Chapter Ten

 

Switzerland - Saturday, April 11

Jean saw Callahan’s car coming up the dusty gravel road to the chalet, laid her book on the deck table, and went into the house to put on some coffee. These people had a good point about her chances without their help. So, for now at least, her only reasonable chance was with them, whoever they were.

“Callahan’s coming up the road, Klaus,” she called.

Klaus came from the back of the house, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Thermostat should work now,” he said. “Might make things a bit warmer at night.” He walked to the front windows and saw Callahan’s car with another following it about a quarter-mile back.

“Jean, go to the safe room until I give you the Ok.”

She knew better than to argue, and quickly locked herself in the safe room.

Klaus grabbed a carbine and a belt of loaded magazines from a cabinet and repositioned himself by the side door until Callahan parked and got out of the car. “Who’s following you?” Klaus shouted.

“A friend,” said Callahan. He looked around for Jean. “One of us. You don’t need the rifle.” He nodded to Klaus’s carbine.

“Standard procedure,” said Klaus. “I’ll go get Jean from the safe room.” Callahan just nodded and turned to wait for the other car.

When Jean came out on the porch, she greeted Callahan, looked at his companion coming up the steps, and froze. Marie Curtis? What was she doing here? Be calm, girl, she told herself. This is your life you’re playing for.

“Marie? They got you, too?”

Marie smiled. “Hello, Jean. How are you? No, they didn’t get me. You see, I’m one of them.”

Jean looked from Callahan to Marie. “You two are in this together? In London? At the British Museum? This whole time?”

Marie shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. But you asked for help. Paper, pens, ink, medieval history, paleographics, and help? Well, I’m the help.”

“Who are you working for?”

Marie looked at Callahan who shook his head. “I guess that’s your answer, Jean.”

Jean didn’t have many cards in her hand, so she had to play them well. Ok, so let the games begin.

“Fine with me, Marie. So what are we really doing here? You have to know more than Callahan, so let’s just get it done.”

“Spoken like a true professional,” said Marie. “Let’s get started.”

 

*     *     *

 “If you want me to do the Treaty of Tuscany, there’s a lot of stuff we need that you just can’t get in the local art supply store. You can’t get it anywhere. You make it or go get it yourself.”

“Stuff like what?” asked Callahan.

“Stuff like goose quills from the left wing… because I’m right-handed. Oak apple and gum Arabic for ink, natural cinnabar for red dye from Spain, azurite for blue, malachite for green. Gold leaf for gilding the papal insignia at the top of the page, a nearly vertical writing desk to keep the quill at a ninety degree angle to the page so the ink won’t run. I mean, this isn’t just whipping off a page from your pocket notebook.”

Jean tried to think like a medieval scribe assembling his tools.

“Then we have to make all our ingredients and test them to be sure they will pass a modern analysis as coming from 1189.”

Callahan rubbed his chin. “Where did you get all this stuff before?”

“I made it with a great deal of effort over the years. Lots of effort, and lots of years. And I stored it all in my flat in London.” She glared at Callahan and Marie. “Until somebody burned the place down.” Now she folded her arms across her chest. “Any idea who would do a thing like that?”

“Take your pick,” snapped Callahan. “It was either your ink or your ass. In fact, it still is. So, if you’re too goddamned sensitive to work with us, now’s the time to let us know.”

“Good point, good point,” said Jean, back pedaling furiously. “Look, you people seem to have pretty good resources. Suppose I make a list of everything we need, a detailed list, and give it to you. Can you get people to the Pyrenees, the Levant, and the Italian Alps to do the collecting?”

“Just make the list,” said Callahan. “We’ll take care of it. Chemists, botanists, naturalists, goldsmiths, poets, priests, soldiers, artists, and bums. Whatever. Just make the list.”

Jean looked at Marie with a question in her eyes.

“He means it,” Marie said. “All of it. Make the list. And we can run all the tests on samples of ink and dye to make sure they generate medieval origins.”

“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

Marie turned on her. “If you haven’t figured that out yet, we might have made a big mistake, Jean. You also need to make a list of the equipment needed to process the materials. I don’t know… beakers, Bunsen burners, stills, ovens… whatever.”

“Look, Jean,” Callahan glared at her. “You’re either on board or you’re not. Your choice, not ours. Choose. We’re not going to play temperamental artist here.”

Marie grabbed a laptop and stood up, “Come on, Jean, let’s make a pot of tea and go out on the porch. We’ll enter it all in the laptop so we can send it off.” She looked back at Callahan. “And it’ll let us get away from this grouch.”

As they left the room, Marie winked over her shoulder. Good cop, bad cop. Hell of a woman, thought Callahan.

 

Vatican - Monday, April 13

And this just in to CNN International… University of Cairo officials… in Egypt… have announced the recent discovery of the Treaty of Tuscany, an 1189 treaty between the Vatican and the kings of England, France, and Germany. Sources tell us this treaty calls for the virtual elimination of Islam as a world religion, and the forced conversion of Muslims to Christianity.

We have no official word yet on how or where the treaty was found, but sources tell us it was unearthed during the recent excavations under the Vatican for a new parking lot. This same project recently unearthed a completely unknown network of burial chambers.

Remarkably, sources tell us that even though this treaty is over eight hundred years old, it may be binding on all Catholics… possibly all Christians… because of the nature of the Catholic doctrine of infallibility. This says what the Pope binds under the doctrine of infallibility can never be wrong, and can never be changed.

 

Father Carlos Perez brought the Pope a tray with his usual breakfast, two raw eggs, two apples, two oranges, two bananas, one cup of grapes, and half a cup of almonds.

“What news today, Carlos?” Pedro Sanchez, now Pope Dominic I, still wore his T-shirt and running shorts from his run around the papal gardens. He tipped his chair back on two legs and shook his head.

“I’ve made my own breakfast since I was five years old,” he waved a hand at the tray Carlos held, “now it’s coming in on a silver platter. Cardinal Agretti told me the other day I was upsetting precedent by refusing to utilize the papal dressers… like I can’t dress myself, either. And I can’t even run outside the Vatican walls because too many people want to shoot me.”

Carlos smiled. “Goes with the job, boss… er Holiness.”

“And I’m not sure about everyone calling me Holiness, either. I’ve been Pope what, a week? How do they know I’m holy? Maybe after a few weeks they’ll start calling me Your Shitiness.”

Carlos laughed. “Haven’t heard that one… yet. But the Conclave said you’re holy. That’s why they elected you Pope instead of Cardinal Agretti.”

The first Mexican Pope surprised the whole world, with most commentators saying it was in direct response to the bombing of St. Peter’s.  Some said the Church was finally taking a leadership role in the struggle against radical Islam, while others worried it sent the wrong message to the moderate elements in the Muslim world. In any case, Vatican Secretary of State Cardinal Agretti, a solid backer of the last Pope’s conciliatory stance, was firmly rejected in favor of the man who had faced down the Mexican drug cartels.

“Where are the papers?” The Pope looked around.  “And get a computer with an Internet connection in here. This is nuts.” The Pope rose and went toward the door.

“Boss, don’t. Wait. At least not yet. Let me do it. You already have half these folks on the edge of a nervous breakdown. There’s a newspaper guy and he’s been getting the papers ready for forty years. I’ll fix it. That’s what I do. Now, sit down and eat.”

“Ok. Ok. Just get the damn papers. And tell them if anyone comes in here with a roll of toilet paper hanging around his neck…”

Carlos laughed and left for the papers.

Sanchez walked to the leaded windows and looked down on St Peter’s Piazza.  He had lots of things he wanted to do, but he was smart enough to know he didn’t know half that needed to get done. But the ceremony, tradition, and bureaucracy of this place were choking him. Everything moved in slow motion, slower than even the Mexican bureaucracy that had so infuriated him.

Things would change, he promised himself. They had sure changed for him. He came to the Papal Conclave to elect the new Pope, and had left the Conclave as the new Pope. How on Earth did that happen? He didn’t want to be Pope. He hadn’t campaigned, hadn’t schemed with allies, hadn’t made any promises, and had appeared on nobody’s radar. He hadn’t spent the ten years preening before the world press. But, they had elected him, so now they were stuck with him. Things would definitely change. He wondered how many Popes before him had said the same thing.

He had shunned most of the traditional activities of a new Pope, and instead visited hundreds of people injured in the bombing. Phone calls from world leaders went unreturned, the press was ignored, and no calls for world peace went out from the papal office. He flattened the pecking order of the Cardinals by ignoring them all.

 But after the first week the world press caught on to a story, a big story. Here was a Pope who was doing things rather than sending messages. They filmed him pushing wheelchair-bound victims around the block, sitting with families in hospital waiting rooms, comforting surviving family members, and even taking one small boy who lost his father in the bomb to a father/son soccer match.

When he returned to the Vatican at 10:00 PM each night, the head of each Vatican department gave him a quick summary report. He asked all the temporary department heads appointed by Agretti to remain in their positions until confirmed or relieved. But he made no promises.

Carlos came back and tossed the papers on the table, opened a cabinet that hid a plasma TV, and flicked the remote. “Ever hear of the Treaty of Tuscany?” he asked the Pope.

“No, what is it?”

“It’s what everyone is talking about today. Must be a slow news day.” He flipped channels until he hit Sky News. They were reporting on a cricket tournament.

Carlos opened a Rome daily and jabbed a finger at a story. “Everyone has it this morning. It looks like a few of your predecessors stepped in it, and now you get to clean up the mess.”

The Pope scanned the article, then looked up when the Sky News anchor reported on it. “Find out everything we have on this thing, Carlos. I don’t believe it. Even those guys back then weren’t that stupid. Let’s get this out of the headlines. Get me a copy of it if it exists.”

He ran a hand through his thick dark air. “Agretti’s supposed to know about treaties. He’s the Secretary of State, isn’t he? I’ll give him a call.”

 

*     *     *

Santini was frantic when Agretti picked up the phone. “I just had the Pope’s personal assistant in here looking for that treaty. The Pope wants a copy.”

Agretti had seen the press reports and tried to remain calm. “So, what did you tell him, Santini?” He held his breath.

“I told him just what we agreed. I said I never heard of the treaty, and was as surprised as everyone else by the news reports.”

“How did he react?” asked Agretti.

“He didn’t give me any problem. He has no reason. I told him we were already working on it, and if it existed, we would certainly find some trace.”

“What about the damn computer?” Agretti asked. “Is there anything at all? Anything? A title, or a page, or whatever? It seems everyone gets tripped up by those things lately.”

“You have to understand the collection with the treaty has now been completely recataloged. Any reference not backed up by an actual piece of paper was purged, so the references to the treaty that were in the computer were deleted.”

“But someone deleted it, and they know.”

“I did it myself when I lent a hand in the effort. And enough time has passed that the backups also contain no reference.”

Santini thought of his own private section of the computer that was not included in the backups, but that was something a politician like Agretti didn’t need to know. He still had a duty to the library and history.

“Ok,” said Agretti. “I’ll deal with the Pope on this. Your job is to make sure the Pope can always honestly say you never told him about the treaty. He needs you to do that. Can you do that, Santini?”

Idiot. “Yes, of course I can.”

 

*     *     *

Agretti took the folder from the bottom drawer of his desk and studied the translation of the treaty he had received from Santini. Just one piece of paper, but it could destroy the entire Church. The Church could handle bombs and attacks by whatever group of terrorists were in fashion, and it could handle the political ups and downs that swept across the continents. Rival Christian denominations hadn’t been a problem since the Reformation, and non-Christians hadn’t posed a real problem since the Ottomans were turned back from Vienna in 1683. The Easter bombing was bad, but not in the full stretch of history.

All these challenges had been met because the Church had the loyalty, faith, and trust of its people. And now he held a piece of paper that could destroy all that.

The Church pointed back to Jesus and Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus said, “Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my assembly.” The Church was God’s channel to reach his people, and it was an avenue by which his people returned to God at the end of their days. Without the Popes, the direct successors of St. Peter in that garden, it all fell apart.

Since the Pope was God’s representative on Earth, he couldn’t be wrong on matters of faith or morals. His word was final and correct because it was God’s word. He might be wrong about tomorrow’s weather forecast, oil drilling techniques, or how the pyramids were built, but he couldn’t be wrong about faith or morals.

This doctrine of infallibility was so strong and well developed that in 1870, Pope Pius IX and the First Vatican Council infallibly declared it a basic tenet of the faith. All Catholics were bound to believe in the infallibility of the Pope.

And now he had a treaty signed by two Popes, not just one, a treaty that infallibly declared God wanted Muslims wiped off the face of the Earth. Two Popes verified this as God’s will, and two Popes verified it was a matter of faith and morals and binding on all Christians to the end of time. Who in their right mind would accept that as the will of God? The answer was simple. Nobody would.

So, if two Popes could be wrong about such a serious matter, then all Popes could be wrong about other matters of faith or morals. And that led one to say the Popes had no special knowledge of God’s will. The Pope became the man on the street, stumbling around trying his best to figure things out. They became frauds, poseurs, and charlatans.

Who would keep the faith in that case? How could any apologist, no matter how clever, get out of that mess? How could the Church maintain its position as an unchanging rock to which humanity could anchor itself? How could it defend against the charge that its Popes were really no better than any other mass murderer? Wipe out the Jews? Wipe out the Muslims? Where is the moral difference? Is there a difference?

The ignorant might hang onto the Church, but it would lose the thinking people, and with them it would lose its ability to function. Maybe it could last fifty years, but after a few generations it would be just another curiosity. People would come to gawk at St. Peter’s, admire the skill of its architects and craftsmen, and leave amazed that so many people could have been fooled for so long.

The Church had to present a unified front. The treaty was a hoax, a clever hoax, but still a hoax. There was no choice. Agretti had to see to that.

 

*     *     *

Agretti’s secretary rushed into his office. “The Pope. Line one.” Didn’t this Pope understand he was demeaning his office by holding on the phone for subordinates?

“Good morning, Holiness.” The words still caught in his throat, but Sanchez had won and he had lost. But it still hurt. How much longer would the Mexican keep him as Secretary of State?

“Morning, Alberto. What’s this Treaty of Tuscany thing? It’s all over the news.”

“I don’t know any more than what I saw on the news, Holiness. We have no record of it.”

“Well, would you guys have a ready record of something from the Third Crusade? I mean, do you keep all that stuff at your fingertips? If you do, you need some help.”

There it was again, thought Agretti, the not-so-subtle digs. Maybe it would be nice to retire to some quiet parish in the Italian Alps.

“Of course you’re correct, Holiness. We’ve teamed up with the Vatican Library and our best men are on it. If there is something, we’ll find it.”

“Well, I’m sure half the historians in the world are hot after that treaty right about now. I don’t want to get blindsided on this. If it exists, I want to know about it from our own people, not from CNN.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“Tell you what, let’s bring some help in. See if you can round up people at Catholic universities, people we can trust. Get them looking with the understanding we get the info first. I just don’t like the odds here. I don’t want to have just our team here at the Vatican looking while the rest of the world has ten thousand PhDs looking.”

“I’m not sure we…”

The Pope cut him off, “Well, neither am I, but we have to put this to rest. If it’s a hoax, then let’s expose it. If it’s real, then let’s face up to it. The last thing I want to do is just sit here doing squat and get all tied up by events.”

And what, thought Agretti would the rest of the world find? “Yes, Holiness. We’ll get with our European bishops immediately.”

“Good,” said the Pope. “And remember, if we stomp on these little problems right away, they don’t live to be big problems.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“And make sure we have a single Vatican spokesman on this. No leaks, none of that usual nonsense. Let’s face this straight on.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“Keep me informed, Alberto.”

 

Switzerland - Monday, April 13

“So, Marie, what happens when I finish the treaty?  I deliver the product, and you people do whatever you do. Maybe your plan works, maybe it doesn’t. But what happens to me?” Jean poked at the logs in the chalet’s fireplace with a long stick.

 “That’s up to you. It all depends on whether you trust us.” Marie pulled a long, felt robe around her knees.

“We sit here forging a papal treaty from the Middle Ages and talk about trust. It is a bit ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

Marie wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and took a sip. “Not at all. We’re trying to accomplish something, and you are part of it. When this is all over, no matter how it turns out, we have to decide if you trust us.”

“Isn’t it more important if you trust me?” Jean looked back from the fire.

“How can we trust you if you don’t trust us? Trust is the foundation of loyalty, and we demand loyalty above all. No trust? No loyalty.”

Jean jabbed the fire again. “Ok. Suppose you trust me. What then?”

“Well, the first would be a new face.”

Jean instantly put her hand to her face and ran her fingers across the crease of her lips. “A new face?” She hadn’t thought of that.

“Of course. How could you do anything in your field looking like Jean Randolph? You wouldn’t last a week. Don’t worry. The people we use are the very best in the world. They do all the work on the people who look great, but look like they’ve never had any work done.”

“Still…” Jean had an instinctive hesitation. “I’ve kind of liked being me.”

“Well, if you want to keep being you, you need a new face. And the voice would have to be tweaked a little, too.”

“Tweaked? Tweaked? What does that mean?” Now she held her throat.

“Sure. The best way to blow a new identity is when someone hears a voice they recognize. They turn, look around, but it’s not who they thought it was. But way down in that primordial limbic core, they know the voice. So, they look again, study the face, look at the height, weight, walk, mannerisms, and then they think, ‘I know! That’s Jean Randolph.’ And it goes to hell.”

Now Marie was feeling her own face, just wondering.

“No matter how much surgery you have, if someone suspects you are Jean Randolph, and they look really close, they will see you in there. The trick is to avoid any suspicion. Don’t let the question be asked. That’s why the voice has to change. We all have an incredible capacity to store and remember voices.”

A new face, a new voice, and a new life. Jean saw the logic, but her own primordial limbic core rebelled at the idea. What a great choice. Give up some of her life or all of her life. Such is life.

“Do I get to choose what I look like?”

“Within the limits of bone structure, muscles, and that stuff. But I assure you, you will be a very attractive lady, just not Jean Randolph. You want a boob job, they can do that too. And that cute little frog on your ankle? Say goodbye.”

“How long does it all take?”

“You’re on the street in three months. The surgeries are usually one day affairs. Then you stay at a private clinic a few weeks, then a place like this, visiting the doctors once a week, for the rest of the healing time.”

“Have you had it done?”

“Me? No. Haven’t had the need.”

“Would you do it?”

“To save my life? In a heartbeat. But to be honest with you, it would frighten me.” Marie curled her legs under her on the couch and pulled the robe tighter around her. “Hey, millions of women all over the world dream of this. Hollywood stars. Billionaires. Face lifts, nose jobs, liposuction, wrinkles. Most of them end up looking like hell. But not you, not with us. You’ll end up looking great.”

She had wanted more excitement in her life, Jean thought, but this was getting ridiculous. “And when I’m all healed up and can walk the streets in safety, what do I do then? Clerk at a bookstore? Work at the Kruger?”

“The Kruger? Good God, no,” she lied easily. “Believe me, that’s not who we work for. Let’s say that’s my day job. But we could get you something just as good, with background, life history, all the proper documents. In other words, a new life. A very good life. I mean it. Not just something to keep you alive, but something challenging that would make life good.”

Jean jabbed the fire a few more times until she had the glowing logs positioned perfectly. “Ok. What’s the deal with you and Callahan? Is there something there? You know? Besides whatever you people do?”

“Callahan?” Marie looked down into her mug. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been tempted. But… well, I don’t think he’s interested.”

“He’s gay? Married?”

“Callahan? Gay? God, no. Not married either. He was once, but I’m not sure what happened. I mean… I… I don’t think he’s interested in me.”

“I don’t know,” Jean poked the fire again. “I’ve seen him looking. Can’t say what he’s thinking… just seems to appreciate what he sees.” She gave Marie a sideways look. “Is he the guy you were trying to fix me up with in London?”

“Yeah. That’s him.”

“Damn. I wish you had. Like I said, the available pool of men is mighty shallow. Can’t let one like that get away.”

 

Vatican - Wednesday, April 15

Father Girard leaned an elbow on the bar and pointed to his companion’s empty glass. First rule of press relations, Girard thought, beer for the Americans and Germans, wine for French and Italians, and anything for the British.

 “Are you really going on the record to say the treaty doesn’t exist?” asked the CNN producer.

“Of course I’m not,” scoffed Girard. “All good Jesuits learn you can’t prove a negative, at least not very easily. Look, we’ve combed through all our records, and they go way back, and haven’t found a thing. We’ve turned the Vatican upside-down. We have absolutely no known mention of this treaty anywhere in the academic literature. Nobody else has been able to find anything on it. Our enemies haven’t found anything. In fact, the only mention of it is the recent stories in the Arab newspapers.”

“Doesn’t prove it doesn’t exist,” insisted the producer.

“Right. It doesn’t. Go find it then.” Girard laughed.  “See if you can find a Unicorn while you’re at it.”

“But you’re not going to deny it?”

“I’m going to tell the truth, and the truth is we never heard of it, and neither has anybody else. There’s not much more to say.”

“But the University of Cairo says it’s real.”

“Yeah, they do. So go ask them about it, because nobody else knows anything.”

 

Vatican spokesman Father Jacques Girard today told CNN International the Holy See had no knowledge of the Treaty of Tuscany, reported to be an 1189 agreement between the Vatican and the European kings to eliminate Islam from the world.

John Kendell has been following the story in Giza. John?

Thank you, Peter. We’re here at the huge University of Cairo, here in Giza, Egypt, one of the largest universities in the world with over 200,000 students. Last week researchers announced the discovery of a long-lost treaty between the Vatican Popes and the three most powerful kings of Europe… just prior to the Third Crusade… in the year 1189, Peter. If true, it raises troubling questions about the role of organized Christianity and the Vatican in its struggle to achieve world domination.

Peter, we interviewed Professor Hosni Zahid earlier this morning…

CNN: What can you tell us about this Treaty of Tuscany, Professor Zahid?

Zahid: Well, it is an extraordinary find, the kind of thing we seldom find anymore, and it provides an interesting perspective on the relations between the European and Arab worlds.

CNN: What is the most striking thing about the treaty?

Zahid: Simply put, the treaty binds all Christians to work for Christian domination and the elimination of Islam as a competing faith. I realize that is a harsh assessment, and those were harsh times. But that’s what it says.

CNN: Have you seen this treaty?

Zahid: Oh, yes. I have examined it.

CNN: And you consider it to be authentic?

Zahid: Oh, yes.

CNN: Where is the treaty now, Professor?

Zahid: It is in a safe place, a very safe place.

CNN: Can you tell us where that is?

Zahid: No, Not at this point. Not yet.

CNN: When will we be able to see this treaty?

Zahid: We must first be absolutely certain of what we have, so there isn’t the slightest doubt of its authenticity. None at all.  We owe that to all the peoples of the world.

So, there we have it, Peter. The University of Cairo is claiming the treaty is in their possession, the Vatican denies any knowledge of it, and we are all waiting to see it.

This is John Kendell in Giza.

 

Vatican - Friday, April 17

“Eminence?” Agretti’s secretary hung back in the door to his office.

“What is it, Antonio? Speak up.”

“I have a man in the outer office, Eminence, a large man with white hair and a broken nose. He says he has a long-standing appointment with you. You have nothing on your schedule, and he refuses to give his name.”

Agretti didn’t need this. That’s why he had a secretary. “Well, call security and get rid of him. Do I have to do everything myself?”

“Yes, Eminence…” The secretary hesitated.

“What? What is it?” Now Agretti was angry. The new Pope, the Conclave that had ended in disaster for him, a horrid treaty, and now the survival of the Church was on his shoulders alone. He didn’t need these petty interruptions.

“He said this was confirmation of his appointment, Eminence. I… I’ve really never seen anyone so frightening.” The secretary passed an envelope sealed with red wax. Agretti saw the Templar Cross embossed in the red wax, ran a finger over the seal, and dropped it on the desk.

“Where is he now, Antonio?”

“Standing in my office.”

Agretti slit the envelope without breaking the seal, and removed a single white card embossed on one side with the red Templar Cross. The other side had a simple handwritten message, “Concordat of Nocera.”

So, they were back, he thought. It had been twenty years since he had convinced the last Pope to rebuke these apostates and heretics, and now they were back. That damned Concordat. He stood up, smoothed his cassock and centered the pectoral cross. What more could go wrong?

“Please send him in, Antonio, and make sure I am not disturbed. That means even if the Pope calls, I’m not here.”

“The Pope?

“Now, Antonio, now.”

Agretti’s practiced eye studied the man when he entered, assessing strengths, weaknesses, motivations, and opportunities, looking for the slight advantage that might give him the edge he needed.  This one was relaxed, stood six-foot-three, maybe two hundred pounds, flat stomach, broken nose, scar extending up through one eye and into a shock of snow-white hair, and the thick rough hands of a dock worker. He wore a pin-striped suit and a red tie with a very small pattern of Templar Crosses. Very clever.

Agretti stood with his hands clasped behind his portly frame and willed himself to ignore the much taller man’s extended hand. The man stared and left his hand extended. Agretti hesitated, reached out and clasped it. Damn.

“Good morning, Cardinal Agretti. I am the Chief Marshall of the Knights Templar. I am here to see Pope Dominic under the terms of the Concordat of Nocera.” He spoke in English, gave a slight bow from the waist in the Prussian style, then straightened to his full height. German, thought Agretti, definitely German.

“Yes, yes…” said Agretti, trying to recover. “You want to see the Pope, but I presume you appreciate his schedule is a nightmare now. Perhaps next week some time?”

The Templar looked down on him and gave a hint of a smile. “I hope you realize, Cardinal, that my visit to you is a courtesy not required under the Concordat.  We are quite capable of arranging our own meeting with the Pope. It might be easier if you were present, easier for the Pope. It’s become a tradition. But we don’t require it if you don’t.”

This one was just as arrogant as the last Templar twenty years ago. Agretti felt control slipping.

“And just what did you want to discuss with the Holy Father?” asked Agretti.

“Thank you for your time, Cardinal.” The Templar turned and grasped the doorknob.

“Wait. Wait.” Agretti put up a hand. “I can arrange a meeting for the three of us. This evening.”

The Templar handed Agretti a card. “Tonight will be good. Here is my number. Anytime tonight. Let me know.”

 

*     *     *

Agretti felt out of his depth for the first time in many years. The Mexican Pope and the German Templar circled each other like gladiators in the Coliseum, each taking the measure of the other, and each looking for a fight or a friendship. My God, thought Agretti, they are the same. At the core of their beings, they were both predators. Who is our Pope?

After the introductions, the Pope gestured for the Templar to have a seat at the cheap Formica table he had installed in his office “to get some real work done.”

The table horrified Agretti. The office of had been fine-tuned over hundreds of years.  Furniture, art, leaded glass, and sculpture from Europe’s masters spoke to the majesty of God’s representative on Earth. And now a cheap table, two laptop computers, a tangle of cables, and six orange chairs sat on its priceless carpet.

The Templar walked around the table and took a chair in the middle. The Pope sat opposite him. Equals? Agretti didn’t know where to sit, since neither of the other two paid him the least bit of attention. He started to sit next to the Pope, but stopped when the Pope pointed to a chair at the head of the table. That was all wrong and an obvious violation of protocol, but he did as he was told.

Agretti’s eyes darted from one man to the other. A great deal was happening in their silent exchange, but he was shut out of it. Each man wore a slight smile and a mildly amused expression. He didn’t know if they would leap at each other’s throats or clasp hands across the table.

The visitor wore a light-weight blue jacket, gray slacks and no tie, very different from the three-piece suit he had worn this morning, but probably appropriate for a 10:00 pm clandestine meeting. But the Pope defied all Agretti’s expectations with blue jeans, a common laborer’s light blue work shirt, and black cowboy boots. Cowboy boots?

The Pope broke the silence. “Would you care for something to drink? Whatever you want. It seems we have everything here.”

“Thank you, a glass of water would be fine.”

“Carlos!” His assistant rushed in. “Water for me and my guest, and whatever Cardinal Agretti wants.”

The silent dialog resumed until Carlos returned with the drinks.

“Carlos, this gentleman is under our protection. Mexican rules.”

Mexican rules? Protection? Carlos immediately left, went to his own office, took a 9mm Beretta from a drawer, chambered a round, and stuck it in his cassock under his belt. Then he moved a chair in front of the Pope’s door, waved the guards back twenty feet, and sat.

 “So, we have business, very old business, I understand,” said the Pope. “Cardinal Agretti,” he nodded down the table, “has explained the Concordat of Nocera to me, I have read it myself, and have inspected the endorsements of various Popes and Templar Masters. Now I would like you to explain it to me.”

The Marshall simply and deliberately moved through the details of the Concordat and its history. He stressed that each Pope and Templar Master had the opportunity to forge an alliance, and if they do it remains in effect for the duration of the Pope’s reign. If either party declines, there is no alliance, and they revert to simple nonaggression.

The Templars, he said, were offering an alliance with the Vatican until the Pope’s death.

 “But you are not the Templar Master,” the Pope said flatly.

“I am not the Templar Master. I am the Marshall, and tonight I speak for the Order of Knights Templar.”

“And Templars have survived and thrived all these years, and nobody knows it? How?”  The Pope steepled his fingers and cocked his head sideways.

“We learned from the mistakes, big mistakes, we made in our first two hundred years. Those mistakes ended our public life. Like the Church, we have a long institutional memory, and value the lessons of the past.”  The Marshall spread his large hands. “And… we prayed for luck.”

“Pray? Pray?” Agretti could hold still no longer and stood at the head of the table, pointing toward the Marshall. “Idolaters and Satan worshippers. Apostates and heretics. Followers of Baphomet. I implore you, Holiness, do as our last Pope did and banish these hooligans.”

The Marshall and Pope exchanged glances, then looked at Agretti. “Later, Alberto, we’ll talk later.” The Pope held up a hand to silence him.

The Pope stood and began to circle the room. “Let’s be sure I understand this. You have me at a disadvantage here since I just learned about Templars today.” He looked squarely at Agretti, who studied his hands.                                             

“You,” he pointed at the Marshall, “are a Knight Templar. In fact, you’re the commander of Templar operations, a powerful man, I understand, and a member of a warrior order that everyone thinks died out in 1307 when the Pope and the French king got together, killed them off, and burned the last Templar Master at the stake. Right?”

“Correct.”

“But that wasn’t really the end of the Templars because they got away with their fleet, and all their gold and treasure. The younger knights got away, and only the older ones got caught. And then they just continued their operations underground using a bunch of different fronts. Right?”

“Essentially.”

“So, the Templars had pretty much established all the banking in Europe when the Pope and the king went after them, and they kept that business going, got into a lot more, financed all kinds of exploration and trade, amassed a huge fortune, and they also kept the warrior part going by hiring out as mercenaries under various names. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And all this continues right down to today?”

“Yes.”

“And nobody knows anything about it? Strange.”

“Well, most of our interests are held in holding companies, trusts, interlocking boards, cartels. Most of the people who work for us don’t even know it. Banking remains the core, and has been for a very long time. It finances everything else.”

“Heretics,” mumbled Agretti. “Heretics and blasphemers, then and now.”

“Now this Concordat thing.” The Pope pointed to the ancient manuscripts in front of Agretti. “The Pope and the king conspire to eliminate the Templars in the early 1300s, but forty years later, another Pope Clement finds the Templars and asks for help against the Germans. He doesn’t want anybody to know since everybody back then was sticking a knife in everybody else’s back. The Templars help him out, presumably in exchange for some favors. But then the next Pope tries to stick it to them again.”

“Yes.”

“But the following Pope wants their help again?”

“Yes.”

“That makes it an on and off thing with the Popes using the Templars?”

“Yes,” the Marshall nodded.

 “Now Pope Urban VI comes along and needs some muscle for his struggle with the anti-Pope in Avignon and the Western schism, but can’t really use the other kings of Europe since half of them are lined up with the anti-Pope. He doesn’t want to use his own troops since he doesn’t trust them, and they don’t trust him. Besides that, history calls him the Mad Pope. Nice guy. So he goes looking for a bunch of Ninjas? And comes up with the Templars. Right?”

“Not exactly.”

“Ok, but this time, the Templars and the Pope come up with an agreement, a Concordat, that says each Pope and Templar Master will decide if they want to ally. If not, then they leave each other alone. Right?”

“Yes.”

The Pope looked from the Marshall to Agretti. “This sounds crazy. Are you guys sure about all this?”

“Unfortunately, Holiness, it is true,” sighed Agretti. He tapped the leather folder. “All true.”

“So, each time there’s a new Pope, somebody like you,” he pointed at the Marshall, “comes along to make a deal on behalf of the Templars? But only if the Templars like the Pope? Both sides have to agree?”

“Essentially.”

The Pope took his chair again and asked, “And it’s been going on like this since 1385?”

Agretti could keep quiet no longer. “And the last Pope, our beloved Pope Pius, who gave his life… his life… for his Church in St. Peter’s… on Easter… that Pope refused any deal with the Templars.”

The Pope ignored him and continued. “Ok, I get the history, but what I don’t get is what are the Templars getting out of all this? I can see how it works for the Pope, but what do the Templars get? They have a pile of money, a successful banking operation, mercenaries for hire. They’re the secret conspiracy everyone keeps searching for. What can the Pope do for them? That’s what they had five hundred years ago, and who knows what they have by now.”

“Sir, the Templars have far-ranging interests, and take a very, very long view of history. Much like the Church does. Remember, we are almost 900 years old now. While we have lost the clerical aspects of a religious order we once had, we have a keen appreciation of the symbiotic relationship between the Templars and the Church. When the Church prospers, the Templars prosper. And the Templars believe the Church is vital to the survival of Western civilization. We appreciate that each helps the other. Where they once defended Christianity, their focus has shifted to a general defense of Western culture. That’s the culture we come from, and it’s the culture we need for our survival.”

“Symbiotic relationship? Western culture? Bullshit,” said the Pope, tossing his pen on the table. “Do I look like I was born yesterday? Just tell me what I have to do for the Templars. If this is a give-and-take, exactly what do I have to give?”

Now the Marshall leaned back. “Yes. Yes.” He could like this Pope. “The Church is all over the world. It has sources of information everywhere. It has its fingers in everything.  When they need it, the Templars will ask for information. They will ask for the use of various Church properties. They will ask for assistance from clergy. They will ask the Church to assist in recruiting Templars from various Catholic religious orders. They will ask the Church in different countries to support Templar organizations and interests. They will ask for assistance in financial transactions. They will ask for help manipulating political situations. They will ask for protection.”

“You ask for quite a lot. You ask me to compromise the integrity of a Church I am sworn to protect and lead. Quite a lot. And exactly what do I get in return?”

The Marshall took a breath and continued. “In return, you may call on the Templars to assist you much like one of the national intelligence networks. Similar to the CIA, MI6, or the KGB. And believe me, the Templars are a match for any of them. We can do whatever they can, and do it better.

“Right now, there is no organization in the West that knows Islamic terror networks better than the Templars. We have battled them nonstop since 1122. The fight that began in 711 when the Muslims crossed the Straits of Gibraltar has never stopped. The latest attack is right out there in St. Peter’s.  Islamic terror is at war with the Vatican, the Church, and all of Western civilization. Not Islam as a whole, but a faction that has always tried to force itself on the whole world, including Muslims. Nobody knows them better, nobody has fought them longer, and nobody has beat them more than the Templars.

“Beyond that, the Templars will volunteer information when we know something of value to the Church. We will also act on our own when we see the interests of the Church threatened. You will have full deniability.”

“Deniability? This is nuts. And if I refuse?” asked the Pope.

“If you decline, the Knights Templar wish you luck for your papacy, and I will immediately leave the Vatican. The Templars will have no further contact with the Vatican while you live. Nothing. To put it bluntly, pray for luck because you’re on your own.

“In any case, here’s something for free,” the Marshall said. “A very powerful and patient organization has been trying to destroy the Church for a thousand years. Not just the Church, but all the West. The Hashashin. They were founded as assassins to fight the Crusaders. And believe me, they are very good. We have been battling them since we were founded in 1122. You won’t hear about them because they don’t want you to, but you will see their fingerprints all over most of the terrorist organizations in the Middle East, and many in Europe.”

The Pope smiled. “You mean they don’t operate under their own name, but use a bunch of fronts… like, maybe the Templars use a bunch of fronts?”

The Marshall laughed. “Yeah, except we’re on your side and they want you dead. We think they are behind the Vatican bombing. In fact, we’re sure of it.”

The Pope thought about the recent series of killings of Middle Eastern men in Rome and other European cities. The long arm of the Templars? But some questions are better not asked.

“You said both parties had to agree to cooperate with the other.” The Pope turned to Agretti. “Is that what the Concordat says, Alberto?”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“If I say yes, do we have a deal?”

“If you say yes, we have a deal.”

“How long do I have to reply?”

“We would like an answer tomorrow. I presume you want to think about it.” The Marshall nodded to the folder Agretti clutched. “That’s what is says. If you agree, both you and the Templar Master will document it by adding your personal endorsements to that Concordat, and also to the one in Zurich. The Templars keep their copy, and the Vatican Secretary of State keeps yours. As you have seen, the endorsements are there for each Pope and Master who came to an agreement over the years.”

The Pope drummed his fingers on the table and stared into the Marshall’s eyes. The Marshall calmly returned the stare.

Agretti began to sputter, but the Pope silenced him with a look.

“Let me think on this.”

The Marshall nodded.

“But before I start thinking, who is this Master you keep talking about?”

“That is something you will learn, if you accept the offer.”

“And I imagine I will learn who you are also?”

“That’s it.”

It was 1:00 am when the Marshall stood and shook the Pope’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Pope Dominic. I mean that. I think we can work together.”

“Likewise, Sir. Please convey my compliments to the Templar Master.”

That had gone very poorly, thought Agretti, very, very poorly.

 

Switzerland - Friday, April 17

One week after Jean gave Callahan the list of materials, equipment, and supplies she needed, a truck drove up and unloaded every single thing she had requested. They even sent a chemist to work on the ink and the dyes.

“Not my place to say,” the chemist said when Jean asked who he worked for. “You’ll have to talk to Callahan.” He took over the chalet laundry room, set up his lab, and started cooking up the ink and dye recipes Jean gave him.

They finalized the Latin for the treaty with some unknown Latin expert on a private Internet chat line. Jean was good, but whoever she was dealing with was better.

“This guy knows his Latin, and knows his history,” Jean told Marie.

“Oh, I can assure you he does. He certainly does.” If Jean and the Archivist ever met, it would probably be love at first sight.

Jean began practice runs of the treaty on modern paper to see how it looked, and one page after another ended up in a crumpled ball on the floor when lines were just too long or too short, a word had to be changed to balance the look of the page, or a sentence had to be redone to position key words in the area of the page unreadable to the naked eye, but visible under special light filters. She couldn’t just write the treaty, but had to put each and every word in just the right spot.

The biggest problem was the one and only piece of Twelfth Century parchment, so their first attempt at the treaty was their first, last, and final attempt. The margin for error didn’t exist. One single mistake the first time was failure. Jean wondered about her fate if that happened, but it was a strong motivator to do the best work she had ever done.

Perhaps the trickiest part of the operation was aging the parchment. It already was eight hundred years old, but the real treaty had its ink applied eight-hundred years ago, and everything aged together. This forgery was an application of ink on top of the aged parchment. So the page had to be treated after the script, gilding, seals, and scrollwork were all applied.

When Jean went down to the laundry room, the chemist and a man with a long pony tail were ripping pages from an actual Twelfth Century bible, a real Twelfth Century bible, experimenting on them, and then throwing them in the trash. Where had they stolen that? It could never be replaced.

They cooked pages, heated them, microwaved them, applied solvent, held them near a propane torch, and destroyed every page they used in their experiments. They destroyed half the book before finally settling on a variable irradiation technique that bombarded the page strongest at the center, and diminished in strength toward the edges.

Then they gave her a title page with large script and generous white space and had her pen as much of the treaty in the white space as possible. They whooped and high fived when the irradiated page turned a medium brown near the middle and light beige near the edges. After twenty more pages were sacrificed, they were satisfied they had the right method. It was an exact match to the coloration of the original treaty in Jean’s pictures. Some of it could be read with the naked eye, and the rest needed special light filters to be read.

 

Vatican - Sunday, April 19

Agretti was relieved to see the Pope almost looking like a Pope in a white cassock with a silver cross around his neck. No running shorts or cowboy boots. The cassock was far shorter than most, something the chief Vatican tailor said the Pope insisted upon. “He said cassocks are dangerous. He trips on his big feet.”

“What do you think, Alberto? This Templar thing. I have to decide.”

“You know what I think of the Templars, Holiness. The Church should have nothing to do with them. This Concordat is an abomination, but it was created by a sitting Pope and it binds all of his successors. So, we are stuck with it, but we don’t need Templars when we have the Holy Spirit to guide and protect the Church.”

The Pope leaned back on a windowsill and folded his arms. “Protection? Interesting.  Where was the Holy Spirit when that bomb ripped through the crowd on Easter? Ever wonder if the Holy Spirit might have enough confidence to let us take care of ourselves?”

“That’s not the point, Holiness. I’m sure that in the fullness of time the plan of God will be revealed, and it’s not for us to demand explanations.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it will. I just can’t wait that long.” What do I have, he wondered? I’m fifty-five now. Maybe I live to ninety with my good genes. Thirty-five years isn’t really that much time.

“Alberto, is it possible the Holy Spirit sent that Templar Marshall? Perhaps in the fullness of time that will be revealed, too.”  The Pope had never seen Agretti speechless. That struck home, the Pope thought. You pompous little worm.

“Look at it this way, Alberto. Terrorists struck last year, maybe those Hashashin, and nearly killed the Pope. They did manage to kill staff and visitors. Then that Easter massacre. Face it, we are at war, and we’re losing. And if we don’t get off our butts, it’s going to get worse. The Templars might be just what we need.

“Who else do we turn to? We don’t have our own troops. We have a great intelligence network, but no operational capability. Do we rely on the Americans? Every four years they lurch in a different direction, and they have an even shorter attention span. The Europeans? They can’t even take care of themselves. And the saintly Third World is so wrapped up in its Swiss bank accounts they can’t even come up for air.”

The Pope hopped down from his perch on the windowsill and began to take long strides along the windows. “Let me tell you something, Alberto. Vulnerability is not a virtue. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with strength. I’ll be damned if anyone else is going to die here because we won’t stand up and fight when we have to.”

Agretti watched the pacing and saw the man transform from Pope to predator, just as he had the previous night with the Templar. God save him, was this a return to the warrior Popes? Templars, terrorists, warriors, and predators?

“We need them.”  The Pope collapsed into one of the cheap orange office chairs. “I wish we didn’t, and I wish I could decline in good conscience, but I can’t. This isn’t the world I wish it was, but it’s the only one we have. I’m accepting an alliance with the Templars.”