Pandora's Box: Book 3 of the Crystal Raven Series

Vatican City was slowly settling into the semblance of a normal routine. With no sitting Pope and the increased security, the crowds were slowly returning, many, including the media, curious about the process of electing a pope. And many more had come to mourn the man who had been Pope, a man who was well-loved by the masses. Tomorrow was the state funeral of the slain Pope, and cardinals and heads-of-state from all over the world were arriving, adding to the crowds and the confusion. Many had chosen to find accommodations in Rome itself, or in nearby communities, but there were always the few who insisted on staying in the Vatican itself.

Cardinal Wright sat looking out the window of his apartment, watching the Swiss Guard moving through the crowd. In another two days, he would be locked up – in the conclave of the College of Cardinals – part of the process of electing a new pope. Before he was locked away incommunicado, he needed to get his hands on the shortlist – both to ensure his name was on that list and to eliminate any other candidate who had a stronger claim than his own. Only a cardinal under the age of eighty could participate in the Congregation of Cardinals, and anyone amongst their numbers could, in theory, be elected Pope, but there was always a shortlist of those thought to be papabile.

His minions stood well away from the window. Their fear of sunlight amused him, and he let a chill smile show on his lips. Cardinal Wright was one of the new breed, genetically engineered in a Petrie dish from a Civatateo embryo and implanted in one of the many volunteers. Sunlight held no fear to him, and the genetic abnormalities that gave his people an allergy to sunlight had been engineered out of him. His minions, a low caste Estrie and three nosferatu, did not have his advantages of birth. These could only operate at night, and this handicap was often annoying.

Pundits, both inside and outside the Church, favoured two other cardinals over him – a French Cardinal Dupre, and an African with some unpronounceable name. Cardinal Dupre was a dark horse at best, the French Church long being a proponent of the devolution of the Papacy. It was only his charisma and his controversial personality and politics that attracted the media and those outside the Church to him. Inside the Church, he had few supporters. But the African now? He had to know.

“What did you find out?” He asked. Let his minions sort out who should answer. He was bred and raised to rule in the same manner as the princes of old, and he dealt with followers in the same fashion.

“There are several lists out there,” the child eater replied suggestively. “Monsignor Francesca would have the Italian’s list. Cardinal Camerlengo would have the most accurate list.”

It was impolitic to campaign to become pope, but there was always backroom lobbying in any human institution. The current Cardinal Camerlengo, the cardinal in charge of the day-to-day running of the church during the sede vacante, the papal vacancy, always had some idea which way the Particular Congregation was leaning.

“Tell me more,” Cardinal Wright instructed.

“We can get access to it tonight,” Karl replied. “Monsignor Francesca leaves everything locked in the top drawer of his desk. He will leave to attend Cardinal Monte Bach tonight before nine to go over tomorrow’s itinerary. We can get a copy of it after that.”

“Do it.”

Dismissed, the four ghosted from the room. There would be work for them tonight, tomorrow night at the latest. Soon after the Pope was laid to rest, the cardinals would be locked up in the Particular Congregation, not emerging until they had elected a new pope. If there were any moves to make, they would have to be made before that time, when the cardinals would be beyond their reach. At least until it no longer mattered.

Cardinal Wright was one of the first new breed. As an orphan, he was placed in one of the best Catholic-run orphanages in the United States. He was given the best prep school education at a private school in Boston, and shortly after graduating entered the seminary. That is how his biography read. Cardinal Wright was only thirty years old, not the sixty he claimed. He had spent most of his life in a secret lab undergoing gene therapy. The real Cardinal Wright lay in a shallow grave in some forgotten stretch of forest. Connections and support from the outside brought him all the best Parishes. He rose quickly within the American Church, and with his education and background eventually found his way into the Vatican.

His thirty-year career left little signs on his features, and he still looked as young today as he had when he first entered the seminary. Cardinal Wright did not worry about time. As long as he fed regularly, he would not age, at least not for centuries. He toyed with the idea of letting himself age, merely a bit, but now was not the time to make any changes. Those making the choice in the week to come might interpret it as a sign of illness. Several strong candidates were being passed up just for that reason – poor health.

Even with the extra security moving about the Vatican, when you belong here, it was not difficult. It was only a matter of making sure the guards were familiar with your face, knew your name by greeting them at every opportunity, and would instantly recognize you. Most of the offices for the cardinals and their secretaries were in the same wing. The office Karl shared with Cardinal Wright was only down the hall from Monsignor Francesca’s, a mere step or three. This hall was a place he came to often. Still, when he stepped out of his office, Karl took a moment to look around. Given what was and had happened in the last week, this wing was still occupied even this late at night. You could never tell who was burning the midnight oil these days, or who might interrupt you in a little midnight browsing.

Karl paused, listening. At least three others were still working, arranging the personal affairs of their cardinals, or readying the Pope’s residence and schedule for the new pope. At either end of a corridor, two alert members of the Swiss Guard stood with serious-looking automatics and combat dress rather than the traditional uniforms they wore for the tourists. Even these, with so many new faces wandering around, could not keep track of who belonged to what office. As long as the face was familiar, and was known to belong there – like his face – they would not become alarmed.

He walked passed Monsignor Francesca’s office and then turned further down the hall as if he had forgotten something. The eyes of one of the guards followed him and dropped away when he stopped before an office door and entered. While the monsignor was security conscious enough to lock his desk and file cabinets, he never locked the office door itself. It made Karl’s work so much easier this evening. Fiddling at the door with the guards as jumpy as they were now might be a little hazardous to his health. And he still valued his health.

Inside the office, he paused, looking around at the antique desk and cabinets of sixteenth or seventeenth-century vintage. Curious, he took a moment to study the books on the shelves, searching amongst them for any hidden security, and because many of them were rare treasures and first additions. Motion sensors and cameras were often disguised by a set of books or inset inside a false book cover. Such things were not unknown in the Vatican with its numerous priceless pieces of artwork and artifacts, and its secret archives. Just not in this office, and with a man who obviously loved surrounding himself with the past.

Only once he ensured himself that it was safe did he approach the desk. The drawer was locked, as he knew it would be, but he was an accomplished lock pick with centuries of practice. Two flicks of the wrist and the right lock pick and the drawer gave up its secrets. With locks of this vintage, a bobby pin or paper clip and a modicum of knowledge could open them. In under two minutes, he had the handwritten list in hand and was using the man’s own photocopier to make himself a copy. Security was not always what it seemed in a city that was a blend of modern and ancient, and humans were still the weakest point in any security system.

Cardinal Wright was waiting in his chambers as Karl knew he would be. Ghosting into the room, Karl moved to stand beside the cardinal and dropped the list on a tray near his elbow. Picking it up with an unhurried gesture, the cardinal tapped his ring against the arm of his chair as he read. The list contained four names. His was the second name from the top, and the name above it was circled and marked with an asterisk.

‘So,’ he thought, ‘it was to be the African after all?’ Each cardinal was to enter the Particular Congregation with an open heart and pray for guidance during the two sermons they would hear before retiring to the Pauline Chapel to vote, but as with all human institutions backroom lobbying went on despite the tradition. It was impolitic to campaign to become Pope, but if others were to drop a word here or there amongst those whose vote counted, well, it was only to be expected. Even amongst such an ancient institution as this political views varied, and at the moment, the conservative factions held the balance of power against the progressives. It appeared if he was to be the Italian Cardinal’s second choice.

“It looks like this African is becoming a problem,” Cardinal Wright commented. “We cannot afford to count on the prejudices of the others to keep him from being elected – they might decide it is time for a Black Pope.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Karl replied.

“He’s in the habit of rising early to pray,” the cardinal replied. “Given the preparations for the funeral, he will use the Cappella Paolina. Perhaps he will meet with an accident before he returns to his quarters.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

And with that, he ghosted out of the cardinal’s chambers. Given the schedule of these aged humans, Karl would have to cut it close, but they did have a habit of conducting their personal prayers before Lauds, and it should be doable. A lone assassin with a rifle was the best for this type of wet work, and since Marcus was the most expendable and had no ties to the cardinal, it would have to be him. He was the youngest, unfortunately, and could only pass for an altar boy or another human child. It made his options limited, and his opportunities even more so.

‘But wait. It might work,’ Karls thought. If he hid in the recesses of the church, waiting if he were unable to escape, he could pass as a child cowering in the shadows after the shooting. A few tears, maybe repeat a word or two over and over, and the humans would buy it. Either way, it had to be Marcus. His Italian was passable, and there was always the family at the safe house to collect him if and when necessary. Yes, this had to be their plan.

Satisfied, he headed off to the quiet niche where his team and its equipment would be waiting. In a building this large and this old, there was always some forgotten utility closet or storage room. This one had once held the paints and supplies for the restoration of the Sistine Chapel until that project was completed, and now it lay empty and forgotten. To reach it, he had to cross the base of the chapel itself, but with the preparations for the funeral well underway, there was so much traffic passing this way and that one more would not even be noticed. And not even the hour meant anything.

Inside, he found the other three waiting. “We will only need Marcus for this assignment. You two return to your quarters. Marcus, take your rifle and find a spot inside the Cappella Paolina. You know your target.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Pope Pius XIII’s funeral was only hours away. It was scheduled to begin with a procession at noon, and the media from around the world was fighting to televise it. Oberst Gersbach and his Swiss Guard were working overtime to provide security for an event that was shaping up to be the largest of its kind. He had returned to his home for less than four hours –enough time for a meal, a nap, and a change of uniform – and had returned to his office when the body of Cardinal Ndiaye was discovered. He had been shot once in the head with a small calibre weapon. It was an incredibly accurate shot, dead between the eyes. The type of shot that took real skill, the mark of a professional.

Oberst Gersbach cursed. His Swiss Guard was already short-handed, would be under the circumstances even without the manpower lost during the pitched battle with the Brotherhood. Half the world’s leaders had arrived or were expected to arrive in the next twelve hours, and the security details were a growing nightmare. How the hell had anyone gotten a weapon onto the Vatican grounds through all that? The Swiss Guard, advance teams from the Americans, Russians, and a dozen other state security services, and even the Italians had swept the grounds. The obvious answer was they hadn’t. It had to have already been here long before any of this.

The implications of this hit him like a punch to the solar plexus as he rose from his desk. “Let’s go check out our crime scene. Has someone alerted the Italians?”

“Yes, Oberst Gersbach,” his oberstleutnant replied. “They have offered us their fullest cooperation.”

“Let’s go see that we don’t need it,” the oberst snapped. “I want this assassin caught as of yesterday.”

Could this get any worse? If they did not find their assassin in the next twelve hours, his best suspects would be locked in the conclave of the Particular Congregation.