The Chimera Sanction (2 page)

‘Where are we headed?’ yelled Karen to Dulac, seeking reassurance in the Frenchman’s deep-set brown eyes.

‘I’ll ask the pilot,’ said Dulac. After a moment, he turned to Karen. ‘Canadian Forces Base, Edmonton.’

‘But our things are at Assiniboine Lodge.’

‘They picked them up earlier,’ he said and pointed to the suitcases behind them. Karen looked at Dulac in stupefaction. As the Griffon banked steeply left, she caught a last glimpse of the arched-shaped Hind Hut, their love nest for a night. Behind it, Mt Assiniboine surged
suddenly
into view, its sharp summit piercing the cloudless azure sky. Karen felt the pang of yet another foreshortened vacation coming rapidly to an end. And it was going so well.

Dulac’s resentment was growing by the minute. See you back in Europe in a few hours? Is he drunk? It’s at least thirteen hours from Edmonton to Paris by the polar route. Even more if we fly east. Harris was not in the habit of being inaccurate. At least not when sober.

Just as Dulac strapped himself into the narrow seat, the rotor’s vibrations shook the helicopter, awakening his old demons again. He nervously ran his fingers through his thick locks. He hated flying. ‘Flying is strictly for the birds,’ he’d proclaimed during a dinner with Rebecca, the humorless airline pilot, after enduring her endless lecture on landing an Airbus 360 with only one engine. She’d ended their
relationship that night.

He was beginning to feel nauseous when Karen pointed out the window. ‘Look down there. Mount Magog. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose.’

An hour later, the fog wrapped itself around the low-flying Griffon and the pilot, adjusting the main rotor’s pitch, signaled their impending arrival. As they landed and the din subsided, Dulac could hear Karen mumbling something to the co-pilot. He nudged her.

‘Just asking him why we’re going to Edmonton,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know.’

It was raining hard, and as they followed the pilot and co-pilot towards the small, gray building, Dulac shot a side glance at Karen. Despondency and reproach were sketched all over her face.

‘Inspector Dulac, Ms. Dawson, I presume,’ said a mustachioed,
bald-headed
man standing in the open doorway of the building, clad in a beige and maroon uniform one size too small for his bulging gut. ‘I’m Colonel John Pettigrew, senior officer, CFB Edmonton. I—’

‘What the hell is this all about, Colonel?’ interrupted Dulac. ‘Why all this cloak and dagger crap?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest. I was told to pick you up, you and Ms. Dawson.’

‘Why are we at your base, Colonel?’ Dulac said, glaring at Pettigrew.

‘You’ll see. It should be coming in any minute,’ said Pettigrew, almost nonchalant. He went behind the small counter and reached underneath it, pulling out a clipboard and pen. ‘We need you both to sign here. Government formalities. By the way, Mr Dulac, have you had a medical recently?’

‘What bloody business is that of yours?’

‘Just a precaution,’ said Pettigrew, holding up his right hand defensively.

At that moment, the unmistakable wail of a jet engine on final approach pierced the opaque fog. Not knowing exactly why, Dulac felt his stomach lurch.

‘That will be your limo, sir,’ said Pettigrew, pointing to the tarmac and bending over slightly like an obsequious bell-hop.

The F-16 Viper attack fighter emerged menacingly from the fog.
Dulac watched, incredulous, as its gray, lithe shape taxied slowly down the runway onto the tarmac. A hundred feet from the terminal, the Viper turned its missile-like nose toward the building and came to a stop.

‘Merde,’ said Dulac, butting his cigarette on the edge of the water fountain.

‘We’ve arranged for Ms Dawson to take the next commercial flight to Paris,’ said Pettigrew.

Dulac watched as the yellow and white fuel truck pulled up
alongside
the Viper and a man stepped out and went to the rolled-up hose at the back of the truck. The pilot signaled to him. After affixing the hose to the jet’s fuselage, the man began quenching the gray bird’s thirst for JP-8 kerosene. The canopy opened, the pilot alighted nimbly from the aircraft and walked towards the building, carrying an extra flight suit and helmet.

‘Buongiorno. I’m Captain Emilio Zegna, Royal Italian Air Force, Roma base,’ said the short, black haired man with a hooked nose, as he entered the doorway. He looked about the room. ‘I am here to pick up inspector Thierry Dulac. Is—?’

‘I’m Dulac,’ Dulac said, turning away from the window.

‘Yes, hello inspector, these are for you,’ said the pilot, handing Dulac the suit and helmet. ‘We leave as soon as they finish refueling.’

Dulac shook his head in disbelief. ‘You want me to get into that?’ he said, pointing at the F-16.

‘We’re due back in five hours.’

Pettigrew looked askance at Zegna. ‘Captain, Italy is at least three thousand miles from here over the Arctic. You refueled at—’

‘In midair,’ interrupted the pilot in a condescending tone, as if stating the obvious.

‘Resolute could have handled it,’ said Pettigrew. He eyed Dulac. ‘They must want you there in a helluva hurry.’

‘Think so?’ Dulac said, grudgingly tugging the flight suit over his damp fleece shirt. He glared at Karen. ‘Don’t you dare comment.’

‘I didn’t say a word,’ she said, unable to suppress a smile. ‘See you in Paris, Thierry.’ She tossed her hair back, leaned forward and kissed him.

‘Want to trade places?’ said Dulac.

‘No thanks.’

Dulac followed the Italian toward the door, when Zegna pointed to the building’s restroom sign.

‘Better use the facilities here. It’s a bit tight in the cockpit.’

‘I’m fine.’

As they walked to the plane, Dulac felt his level of discomfort rising, fueled by something more than the imminent plane trip. What could possibly justify Interpol commandeering an F-16? It has to be catastrophic. ‘Anything terrible happen in the world recently?’ he asked Zegna.

‘The usual,’ he said with an indifferent shrug. ‘Yesterday two car bombings in Baghdad, one in Afghanistan.’

‘In Italy?’

‘The bus drivers. Always the bus drivers. Their third strike in two years.’

They reached the F-16 and Zegna helped Dulac up the ladder into the tiny rear seat. Dulac squeezed himself in and fumbled with the helmet.

‘Here, let me help you,’ said Zegna, as he adjusted and tightened the helmet’s strap under Dulac’s chin.

‘Thanks. Now what do I do?’

‘Nothing. Do not touch anything. Just sit back and enjoy.’

‘Yeah, sure. Where are we headed?’

‘Roma.’

Dulac felt the voltage increase within his central nervous system in anticipation of takeoff. Meanwhile Zegna went through his lengthy cockpit check, flipping the occasional toggle-switch and lever. Seemingly content with the result, he flipped a final switch and the big GE engine rumbled to life, its low pitch slowly increasing to a hissing whine. Zegna released the brakes and the jet slowly taxied off the tarmac and onto the main runway.

Hands sweating, Dulac inhaled and exhaled deeply as Zegna lined up the F-16 on the runway’s white line and waited for the green light from the control tower. Suddenly, the GE engine burst into a deafening roar, its 32,000 pounds of thrust compressing Dulac helplessly into the seatback. His head snapped back like a rag doll, as he felt the skin of his face tighten against his jaw and cheekbones. His eyes watered, blurring his vision.

The Viper screamed, and in an instant the runway had disappeared from underneath it. Dulac felt the gray, shapeless sky envelop him, as he hurtled into it at close to the speed of sound. His spine tingled not so much with fear, but with sheer amazement. Despite his phobia, he couldn’t help but marvel at man’s invention of such a compact, efficient, awesome weapon.

Moments later, the Viper pierced through the clouds and broke into the calm of a cobalt sky. As Zegna throttled back to cruising speed, the angry wail of the jet engine became a dull drone.

‘Bellissimo, eh?’ said Zegna over his helmet’s intercom.

‘I suppose,’ said Dulac. ‘When do we get to Rome?’

‘Not so soon. First we have to refuel.’

‘I don’t see any gas stations.’

‘Very funny. We have better: they come to us.’

Dulac looked down inside the cramped cockpit and rubbed the numbness from his long legs, squeezed by the Kevlar sides of his
unpadded
seat. ‘Not much room here. How do the Americans get into these?’

‘Only the short, skinny ones. Not many qualify.’

As opposed to all Italians, Dulac thought.

Two and a half hours into their flight, Dulac was still trying to
decipher
the intricacies of the instrument panel’s dials, switches and toggles, when Zegna signaled him to look ahead.

The F-16 slowed and the silhouette of a Boeing 707 appeared through the front of the canopy, slightly overhead. Dulac could see a long, fixed appendage extending from the underbelly of the Boeing.

‘Now it’s getting tricky,’ said Zegna over the intercom. ‘We get three tries.’

‘Why only three?’

‘We run out of fuel,’ said Zegna.

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Not kidding.’

‘Don’t we have parachutes?’

‘We’re over the Arctic Ocean. It’s -80°C outside. We are very dead before we hit the water.’

‘Great. Just pissing great,’ mumbled Dulac.

As Zegna aimed the F-16 towards the funnel at the end of the tube, the F-16 bolted up suddenly. ‘Air pocket,’ said Zegna, narrowly missing
the Boeing’s fueling funnel with the F-16’s nose. Dulac gasped, frozen rigid in his seat. Goddamn Italian cowboy. Probably drives a taxi in Rome in his spare time.

Zegna waited until the F-16 steadied, and approached again. Dulac watched him making minute corrections with the joystick and throttle, when suddenly the Boeing suddenly lurched sideways and Dulac saw the funnel alongside his head, inches away from the F-16’s canopy.

‘Jesus, can’t you—?’

Suddenly, a loud beeping interrupted the hissing sound of the jet’s motor. ‘What’s that?’ Dulac said.

‘Low fuel, first warning.’

‘Great, just pissing great.’ Dulac instinctively grabbed his knees in a vicelike grip, as the funnel slowly eased forward. Zegna was silent. He steadied the Viper and again approached the funnel with the Viper’s antenna-like fueling pod.

‘Contact,’ Zegna shouted to the Boeing’s crew.

‘Synchronize autopilots,’ a voice replied over the intercom.

‘OK,’ said Zegna.

‘Beginning fueling,’ said the voice.

Zegna turned his head back towards Dulac. ‘No swimming today.’

Two hours later, the clouds thinned for a moment and Dulac could see the glitter of Rome’s lights below. He heard Zegna obtain landing
clearance
from Guidonia Air Base’s control tower and moments later, the Viper swung onto final approach and lined up between the blue lights of the runway’s narrow corridor. Dulac read the clock repeater inside the cockpit and adjusted his watch: 9.02 p.m., local time. He sensed Zegna throttling back and the plane begin to decelerate when, to his horror, Zegna nonchalantly raised both hands and clasped them behind his head.

Dulac went ballistic. ‘Jesus! What the hell are you doing?’

The runway was coming up to greet the F-16 with alarming rapidity, the soft blue lights a continuous blur. Zegna calmly pointed to the label under the switch: Computer Landing Program.

‘Below 220 km per hour, the F-16 has negative stability,’ he said. ‘The computer compensates quickly. Some pilots have very fast reflexes. They land without it. Me, I don’t take any chances.’

‘Great. Just pissing great.’

The Viper bounced on touchdown, and Dulac sucked in air and drew back. As the jet’s speed slowed, his moist hands gradually unclasped the armrests of his seat, the end of his suffering finally in sight.

As they walked towards Guidonia Airbase’s limestone buildings, Zegna turned to Dulac and said, ‘Great trip, yes?’

‘I hate, hate fucking flying. Capisci?’ replied Dulac, reaching for his pack of Gitanes. Zegna gave him a disconcerted look and shrugged. ‘Too bad for you.’

‘By the way, you were joking when you said “Only three tries”, right?’

‘Of course,’ said Zegna, a sardonic smile forming from the right corner of his thin-lipped mouth.

‘Asshole,’ Dulac whispered.

They approached the building and Dulac saw Harris, clad in a beige overcoat, step out of a black limo and wave him over.

‘Enjoy the ride?’ Harris shouted as Dulac walked towards the limo.

Son of a bitch knows I hate flying. ‘Great fun,’ Dulac replied, bent on robbing his boss, the General Secretary, of his perverted satisfaction. ‘What the hell’s all this about?’

Harris didn’t answer, standing in front of the limo, hands in his pockets.

Dulac reached the limo and could see a small flag on the front fender, but in the darkness, couldn’t make out the flag’s insignia.

‘Get in,’ said Harris.

Dulac butted his cigarette. He stooped to enter, saw the man seated inside and froze. He recognized the sad, heavy-lidded blue eyes, the large Roman nose: ‘Cardinal Legnano, what are you doing here?’ Dulac stared in disbelief at the Secretary of State of the Vatican, the most influential man in the Catholic Church after the Pope.

‘Good evening, Mr Dulac. Please be seated.’

He sat down and the cardinal, his face haggard and drawn in the dim reading lights of the limo, said in a barely audible voice, ‘It
happened
this morning. It’s the Pope.’

The increasing pain was pulling him from the quiet of sleep. His chest was being crushed by a huge invisible hand that pressed
relentlessly
. Pope Clement XXI sat up in his bed and the pain eased slightly. Sweating profusely, he turned on the reading light and peered at the bedside clock: 2:37 a.m. He tried to calm himself as his mind raced in a thousand directions. Was it something I ate? Must be the Polish
sausages
and pierogis. He tried to feel his pulse but couldn’t. Then the pain spread to his left arm. He grabbed the buzzer beside his bed and pressed. Moments later, he heard a subdued knock on the door.

‘Come in, sister.’

Sister Vincenza opened the door and walked in hesitantly. ‘Your Holiness called?’

‘Yes sister, I, I don’t feel well … I—’

‘I’ll call Dr Bruscetti,’ said the small, gray-haired nun.

‘No it’s all right. Probably just indigestion. Just give me a glass of water, will you sister?’

‘Of course, your Holiness.’ She went to the bedside table, opened the bottle and poured its contents into the glass. ‘Here you are.’

He sat up in his bed, drank slowly and handed the empty glass to the nun. ‘Feeling better, your Holiness?’

The pontiff winced, and brought his right hand up to his chest. ‘Perhaps you should call Cardinal Legnano. I, I—’

‘Right away, your Holiness.’

As Secretary of State of the Vatican, Cardinal Legnano was an extremely busy man. He worked long hours and needed every minute of his
precious
sleep. After the third ring, he reached for the bedside phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Your Eminence, it’s Sister Vincenza. I’m sorry to disturb you. I know it’s—’

‘What is it, Sister?’ said Legnano.

‘It’s His Holiness. He’s not well. I didn’t know what—’

‘Did you call Dr Bruscetti?’

‘His Holiness said he didn’t want me to disturb him.’

‘I’ll be right over.’

Legnano called the Pope’s personal physician, Dr Flavio Bruscetti, then grabbed his nightgown and rushed down the hall and along the dimly lit corridor leading to the papal apartments. He nodded to the two Swiss Guards on sentry duty on either side of the door, knocked and entered. Across the room, Pope Clement XXI was sitting in bed, propped up against the pillows, his hair disheveled, his face a deathly gray. Sister Vincenza, a look of worry on her face, rose quickly from the bedside chair and offered it to the cardinal.

‘What is it, your Holiness?’ said Legnano as he sat down.

‘It’s nothing. It must be the pierogis. I don’t know. I—’ The pontiff put a hand to his chest and grimaced.

Legnano heard voices behind him and turned. The short, rotund doctor Bruscetti, his bluish gray mane accentuating the tan of his oval face, rushed past the Swiss Guards to the pontiff’s bedside. ‘Your Holiness, cardinal, sister.’

‘Hello doctor,’ said the Pope, ‘it’s really nothing. Please sister, give me my handkerchief.’

‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ said Bruscetti.

Legnano got up, watching anxiously as Bruscetti proceeded to check the pontiff’s pulse and blood pressure.

‘What is it, doctor?’ asked the Holy Father.

‘Nothing serious, but I want you to take some tests. We’ll go to the hospital for an electrocardiogram. Right now, just try to relax, your Holiness. Are you feeling any pain?’

‘It’s my chest. It feels like it’s in a vice.’

‘I’ll give you a sedative,’ said the doctor, reaching into his medical bag. He took out a small bottle of morphine, filled a syringe and pressed the needle into the Pope’s arm.

Cardinal Legnano was standing slightly behind and to the side of Bruscetti when Bruscetti turned and motioned Legnano to the doorway. The doctor rose from the bedside and, his face ashen, walked over to Legnano. ‘He’s had a heart attack,’ Legnano whispered. ‘We must get him to the hospital. Every minute counts.’

‘
Mio Dio
,’ exclaimed Legnano. ‘I’ll call for the ambulance.’

‘I’ll get the guards to bring the stretcher,’ said Bruscetti. Legnano paced to and fro, as the phone kept ringing.

‘Come on, come on….’

‘Emergency.’

‘Legnano here. Get the ambulance over here immediately. The Pope—’

‘It’s not here, your Eminence,’ replied the voice. ‘It’s being serviced.’

‘Good God.’ Legnano hung up and shouted to the Swiss Guard. ‘Get me the papal helicopter pilot’s number.’

The guard snapped into action, opened his cell and scrolled down.

‘Here, your Eminence,’ he said, as he rushed towards Legnano and showed him the number. Legnano dialed.

‘Yes?’

‘Cardinal Legnano here. The Pope has had a heart attack. We must get him to the hospital. Get the helicopter ready. We’ll meet you there.’

‘Yes, your Eminence.’

Legnano thought for a moment. The helipad was at the northern extremity of the Vatican. It would take forever to carry the Pope through the corridors and streets of the Vatican to reach it. He phoned the pilot again. ‘It will be faster if you meet us in St Peter’s Square. Hurry.’

‘Understood, your Eminence.’

Legnano called the Agostino Gemelli Clinic, its tenth floor reserved exclusively for the Pope on a 24-7 basis. ‘Cardinal Legnano. Get me the emergency doctor.’

A high-pitched voice came on the line. ‘Donatello.’

‘Doctor, I’m Cardinal Legnano, calling from the Vatican. I’m here with Dr Bruscetti. His Holiness has had a heart attack. We’re flying him over by helicopter now.’

‘
Mio Dio
. We … we’ll be waiting.’

Legnano watched, fear in his heart as the two Swiss Guards entered the Pope’s apartment with the wheeled stretcher and gently eased the pontiff, now barely conscious, onto it. Legnano leaned towards the stricken Pope. ‘How do you feel, your Holiness?’

‘I’ve felt better. It’s my heart, isn’t it?’

Legnano nodded silently. They hurried down the corridor to the
elevator
, and Legnano heard Bruscetti instruct one of the Swiss Guards: ‘Have the defibrillator brought on the helicopter. Bring the oxygen tank also.’

The cortege rushed outside the building, down the dark
passageway
and through the eastern colonnade of St Peter’s just as the Huey appeared and landed in the middle of the square. Legnano breathed heavily, the cool damp air filling his lungs, as he tried to keep up to the Swiss Guards while they wheeled the stretcher alongside the
awaiting
chopper. The guards crouched and carefully transferred the stretcher inside the helicopter, then helped the pilot and co-pilot secure it to the chopper’s floor.

‘I’m coming with him. I’m his doctor,’ yelled Bruscetti to the pilot over the din of the rotor. The pilot took him by the arm and helped him aboard, then closed the helicopter’s door.

The motor’s whine became strident, as Legnano stood shivering in the cold of the night, sick with worry and impatient for the helicopter to take off. Through the canopy, he could see the reflection of the dimly lit cockpit shining on the pilot’s opaque visor. The pilot turned and nodded to him before easing the chopper up into the moonless night.

Legnano hurried back to his office, determination and purpose over-riding the maelstrom of his anxiety. I must hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. He called the members of the inner Curia, the Pope’s most trusted advisors, to an emergency meeting in his office.

Five minutes later, the four cardinals started arriving in Legnano’s office, each query the same: ‘How bad is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Legnano, pacing by the window. ‘I’m awaiting news from the hospital.’

‘A heart attack? He’s never shown any signs of a weak heart,’ said the portly cardinal Paolo Signorelli, the Pope’s personal secretary, sinking deeply into the leather sofa.

‘Perhaps Bruscetti was wrong. Maybe it’s only indigestion,’
interjected
Cardinal Eugenio Brentano, head of The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith and keeper of the Church’s sacred doctrine.

‘The pierogis, I’ve told him many times,’ chimed in the head of Investments and Information, the diminutive and bespectacled Cardinal Andrea Sforza. He wagged a remonstrative hand. ‘Too many pierogis.’

‘He’s strong. He’ll pull through,’ said the tall, thin Camerlengo, Cardinal Jean Fouquet.

‘Let’s pray he does,’ said Legnano, turning towards Fouquet. ‘Are you ready to—?’

‘To take over the papal functions if he dies? Yes. I’ll begin advising the staff of the situation immediately.’

‘A bit hasty, Cardinal. A bit hasty,’ said Legnano. ‘Besides, we should be getting news from the hospital at any moment.’

While they waited in Legnano’s Venetian-style office – the light of the large Murano chandelier sending its soft rays onto the gold and red striped walls – the cardinals attempted to break the mood of anxiety with assorted conjecture. From time to time, each would throw a surreptitious glance across the room at the bronze-gilded mantelpiece clock, slowly ticking away the endless minutes. Half an hour passed. Exasperated, Legnano grabbed the phone and dialed the clinic’s number. ‘Get me Dr Donatello.’ After a brief pause, the doctor’s familiar voice came on line.

‘Donatello.’

‘Legnano speaking. How is His Holiness?’

An awkward silence made him fear the worst as Legnano waited, looking at Brentano, then at Signorelli.

‘Ah, he hasn’t come in yet.’

‘What? What do you mean? He left half-an-hour ago. The clinic is only ten minutes away.’

‘We have a team waiting on the roof. They called a moment ago. They haven’t seen the helicopter. We thought it was delayed.’

‘Good God!’ Legnano bolted up from his desk. ‘Get me the pilot’s number again,’ shouted Legnano to the Swiss Guard standing at the door.

‘Yes, your Eminence.’

Legnano dialed, but the pilot didn’t answer. Instead, every ring announced impending fatality. He hung up and dialed again. Nothing. ‘Get Colonel Romer,’ Legnano said to the guard.

‘Yes, your Eminence.’

Legnano walked towards the cardinals, now standing expectantly next to the sofa, ‘Something has happened to the papal helicopter. It hasn’t arrived at the hospital.’

‘
Mio Dio
,’ exclaimed Sforza and Brentano in unison.

Legnano rushed back to his desk, picked up the phone and called the Questura Centrale, Rome’s main police station. He anxiously eyed the cardinals, phone in hand. ‘They’ve either crashed or…. Yes, Cardinal Legnano here. Get me Inspector Guadagni. It’s urgent. No, I’ll wait.’

‘Or what?’ said Signorelli.

‘Or the Pope has been kidnapped.’