The Chimera Sanction (14 page)

Desperation and panic started flooding his brain. Stay calm, I must
stay calm. He started to tread water again when suddenly he felt
something
brush his left hand. A bit of yellow rope. Jesus. It’s … it must be the end of the raft’s painter. He grabbed the yellow, floating
polypropylene
rope and pulled. Dear God, make that it’s still connected to the raft. He pulled frantically, and felt the tug of the raft at the other end of the raft’s painter. Nothing had ever felt so good. Slowly, one hand at a time, he pulled in the raft, careful not to entangle himself in the painter, treading water between pulls. With the raft finally alongside, he hung there for a moment, his right hand wrapped around the painter, too tired to climb in. After a moment, gathering his strength, he
struggled
up the two rubber steps and tumbled into the raft. He lay on the bottom exhausted, taking short breaths, and eventually fell into a
semi-conscious
sleep.

A while later, a barely perceptible tapping sound tore insistently at Gaspard’s dazed somnolence, finally awakening him. He leaned on the raft’s side and looked about. The fury of the sirocco had passed, replaced by a cool westerly breeze. The seas, although diminished, were still chaotic, a confused maelstrom of large, crisscrossing swells. Gaspard could hear a faint thump, thump, thump coming from somewhere in the distance. Squinting into the sunlight, he saw a human form, waving, or … no, someone was striking what looked like a large, wooden box.

Gaspard searched for a paddle inside the raft, but there was none. Only an emergency ration kit and a portable VHF radio transmitter under the life raft’s torn cover. He cupped his hands and yelled to the man: ‘Hang on!’

Gaspard couldn’t make out his faint reply, but noticed that the wind was pushing the life raft closer. ‘I’m coming. Hang on!’ he shouted. Gaspard leaned over the edge of the raft and started to paddle with his hands. The raft barely moved. Gaspard looked at the desperate man and saw he couldn’t hold onto the wooden object much longer. The man’s arm went up in the air and fell limp into the water one more time, and didn’t move. The top of his head was now barely visible over the box. He was going under.

Gaspard realized it was now or never. He rose and slumped over the rubber edge of the raft into the cold water. He swam slowly with one hand, trying to conserve what little energy he had left, pulling the
life raft with the other. Just as Gaspard reached him, the man tried to grab Gaspard’s outstretched arm. He couldn’t and, a few feet only from Gaspard, disappeared below the waves. Gaspard took a deep breath, dove and reached down, grabbing the drowning man’s arm. He pulled him up, up from the clutches of Poseidon, and alongside the raft. Gaspard climbed aboard, and tried lifting the limp man inside the raft. Something on the man’s garment kept getting caught on the raft’s towing ring. He was about to slip underwater again when, with his last bit of strength, Gaspard seized both the man’s arms and pulled him over the rubber tube.

The man managed an exhausted smile of gratitude, then slumped onto the raft’s bottom and fell unconscious.

De Ségur put the small VHF phone to his ear and recognized Antoine’s frantic voice: ‘It is terrible, terrible. So many, they’re gone. Terrible.’

‘Calm down, Antoine. What happened?’

‘Jean Gaspard reached us on his radio, from the life raft. They were hit by a rogue wave. It was terrible, terrible. The Bellerophon, she went down in minutes.’

‘Where is Gaspard?’

‘He gave the GPS fix of the life raft. A couple of fishermen here have gone to get him.’

‘And the others?’

‘I don’t know. Gaspard’s VHF went dead.’

‘How much time to bring him back to port?’ asked de Ségur.

‘I would say about three hours.’

‘Wait for them.’

‘Yes sir.’

De Ségur closed his phone and turned somberly to the others: ‘The Bellerophon went down in the sirocco. Gaspard is alive. Perhaps others also. We’ll know more when he gets back.’

There was a long moment of silence, as the news sank in. Finally, one of the Cathars looked up at de Ségur. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We proceed as planned.’

During the press conference’s tumultuous aftermath, Brentano had seized his opportunity and convened the meeting of the inner Curia. There were hard decisions to be made in light of the dire circumstances. The cardinals entered one by one, their mien somber, and seated
themselves
once again around the oval, dark walnut table.

I must get this started now, thought Brentano. Before they read the Code. ‘Cardinal Signorelli, you must issue the writs of convocation for the Conclave. I assume you can expedite this quickly,’ said Brentano.

Before Signorelli could answer, Fouquet interrupted. ‘Cardinal, Canon law clearly states there must first be confirmation of the Pope’s death by the Camerlengo. As Camerlengo I cannot proceed until—’

‘Everyone saw it, cardinal,’ said Brentano. ‘We may never have the opportunity to see the body.’

‘Your Eminences,’ interrupted Legnano. ‘I cannot believe what I am hearing. We haven’t even discussed how we will address the issue of the funeral, even if indeed there is to be one. If not, what form will the
symbolic
remembrance of Pope Clement’s death take? How are we to make arrangements for such an event? I think your discussion of the
succession
is, if you’ll pardon the euphemism, a bit premature.’ He looked at Brentano. ‘Article 306 B specifies that in the case of the Pope’s disappearance, we must wait ninety days before presuming him dead.

‘Unless we—’

‘Article 306 B applies in case of doubt, cardinal,’ interrupted Brentano. ‘We all saw it. Pope Clement XXI is dead. Why delay the Conclave unnecessarily? The Church needs a new leader now.’

‘With all due respect, monsignor,’ said Legnano, his tone rising to Brentano’s challenge, ‘until all hope is lost and we have confirmation, it is hasty to call the Conclave. We will have plenty of time to do so later. Until then, Cardinal Fouquet, as Camerlengo, you have all papal powers.’

‘If the Code is clear, then we must wait,’ said Fouquet.

Brentano felt the opportunity slipping away. He looked at Sforza,
who hadn’t spoken. ‘I see. And what say you, Cardinal Sforza?’ said Brentano.

‘We wait.’

Brentano felt the blood rush to his face. He bit his tongue and walked out. He had urgent calls to make.

The breakfast room of the hotel was remarkably quiet that morning. Having practically inhaled the last of his croissant, Dulac put down the coffee cup he was about to bring to his lips and grabbed his insistent cellphone. He recognized the number: Interpol’s forensics section.

‘Mr Dulac, it’s Gina,’ she said, excitement in her voice. ‘We have the frame-by-frame analysis of the video. Although the camera blurred just before the moment of impact, we did a computer extrapolation based on the earlier trajectory of the scimitar and compared it to the seating
position
of the Pope. If we are right, the scimitar comes in contact with the side of the Pope’s head.’

‘And?’ said Dulac, taking a sip of coffee while he waited for her to continue.

‘It looks like the blow was a glancing one.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dulac put the cup down and straightened in his chair.

‘I mean it’s quite possible that the blow didn’t kill him.’

‘Jesus to Christ!’ Dulac thought quickly. ‘Did you get a second opinion?’

‘We have MI6’s. They agree with us.’

‘Agree with what?’

‘With the possibility.’

‘But he fell forward. His blood was all over the camera’s lens.’

‘It can happen in the case of a head wound. We checked with
pathology
at Lyon’s Leclerc hospital.’

Dulac reached across the table for his pack of Gitanes. ‘Is this
information
contained?’

‘As far as we know, only MI6 knows about this. But they must report it to the P.M.’s office. We haven’t checked with other agencies yet.’

‘Has anyone advised Legnano?’

‘No. Beside Mr Harris, you are the first person—’

‘I’m seeing Legnano this morning. He should be made aware of this.’

‘Before you do that, there’s a slight problem.’

‘Hmm…. There always is.’

‘Our colleague, Doctor Guerlan, disagrees with us.’

‘Explain.’

‘According to Guerlan, with the speed of the blow, it was almost impossible for the scimitar to stop at the side of the head. The scimitar would have continued its trajectory and severed either the regular or the left common carotid artery, or both.’

‘Resulting in?’

‘Certain death in less than two minutes.’

Dulac paused to light his cigarette. ‘And why shouldn’t I believe Guerlan’s version?’

‘Because according to Dr Villandré of Sainte-Ursule hospital, there would have been much more blood. Besides, MI6 and I believe there was a sharp deceleration of the scimitar’s movement towards the end of its arc.’

Dulac took a deep drag of his Gitane. ‘Great, just pissing great. So we really don’t know where we damn well stand. Transfer me to Harris.’

‘There’s no need to be rude.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’ Dulac heard a click, and was about to close his cell when he heard the General Secretary’s voice.

‘Harris.’

‘Dulac. I was on the phone with Gina. What do you make of her report?’

‘We’re cross-checking with the FBI forensics people,’ said Harris.

‘I’d rather have something more concrete before I go to Legnano with this.’

The young courier handed the package, wrapped in a brown box, to the Swiss Guard at the Sant’Anna entrance of the Vatican, then disappeared into the already dense morning crowd of Via Della Conciliazione.

‘It’s for Cardinal Fouquet,’ said the guard as he stood at the doorway of Fouquet’s office, addressing the gray haired woman seated at her secretary’s desk, phone in hand.

She shielded the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘Security?’

‘We’ve scanned it. It’s clean.’

‘Bring it here then,’ she ordered, her strong voice belying her frail
appearance. ‘Leave it on the desk.’

‘I have to check when you open it,’ said the guard.

‘Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ll open it later.’

‘I’ll wait.’ The young Swiss Guard wasn’t backing down. He stood at the desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

‘I’ll call you back,’ she said and put down the phone. She grabbed the package and shook it. Turning towards the guard, she said, ‘Another statue of the Virgin Mary? What’s your bet?’

The guard wasn’t buying into her game, looking impatiently towards the door. ‘I have to get back.’

‘All right, all right. Hand me the letter-opener over there, will you?’ she said, pointing at a table beside her desk and a mug containing an assortment of pens, pencils and a letter opener.

He reached over and handed her the small-scaled Toledo sword.

‘Let’s see, I’ll bet it’s a plaster statuette,’ she said, shaking the package again.

‘I’ll bet it isn’t.’ The Swiss Guard knew it wasn’t. The scanner had confirmed that apart from the plastic disk, the package contained no solids.

She opened the outer wrapping of the box and fumbled with its contents.

‘Darn protective material. Now we have to recycle it.’ She pulled out the DVD holder. ‘All this for a DVD?’ She reached in again. ‘There’s something else …’

She removed more insulating material and suddenly her hand drew back quickly. ‘It’s freezing.’ She opened the package more and the
transparent
gel cold pack slithered onto the desk.

‘Oh my God!’ She recoiled in horror, her mouth agape, her lips trembling.

The Swiss Guard, seeing she was about to faint, rushed towards the stricken woman.

‘Are you all right?’ he said, supporting her shoulders.

‘Is it…?’

He looked with curiosity at the gel pack on the desk, and said, ‘It … it looks like an ear.’

The nervous priest intercepted Dulac as he made his way down the
marble corridor to the Segnatura room.

‘Have you heard the news?’

Before Dulac could ask to what news he was referring, the priest blurted out, ‘The Curia received a package containing the Pope’s left ear this morning. The Curia and the police are in the Segnatura room now.’

Dulac entered the room, and saw Guadagni, standing amidst the cardinals, immersed in an intense discussion with Legnano and Sforza. They barely seemed to notice him, until Legnano turned to greet him. ‘Mr Dulac. You got my message?’

‘Which message?’

‘I left a message at your hotel for you to come over immediately.’

‘I learned about the Pope’s ear just now. I was coming to meet you on another subject.’

‘Gentlemen, please be seated,’ said Legnano. He led Dulac by the arm to a seat next to Cardinal Signorelli, whose corpulence overflowed fluidly on either side of his chair.

Sforza, sitting across from him, his voice heavy with stress, spoke.

‘These people, these butchers. Not content to kill him, now they’re sending us parts of his body. When will this desecration, this savagery stop?’

‘You are sure it’s the Pope’s?’ asked Dulac.

‘We’re having tests done right now,’ said Legnano.

The technician signaled to Legnano that the computer hookup was ready. The room was suddenly silent. The screen came alive with the shape of the same lanky, hooded man.

‘De Ségur,’ whispered Dulac under his breath.

‘Men of little faith, we have kept our bargain. You have paid for a pound of flesh and we have delivered it. The world shall know of your avarice today, at 10.30 a.m.’ The screen went blank.

There was a short pause before Legnano spoke. ‘That must mean he’s still alive. He must be alive.’

Suddenly the cardinals’ restraint broke into vociferous exchanges of joy.

Legnano spoke. ‘Cardinals, please. Let’s not be hasty. This could be trickery. I…. But Mr Dulac, you were coming here to—’

‘Cardinal, have you spoken to Harris about the ear?’

‘Not yet.’

Dulac opened his cell, called Harris, and gave him the news. He added: ‘Did you get any other corroboration on Gina’s theory? I see … I agree … I’ll inform the cardinals.’

The prelates’ eyes riveted onto Dulac.

‘Your Eminences, there is a chance, and I stress the word chance, that you might be right. The Pope may be alive. Interpol analyzed the
trajectory
of the scimitar and it corresponds with a side blow to the head. Hence the ear, but—’

‘Mio Dio!’ exclaimed Sforza.

‘Thank God,’ said Fouquet.

‘You said “chance”?’ said Legnano.

‘Yes. Because there is also a possibility that the blow severed his carotid, resulting in death.’

The cardinals’ exuberance evaporated quickly.

‘I see,’ said Legnano. ‘So we are really no further ahead.’

‘We thought it our responsibility to tell you,’ said Dulac. ‘But I have other news. We have confirmed that the hooded man we saw on that fateful day and here again today is Hugues de Ségur.’

‘The man wanted by the French and Italian police in relation to the murders of Archbishops Salvador and Conti?’ said Sforza.

‘Exactly,’ said Dulac. ‘He travels under different aliases, one of which is Pierre de Combel. Apparently, that is now his official name within the Cathar sect. Interpol knows he’s head of a Cathar right wing group. We don’t know their exact purpose, except we have reason to believe it has the financial support of the Cathars.’ Dulac paused and turned briefly towards Guadagni, before lighting the dynamite. ‘Your Eminences, we also have evidence that Romer, your Swiss Guard, was a Cathar and probably a member of that group.’

Muted exclamations rose from the assembled prelates, as the
cardinals
looked at each other in a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. Dulac continued. ‘We believe Romer was in on the kidnapping. We—’

‘Preposterous. Totally preposterous,’ said Sforza. ‘The Vatican
carefully
screens all applicants before they become members of the Swiss Guards.’

‘That’s what I thought too, your Eminence, before Interpol obtained a voice transcript of a telephone conversation between Romer and de Ségur’s lawyer, Claude Pourcelet. In it Romer talks about Aguar’s papers,
doctored with the help of a certain Umberto Ascari. Both were killed to prevent, we believe, any tracing back to de Ségur. We can send you a copy of the transcript if you wish.’

‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Dulac,’ said Legnano, eyeing Sforza angrily. ‘Tell me, how does this de Ségur function?’

‘We think his main hideout is in Belize, from which he cannot be extradited. He keeps changing identities. He was seen in Algiers, and recently in Switzerland. The Swiss authorities didn’t catch the fakeness of his passport until it was too late. He’d already flown out. He speaks fluent French, English, German, Italian and Arabic.’

‘Mr Dulac, I’m confused,’ said Legnano. ‘Throughout history, Cathars have preached resignation and non-violence to the point of self-sacrifice. Isn’t that in contradiction with what you are saying?’

‘You’re right, Your Eminence. At least partially. That’s why Interpol initially thought they were using the Cathar faith as a screen. But there is now a theory within Interpol and other agencies that this Cathar right wing group might be to the Cathars what Hezbollah or Al Quaeda are to Islam, what the Zionists are to the Jewish faith.’

‘Violence being acceptable to protect their faiths from desecration by Infidels,’ said Legnano.

‘Something like that,’ said Dulac.

‘But what has this got to do with the Pope’s kidnapping?’ said Sforza.

‘We’re trying to find out, your Eminence,’ said Dulac.

‘On another subject, Mr Dulac, what about the $30 million we’ve paid?’ said Brentano. ‘Can’t you trace that back to him? There must be some sort of trail.’

‘There wasn’t enough time. By the time we got to Costa Rica, the accounts were closed and the money gone. Even if we had marked it, by the time it got traced, it would’ve been laundered many, many times. The world at large is using that money as we speak.’

‘Mr Dulac, it seems de Ségur is always one step ahead of you,’ said Fouquet, smiling. Dulac felt the blood rush to his face, the tips of his ears becoming hot.