Pandora's Ark (26 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN

Vatican City

Cardinal Angullo had received
word that he was being reassigned within a three-day window, even though a
venue had yet to be set or a new secretary of state chosen to succeed his
position.

He stood before
the window of his residence looking out at the forming clouds that were sliding
closer to the Vatican, dark ominous clouds, storm clouds, the type of clouds
that brought torrential rains and celestial staircases of lightning that were
bright and angry in their staccato flashes.

He felt the same
type of seething, the anger building within the pit of his soul. He had positioned
himself perfectly to usurp the papal throne, only to fall short by a thin
margin within the conclave.

With his hand he
grabbed the fabric of his garment and balled it within his fist, turning,
twisting, like his soul. It was as if his anger was something alive and writhing,
something working its way to the surface.

Within three
days. That’s all he had: three days.

But Angullo knew
that he couldn’t wait until the last day or risk drawing undue intention. He
had to act quickly, intelligently, and with great prudence.

He would go
undetected, like last time; on the night he pushed Gregory over the balcony’s
edge by slipping through the hallways where there were no cameras, no spying
eyes. He would enter the chamber like last time, quietly, like a wraith,
unheard and undetected until it was too late. But how to achieve the means was
left up in the air.

No poisons. No
sense of duplicating the last scenario with a simple shove to the pavement
below—too risky a scenario coming so close on the heels of Gregory.
No, mix
it up, change the stage with a dazzling performance by adding a sense of
mystery.

Angullo’s mind
toiled for hours, the clouds moving in until the sky was black, the rain coming
down in sheets, the lightning strikes as brilliant as the sun.

It was two o’clock in the morning, the weather abating little, the possibility of the lightning
posing a problem, which may give up his position within the papal chamber
before he could finish his attempt upon the pontiff’s life.

He had no choice—none
whatsoever. Not only was the window closing, but it was slamming shut.

But how to do
the deed? That was the question. No knives or blunt weapons, nothing that would
leave a mark or cause suspicion that would draw investigators to the scene like
flies to honey.

That left the
pillow, hardly a weapon of choice but weapon enough. He would take the pillow
and apply it to the pontiff’s face, smothering him, then set the stage that
Pius had died in his sleep. This he could manage, having the vantage point of
standing over the weaker man and pressing down until he extinguished his life.

But there was a
problem even with this application, the act leaving telltale signs of murder.
When a person is smothered by this method the capillaries in the whites of the
victim’s eyes burst from pressure, leaving the whites mottled with patches of
red.

The window was
lowering, and quickly.

And he could
feel the rush of blood course through his veins, the surge of adrenaline
fueling him, prompting him to make the move, which was now, before the sun rose.

He took the same
route to the papal chamber as he did on the night of Gregory’s passing by
taking the tunnels beneath the Basilica, the ancient hallways that had been
abandoned for years as the musty, old-time smells assaulted him. He carried a
lamp with him, the fringe of light barely strong enough to direct his way to
the ancient doorways leading to the levels above. The ceilings of the corridors
were low, causing him to stoop as he walked, and the surrounding bricks of the
walls were made of stone the color of desert sand. The earth beneath his feet
was as fine as moon dust as he kicked up small plumes with his footfalls,
leaving clear and precise prints in his wake.

Once he reached
the stairwell he lifted the lamp, the light casting a feeble glow that revealed
an uneven rise of steps. Lifting the hem of his garment, Cardinal Angullo began
his climb to the upper level.

Since he had bypassed all the cameras, he would not
be seen by any security guards watching the monitors.  He was a ghost
.

Feeling slightly
winded at the top of the stairwell, he came upon a wooden door that was held
together by black steel bands and rivets, something from medieval lore, and
used a key to open it. It was the only way to open the passage from his side, the
side of the ancient hallway.

The door opened,
the hinges protesting lightly, and used the light as a wedge to keep the door
open for his escape back to the sanctuary of the
Domus Sanctæ Marthæ
.

He moved quietly down the hallway, which was a dead end except
for the door that was presumed locked and inaccessible. At the mouth of the
hallway, at the opposite end where Angullo entered, stood a Swiss Guard. Not a
problem for the cardinal, since the guard stood thirty meters away and had his
attention focused elsewhere.

The cardinal moved cautiously, silently, his movement fluid
and fleeting. If the man was seen through the lens of a camera, those watching
would have sworn that the cleric was gliding on air like something phantasmal,
eerie or supernatural.

When he reached the pontiff’s door he placed an ear against
the panel, and listened.

Like on the night of Gregory’s death he heard nothing but
the stillness of night, a good omen, and entered the chamber with not even the
sound of a whisper of wind.

He stood there, listening. And then he moved closer to the
walls where the shadows pooled, becoming a part of them. He moved slowly,
gracefully, using the darkness as his ally.

And then a flash of lightning, giving light and pushing
back the darkness, exposing him. But it also granted him the necessary vision
to see that the pontiff was lying in bed with the blanket drawn to his chin and
halfway across his face.

There was another quick flash, proposing enough light to
see the man shift beneath the covers and turned his back to him.

Angullo smiled, God presenting him with the moment. He saw
an unused pillow next to the pontiff’s head, the means and necessity within
reach. It was as if God was sending his divine light to show him the way. He
moved closer, quietly, his footfalls unheard.

And then he stood still, his senses suddenly kicking in.

Something was wrong. The air suddenly seemed oppressive and
heavy, a viable threat lingering close by. In reaction the cardinal assessed
the situation, feeling an unease that drove him away from the bed and back into
the shadows.

As he glided back towards the darkness, a black mass shot
up from the bed. In the cardinal’s eyes it appeared impossibly large, the
shadow rising, the blanket flaring upward and outward like a frill, the thing
beneath it reaching for him, grabbing him, the strength of its grip clutching
his throat in a choking embrace, crushing his windpipe, and forcing him against
the wall.

The cardinal’s heart raced with uncontrollable panic. The
thing before him was massive, large, and in the subsequent pulse of lightning
he witnessed the murderous rage in the man’s eyes, saw the hateful intent and
the willingness to gladly snuff out his life with a twist of his hand and
snapping his neck where he stood.

Only it was not the pontiff.

This man was large and bulky with broad shoulders and thick
arms. His face was angular and sharp. And his teeth gritted as he pressed his
hand across the cardinal’s throat, as if he was trying to force the man’s neck
through the wall.

The cardinal grunted, then gasped, his world starting to go
black as pinpricks of light started to shoot off in his field of vision.

Suddenly the light came on. In the background stood
Bonasero Vessucci wearing a sleeping garment that covered him from neck to toe.
Beside him stood the man he had seen earlier, the security guard. But this time
he was wearing different garb. He wore a cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic
collar. His pants were of military fashion, as were the boots—a weird display
of uniform. And then he focused on the man who pressed him tightly against the
wall, noting the same outfit.

“Ease up, Kimball,” said the pontiff.

But Kimball held tight, fighting off the urge to push the
man through the marble wall, if that was possible.

“Kimball, enough.”

The Vatican Knight eased off and let the cardinal regain
his breath, but stood close by to engineer another thorough choking, if
necessary.

Bonasero Vessucci advanced slowly, his saddened eyes set on
Angullo. “You truly are a lost soul, Giuseppe; can’t you see that by your
attempt tonight?”

Angullo stared up at Kimball for a brief moment before
sidestepping him. “Attempt?”

“Why are you here at so early an hour?”

“To try to talk you out of my reassignment,” he answered.

“It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“My apologies,” he said. “But the idea of such an
assignment has been eating away at me. I was hoping to conclude the matter as
quickly as possible. I have to admit, Your Holiness, that my actions were not
thought out and premature, allowing my impulse to react rather than my
patience.”

The pontiff sighed. “Do you think I really believe that,
Giuseppe?”

“It is the truth.”

Vessucci stared at him for a brief moment before a
rebuttal. “No, Giuseppe, it’s not. I gave specific orders to the guard not to
allow anyone in this hallway. No one. Yet here you are.” He cocked his head
questioningly to the side. “So tell me, how did you get here?”

Angullo remained quiet, the microexpression of his eyes
flaring with animalistic fear.

“How did you get here?” he repeated.

Silence.

“Did you use the same route the night you visited Pope
Gregory?”

The walls were closing in on Angullo and he knew it,
feeling dangerously oppressed.

“If I view the security cameras, will I see you? Or did you
use a route not within the scope of the cameras eyes?”

“Is there such a passageway?” asked Kimball.

“An ancient one,” said Bonasero. He took a step closer to
the cardinal. “Did you take the ancient tunnels, Giuseppe? Did you purposely
use the tunnels to avoid the cameras?”

Angullo closed in on himself, drawing his shoulders inward
as if imploding, making him smaller.

Kimball reached out and grabbed the man by the collar,
setting him straight. “The pontiff asked you a question. Don’t you think you
better answer him?”

Angullo held his hands out imploringly. “Please, Bonasero,
my intentions were sincere.”

“Then why take the old passageway? It only confirms what I
thought,” he said, “since we could not locate you on the cameras on the night
of Gregory’s death. And now you come into my chamber using the same course with
perhaps the same intent in your heart? Does the power of supreme leadership
mean so much to you that you’re willing to kill for it?”

“Your Holiness, my intent was to plea for your forgiveness
and to entreat you to maintain my position here at the Vatican, since a
secretary of state has yet to be chosen.”

“In the eyes of God, Giuseppe, you lie . . . In the eyes of
God. Do you think when it’s your time of Judgment that God will roll out the
red carpet for you?”

Angullo swallowed.

“I feel sorry for you, Giuseppe. I’m not sure that your
soul can be saved. I pray it can. But I doubt it.”

“What I say is true.”

“Stop it!” yelled the pontiff. “Every time you tell a lie,
you take one step closer to Hell. Lying is not the way of absolution, Giuseppe,
but truth is.”

The cardinal measured the Knights, turning his gaze to
Kimball, to Leviticus, then back to Bonasero Vessucci. “I see,” he said. “I see
that you reinstated the Vatican Knights, yes? Your personal army of killers,
correct?”

Kimball’s grip tightened on the cardinal’s collar, causing
the cleric to gasp. 

And then, with an uplifting and sardonic grin, the cardinal
went on. “How easy it is to justify your needs, assembling murderers to achieve
the means. Tell me, Bonasero, do
you
think that God will roll out the
red carpet for
you
on the Day of Judgment?” His smile widened. “It’s a
stop we all have to make someday.”

“My intentions are good, Giuseppe. What is in my heart,
what is in the hearts of these men, bear nothing but good intentions. These
killers, as you call them, work abroad saving the lives of those who cannot
protect themselves. Women, children, those who are feeble minded or incapable
of raising a voice in fear of fatal reprisals, such as having a knife driven
across their throat, or perhaps a child tries to run away from someone who
wants to incorporate them into their dark legions by placing a gun in their
hands, and tells them to kill or be killed, like in Uganda or Burma.”

“And you really think that these men can alter destiny?”

“These men provide salvation when salvation is all but
lost. In your case, Giuseppe, these men can do nothing for you.” And then:
“Kimball.”