Chapter Twelve

 

Switzerland - Sunday, April 26

Callahan looked up in surprise when Marie came out on the chalet porch. “What are you doing? Isn’t she starting the final production? Aren’t you the official medieval gopher?”

Marie shrugged and boosted herself up on the railing. “She kicked me out. Kicked everyone out.  Klaus and the chemists, too. Says she figures her life depends on this, and she’s not going to let any of us get her killed.”

“Damn. There’s an awful lot riding on one weird woman.”

“Nothing we can do about it now. The ball’s in her court. She makes the rules. She says jump, we jump.”

Callahan looked up at the room Jean had chosen for the final forgery. “Well, let’s get out of here. You know the soft spot she has in her heart for me.”

They walked to a picnic table two hundred yards up the slope from the house.

“How long did she say it would take?”

“Shouldn’t be long at all, but it depends on when she really starts,” said Marie. “When she does these, she writes at the same speed the original scribe would have. She moves right across the page. She doesn’t pay a lot of attention to each letter. She just does the whole thing in one whack. But you never know when she will start. She might draw circles for an hour, or jump right into it.”

“That’s just plain weird.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’ve watched her do it. You know all those practice treaties she wrote? Once she gets the pattern right, she just sits down and knocks them out like she was writing a letter home.”

Marie looked at the surrounding mountains. “I’ll miss this. I’ve always wanted a place like this.”

Callahan looked up the mountain. “I had a place like this in Taos.”

“Taos?” Marie asked. “I’ve traveled a lot in the States, but never got there.”

“New Mexico. Up north. The mountains look a lot like these.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Oh, no. Part of another life.”

Well, that’s all I’m going to get out of him, she thought. Bit by bit.

Then she looked straight at Callahan and asked, “Do you know what happens to her, Jean, when she finishes? Will she live or die?”

“Zurich ask you about it?”

“Yeah. I had a long talk with the Archivist. I get the idea it’s his decision. At least he’ll have the most influence with the Master.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said we could use her. She’s strange, but I think she could finally find a home with the Templars. She’s like a gypsy who gets trapped everywhere she goes. She needs to be on the move.”

Callahan raised an eyebrow. “Working for a Templar company, or as an actual Templar?”

“Real Templar, with a cover job. Like the rest of us.”

“She’s a thief.”

“Yeah, and we’re assassins and a lot more. I hear you like to play with explosives.”

“You have a point there.”

Marie waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she asked, “Did they ask you about her?”

“The Marshall called me. I told him I didn’t have a good reason, but my gut told me to hang on to her.”

“What did he say?”

Callahan laughed. “The Marshall? What do you think he said? He said ‘Death in Battle.’ Then he hung up.”

Two hours later, Marie saw Jean sitting in a deck chair in the afternoon sun. When they walked back, Jean inclined her head to the house and said, “In there, on the table, in that plastic box. Don’t open it. Don’t even touch or move it.”

The two chemists were already staring at the manuscript in the box and discussing the aging step that was ahead of them. “How’s it look?” asked Marie.

They both looked up at her. “Looks good to me,” answered the one with the pony tail, “but I can’t read Latin, either. I just age the thing.” He stepped back. “Take a look.”

Marie bent over the manuscript and carefully read every word, then she stood back and considered the entire product. “She did it,” she said quietly. “Good Goddamn, she did it.”

She ran to the next room and returned with a picture of the original and laid it next to the plastic box. Even Callahan could see both pages looked identical, except for the brownish tinge on the original.

“When do you guys make it old and brownish?” he asked the chemists.

One consulted his watch and said, “Forty-three minutes. But we’re going to set up now.” He picked up the plastic box and both chemists disappeared to their improvised lab.

An hour later, the chemists came back with the plastic box. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Treaty of Tuscany, properly and perfectly aged.” He laid the box on the table next to the picture of the original.

Marie bent over the table and swung her head from Jean’s forgery to the picture of the original. “We’ve done it. By God, we’ve done it.”

 

*     *     *

Jean was still stretched out in the mountain sun when Callahan went back out on the deck.

“Happy?” she asked without looking at him.

“Marie says it’s perfect. The guys managed to turn it brown. Just by looking, I couldn’t tell the real thing from your forgery.”

“Good.” She sat up in the chair. “Do I get to live, now?”

“Not my decision. But I did put in a good word for you.”

“How about Marie? What does she think?”

Callahan shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her.”

Now she swung her legs sideways on the chair. “What’s with you two? Don’t you talk?”

“Sure we talk. We talk all the time.”

“No, not for the stupid job. I mean… here you are… two attractive people… both single… what’s the problem?”

“No problem. I don’t know. I just don’t think I’m her type.”

She shook her head in disgust. “God save you both from yourselves.”

“Yeah, maybe he will.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “But back to the treaty. I have to leave today with that forgery, and I need to know how to take care of it, even if I have to improvise. Say… maybe I’m running for my life… or maybe I have to hide it.  What are the basics?”

She gave him a brief outline of how to keep the forgery in good condition. Water, she said, would immediately ruin it.

“Ok, thanks.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “And I meant it when I said I put in a good recommendation for you. I hope it all works out.”

“And I meant it, too,” she answered.

“You mean about keeping the treaty dry?”

“No, you ass. About Marie.”

 

Vatican - Sunday, April 26

“Here is the list you asked for, Eminence.” Agretti’s secretary handed him two pages.

Agretti scanned the pages. America, France, Japan, Spain, Mexico, and half the nations in the world had approached the Vatican, informally, of course, asking about the Treaty of Tuscany.

“How did these come in, DeSantis?” he asked the secretary.

“You know, our ambassadors, their ambassadors, quiet questions at diplomatic receptions, lots of low-level inquiries. Nobody really tipping their hands.”

They are in as much danger as we are, but they will let us slowly swing in the wind as long as they know what direction the wind blows. Damn that Pope.

 

Vatican  - Sunday, April 26

Mancini, Carlos Perez, and Monsignor Herring stood back while the technician worked on the door to Santini’s office safe. They were the three witnesses Vatican policy required when any safe was opened upon the death of its owner. Herring was a linguist and historian, and one of Santini’s assistants at the library.

The technician hit keys on his computer, watched the red numbers changing, and slowly turned the dial on the safe. He held up a finger, snapped it down, and turned the handle of the safe. He pulled the door half an inch open, handed Mancini a slip of paper with the combination, then gathered up his tools and equipment and left the room to the witnesses.

Carlos pulled the door all the way open and they all stared at the one hundred and three priceless medallions that had been stolen from the Vatican Library while St. Peter’s was being bombed.

 

*     *     *

Later that day Mancini spread towels on the floor in front of Santini’s safe and began to roll up the medallions so they didn’t touch each other.

Carlos pointed at the medallions. “You have any idea what’s going on here? I mean with Santini? Here’s the loot he said was taken, right here in his safe. And the theft on Easter? All that?”

“I don’t know. This gets more and more twisted. Santini was out there telling the whole world about the priceless history that was stolen. Everyone is on the lookout for it.” He picked up a medallion. “And here it is. It’s all connected somehow. I just don’t know how.”

Neither man knew what the other knew, nor what they should know, so neither was about to reveal anything.

“Do you have Monsignor Herring under control?” Mancini asked. “You can’t very well give these things to me to stash somewhere and then have him running to the TV news guys saying they were found.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “The Monsignor and I had a talk.”

“One of those special kinds of talks?” Mancini asked.

“Yeah. That kind of talk. He’ll keep quiet. He’s a pretty good guy, and he’s as dedicated to this library as Santini was. The last thing he wants is to see the library and Santini dragged through the mud over a bogus theft. He doesn’t need any convincing, but I didn’t let that stop me.”

Carlos picked up a medallion and turned it over. “What do you know about preserving priceless art, Mancini?”

“I think I know about as much as you do.”

“In that case, we are in very big trouble.”

“Is this what you thought you’d be doing as the Pope’s assistant when you got here?”

Carlos laughed. “You know, with that guy, you never know what’s going to happen. I mean it. There’s either a dark cloud or a ray of sunshine following him all through life. Nothing in the middle. Things are either going great, or they are headed straight to hell.”

“How long have you been with him?”

“It’s fifteen years now. I was a seminarian with a bunch outside a government office in Mexico City protesting some arrests, I think. I forget. The cops came out swinging, and we started swinging back. Turns out I was back to back with this big guy. I didn’t know who he was. When it starts to go bad for us, he says, ‘Follow me,’ kicks his way through the cops and we haul our butts down the street, through a few alleys, and in the back door of a bar he knows.”

Mancini grinned. “Was that your employment interview?”

“Yeah, I guess so. He was just a regular priest then, hadn’t made bishop yet.  Anyway, we kept in touch, and just after I was ordained a priest, he gets made a bishop, pulls some strings, and has me transferred to his office.” Carlos sat back on the floor against the wall and rested his hands on his knees. “And can you believe it? We’ve come all the way from a street brawl with the Mexican cops to the Vatican. Like I said, nothing surprises me anymore.”

They managed to get all the medallions into four document cases and carried them over to Mancini’s office.

“Well,” said Carlos, “the boss wants you to get these things out of the Vatican, the farther away the better, until things settle down. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few years. I don’t know. Think you can remember where they came from?”

Mancini smiled. “They’ll be in a safe place within twenty-four hours, and all you have to do is ask, and they’ll be back here.”

“Where they going?”

Mancini studied Carlos. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. You said you and the Pope shouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, I know. So, just get them out of here.”

 

Zurich - Monday, April 27

Callahan and the Templar Marshall looked at each other, then at the Master’s back as he stared at the morning sun out his office window. The Marshall brusquely checked Callahan with a hand when he was about to say something.

Callahan had seen the Master only once, when he had been fully vested as a Templar, and this was his first visit to his office.

The Master spun his chair back around and pointed a long finger at Callahan. “Callahan, you’re a loose cannon. You might complete missions, but it’s just luck that keeps them from going straight to hell.”

Callahan remembered the Marshall telling him to shut up every time he had something to say.  “No matter what you have to say,” the Marshall said before the meeting, “I guarantee it will be wrong. So just shut up.”

Now the Master swung his cane over the desk and pointed at the Marshall. “You and the Archivist think Callahan’s the one to go after Hammid Al Dossary in Saudi Arabia. I think we have better people than him.  In fact, I know we do.” He paused for a moment. “But they haven’t been involved in this mess from the beginning.”

Callahan saw the Marshall out of the corner of his eye and looked for some signal. Nothing.

Now the cane swung toward Callahan. “The Marshall correctly points out that most of the breaks in all this treaty business have come from your bumbling. Actually, the way you operate, I’d much rather have you out there with a gun, grenade, and battle-axe. There’s a time for your kind of recklessness, and it’s now.” He squinted at Callahan. “But I don’t always get what I want. And neither do you.

“So, my job,” he laid the cane across the desk and leaned forward on his elbows, “is to decide, and I’ve decided.  I’m stuck. I don’t like it, but I’m stuck. I don’t care if it’s luck, or divine intervention, but I’m going to go along. It’s your mission, Callahan, because of just one simple reason. No matter what I think of you, this whole thing stinks, and you stink so much already, you get to jump in the crap to fix it.”

Callahan said nothing and kept his face frozen.

“But listen to this and listen good. This mission is of the highest importance, it has a very low probability of success, but a huge payoff if you manage to pull it off.  So, you go down there and do whatever, that means whatever, you have to do to make it work. Blow ‘em all to hell if you need to. I mean it. You need help from Zurich?” He pointed at the Marshall. “Tell him. He knows how to get it.”

The cane came up again and targeted Callahan. “And remember this. You know you can’t be taken. And you know what that means for a Templar. With today’s drugs, they’ll get everything you know, and you know too much. We all do. So, if you have to take yourself out, that’s still Death in Battle.”

Now the Marshall slammed a palm down on the arm of his chair and looked at Callahan. “But if it comes to that, make sure you take a bunch of the bastards with you. The more the better. That’s the best Death in Battle. It’s a thing to be shared.  And when you’re born again, make sure you come back to us.”

The Marshall stood up, and Callahan followed. “I think Mr. Callahan understands.” Callahan nodded, but kept silent. “Now can we get about our business?”

“Get out.”

 

Vatican - Monday, April 27

Father Girard took ten deep breaths, said a quick prayer and strode briskly to the front of the briefing room where the world’s media had gathered. Cameras circled the outside perimeter of the room, herding the reporters with their recorders and notebooks to the center.  He stepped up to a slightly raised podium with a dozen microphones clamped to the front, clasped his hands behind his back and calmly stood watching the chattering media crowd.

Luc Girard, the Pope’s spokesman, the official voice of the Vatican, Jesuit, Frenchman, modern man of the world was about to enter battle over a medieval treaty. The Crusades had never died. They were like a vampire that kept coming back to life. Well, he had his orders, and they wouldn’t do anything to quiet the situation. Probably do just the opposite.

Pope Dominic had personally told him to, “Kick some ass out there. Stir ‘em up. This isn’t a refined academic discussion anymore, this is a knife fight. Everyone brings a gun to a knife fight, so I want you to bring a big bomb. I want the world to know the Church is standing up to these pendejos.”

If that’s what the Pope wants, then that’s what the Pope gets. You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.

“My name is Luc Girard, and I have an official statement to read. Then, and only then, I will take questions.”

Girard picked up a piece of paper and balanced a pair of reading glasses on his nose. “There is no Treaty of Tuscany, and there never has been one. It does not exist, and it has never existed. The Church does not have a policy to rid the world of Islam, and it never has had such a policy. The Church offers the hand of friendship to all Muslims.”

Girard cleared his throat, put down the paper, stuffed the glasses into a pocket and said, “Questions?”

“Father, what do you say to Hammid Al Dossary’s claim he has the Treaty of Tuscany?”

“Nonsense. He can’t have what has never existed.”

“Father Girard, what do you think Al Dossary has?”

“What does he have?” Girard scanned the room and shrugged. “I don’t know, but he does not have the Treaty of Tuscany. He may have acquired millions of other things over the years,” Girard smiled, “but I can’t comment on that.”

“Is Al Dossary a fraud?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the Vatican position that the treaty is a hoax?”

“Yes. A malicious hoax.”

“What would you say if impartial experts tested the treaty and found it authentic?”

“I would say they were neither impartial nor expert.”

“Would the Vatican cooperate in testing the treaty?”

“Look,” Girard took a sip of water, “all we have from Mr. Al Dossary is a lot of inflammatory words and stacks of dead Muslims in major Islamic cities around the world. His own people. Dead. It’s time for Mr. Al Dossary to put up or shut up. Let him show the world what he has instead of playing the coy virgin peeking out from behind a veil.”

That should do it, thought Girard. The Pope wanted to rile this guy up, insult him, throw down the gauntlet. Publicly comparing him to a woman, and alluding it was a veiled Muslim woman, was about as insulting as it got.

“Are you calling Hammid Al Dossary a liar?”

“I’d prefer to say he was badly deluded, but if he isn’t, then yes, he is a liar. And he’s a liar who is responsible for all these deaths we have seen recently as Muslims have responded to his vicious drivel by killing each other. We might ask why Muslims kill each other when they get upset. And we might ask who is leading them to this carnage.”

“Father Girard, this defiant stance appears to be a departure from the policies of the last Pope.”

“There have been vicious attacks on the Church. The last Pope died in one, so, he’s not dealing with these attacks by Al Dossary. This stance is an appropriate response regardless of who is Pope.”

“Is this a return to a more militant position by the Church?”

“The Church has never abandoned the truth, and it never will. This is an expression of that commitment.”

“You almost sound like you are looking for a fight.”

“The Church is not looking for a fight, but it won’t back down when attacked. That’s suicide.  And it will win when it engages. For two thousand years it has won.”

“Muslims have been around for almost as long.”

“Yes. And Pope Dominic wishes them peace and prosperity for thousands of years to come.”

“Are you concerned with igniting a religious war?”

“Not at all. Men of goodwill from the world’s great religions have never been in conflict. It is only the extremist parasites who thrive on fomenting strife.”

“Are you saying Hammid Al Dossary is an extremist?”

“I’d say orchestrating the death and injury of hundreds of one’s own people is extreme, wouldn’t you?”

“Is he a parasite?”

“Parasites live off the blood of their host. Next question.”

“How can you prove something doesn’t exist?”

“Does CNN believe in unicorns? The Easter Bunny? The Tooth Fairy? How about space aliens or leprechauns? Or has it produced a three-part prime time series proving they don’t exist?”

“What do you say to the more than one billion Muslims of the world?”

“I say, ‘Salaam Aleykum.’”

“What does that mean?”

 “It’s Arabic. It means, ‘Peace be with you.’”

“What do you say to those who say the Church is an outmoded throwback to medieval times?”

“I say, ‘Isn’t it great those people have the freedom to say that.’”

“Your tone sounds somewhat belligerent.”

“Belligerent, as in warlike? We were attacked right here in the Vatican by cowards who killed and maimed thousands of innocent men, women, and children. Cowards who strap bombs on their own handicapped and mentally challenged children. That sounds like an act of war to me.”

“Is Hammid Al Dossary a coward?”

“We will soon see.”

“Is the Vatican now at war with those who perpetrated the attacks?”

“Yes.”

 

*     *     *

The Pope drummed his fingers on the table as the press conference with Father Girard ended. “What do you think, Carlos?”

“It’s exactly what you told him to do.” Carlos shrugged. “Piss ‘em off big time. Stir things up.”

“I know that.” The Pope waved an impatient hand.  “And he did do exactly what I told him to do. I’m sure he thinks I’m nuts. But did I choose the right path here?”

“Boss, you did what you always do. You throw a whole bunch of crap out there so the other guy starts slipping around in it and can’t keep his balance.  Knock his operation off schedule. Were you right? How do I know? You’re right if it works, and wrong if it doesn’t.”

The Pope looked over to Agretti for his reaction. “Cardinal? What do you think?”

“With respect, Holiness…”

The Pope ran a hand through his hair. “Alberto, I don’t give a damn about respect. I want to know what you think. Just say it.”

Agretti’s neck reddened and his eyes began to sting. “If you insist.  It was the wrong thing to do. It probably set back our relations with the Muslim world a hundred years. We’ve spent the last twenty years trying to reconcile with these people, and all that effort has just been squandered. With respect, Holiness.”

“Yes,” said the Pope. “I was wondering the same thing myself. Maybe it’s time to show these people some respect. Show them we respect them enough to hold them to the standards of civilized people. Thanks for your candor, Alberto. I bet it felt good.”

We need a Pope, a real Pope, Agretti thought, a refined intellectual, not a Mexican cowboy.

“Well, we’ve fired back, so let’s not wait around. How’s that history coming, Carlos?” The Pope had asked the Vatican Library to produce a short history of the relations between the Church and Islam.

“Herring… Monsignor Herring. He’s taken over for Santini. From the library. Says a first draft will be ready this afternoon.”

“Make sure it’s what I want, plain, simple, and to the point. I don’t want a bunch of Vatican-speak. If it isn’t right, give it back to him and tell him to do it over.”

“Yes, Boss.”

The Pope cocked an eyebrow at Carlos. “You ready to become a bishop, Carlos? I have you ordering around bishops and cardinals. Need the rank?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had to have some heart-to-heart talks with some of them, but I don’t think I’ll have a problem. If I screw it up as plain old Father Perez, then Bishop Perez screws it up worse.”

“Ok. Let me know when you want to be Bishop Perez.”

“Yes, Boss.”

The Pope picked up a yellow pad with a long list of to-do items.

“And our own in house experts?” He had also ordered the Church’s best experts on Islam to assemble at the Vatican so he wasn’t, “thrashing around trying to find someone who knows where Mecca is.”

“Half of them are here, Boss, and the other half are on the way.”

“Mancini ready?”

“I gave him a heads-up about what Girard would say. He put extra men in place before the press conference, and he has everyone on alert.”

“Ok. Give them whatever they need.” The Pope turned to Agretti. “And I presume you will have half the countries in the world on the phone right about now?”

“I’m afraid you are right, Holiness. I better get back to the office.”

 

*     *     *

The Templar Archivist scratched his head with his glasses. “You know, this Pope is really smart or really dumb. I think the jury is still out.”

The Master was scanning a transcript of Girard’s press conference. “Well, he calls Al Dossary a liar, a coward, and a woman. A virgin, too. And implies he has a social disease. That’s a good start. Wars have started over a lot less.”

The Master slid the transcript down the table to the Marshall. “What’s your best guess, Patrick? The Pope knows Al Dossary has the treaty, he knows what it says, and he knows it will pass all the fancy new scientific tests. If he knows all that, what’s his angle here? He’s just asking to be made a fool before the whole world when Al Dossary produces it.” 

The Archivist leaned over the table on his forearms and lifted his head so his chin was just inches off the table. “Best guess? I’d say he knows something nobody else knows. Remember, that library and those archives down there are full of moldering stuff that hasn’t seen the light of day for hundreds of years. All I can figure is they have something else nobody knows about.”

”Hmmph.” The Marshall rubbed his face. “Maybe we’re being too clever. Maybe the Pope doesn’t know squat. Maybe he doesn’t know what everyone else knows.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Master snapped.

“What if he doesn’t know Al Dossary has the treaty? What if he doesn’t know the treaty is real? What if he doesn’t know it came from the Vatican Library?”

“Mancini and Callahan told them the treaty was taken. Marie Curtis wrote up a report on it for them. We have a copy around here somewhere, don’t we? Patrick?”

The Archivist had clasped his hands behind his head, tilted his chair back, and was staring intently at the ceiling mumbling to himself.

“Patrick,” said the Master, “are you still with us?”

“Oh, God save us all, for we are doomed.” He shook his head and looked from Master to Marshall. “God save us all from our great stupidity.”

“What are you babbling about?” The Master’s voice rose.

“And just who did Marie give her report to?” asked the Archivist. “She gave it to Callahan. And who did Callahan give it to? He gave it to Mancini. And who did Mancini give it to? They didn’t have a new Pope yet. Who was in charge?” The Archivist stopped to let his words sink in.

“Agretti,” said the Master. “He gave it to Agretti… Oh, hell.”

“And just where do you think the information went after that?” asked the Archivist.

“So, we know that librarian, Santini, he knew. That’s probably why he’s dead. And Agretti knows. But we don’t know the Pope knows. And the way he’s acting, he might very well not know.”

The Marshall turned to the Master. “Isn’t it time for the Templar Master to have his sit-down meeting with the Pope and endorse the Concordat? And maybe you could bring a copy of the treaty with you. You know, sort of a goodwill gift?”

The Master looked at the Archivist. “Patrick, get me a copy of the original treaty. One of those pictures Jean Randolph took. The best you have. And a Latin transcript. Also a translation into English, Italian, and Spanish.”

“And you,” he turned to the Marshall, “set up a meeting with the Pope for me. As soon as possible. Just the Pope. That means tonight.”

“Andre!” The Master pushed the intercom button to his secretary’s desk. “Get the jet ready for a trip to Rome. Keep it on stand-by and ready to leave whenever I get there. Starting now.”

 

*     *     *

Carlos Perez made his way through the corridors of the Vatican to the employee’s cafeteria to meet Mancini for lunch. Mancini’s call was mysterious, but urgent. He liked Mancini, and so did the Pope. The guy gave straight answers, didn’t shy from giving bad news, and had a reasonable solution to most problems. He also understood the Vatican’s need for open access, and said his motto was “Safe open access.”

He threw a Coke, salad, and Kaiser roll on his tray and moved to a deserted table where Mancini waved to him. He noticed the neighboring tables were also vacant. By design? He would soon know.

“Ok. What’s today’s crisis, Mancini?” Carlos dug into his salad.

“Today is a bit different, Carlos. Remember when the Pope met with the Templar Marshall last week?”

Carlos’ fork stopped in midair. “What meeting?” How did Mancini know that?

“The one where the Pope and the Templars made an alliance under the terms of the Concordat of Nocera.”

Now he put his fork down. “Continue.”

“The Templar Master wants to meet with the Pope today. They have to meet to formalize the alliance, but something else has come up and the Master requests an immediate meeting. Today. Tonight, if possible. He’s coming to the aid of an ally. It’s important.”

“You are a Templar, Mancini?”

“Yes.”

“Does the Pope know?”

“He will when you tell him.”

“Why have you kept this secret?”

“Orders.”

“Why are you telling me now?”

“Orders.”

“Do you know what the Master wants that is so urgent?”

“That’s between the Master and the Pope.”

“But the Templars think it’s urgent?”

“Urgent enough that the Templar Master is in the air bound for Rome at this moment. Believe me. That means it’s urgent.”

“Does it have to do with all this treaty business?”

“Yes. Believe me, Carlos, we’re on the same side on this one. These guys need to get together. Let’s make it happen.”

“Ok.” Carlos stood up and grabbed the Coke and Kaiser roll. “I’ll give you a call with a time and place.”

 

*     *     *

The meeting with the Templar Master began at 8:00 pm, and Carlos had been sitting in front of the door for two hours now, holding the Beretta through a pocket slit in his cassock. He wasn’t sure about these Templars, and now that he knew about Mancini, he didn’t even know who or where they were. Mancini should have told them.

When he told this to the Pope, the Pope had remarked, “Mancini? Templar? Figures. So, is he a spy or a Guardian Angel, Carlos? Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart. But I’ll ask this Master tonight.”

Carlos moved the chair aside at the Pope’s knock from inside the office, and stood back as the Master and Pope shook hands. “Pray for luck, Pedro,” said the Master, “Pray for luck.”

The Master then extended a hand to Carlos. “Pierre LeBlanc, Father Perez, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The Templar Master spoke excellent Spanish, and drilled his deep blue eyes into Carlos. “The Pope told me something of your history together, Father Perez.” The Master released his hand.  “Believe me when I say he needs you more than ever now.  And if you’re ever looking for a job…” With that, he nodded to the Pope and limped to the other end of the hallway where Mancini waited, holding a snap-away briefcase hiding a FN90.

Carlos followed the Pope into the office, and the Pope pointed to the papers scattered across the work table. “There’s our copy of the endorsement of the Concordat. Get it to Agretti, but make a copy first. The Templar took his with him. It’s done. We are now officially allied with the Knights Templar under the terms of the Concordat of Nocera.”

The Pope stuffed his hands in his pockets and gazed out his window at St. Peter’s Piazza. “We have essentially been betrayed, Carlos, betrayed by our own people here in the Vatican, right under my nose. And it takes the Templars to show me what’s happening under my own nose.”

The Pope pointed to the table. “Help yourself. There’s a picture of the Treaty of Tuscany that was stolen from the Vatican Library while St. Peter’s got bombed. Transcripts and translations, too. Latin and English. There’s a Spanish one, too”

“You mean the treaty is real? That thing Al Dossary has is real?”

“Yes. And there’s also a copy of Mancini’s report to Agretti telling him it was stolen. This guy, Callahan, a Templar, figured it out and called in more help, also Templars. They have had our backs all the way through this. They just didn’t realize Agretti sat on the report about the library theft, and I didn’t know diddly.”

The Pope started pacing. “No, it’s worse than that. Agretti and Santini sat right here and lied to me about it. All that ‘Holiness’ crap they spout and the sons of bitches sat right there and lied. But the Templars thought I knew all about the theft of the treaty and was hatching some grand plan. They didn’t know how stupid I really was. They gave me way too much credit.”

“But, Boss, it still might be a fraud. How do we know until it’s tested?”

“Tested? Al Dossary has already had it tested in London. It passed with flying colors. He’s sitting back there laughing his ass off at us.”

The Pope took an orange chair and spun back and forth. “Sit down and I’ll tell you the whole sordid story.”

When the Pope finished briefing Carlos he said, “So, I’ve just denied a treaty exists that does exist. I’ve denied Al Dossary has it, and he does have it. I’ve denied it is authentic, and Al Dossary has already run the tests proving it is authentic. And there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that Santini just tripped down those stairs. He’s been up and down them so many times, he could do it backward on one leg. I wish I had at least a clue about what’s going on here.”

Carlos knew the Pope well enough to keep quiet. Anything could happen when he got like this.

“I need some bishops around here I can trust,” said the Pope. He gave Carlos a sideways look. “Damn it, Carlos, you’re Bishop Perez now.”

“But, Boss…”

“I’m the Pope and I say so. So shut up and put your name on the list of new guys.”

“No, Boss. Don’t do it. Where did I go wrong?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. Like I told you, I just need some bishops around here I can trust. Your number’s up.” The Pope gave him an evil grin. “Starting from the bottom.”

“You’ll change your mind when you calm down.”

“Like hell I will. When’s the ceremony for the investiture of the new bishops?”

“Two weeks.”

“Too long. Find some guys on the list who are local, in the Rome or Italy. Get them in here in the next few days. We’ll make them bishops, you, too. In fact, I think I’ll make you the first so you have some seniority.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, then the Pope said, “You know, in Mexico at least we knew who the enemy was.”

“We’ve been in worse spots,” offered Carlos.

“Yeah? When? Historians call Urban VI the Mad Pope. They’ll be calling me the Idiot Pope.”