leaned towards one of the frames, “These are the only documents ever authored by Jesus.”

“As far as we can tell,” Pasquale added as they carefully laid out another frame. “We know that they date back to within a few decades of his life.”

“How did you get those numbers?” Abbot questioned.

The Cardinal Delatorre perked up, “Yes, well we used several forms of dating. We used carbon-fourteen, carbon-twelve, and carbon-six to make sure we were not being too presumptuous. After that we argon and neon tested to close in on the appropriate date. You know . . . to achieve a greater accuracy. We then tested other specimens of papyrus and parchment from the same time period. Our testing was quite rigorous.” He took a few steps back to take it all in.

“What you are looking at . . . all those tiny seemingly nonsensical scribbling . . . well . . .” he was almost choked up.

The Pope finished his thought, “You are one of the only people to have ever witnessed the handwriting of the Son of God. This is the Prophecy of Jesus Christ.”

“So,” Abbot said as he looked across the table, “now I have officially seen it all. The rest of my days will seem pretty dull now, won’t they?”

“You have seen it,” Pasquale said reverently, “But you do not know what you are actually viewing. You see . . . to those who could decipher this document unimaginable secrets would be revealed.”

The Pope nodded, “And this is what brings us here, tonight.” He looked over towards the Cardinal. “Is it all here?”

“There are two more frames, still,” Cardinal Delatorre said as his eyes scanned the frames. “The last two.”

And everybody was silent, and motionless. Abbot looked around the table at the Three, at their guards, then at Ritti. “I’ll be the idiot. What’s so important about the last two pieces?”

“Those were the documents that Thomas had been working on?” the Pope asked, his voice rising at the end as if he was just now being made aware. Nobody answered.

“Oh, dear God.”

Ritti interjected, “We don’t know where those documents are at this time, your Holiness, but we’re doing our best to locate them.” It was almost a lie. Peter had already informed Ritti that there was a pile of burnt ashes that looked to be the remnants of the documents that Thomas had been working on. They had been removed from the protective frames, which had been sitting on the counter top a few feet from Thomas’s projector.

But this wasn’t the right time for more bad news. “The real problem needs to be addressed.”

The Pope nodded.

“Belsito,” he said, addressing the Papal Nuncio, “do you think you can explain to me what is going on in a fairly simple way, so that even a tired old man can understand.”

Mavet was really going to enjoy this.

He could feel the presence of something else near him.

He wasn’t sure whom, or from where . . . maybe it was just this place. But something born of evil was nearby. But now, finally, he was seeing what he needed to see. The destruction of the last two segments of the Prophecies had been an unexpected piece of good luck. He had intended to destroy all of them in the first place. Now it didn’t matter.

The really important things were now gone. With a little luck, perhaps they would never surface. At least, not before he made his move. Then it wouldn’t matter what the humans knew. It would be too late.

“I believe that I need to back-up a bit,” Pasquale said, clearing his throat. “As we all know a series of very biased murders have been occurring in our recent past.

I believe that our new friend, Mr. Abbot, was one of the first to investigate a possible serial aspect to the killings.”

“Yes, sir, I did,” Abbot responded.

“I was investigating the murder of three Catholic priests in the space of a little over twenty-four hours. I originally figured it for a hate crime, but then I conferred with some of my associates at the FBI and more information started to surface.

There were murders allover South America, uh . . . Mexico, Brazil, Argentina . . .” Abbot’s

eyes looked upwards into the many images bouncing around in his head. “Then Spain, and France, and then we went to England when the Archbishop and a couple others were taken. It was just one after the next, and with a kind of spooky connection.”

“How so?” Cardinal Delatorre questioned.

Abbot folded his arms, “Well, I guess the scarring on the eyes was strange. They had bruises, kind of burnt, like you might find with electrical burns, on the deceased persons’ eyelids. I hadn’t seen anything like that, and I’ve been hunting and cataloguing serial killers for more than ten years. I don’t know of a weapon in particular that would do that.”

“That’s disturbing,” the Cardinal said.

“Oh , that’s not even the disturbing part,” Abbot said as he licked his bottom lip and took a breath. “A friend of mine with Scotland Yard had some tests performed. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was determined that there were traces of animal blood on the eyelids of the victims.”

And,” he added, “that had been confirmed by our labs at Quantico. I suspect you will find the same holds for most of these bodies that we find. Though there will invariably be a few copycat killings that don’t fit the mold. Point is, Precipitin tests, and mitochondrial DNA verify that it was animal blood.”

The Pope’s face was contorted, “What does that mean? An animal killed these people? The killer has a pet? The killer is an animal?”

Abbot shrugged, “That’s what we’re trying to find out. I don’t have any idea. Maybe something written down there will tell us. Let’s have a look at the translations.” Everyone got quiet again.

“For reasons of security,” the Cardinal Delatorre started, “the translations are kept separate and secret.”

“Yes, well, I’m glad we’re getting to that,” Pasquale said. “What I found during my investigation of these murders is that there is a financial aspect to it.”

“Follow the money,” Abbot added softly.

“Yes. And I did follow the money. I found there to be several transfers of money, hundreds of thousands of US Dollars being paid for services I couldn’t identify. At first I thought that somebody was being paid to kill the Catholic Priests, but it would have been much to difficult to organize all of that. Then I heard rumors that people were paying great sums of money for high quality documents that had been smuggled out of the Vatican.”

“What kinds of documents are we talking about,” Ritti asked as he walked closer to the table.

Pasquale opened his hands to the table of frames and scrolls, “The Prophecies of Jesus Christ, of course. High quality pictures and copies of these documents were being sold on the black market . . . probably as artwork. But for some collectors, that was not enough. They wanted the translations as well.”

“But those are not accessible but to a privileged few,” Cardinal Delatorre responded emphatically. “Only the three of us have access.”

“Yes, Mr. Delatorre,” Pasquale said almost accusingly, “that is correct.

Only the three of us have the ability to obtain those documents.”

“I think that perhaps your investigation has turned up rumors and conspiracy theories. Do we even have proof of your allegations?”

“I believe that evidence will surface. I think that Archbishop Reagan, or should I say ‘Arnaldi Bernini’ was killed because he had some of these documents. I just don’t know whether he was uncovering a conspiracy, or if he was a part of it.

He had been difficult to contact before his . . . apparent suicide.”

“That wasn’t a suicide,” Ritti snorted.

Abbot nodded in agreement.

“No, Colonel Ritti,” Pasquale said. “It most certainly was not. And I believe that Cardinal Delatorre can enlighten us as to why the Archbishop had such an untimely passing.”

The Cardinal adjusted his glasses and a strange smile crossed his face.

“You know, being with all of you like this, it makes me realize how narrow minded we are as humans. Look,” he pointed to the table. “We have in front of us the written word of Jesus Christ. We have been researching and translating it for more than a decade, since its discovery in Lebanon in 1982, and the subsequent fighting that it took to recover it. We can read the words of Jesus Christ, and yet all we can seem to focus on is some alleged plot to sell them to the world.”

The Pope stepped forward; he knew where this was going. “Now Cardial—”

“Let me finish!” Cardinal Delatorre said sternly. And something about his tone and posture quieted the Pope.

“All of you are thinking that these documents are ours. They belong to the world, do they not? Who are we to decide what religious documents the people of the world are privy to?”

“That’s not your decision to make,” the Pope barked back.

“Watch it, old man,” the Cardinal said. “I have been sitting back for years now, watching you, and the Pope before you make these kinds of decisions. Telling the world what it or isn’t ready to hear. If Jesus is the path to the light through Mary, then the world deserves to read his words. The people of the world have a right to the Prophecies. Let them decide what they will.”

“So it was you who decided to get rich off of Jesus’s words?” Pasquale said with disgust in his voice.

“No,” Delatorre said calmly. “I had nothing to do with that. I only wanted the world to know the word of Jesus. My friend came up with the money aspect to it. It’s all about liquidity, I suppose. Money can do so much good if put the appropriate use.”

“Your friend?” the Pope asked. Everyone in the room turned their heads to Pasquale.

It would never—” Pasquale said defending himself.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Ritti said.

“You’re too passionate, too sensitive to the needs and wants of the Vatican.”

Abbot turned toward Ritti, “You!?”

Ritti shrugged as he slid his hand down to his pistol slowly removing it and distancing himself from the group.

He held the pistol at his side.

“Sorry, gentlemen. Some of us live in the real world. A bunch of useless old scribblings don’t mean much to me. But to some arrogant assholes out there, they are priceless.”

“Apparently not,” Abbot said. “You seem to have found a price.”

“In the long run, who cares? Honestly, gentlemen, what difference does it make? Eventually the world will have its Prophecies. Hell, they’re probably on the YouTube right now. People will study them for years. It will be another conspiracy like UFOs and the assassination of John Kennedy. The people will get what they want. The believers will believe. The Vatican will deny, deny, deny. I will be well taken care of.”

“Well,” Abbot said tiredly, “at least the tour was nice. Track the money. Greed always wins in the end, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a symbiotic relationship, Mr. Abbot,” Cardinal Delatorre said as he approached the computer again, typing in some instructions. Everyone else in the room seemed unsure of what to do.

“Let me just get this on the record,” Abbot said clearly, “. . . you guys are fucking douche bags.” He then lowered his eyes towards the Pope, “Sorry, had to be said.”

The Pope had the momentary hint of a smile pass across his face.

There was only one gun in the room . . . that they knew of. It was assumed that if Ritti was on the take, then his guards were as well. It was hard to know how long Delatorre had been planning all of this. The Cardinal looked up from the computer screen. “You people don’t even see the best part, do you?” He laughed to himself as he continued typing. “Heaven gives you all binoculars and you are too ignorant to look through them.”

The Pope stared blankly at the frames of protected scripture, words written by the last perfect creature. He had known, when he took this position that there were currents just under his feet that would stop at nothing to publish the very documents that lay before him. It was sad that people could not see the arrogance of such an act. People were not ready for something like this. It would be perverted and used for aims and objectives that would hurt them all.

People were not ready to know that the End of Days was coming. Perhaps they would never be ready. He could not imagine a place where evil ruled the day . . . but it was coming. He was the voice of a billion Catholics across the world, but at that very moment he felt like a helpless old fool.

Tricked by those he considered his brothers.

“I wonder,” he said slowly, breaking the silence, “is this my fault? I am the Pope. It is I who let this go on under my nose. It is I who allowed things to get so out of balance that we have become little more than a glorified rare art dealership, pandering to the wealthy elite by duplicitous means. I am just as much to blame for all of this. I have failed the Church. I have failed God.”

“Your Holiness,” Pasquale said with vigor, “You never failed us. We did this. You are a beacon, sir. You have shown us love and loyalty, though some choose to stab you in the back at every turn—”

Cardinal Delatorre laughed as he left the computer, “Spare us the theatrics, Belsito. We’ve neither the time nor the patience for such nonsense.”

He walked over to the last frame, where two more should be. He lowered his face to the Lexan and squinted. He stood up slowly. “We already have copies of all of this. The originals no longer matter.”

“Nobody will believe a digital picture,” Abbot said.

“Hell, I’ve got Photoshop on my iPad. I could probably fake something like that, and I’m just some jackass detective. Nobody will believe any of this.”

Ritti lifted his pistol so that it was very clear who was in charge, “They already do. We delivered prints of those last two frames a couple of weeks ago. That’s probably what you found copies of in the binding of those bibles in London.

Those little pictures were being used to give potential buyers a look at their investment.”

“You see gentlemen,” Cardinal Delatorre added, “we had special lithographs made and numbered them. There are only so many originals. John, you were correct when you related this to art. It is, to most, just art . . . nothing more. But we, those few of us on the inside have Thomas’s translations. When we release those to the world . . . well then, it will be the most profound religious even since they rolled away the stone. And for that . . . we will charge nothing.”

“Our little way of giving back,” Ritti said. He nodded to his guards and they immediately positioned themselves on either side of the Pope, the Papal Nuncio, and Abbot.

Abbot sighed audibly, “I guess that’s why you let me in so easily? You were planning this.”

Ritti tapped the side of his head with the barrel of the pistol, “You should have expected that, detective. But you are getting old. Maybe this kind of work doesn’t suit you anymore. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“No, I was thinking of beating yourself up over it,” Abbot said without any comedy in his words.

“This isn’t a James Bond film, Mr. Abbot. There is nowhere to go from here. You can’t get out, even if you managed to kill everyone of my men, myself included. I have had all of the locks reprogrammed. How long do you think you could survive without oxygen? Besides, this is not your matter. I will make it all very quick. No need to see you fine men suffer.”

Belsito began to smile. His smile morphed into a giggle and then slowly he started to laugh, almost maniacally.

“Belsito, have you gone completely insane?” Cardinal Delatorre asked as the guards took both of Pasquale’s arms. The laughing continued.

Abbot and the Pope shared a curious glance, not sure what going on.

“He’s been wound up so tight that he finally popped,” Ritti said as he rounded the table to join the Cardinal.

Not only did the laughing continue, but tears started to roll down Pasquale’s face. Abbot didn’t even think the guy had the ability to muster a smile, much less a bellyaching laugh, but there it was. Chalk that as another first.

As Pasquale caught his breath and sniffled a bit he said, “You guys are banking a whole lot on the translations giving you credibility.”

“Okay . . .” Cardinal Delatorre said, as if it was obvious.

“You self-righteous idiots haven’t been doing your homework, have you?”

“Something funny, you delirious old bastard?” Ritti snapped.

Pasquale smiled, “What you have is worthless.”

“How so?” Cardinal Delatorre said, humoring him.

“Our dear friend Thomas changed them. The translations that you have are little more than creative articulation.”

“Ramblings of a crazy man,” Ritti said, dismissing Pasquale’s statements.

Abbot had a grin on his face, “Maybe . . . maybe not. You were the one who showed me the video of Pasquale in the Translation room, looking at some of those drawings. You showed me that a couple of hours ago in the Security Office.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ritti responded.

Cardinal Delatorre looked over at Ritti, “Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

Ritti dismissed this ridiculous theory, “Because it means nothing. He was in the office . . . who cares? I watched the tapes, he didn’t switch anything. He just looked for a few moments and then left. Means nothing.”

Belsito looked at the Cardinal, “Tell me, Delatorre, when you look at me do you think I’m bluffing. We’ve known each other for twenty . . . twenty three years. Have I ever lied to you?”

“I have the translations, and when the computer is finished erasing the memory from the hard drives and servers, I will be the only one who has them. You lose.”

“You have a story created by a very imaginative young man who spent his life translating scripture for us and watching Hollywood Films. I bet it sounds lovely, but it’s pure fiction. He changed it on purpose . . .”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why on earth would he do that?” Ritti asked, more to humor the men than out of any doubt on his part.