The Omega Scroll (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Roma

‘
G
iovanni.
Avanti, Avanti
.’

Cardinal Salvatore Bruno, Head of the Secretariat for non-Christians, got up from behind his desk, grabbed Giovanni by the shoulders and kissed him on each cheek. For good measure, he took Giovanni’s hand in both of his.

‘
Benvenuto a Roma!
’

Salvatore was a big man. Well into his sixties, his dark face was lined and his old hazel eyes were kindly and wise. When he reached eighty he would no longer be eligible to vote in any conclave and his wisdom would be sorely missed by a Church that desperately needed those who were not driven by power. Salvatore Bruno had come to Roma reluctantly, persuaded by those outside of the Vatican, Bishop O’Hara among them, that the Holy Church needed to reach out to the other faiths. Faiths that were held with equal conviction by equally decent folk. Bishop O’Hara and Salvatore had also had several conversations about the role the brilliant young Giovanni might play. Both of the older men could sense his destiny.

‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here.
S’accomodi. S’accomodi
.’

‘Thank you, Eminence.
Come stai
? You are well, I hope?’

‘I can’t complain,’ he said, his old eyes twinkling as he patted his ample stomach. ‘Now, have you given any thought as to how you might tackle this issue of the other faiths?’

‘Yes, Eminence, but I will probably need some guidance. I’ve been out of the mainstream for a long time, and to tell you the truth, I am a little surprised at the project. I thought the Church’s attitude was, well …’

‘More rigid?’ Cardinal Bruno chuckled as he finished Giovanni’s sentence for him. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that. The Holy Father has always recognised the importance of the other faiths, although there’s been a fierce rearguard action from the usual suspects …’ Salvatore paused as his housekeeper of thirty-five years brought in the tea. ‘Thank you, Sister Maria, I’ll pour. I need to keep my hand in,’ he said with another chuckle and he waited until she withdrew.

‘Watch the Secretary of State. Unlike those who know you well he was not too impressed with your promotion or this project, but you have worked for him before, and I daresay you know his views on these things. He called me,’ Salvatore said, smiling wryly, ‘and asked me to pass on his congratulations suggesting that I have you travel widely. On the congratulations, we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. On the travel, that is my intention, although not for the reasons that drive the Secretary of State.’

‘I’m not sure I follow, Eminence?’

‘He wants you to spend as much time out of Rome as possible. Insecure people like the Cardinal Petronis of this world see anyone as competent as you only in terms of a possible threat to their own position.’

It was the first time Giovanni had ever heard anyone describe Lorenzo Petroni as insecure. Perhaps the old lion knew a thing or two about the human psyche.

‘While you are here in Rome there is a danger that you will come to the notice of the other Curial Cardinals and, by extension, become a potential candidate for the Keys to Peter.’

Giovanni laughed. ‘I don’t think Cardinal Petroni has anything to worry about on that score.’

‘I hope he does, Giovanni.’ Salvatore’s eyes were no longer mischievous. ‘The very best Popes in the whole history of this wonderful Church have been those who have never seen themselves as a candidate. John XXIII was one of those. The Curial Cardinals thought they were electing an old man they could control, and look what happened.’

‘Vatican II.’

‘The winds of change,’ Cardinal Bruno agreed. ‘Some of the older men in red have been fighting to put the genie back in the bottle ever since. I remember him with great affection. He drove the Curia to distraction, often turning up in their departments without their knowledge, just to have a chat with the staff, and il Capo di Polizia in Rome gave up,’ Salvatore said, relishing the memory of the great man. ‘In the time of Popes like Pius XII they used to rehearse for days for a Papal departure from the Vatican; flags, bands, bugles, honour guards, crashing cymbals. John XXIII used to just drive out.’

‘You were here for the conclave in 1958?’

‘I was a very ordinary priest working in the Congregation for the Clergy. Would that I was a simple priest again,’ Salvatore said wistfully. ‘I was here when he was elected. Roncalli – John XXIII – was their compromise candidate. They didn’t know it but their Eminences had a very large tiger by the tail.
Un Terremoto!
An earthquake! I want you to promise me something, Giovanni. If they do offer you the Keys to Peter, accept.’

‘Eminence I—’

‘I know, I know. It’s not something you would even think about, but if you are offered them, it will be for a reason.’

Giovanni left Cardinal Bruno’s office, totally inspired by his new project. The Keys to Peter were the furthest thing from his mind. Fleetingly his thoughts turned to Allegra and he wondered if he should meet her in Milano, but just as quickly he decided against it. He didn’t want Allegra to feel that she was being forced into telling him why she had left the Church. Giovanni decided he would wait.

It would be a long time before their paths would cross. By then the international academic community would be noticing they had a very talented Dr Bassetti in their midst, and the cardinals outside of Rome would be aware that the Holy Church had a brilliant priest within her fold. A priest that if Cardinal Bruno had his way would be elevated again, this time to archbishop. Two rising stars, on very different paths that would spectacularly intersect at the Alpha and the Omega of Jerusalem.

BOOK FIVE

2004

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Langley, Virginia

M
ike McKinnon scanned the latest intelligence reports on al-Qaeda’s nuclear capability. The first came from one of the CIA’s agents operating out of Kabul in Afghanistan. McKinnon skipped over the background summary. He was already depressingly familiar with the contents, including the discovery of papers that proved Osama bin Laden’s nuclear intentions. After the United States had invaded Afghanistan, a group of journalists had found some chilling documents in a house in Wazir Akbar Khan, one of Kabul’s more fashionable areas. The documents had included diagrams of the compression of plutonium into the critical mass required for a nuclear explosion.

The next section was headed ‘Subject of interest – Dr Hussein Tretyakov’. McKinnon recognised the photograph immediately. He had met Tretyakov at a Nuclear Disarmament Conference in London. Hussein Tretyakov was short, with spiky grey hair and broad shoulders. He had a square rugged face, with a high forehead and expressionless pale blue eyes. The teeth below his thick black moustache, McKinnon recalled, were stained from years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Dr Tretyakov had been one of the Soviet Union’s most brilliant nuclear physicists. Had been. Now he was on the Kremlin and the CIA’s ‘most wanted’ list. McKinnon skimmed over the biographical notes. He knew Tretyakov’s background well. Born in Grozny, Chechnya, in 1946. Two doctorates, one on the production of weapons-grade plutonium and the other on controlled nuclear fusion in tactical devices. A career that included stints at the quaintly named Research Institute of Experimental Physics at Chelyabinsk in the Urals, as well as at the plutonium reactor Chelyabinsk-65 at Lake Kyzltask and at Novaya Zemla, the central test site in the north of the Arctic Circle. It had never appeared on his official biography, but McKinnon and the CIA were also well aware that Dr Tretyakov had spent a considerable amount of time in the top-secret warhead production facility near Zlatoust, perfecting nuclear suitcase bombs.

Mike McKinnon stared at the colour photograph and he reflected on what had driven a man of Tretyakov’s ability to the darkest side of his profession. Mike knew that with the collapse of the Soviet Union, Dr Tretyakov, along with hundreds of other Soviet scientists, had been thrown out of work. More ominously still, in 1994 Boris Yeltsin had begun to brutally suppress Chechen President Jokhar Dudayev’s claim for Chechnya to become an independent state. Grozny had been bombed on New Year’s Eve, but the Chechen separatist fighters had fought back tenaciously, inflicting heavy losses on the Russian tanks, armoured personnel carriers, self-propelled guns and thousands of troops. In the backlash that followed, Hussein Tretyakov had lost his wife and their three small daughters. They had been a devout and devoted Muslim family, but now that family – as an orphan, the only one Hussein had ever known – was gone. President Dudayev’s threat to place the nuclear suitcase bombs on the market after the United States had ignored Chechnya’s call for independence was supported by Dr Tretyakov. He had nothing else to lose.

Tretyakov’s reckless actions couldn’t be condoned, but unlike some of those in the corridors of power in the Pentagon, for McKinnon it was important to understand the reason for his behaviour. President Vladimir Putin, Mike thought ruefully, had taken up the persecution of the Chechens where his predecessor had left off and Dr Hussein Tretyakov had been pushed into the arms of al-Qaeda. The report was chillingly inconclusive.

Dr Tretyakov’s present whereabouts are unknown. The last sighting of him was in Peshawar, in the north-west frontier of Pakistan. There are unconfirmed reports that he has linked up with Abdul Musa Basheer and other al-Qaeda leaders who have been seeking to purchase several of the nuclear suitcase bombs Tretyakov is known to have in his possession.

Mike McKinnon’s face reflected his concern, his jaw set determinedly. Earlier that evening he had read an unclassified report on the Omega Scroll and the Islamic nuclear factor by Professor Yossi Kaufmann. Was this coincidence or connection? he wondered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Milano

A
llegra made her way down the familiar hallway to the Vice Chancellor’s office. It had been over fifteen years since Antonio Rosselli’s brutal murder but she still missed her kind-hearted mentor dreadfully. She knew Rosselli had been on the cusp of revealing the secrets contained in the Omega Scroll and that Cardinal Petroni was somehow involved. Allegra and Giovanni were more determined than ever to uncover what was in the Omega Scroll, but other than storming the vaults of the Vatican it seemed there was little they could do. That was about to change.

‘You wanted to see me, Professor Gamberini?’ Allegra asked at the door of the Vice Chancellor’s office.

‘Come in, Allegra. Have a seat.’

Professor Gamberini was immaculately groomed from his fine dark hair to his tailored pinstriped suit and polished black leather shoes. He was the antithesis of Antonio Rosselli yet his gentle and open manner reminded her, painfully, of her beloved Professor. Gamberini had taken over the role of mentor, encouraging Allegra to continue with her scientific discoveries, and he was diligently fostering her growing international reputation.

‘Have you ever been to Jerusalem?’ Professor Gamberini asked, coming straight to the point.

Allegra’s heart skipped a beat and she immediately thought of Giovanni. She had been thrilled when he had been promoted to archbishop two years ago, and it had given her some small satisfaction to learn that their nemesis, Cardinal Petroni, had furiously opposed the promotion but had been overruled.

‘No, why do you ask?’ she replied, uncertain of what was coming next.

‘One of the great cities of the world,’ Professor Gamberini observed. ‘The Hebrew University there is offering two interesting new scholarships in archaeology, the Medina Scholarships, a sabbatical for up to four years of research and study of the Dead Sea Scrolls. One for an Israeli scholar, and one for an exchange scholar from overseas. What do you think?’

‘Who, me?’ Allegra replied, wondering if her quest for the Omega Scroll might be taking a new turn.

Professor Gamberini looked around his office. ‘There’s no one else in the room,’ he said with a smile. ‘The chair of the selection panel is an Israeli archaeologist, Professor Kaufmann. He was an old friend of Professor Rosselli and suggested your name be put forward. I think you will like him. You’ve studied Hebrew, I understand.’

‘I took it as an option when I was an undergraduate, but that was years ago. When is the selection panel, Professor? I will need to prepare.’ Already Allegra’s mind was racing ahead.

‘They’ve already selected the Israeli scholar, a Dr David Kaufmann. Professor Kaufmann’s son, so naturally enough the Professor stood aside from the panel for that one. I’m familiar with David’s work and he’s a very successful archaeologist in his own right, and very single too,’ he added mischievously. ‘In your case, Yossi Kaufmann and I have already spoken.’

‘I don’t understand, Professor Kaufmann and I have never met,’ Allegra replied, ignoring his remark on the marital status of the Israeli academic. Allegra had buried the prospect of a relationship with a man a long time ago, and it was not something she was ready to consider.

‘Your name came up in conversation during my last trip to Israel. He was very interested in your research on DNA and the Dead Sea Scrolls. I’ve taken the liberty of sending him a copy of your doctoral thesis and he will use that to evaluate your candidacy. I’ve already raised the issue with the academic board here and they’re prepared to give you leave for up to four years if you’re successful. Access to the Dead Sea Scrolls held in the Shrine of the Book Museum is guaranteed but for some reason there seems to be considerable opposition to any access to those housed in the Rockefeller Museum. A Monsignor Lonergan on the staff of the museum is kicking up quite a fuss. The usual academic jealousy I expect but that shouldn’t bother you too much, assuming you’re successful, of course,’ he added with a warm smile.

Allegra left the Vice Chancellor’s office with her mind in a whirl. Jerusalem, Bethlehem and the Holy Land. Who knows, her search for the Omega Scroll could continue more closely there. Giovanni would have all the contacts, she thought, then she pulled herself together.

‘Get a grip, girl!’ she said to herself. ‘They don’t give scholarships for study of the Dead Sea Scrolls to Italian scientists.’