The Inca Prophecy (27 page)

‘We’re conducting biopsies and further tests on the lymph nodes, but His Holiness is also complaining of chest pains and shortness of
breath, and, more seriously, hemoptysis, which would indicate that the cancer has metastasised into the lungs.’

‘Hemoptysis?’

‘His Holiness has been coughing up some blood.’

‘And the prognosis?’

‘Very poor. Perhaps less than 15 per cent of patients recover, and at His Holiness’s age … As Camerlengo, I thought you should be aware.’ The responsibilities of the camerlengo of the Holy See included formally declaring the death of a pontiff.

‘I see. Is His Holiness able to attend to his official duties?’

‘I’ve advised him to rest, but he is stubborn. He seems determined to carry on with a full program.’ Rossi shrugged resignedly.

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘His Holiness’s personal secretaries and the sisters in the papal household are, of course, aware that His Holiness is undergoing tests, but they’re not privy to any detail.’

‘Please keep it that way, Doctor, until you are certain of your diagnosis. At the appropriate time, I’ll arrange for the Curia to be briefed. How long do you think he has?’

‘That’s hard to say, Eminence,’ Dr Rossi replied, taken aback by Felici’s blunt tone. ‘When the cancer is widespread, many patients deteriorate very rapidly, particularly after surgery. In the best case, a matter of weeks or perhaps months, but in the worst case …’

For a long time after the doctor had gone, Felici stood at the windows of his office, scarlet zucchetto covering his black hair, wide
scarlet sash around his black cassock. He stared across the Piazza San Pietro towards the papal apartments on the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. On the day of his ordination, Felici had made an additional vow. He had promised himself that one day he would head the Church to which he’d devoted his life. And now, he mused, that time had come. But there was still one very dark cloud hanging over his candidacy.

Chapter 33

‘I’ll drive,’ O’Connor yelled in Spanish, shoving a fistful of nuevo sol into the startled driver’s face and doubling around to his side. O’Connor shoved him into the passenger seat and leapt behind the wheel. The BMW’s tyres screeched as the driver tore down the narrow street in front of them, and O’Connor knew the Daewoo Tico would be no match for the BMW on an open road, but Lima’s traffic was notorious, and O’Connor floored the little taxi in hot pursuit.

The BMW turned into the congested Larco and headed north. Brightly coloured buses belched thick, black smoke, and myriad taxis, minibuses and trucks fought for every centimetre of road. O’Connor had done the same driving course that every driver on the President’s Secret Service detail was required to pass, part of the gruelling training at the top-secret James J. Rowley Center to the north-east of Washington, DC. The centre was equipped with
a fake airport, mock-ups of Air Force One and Marine One, multiple firing ranges and ten kilometres of roadway for advanced driver training. O’Connor had cut his teeth on retired presidential limos, Dodge Chargers and Suburbans. But this guy was good, O’Connor thought, as the BMW threw a sudden left around the Óvalo de Miraflores roundabout.

‘Duck!’ O’Connor yelled to the terrified taxi driver. The teenage thug in the back seat of the BMW, one hand on Aleta’s neck, leaned out of the rear window and fired again and again. O’Connor drew his Glock 21 and returned fire, hitting the gunman in the wrist. The BMW accelerated to the next intersection, in the centre of which a policewoman, dressed in skin-tight jodhpurs with long black boots, was directing traffic from within the security of a colourful yellow and blue box. She held up her gloved hand for the BMW to stop, but the driver ignored her and powered through the intersection with O’Connor in hot pursuit. O’Connor glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the policewoman talking into her two-way radio. A moment later, one siren and then another could be heard in the distance.

The BMW weaved violently through the traffic and veered into Malecón Balta and tore towards the Parque del Amor. The lovers’ park on the cliffs of Chorrillos overlooked the Pacific Ocean and was surrounded by romantic quotes laid out in mosaic tiles. The sirens were getting closer and O’Connor took aim at one of the BMW’s rear tyres. The BMW lurched to the right as its tyre exploded, mounted the curb and crashed into the huge statue of the two lovers in the centre of the park.

O’Connor leapt from the Daewoo. The thug in the back seat
was holding his pistol in his good hand, pointing it at Aleta’s head, but then unsure, he wavered, moving his gun towards O’Connor. O’Connor fired twice. Aleta screamed as her captor collapsed on to her and the driver fell forward on to the steering wheel. O’Connor reefed a blood-covered Aleta out of the back of the BMW and bundled her into the Daewoo. Shoving it in to gear, he drove out of the park and mingled with the traffic, turning north towards the Israeli embassy.

‘You okay?’ O’Connor asked, squeezing Aleta’s hand.

Aleta nodded numbly, her eyes glassy. ‘I think so … Thank you,’ she said, squeezing his hand in return.

Aleta and O’Connor stepped into the back seat of a vehicle, diplomatic plates prominently displayed on the bumper. Not for the first time, Aleta had donned a hijab and O’Connor wore a beret and dark glasses as disguises. The Israeli chief of station, Shaked, sat in the front of the car, and he acknowledged the guard’s salute as they passed through the VIP entrance to Lima’s Jorge Chávez International Airport.

‘The hijab must take you back to that little episode at Lake Atitlán,’ O’Connor whispered. Aleta had helped O’Connor recover von Heißen’s diaries in Guatemala by keeping Monsignor Jennings busy with a lengthy confession. To hide her identity she had worn a
niqab
.

‘The things I do for you!’ she whispered back.

‘Father forgive me, for I have sinned,’ O’Connor mimicked, adding a touch of levity to calm Aleta’s shaken nerves. The session in the
confessional had bought O’Connor priceless time, enabling him to seize most of the von Heißen diaries from the church presbytery.

The car drew up at the steps to the waiting Lear jet and Aleta, O’Connor and Shaked boarded. They strapped into the plush leather seats and the pilot immediately taxied for take-off. The jet powered down runway 15 as Aleta looked back to the terminal area. Her heart leapt into her mouth: two black cars were racing across the apron. But they were too late. The pilot lifted off and the jet powered into the sky above the Pacific.

‘Friends of yours?’ Shaked asked with a smile.

‘Definitely not. And thank you!’ Aleta replied. She slumped back into her chair and breathed a sigh of relief. The Pacific coast of Peru receded behind them and she closed her eyes. This is what it must have been like under the Nazis, she thought. Always on the run, always watching over your shoulder. The sooner Ellen Rodriguez testified, the better, she thought, as exhaustion took over and she drifted into a deep sleep.

Eighteen hours later, the Mossad aircraft began its descent towards Ben Gurion International Airport near Tel Aviv. It was a clear, cloudless day over Israel and Aleta caught sight of the Dome of the Rock, its gold cupola glinting in the distance. Beneath the cupola, a hoofprint of Muhammad’s steed Buraq marked the spot where, according to Islamic doctrine, Muhammad ascended into heaven. Only a stone’s throw from Golgotha and the place Christians maintained Christ had been crucified, the Muslim shrine had been erected in the seventh century on top of the ruins of the Jewish second temple, and Suleiman the Magnificent had ordered that the exterior be covered with exquisite Iznik tiles. Many centuries later, King
Hussein of Jordan had sold one of his homes in London to provide the 80 kilograms of gold needed to refurbish the dome. The Dome of the Rock, together with the al-Aqsa Mosque, 200 metres to the south, represented the third most holy site in all of Islam. Any attempt by the Israelis to demolish the two sites and build a third temple would, Aleta knew, likely start a third world war.

‘Rome awaits,’ said O’Connor. ‘Although there’s a report on the news that the Pope is gravely ill.’

‘What with? And will that affect our plans?’ Aleta asked, lowering her voice.

‘The Vatican’s not saying, but the rumour is he has cancer. I wish him no harm, but an ill pontiff might actually play in our favour. It means the attention of the Swiss Guards will be focused elsewhere,’ O’Connor replied.

Security at Ben Gurion Airport was amongst the tightest in the world, with both uniformed and plain clothes undercover police and Israeli Defense Forces personnel watching passengers’ every move. Unlike the US, where Homeland Security concentrated on baggage, and looked at liquids, shoes and computers, the Israelis searched passengers’ eyes, checking for any suspicious reactions or odd behaviour. With the help of Shaked, O’Connor and Aleta were fast-tracked through customs and immigration and within two hours, they were on an El Al flight bound for Rome.

Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport immigration was not nearly as tight as Ben Gurion, and within thirty minutes O’Connor
and Aleta had cleared Terminal 3 and were in a taxi headed for the city. O’Connor took the same approach to accommodation in Rome as he had in Lima, using an alias and a false passport, avoiding five-star hotels and paying cash in advance.

‘This is lovely,’ Aleta said, as she looked through their third-floor window onto the cobblestones and sidewalk restaurants of Borgo Pio. The Hotel Sant’Anna had started life as a sixteenth-century palace. Stylish fountains and murals gave the paved courtyards and breakfast room an ambience akin to the ancient city.

‘More importantly, it’s only three minutes’ walk to the Vatican. I’m going shopping for a short while, but the rules remain the same – don’t answer the door.’

Aleta made a face. ‘It would be nice if I could go shopping occasionally too.’

‘As soon as Wiley’s behind bars,’ O’Connor promised. He headed out to purchase some clerical vestments.

Once he’d left, Aleta got herself a glass of water and flicked on the television to CNN. Her heart started to race.

‘In breaking news,’ announced Walter Crowley, ‘CIA officer Ellen Rodriguez, a key witness in the Mayagate case on Capitol Hill, is fighting for her life after a savage attack. We cross live to CNN’s Susan Murkowski on the Hill. What can you tell us, Susan?’

The feed switched to Capitol Hill, where a fresh fall of snow had blanketed the main steps leading to the Congress. Susan Murkowski, in her trademark red overcoat and dark blue scarf, was standing at the top, microphone in hand.

‘Some time last night, Walter, around midnight, CIA agent Ellen Rodriguez was attacked in the safe house she was staying at.
She suffered multiple stab wounds, but somehow managed to crawl to her cell phone and dial 911. Ambulance, police and the FBI were quickly on the scene, but I’m told Rodriguez was unconscious by the time they arrived. She was taken to the Walter Reed National Military Hospital where she underwent surgery, and she’s now under heavy guard.’

‘Do we know anything about her condition?’

‘She’s been described as critical, and is in an induced coma in intensive care.’