Chapter Four

 

Vatican - Tuesday, March 24

Mancini looked up from his desk and shook his head. “They told me you were still alive. I guess they were right. You look like crap. Sit down before you fall down.” He looked at Callahan again. “What did you do? Brake with your face?”

Callahan had a huge blue and green bruise down the left side of his face, a bandage on the right temple, and raw scrape marks from his forehead to chin.

“No big deal. Everything works fine. They said this,” he pointed to his face, “will probably get even more colorful before it gets better. I hit something flying out of the Basilica and down the steps. Not sure what, but it must have been hard.”

Mancini frowned. “Yeah, you did come shooting by pretty fast.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing broken, just hurts like a bitch when I smile.”

“Anything else?”

“Lost my gun in the blast. And it was a good gun. Had it for a long time. Smith & Wesson. Good American gun.”

 Mancini picked up the phone. “Bring me one of those new Glock Nines, two extra magazines, and two boxes of hollow points.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t give a crap. It’s for whoever I want to give it to. Bring whatever you want and I’ll sign in triplicate. Twice.”

Mancini leaned back. “What about the concussion?”

“What concussion?”

“The one the folks at…” Mancini flipped through a stack of paper on a table behind him. “Here it is. Santa Helena Hospital. Those folks said you had a ‘concussion, laceration right temple, and significant facial friction abrasions.’”

“How’d you find that?”

“Zurich tracked you down. They must have called all the hospitals in Rome.”

“Oh, hell. I have a headache, but that’s all. Got my bell rung, but it’s been rung worse before and I lived.”

Mancini put the paper back and peered over his glasses. “Why are you here? What do you think you’re going to do here? Take some time. Go to the beach. Watch the girls. Come back when you’re in one piece again and don’t look a garbage truck backed over your head.”

Callahan laughed. “Yeah. I probably do look like hell. But I am in one piece. It’s just a big bruise.” He looked around, leaned in, and lowered his voice. “There’s only two Templars here, you and me, and we can’t have half our forces at the beach.”

“That’s changing. Zurich wants payback. They’ve been arriving ever since Sunday night. All vested Templars.”

“What about the Concordat? You and me are already in violation.”

“The last Pope refused an alliance with the Templars, you’re right, so we were in violation by being in the Vatican. But, now he’s dead, and his papacy is ended. And there is no Pope, so the Concordat is in a gray area. We can bring Templars in and we’re really not in violation since there is no Pope. If the next guy makes an alliance with us, fine. If he doesn’t want to work with us, then we just pack up and let him fight his own battles. Next time they come calling with a bomb, he can tell them all about the fellowship of men, the dignity of human life, open borders, and God’s plan for mankind.”

“I want in on this.”

“There’s a spot for you. Don’t worry.”

A uniformed guard came in and piled a Glock Nine box, holster, two magazines, and two boxes of shells on Mancini’s desk. Mancini signed three forms, then pushed the pile to Callahan. “Here. A good Austrian gun.”

Mancini rubbed his chin and pushed back in his chair. “It’s on for tomorrow. The plan has been complete for a few weeks. Zurich wants to move now, before these guys disperse.”

“Deal. Well, what do I do today?”

“Take a rest.”

“Take a rest? No way. There has to be something I can do. This place is a madhouse, half the Vatican is dead, Italian cops are still around, and I just heard you’re acting Chief of Vatican Security. That shows how screwed up things are.”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” Mancini looked around. “You want something to do today, big shot? Want to kick some ass? Alright. I’ll give you something to do today. Remember, you asked.” He grinned and took a clipboard from the wall. “Here. After the bomb, they found some bishop handcuffed in the Vatican Library and babbling about a frog.”

“Are you nuts?” Callahan scanned the clipboard. “We’re mounting an operation, and you want me to chase down the library bandit? Is it an overdue book? Chewing gum? Is that what the Glock is for?”

“What are you bitching about? There’s nothing to do until tomorrow night.” Mancini pointed to the door. “Go to the library or go to the beach. Your choice.”

Callahan took the Glock and the holster and headed out the door.

 

*     *     *

Santani’s office was a surprise. Callahan had expected a dusty clutter of books, papers, and filing boxes balanced on top of each other, but instead he found ultramodern furniture and a bank of three computer monitors. Not an oak panel, index card, cobweb, or mahogany desk in sight.

The library had not reopened and was eerily quiet. Nobody sat in the vast reading room poring over old books, no shuffling of paper, no rustling tweed, no carts of books being wheeled around. Creepy.

Callahan accepted coffee from the Bishop and listened politely as he gave a brief history of the library. It had been founded by Pope Nicholas V in 1451 to bring the various Vatican holdings into a single recognized collection. Since then, it had grown from one thousand books to more than two million. It also had a hundred thousand manuscripts in Latin, Greek, Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew. It housed maps, letters, drawings, artwork, coins, engravings, and medals. The records of the Catholic Church were part of the collection, detailing the reign of each Pope, councils, encyclicals, synods, conclaves, and consistories. Santini’s pride in the library and his place in it was obvious.

Callahan patiently listened to Santini’s story of the theft at the library, nodded the whole time, and faked some notes on a small pad he carried.

“Anything I can do to help, I will do, Mr. Callahan. Anything.” Bishop Santini fiddled with a paper clip, caught himself, and placed it aside. “Anything at all.” He picked up a pen, pried the top off, snapped it back, pried it off… and shoved it in a drawer.

“Well, maybe you can tell me why the thief took so little. As you said, the Vatican library is one of the premier collections in the world. The collection is huge. Why stop with a few medallions? And why those in particular?”

“You must understand those medallions are priceless, very special, and have great historical value.”

“Yes, I know. And each one weighs, what? About two or three ounces? He only took, what? A hundred medallions? So we have less than twenty pounds? You said he was a husky man. Doesn’t that seem odd? I’ll agree it’s a lot of gold, but if twenty pounds is priceless, wouldn’t fifty pounds be even more priceless?”

“Fifty pounds is not easy to carry.”

”Oh, I don’t know. Fifty pounds is a bag of fertilizer or a heavy suitcase. And after all the work he went to? And that’s not even counting the tattooed nun.” Callahan waited for a reaction.

Santini winced at the mention of the tattooed nun. The tattooed frog would follow him for the rest of his career. He never should have said a word.

“All I can tell you, Mr. Callahan, is what the thief said.” He looked down at his hands.  “He said the medallions had great value to Chinese collectors. Let’s see, he said there was so much priceless Chinese art in the West, wasn’t it time for some priceless Western art to be in China?” Santini thought that was very good detail.

Callahan looked up from the folder on his lap. “Well, Bishop, is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Is it time for priceless Western art to be in China? Has there been a movement in that direction? Are there calls for the return of Chinese art?”

“Repatriate art? Everybody is calling for that.” Santini looked across the room where his safe was concealed.

“But why these medallions? Isn’t there something more valuable here? Any Faberge Eggs? Jeweled tiaras? Jewels are easier to fence than these medallions. Like you said, the medallions are listed in the Vatican collection in numismatic catalogs. They could always melt the gold, I suppose.”

Santini winced again at the thought. “Oh, they could, and it would be horribly destructive.” Go with this guy, he thought. Don’t fight him. “Funny thing is, in a legitimate sale, each medallion would bring ten times its own weight in gold.”

Santini cracked a knuckle. Why had he chosen those stupid medallions? This American was right. A thief could find many more valuable things in the library.

He held a silver letter opener between his index fingers and examined it. “I can’t say what they thought, or why they did it. How do I know? It was horrible.  All those people dead, the Holy Father, the Cardinal Librarian. Why ask me what the thieves thought? I don’t know. I’m a scholar, not a thief. I’m a librarian. I have a duty to this collection. I have a duty to the Church.”

Callahan pursed his lips and nodded. “I’m sorry if I have upset you, Bishop. But you must remember that I, too, have a duty. Sometimes people observe things that can be very helpful. Sometimes they don’t even realize they hold a key to an investigation. Something in the mannerisms of the thieves, a few words between them, or an off-hand comment. You’re all we have, Bishop.”

Callahan rubbed a finger under the bandage on his head. “Tell me a bit more about those medallions. Is there any way you can imagine someone would bomb St. Peter’s just to get some trinkets? Understand, these things are new to me.”

Callahan saw him bristle at the word “trinkets.”

Santini didn’t like where this was going. “Even if I put myself in the criminal mind, it makes no sense, Mr. Callahan. As I said, they can’t sell them for their real value. I doubt any collector would go near them now. No museum, gallery, or dealer would touch them. The first thing they would do, just to protect themselves, is call the police.”

“Ok. Well, is there anything, anything at all in the Vatican Library that would even come close? Can you imagine anything here that a criminal would want so badly he would blow up a thousand people?”

“If a criminal was willing to kill a thousand people, I would think he could find much more lucrative places than our library. I suppose he could blow up a bank and kill a hundred people to haul off cash or jewels.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”  Callahan made show of putting his pen away and closing his notebook.

“Ok.” Callahan got up to leave and turned back toward Santini. “You know, Bishop, that nun never came forward to report she was kidnapped. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

“Of course it’s strange. Everything about that day was strange. It tells me she was an imposter who was in league with the thieves. She was one of them. You know that.”

“But you did get a good look at the tattoo? The frog?” Callahan smiled.

Santini sighed. “Yes, the frog. I can only report what I remember, and as I lost consciousness, I remember a frog. I can’t tell you if it was real, or if it was a dream. I can only report what I remember.”

Callahan stopped a few feet from the door. “And you didn’t see anything familiar in the pictures from the security cameras?”

The bishop brushed the front of his cassock and adjusted his pectoral cross. “I looked at thousands of pictures, and none of them looked like the man who kidnapped me. I don’t know… the pictures… it’s just… none of them match that man.”

The bishop came around his desk. “Truthfully, those security pictures from all over the Vatican aren’t very good. In most of them there is not enough detail to make out a face, and the ones that can be recognized just weren’t the thieves. Our cameras in the library are state of the art and had better angles, but the man was wearing that hooded bonnet, and the woman was covered with that bag in the library. You can see that yourself.” Santini seemed out of breath and Callahan wondered why he was offering such a spirited defense. “I did the best I could with the police artist, but I’m afraid the sketch looks like millions of men.”

“But you say he was British?” said Callahan.

The bishop hesitated. “Yes. He spoke English with a British accent.”

“Is there something else?”

“I’m not sure, but he sounded like someone who had been schooled very well in English, but there was a trace of a mother tongue there, too. It’s hard to say what, and it was faint, but it was there.”

“How do you know he wasn’t American?”

“Mr. Callahan, I have been around a long time. Trust me. I know the difference between a British and an American accent. Perhaps he was really a Russian pretending to be British. I don’t know.  How do you expect me to know?”

“Thanks for your time, Bishop. If we need anything else, I’ll get back to you.”

Santini picked up the paper clip again. That man will be back, he thought.

 

*     *     *

Callahan’s head pounded with each step back to Mancini’s office. Something was wrong at the library. It just didn’t add up. He didn’t believe for a minute the bomb had been a diversion for the library thieves, but the thieves had certainly known when it would be detonated. Was someone just trying to make a fast buck on the back of the bomb? But if that was true, why take those medallions instead of jeweled rings, chalices, and crucifixes? Those things contained a fortune in diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Pry the jewels out and they transport easily and can be sold anywhere in the world.

And that guy Santini? What was he so nervous about? Could it be an inside job? Did they really grab the jewels and bust up the glass cases for show? But that didn’t make sense either. The guy had given his whole life to the Vatican Library. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself outside of the scholarly world.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that library bishop, and that bothered him even more. Templar strike teams would go out tomorrow night, and he was worried about a library? He straightened up and quickened his stride when he approached Mancini’s office.

Mancini met him coming in the door. “You still look like crap, Callahan. How’d you do with the bishop?”

“They stole some medallions from medieval kings. About a hundred. It doesn’t add up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who blows up the Pope to get a few medallions? The risk is way too high.”

Mancini cocked his head. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to dig into the security logs. That’s my thing, anyway. I want to see what key cards were used and where.”

“You think Santini is dirty?”

“No, not that. I can’t put my finger on it. It just has a special stink. I’ll need a super-user code for the security system. I’ve worked with it before, and it’s really pretty good.”

“Super-user? You want access to the entire Vatican security system?”

“Yeah, unless you want me to hack into it, but that will take too long and be embarrassing to you.”

Like all Templars in Operations, Callahan had a real cover job. His was with Triad International. It wasn’t much different from Special Operations when he was in the Marine Corps. They were all shooters, but modern warfare, and especially anti-terrorist work, had gone way beyond chasing down the bad guys and shooting them.

“Look.” Mancini pointed to the office. “Go sit down at a terminal in there and I’ll have the computer geek come to you. I don’t want you wandering around scaring the help with your twisted face.”

“One more thing,” said Callahan. “When do our friends arrive?”

“A lot are here, and everybody will be here tonight. And it gets even better.”

“What’s that?”

 “The Templar Marshall himself is coming down from Zurich.”

 

*     *     *

Callahan studied the first floor plan of the library displayed on the screen and traced the route Santini told him the thieves had taken. Did Santini really understand how the computer logged every use of a keycard?

He saw nothing unusual until just after the bomb exploded. Then the logs showed the guards had hit the emergency auto-protect option before they redeployed to deal with the bomb. That was exactly what they should have done. The computer system would reject any keycard that wasn’t coded to a high-level user.

He highlighted the door where Santini said the thieves had entered and clicked for its log. Just after the bomb, it had been opened by Santini’s keycard. Ok. Then he accessed the camera covering the inside of the door. Just like Santini had said, it showed a man dressed as a priest wearing a beekeeper hat that blocked his face and a nun with a bag over her head. Then they moved out of camera range.

Now, Callahan asked for the next use of any keycard anywhere in the library. The screen displayed the drawing for the second floor and flashed on room H21. Santini’s card had been used there just minutes after they had entered the building. What was room H21?

He pulled up a room list and saw H21 was a sorting room. He flipped the list on the screen and found the library had fourteen sorting rooms scattered on different floors.

Santini hadn’t said anything about H21. Why not? What was in there?

Forty minutes after H21 had been opened, the camera and detectors showed a large priest and a nun, both wearing beekeeper hats, leaving the way they had come. It didn’t look like they had a hundred medallions, but with the camera angle, he couldn’t be sure.

 

Rome - Tuesday, March 24

“Tell me,” said the dead, flat, brittle voice on the phone.

Hammid couldn’t put it off any longer and he had dialed the Old Man in the Bekka valley, the leader of the Hashashin. The Old Man never gave a greeting or good word. No congratulations, no polite inquiries. None of the courtesy, small talk, and attention to personal detail which was so delightful among most Arabic speakers. It was always a terse, sterile, and efficient exchange of information. He expected the very same of others.

“Sheik, I have secured the Treaty of Tuscany from the Vatican Library. The woman from London sorted through the documents and says this is the treaty. She translated it and it agrees with what we know about the treaty. She had no prior knowledge of it. She is conducting more tests, but says final laser analysis must be done in London.” He hoped he had been as succinct and accurate as possible.

“Saad will contact you and inspect the treaty before paying her. She is not to be harmed. She cannot harm us. All her testimony can do is enhance the authenticity of the treaty if she says she stole it from the Vatican Library. She is valuable to us alive. Make sure you understand that.”

“Yes, Sheik.”

“Arrange for the London testing.”

The line clicked off.

London again, thought Hammid. Always London, or America, or Japan. No Arab universities had the equipment. Nobody journeyed to Arab universities for advanced research. No high-tech solutions were developed there. Even the science books they learned from were in English.

Once his people ruled the civilized world, leading it in science, mathematics, literature, astronomy, philosophy, and religion. But no more. While the world advanced, they watched. Their best students studied in the US, and the very best stayed with their American masters.

They had lost their unity, their spirit, and their drive. Worst of all, three hundred million Arabs blamed three million Israelis for their plight. If the Israelis magically disappeared one day, they would have to invent some other excuse.

Would they believe the West hated and despised them? No. Would they unite as a people to be reckoned with? No. Would they draw on their dormant energy? No.

All his people needed was a rallying point, something to snap them out of their lethargy. And the translation of the treaty was right in front of him.

 

Vatican - Wednesday, March 25

Bishop Santini fidgeted in the chair outside the office of the Vatican Secretary of State. The place was a madhouse. Under normal circumstances, the power and authority of the Secretary of State was second only to the Pope. A stately majesty prevailed at the Office of the Secretary of State. People moved slowly and deliberately, and any temptation to speed up was overridden by a solemn reverence. But today, agitated priests, bishops, and civil authorities dashed in and out of Agretti’s office and hovered in the reception area whispering to each other.

Santini had been waiting since 8:00 am. It was now 2:30 pm and all the Cardinal’s secretary did was shrug, balancing phones on each shoulder. With the Pope and so many members of the Curia dead, almost all decisions fell on Cardinal Agretti. He was only alive because his gout kept him from St. Peter’s on Easter morning.

In the three days since the bombing, Santini had thought long and hard about the situation. He had to see Agretti. That American, Callahan, suspected something. He knew he would be back, and he was terrified of what might happen.

When three priests hurried from Agretti’s office, the Cardinal himself appeared in the door. He leaned against the doorjamb, looked at his secretary, and asked, “What next, Antonio? Who’s next? Did we get that fax from the ministry?”

Santini knew he might not have another chance. He stood and walked over to the cardinal.

“Eminence, I have an urgent matter to discuss.”

Agretti looked at him through weary eyes, shook his head, and said, “Santini, everything is urgent today. Everything. I’m sorry for what those thieves put you through. I am. But there is just no time now. Father DeSantis might be able to get you some time later in the week. Just now I really don’t have the time.”

“You need to know what I know,” Santini replied with a firmness he didn’t know he had. “And you need to know it now, Eminence. Not later. Not tomorrow. Not next week. We cannot afford an appointment. Now. You need to know it now. Give me one minute, and you will never regret it. Now.”

Agretti was shocked by the impertinence of the man. Bishops did not speak to the Cardinal Secretary of State in that manner. He’s a librarian. Who does he think he is? He started to tell him exactly that when he locked eyes with the man. Agretti hesitated for a moment, and Santini saw it.

 “Now,” said Santini. “For the good of the Church, now.”

“One minute,” sighed Agretti, “and it better be good.” He stood back for Santini to enter the room, then closed the door.

“Ok,” said Agretti, slouching down in his chair behind the desk. “One minute. Go.”

“In 1189, the Vatican and three European powers signed a treaty prior to the Third Crusade. It was called the Treaty of Tuscany. The original with the signatures and seals of the three kings and two Popes was stolen from the Vatican Library during the bombing on Sunday.”

“Very interesting. So what? What did this Treaty of Tuscany say?” Agretti was bored.

Santini gave him the details, and watched the Cardinal Secretary of State simply lay his head down on his desk. He raised his head, tossed his glasses on the desk, and rubbed his temples.

“They actually wrote that down and signed it? The Pope signed it? Two Popes signed it? Not just one infirm Pope who we could say had Alzheimer’s, but two Popes? Two Popes defined it as an infallible doctrine of the Catholic Church! Two Popes did it? They both said God wants us to wipe out Islam? God save us. This is worse than the bomb.”

Agretti settled back in his chair, swiveled around, and looked out the window onto the Vatican garden. He said nothing for two minutes. Santini watched his back and remained silent.

The office door opened and the Cardinal’s secretary said, “Your Eminence, you have…”

“Shut up, DeSantis. Get out and don’t disturb me until I say so.” Father DeSantis quickly retreated.

He turned back to Santini. “Are you sure it went that far? You’re sure? Who else knows of this?”

“I know, you know, and the thieves know. The curators hadn’t looked at it yet, so it was just waiting to be studied.”

“Is it still in the computer?”

“No. I deleted it.” From the collection, thought Santini. No need to mention my own private computer files.

 “Backups?”

“Overwritten every seven days. Four days to go.”

“Did you say anything about it to our security people or the Italian police? Anyone?”

“I told them only that one hundred priceless medallions had been stolen. I said nothing about the treaty. I staged the medallion theft when I learned the treaty had been taken.”

“Why?”

The man thinks I’m an idiot, thought Santini. “When I found what the treaty was, what it said, when I read it, I didn’t think it prudent to let anyone know such a thing existed or had ever existed. It could only bring harm to the Church. I had to tell the police something. Something had to be stolen. So I made a huge mess and took a bunch of medallions. They’re in my private safe now.”

Agretti nodded. “You did well, Bishop.” 

“We have a complication.” Santini took a deep breath. “An American. An investigator from Vatican security. I’m sure he suspects something.”

“Why?”

“He thinks like a thief. He doesn’t think a thief would bother with medallions when he could take jewel-encrusted chalices and crucifixes. He does have a point.”

“Well, stick to your story. How do you know what the thieves were thinking? Tell him to ask the thieves. Let me know if he causes any more problems.”

Agretti turned to a shiny, black computer on his desk and pecked on the keyboard. “How come the Internet has no reference to the Treaty of Tuscany?”

“Eminence, the Third Crusade did not cover the kings of Europe in glory. Fredrick Barbarossa drowned on the way and his army turned back. Richard of England and Phillip of France couldn’t get along. Sabotaged each other. Jerusalem was not recaptured. And Richard became the Austrians’ prisoner while his mother ruled and his brother John robbed the English blind back home. At the time, they were all too content to forget about the whole thing. And Pope Clement was trapped between opposing political forces. Whatever could be forgotten was forgotten.”

 “Forgotten by everyone except the Vatican library?” Agretti snapped. “If the library hadn’t kept it, we wouldn’t have this problem now.”

“Right.” Santini sat up, red-faced. “And we wouldn’t have Aristotle, Socrates, Livid, Augustine, and a long list of others who would have been lost without the diligence of the Church, this library, and the people who built and defended it.”

Santini took a deep breath. “Eminence, it is the responsibility and duty of the Vatican Library to preserve all documents and manuscripts of importance to the Church and its history. That’s what we do, and we do it very well.”

Agretti cocked an eyebrow. This bishop wasn’t afraid of a fight.

“Yes, yes. I know. Ok. Sorry.” Agretti pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his cassock. He tapped one out and grabbed a heavy silver lighter from the desk. “And now we don’t know where the treaty is? Is that it?”

“Yes,” Santini curtly answered. He deeply resented any criticism of the Vatican Library or its mission.

“You have a copy of the treaty?”

“Several. The original Latin document and Italian and English translations I made.” Santini took several pages from his briefcase and handed them to Agretti.

When Agretti finished reading the translations, he blew a huge cloud of smoke straight up in the air.

“It’s true, it’s true. Two Popes said this crap was the duty of all Christians and an infallible doctrine of the Church. Diplomatically, this would be a disaster if it got out. We’d be pariahs.  And worse, it could destroy the Church. How many other copies or translations are there?”

“Eminence, besides the ones here, I have two copies of the original and the translations in my office safe.”

“Bishop, say absolutely nothing about this treaty to anyone. I’ll get back to you about how we want to proceed here.”

Santini nodded. “I understand, Eminence.”

“You’re a good man, Santini. I understand you have taken full charge of the Vatican Library after the Cardinal Librarian’s unfortunate death with the Holy Father on Sunday. I don’t know who the next Pope will be, but I do know we will need a good man as the next Cardinal Librarian. Keep that in mind, Santini.”

Back in his office, Santini’s secretary said he had the Cardinal Secretary of State on the line.

“Yes, Eminence.”

“Santini, I want you to destroy every copy and every translation of that treaty you have. Do you understand me?”

“But, Eminence, we can’t just destroy history. It would be… it would be contrary to our mission. It would be wrong.”

“Right now, Santini, our mission is to preserve the Church from its enemies. Now you told me you no longer have the original, so I want you to make sure there is nothing left to indicate that treaty ever existed. That means no paper, no computer copy, nothing stashed in your hard drive or underwear drawer, no nothing. Can I rely on you?”

 “Eminence,” he said, “it will be done within an hour.” Santini leaned back and thought it would probably be prudent not to ask the Cardinal what he would do with the copies Santini had given him. Perhaps one day they, at least, could be recovered for the library.

“And remember, Santini, the new Pope, whoever he is, needs cover on this. He needs deniability. You don’t need to say anything to him, whoever is elected, or anybody else about this. I’m not asking you to lie, I’m asking you to support the new Pope and the Church by having no conversation that could ever link the Pope to knowledge of this treaty. Let me take care of that.”

Santini swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I understand, Eminence.”

“Good. We need men like you in leadership positions here, and we need a new Cardinal Librarian. Understand, Santini?”

“Yes, Eminence, I do.”

“Something else, Bishop. In the unlikely event… uh, the event… uh, that I am elected Pope… we never spoke about this.”

“Never, Eminence.”

“Good man, Santini. Good man.”

Santini entered the passwords for his private section of the computer files and accessed the image of the treaty. What a vile thing. His finger hovered above the DELETE key, then retreated.  It was still history, and history had to be preserved. Besides, nobody knew about his private collection in the computer. He could protect both the Church and history. That was his burden.

 

Vatican - Wednesday, March 25

Santini was right. The American was back. Damn. He strolled into his office, gave Santini a nod, and flashed a tight smile. The man had no sense of protocol.

“Bishop, what does a keycard for the library look like?” Callahan lowered himself in to a chair, folded his hands, and leaned back.

Santini reached for his card that hung around his neck and held it up.

“You always keep it around your neck like that?”

“Yes. It’s too easy to mislay something here. This way I have it handy and prevent its loss.”

“Will that open anything in the library?”

“Yes. It has super-access privileges.”

 “I see.”  Now Callahan’s face wouldn’t stop itching.

Where is he going with this, thought Santini. Stay calm.

“Can we take a look at room H21?”

Room H21? How on Earth did he know that? What’s going on here? Santini’s heart pounded up into his tightening throat.

“Are you alright, Bishop?” asked Callahan. “Is there something about H21 I should know?”

“No… no, no,” stammered Santini. “It’s just… just that in terms… in terms of a theft, it is shocking to think anyone would have taken anything from H21.” Recover yourself, he thought. Think. Think. Nobody can find out about that treaty. Promise yourself. Promise your Church.

“Why is that, Bishop?”

“H21 is a sorting room for our Twelfth and Thirteenth Century collection of papal manuscripts. They are absolutely irreplaceable.” Good job, he told himself, stay on this line. “Absolutely irreplaceable.”

That got to him, thought Callahan. H21 is the last thing he wants to hear.

“Can we take a look at H21?” asked Callahan.

“Certainly. Certainly. Can I ask why?”

Callahan shrugged. “Sure. The security logs show it was opened with your keycard shortly after the cameras show you and the two thieves entering the building.”

Think very carefully, and speak very carefully, Santini thought. “Impossible. I never went near it.”

“Let’s just take a look.” Callahan stood up and immediately felt light-headed. Must have stood up too fast. The doctors had warned him about concussions.

When they reached H21, Santini took a seat while Callahan wandered around. He has no idea what he’s looking at, thought Santini.

 “So, who opened the door, Bishop?”

“I’ve been puzzling over that, and I think I understand what happened.” Be very careful, he thought. Callahan’s exhaustion might be an act. “I presume the thief took my keycard after I was unconscious.”

“Used it and then went back to the reading room and put it back around your neck?”

“Well, no. When I awoke, my things were scattered around.” He fingered the glasses, keys, and keycard hanging around his neck. “The paramedic had removed them and opened my cassock. But I know I had my keycard when I was handcuffed to the table. The next I knew, it was on the floor near me with my other things.”

Santini pressed his fingertips together in front of his chest and nodded a few times. “Yesterday, Mr. Callahan, you asked me to think like the thieves. Well, suppose they didn’t want anyone to know they had been in this room. That’s another reason they might have replaced the keycard.” He shrugged. “Just a thought.”

That was very good, thought Callahan. Liar. “Well, since we know H21 was entered, and it’s logical to presume the thieves entered, I think the room has to be sealed by security until we can do a detailed inventory and a forensic examination.”

Callahan flipped open his cell phone. “Mancini, yeah, it’s Callahan. I need a twenty-four hour guard on room H21 in the library. Cut off all keycard access. That includes me and Bishop Santini. Once nobody can get in, we can start opening it up one card at a time. We need to do a detailed inventory to see if anything’s missing.”

“You can’t do that,” sputtered Santini.

Callahan waved him quiet and went back to the phone. “I’ll close the door and wait for the guard.”

He turned to Santini. “Listen, Santini, something doesn’t compute here, and we need to find out what.”

Just Santini? No longer Bishop Santini? He was being treated like a common criminal. “This is not acceptable. I’ll take this to Cardinal Agretti.”

“Who?”

“Cardinal Agretti, the Vatican Secretary of State. He’s the highest-ranking member of the Curia until we have a new Pope.”

Callahan shrugged. “Sure. Go for it. Give him my number.” He pointed a finger at Santini. “But keep this in mind. One, we have evidence of a crime. Two, this room is now a crime scene. And three, a thousand people got blown to hell out there. So call whoever you want.”

Santini’s indignation was real, and his anger was real. But nothing would be found in H21. Maybe a few filing mistakes, like in any sorting operation, but nothing more, nothing about the Treaty of Tuscany.  He had done his duty. To hell with Mr. Callahan.