The Omega Scroll (33 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Hindu Kush

T
he wind howled viciously outside the heavily guarded cave complex, high in a remote area of the Hindu Kush on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The majestic snow-capped peaks soared to 6000 metres and beyond. Today the temperature had dropped to 15 degrees below zero and visibility was down to a few metres. Dr Hussein Tretyakov placed the heavy metal suitcase in the centre of the cave and rubbed his hands vigorously. It was one of several for which his new employer had paid ten million dollars each. Most of the others were already with the sleeper cells in the United States, Britain and Australia.

The small group of Arabs gathered around the bomb. They were led by a man in his mid-fifties dressed in a nondescript but expensive robe and a spotless white turban. Hussein Tretyakov had come to know and like the Egyptian lawyer, Abdul Musa Basheer, and his gentle sense of humour. Both men were now on a similar path and Abdul Basheer was one of bin Laden’s most trusted lieutenants and strategists. The former member of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad was a man of extraordinary ability and the West had every reason to be worried. If anything happened to either bin Laden or himself, Basheer had recruited some of the finest engineers, soldiers, lawyers and doctors in Islam to carry on the struggle.

‘The original nuclear bombs were fission bombs where atoms were split, giving off an enormous amount of energy in the form of heat, neutrons and gamma rays,’ Hussein explained, waiting for the interpreter to translate.

‘Neutrons and gamma rays penetrate the body and destroy the body’s cells, resulting in hundreds of thousands more deaths than might be achieved from just the blast and heat of a nuclear explosion,’ he continued. ‘Plutonium has a half-life of about twenty-four thousand years. Together, the heat and force of a nuclear suitcase bomb, coupled with the radiation, will render the Western cities unusable for a very long time.’

The Arabs exchanged glances. Praise be to God, the infidels could now be dealt a blow that would make September 11 look like child’s play.

Tretyakov opened the lid of the deadly nuclear bomb. ‘As you can see, this suitcase contains a heavily shielded cylinder in which the fuel is kept in what is called a sub-critical mass so that it won’t detonate prematurely. On detonation the plutonium inside compresses and when it reaches a critical mass we have our nuclear explosion.’

Dr Tretyakov passed around a sheet of paper with a diagram of the inside of the cylinder and its plutonium core.

‘In the 1950s, despite the carnage in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, scientists found that fission bombs were inefficient,’ he explained. ‘Fusion bombs, which we call thermonuclear bombs, can do a lot more damage.’

Again there was an exchange of glances as the interpreter translated.

‘For the last twenty years Russian scientists have been working to perfect small thermonuclear devices which will destroy any known city. Most of the radiation from a fission bomb is in the form of X-rays,’ the Chechen nuclear physicist said. ‘The X-rays from a fission bomb can be used to produce the very high temperatures and pressures that are required to trigger a fusion reaction. Thermonuclear bombs work with a fission bomb being first imploded inside a casing to compress a fusion fuel of lithium deuterate and a rod of plutonium-239.’

Hussein handed out another sheet of paper with a diagram of the fission bomb and fusion bomb inside a casing of uranium-238 and the sequence of events that produced an ever increasing series of neutron emissions, culminating in the lithium deuterate and plutonium-239 fuel of the fusion bomb producing even more neutrons and heat, and a nuclear explosion that was a hundred times more powerful than Hiroshima.

‘The first three targets are New York, London and Sydney,’ Abdul Basheer said quietly. ‘God willing, we will also be able to attack other cities like Washington, Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles.’ His eyes were clear and his manner chillingly calm. ‘If the British and Australians continue to support the United States killing innocent Muslim women and children around the world, then we will also attack cities like Manchester and Melbourne. What would be the effect of such a bomb?’

Dr Tretyakov had prior knowledge of the initial targets and he produced simple travel maps of the Western cities. ‘The thermonuclear suitcases will destroy any of your targets,’ he explained to the al-Qaeda command group. ‘In New York, the Brooklyn, Manhattan and other bridges would twist and melt into the East River. The skyscrapers would implode and Wall Street and the financial district would be razed to a smoking ruin. Lower Manhattan would be totally destroyed, as well as the rest of the city including 5th Avenue, Broadway and the area around Central Park. In London, Trafalgar Square, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace and Westminster Bridge, together with everything else around them, would be wiped off the map. Permanently.’

Jerusalem

In a safe house in the Old City, Yusef Sartawi pored over the photos of the Hebrew University and the biochemistry laboratory with its trademark fume cupboard venting on the roof. The safe, he had been assured by the laboratory technician, was rudimentary. It was an old free-standing Chubb and old safes sometimes needed to be repaired. Yusef checked the letterhead on the invoice.
Leibzoll Safes and Security, 84 Ben Yehuda Street, Tel-Aviv
. The blanks had been stolen from a security company that specialised in safes. He’d lined up one of his most experienced drivers for the job and a sign-writer had almost finished preparing the van. Now the only thing preventing them from putting the plan into action was the final approval for repair, and that had to come from within the bureacracy of the university administration. The delay was frustrating, Yusef mused, but if Allah willed it, the approval would eventually be forthcoming without arousing any suspicion.

BOOK SIX

2005

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Roma

T
he new year had begun badly for Cardinal Petroni. The laboratory technician at the Hebrew University had not only sold information to Yusef Sartawi. The Director of L’École Biblique, Father Jean-Pierre La Franci, had also been startled to learn of Dr Allegra Bassetti’s DNA analysis on fragments of a Dead Sea Scroll. With confirmation of the woman’s involvement and the news that the fragments might be the legendary Omega Scroll, Cardinal Petroni had not hesitated. Allegra Bassetti would have to be eliminated and the Dead Sea Scroll recovered. Now, with his customary ruthlessness, Lorenzo Petroni had turned his attention to the more urgent matter of the Pope’s health.

The intercom on Cardinal Petroni’s desk sounded quietly.

‘Yes, Father Thomas?’ The Cardinal Secretary of State’s politeness could only be attributed to the presence of the Papal Physician, Professor Vincenzo Martines.

‘The cardinals have assembled in the Borgia Chamber, Eminence.’

‘Thank you, Father Thomas. You may tell them Professor Martines and I are on our way.’

‘As you can see, Vincenzo, it’s a very delicate issue,’ Petroni continued, sinking back into one of the crimson couches. ‘The resignation of a Holy Father is not without precedent but fraught with difficulty and some of my colleagues will be loathe to even consider it.’

‘I can understand that, Lorenzo. After all, the Holy Father’s faculties are still quite sharp.’ The Papal Physician kept his fears that the Pope’s condition was far more serious to himself.

‘Yes, and he is determined to bear the burden of his debilitating condition until the end. Between you and me, Vincenzo, the Church’s greatest nightmare would be for a reigning Pope to become unconscious for any prolonged period. I don’t mean any disrespect to your profession but, in the case of a Pope, modern medicine brings mixed blessings. A hundred years ago the physician’s remedy was often more dangerous than the affliction, now we keep people alive for a very long time. To the ordinary man that can either be a comfort or a curse. A Pope is different. If he slips into a coma, the Holy Church slips into a coma with him. I can run the day-to-day business here, but unless His Holiness delegates specific authority, bishops can’t be appointed and major policy decisions can’t be made. A Pope on life-support can spell serious trouble for the Church.’

‘And who amongst the Curial Cardinals will have the courage to turn off the life support of a Pope,’ Professor Martines mused. It was a statement rather than a question. Vincenzo Martines again reflected on his diagnosis of Petroni and the cardinal’s judicious use of charm, manipulation and intimidation to achieve total control. Martines wondered if that would stretch to violence should the need arise. There was a coldness about this Prince of the Church that was the antipathy of Christ, along with a ruthless ambition that hid what Martines suspected was an inner insecurity. But it was not his role in life to make judgements on the fitness or otherwise of a candidate for the Keys to Peter. His task was to brief the Curial Cardinals on His Holiness’ condition, although he was under no illusions as to what was driving Cardinal Lorenzo Petroni.

‘Who indeed, Vincenzo. Perhaps it is time my Curial colleagues were given all the facts. Shall we?’

‘I know you all have busy schedules,’ Petroni began when he and Professor Martines had taken their places at the heavy polished table in the Borgia Chamber, ‘and I am grateful to each of you for your valuable time.’ It was a vintage Petroni opening. He knew full well that not one of the Vatican’s Cardinal Prefects would have dared miss such a meeting. In the secret mazes of the Curial bureaucracy, knowledge was power, and as always, Petroni’s own ruthless power was paramount but it was masked with a velvet glove of courtesy and silken diplomacy.

‘I have asked Professor Martines to join us this evening because I think the time has come for you all to be given a forthright assessment of his Holiness’ condition. As this is an informal meeting and not a consistory, no notes will be taken. It goes without saying that what is said here tonight is to remain in this room.’ Cardinal Petroni nodded politely towards the Papal Physician. ‘Professor Martines, we are indebted to you.’

Professor Martines cleared his throat and adjusted a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his large aquiline nose.

‘I am happy to be of service, Eminence; I only wish it was under better circumstances,’ he said, looking out at the sea of scarlet around the table.

‘As you know, Eminences, the Pope has been suffering from Parkinson’s for some years, and as you are also aware, Parkinson’s is a progressively degenerative neurological disorder that affects the control of body movements.’

‘Is there a cure?’ The question came from Cardinal Castiglione, one of the longest serving of the Curial Cardinals and Prefect of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. Giulio Castiglione came from the old school. He was already past the normal retiring age of seventy-five, and when he turned eighty in two years time, he would no longer be eligible to vote. The Holy Father had extended him in his appointment and no one present at the meeting tonight was in any doubt where his loyalties lay. The ‘old bull’ was clearly not happy.

‘Unfortunately not.’ Professor Martines confirmed what most already knew. ‘There is an enormous amount of research being conducted, but the present treatment is restricted to reducing the effects of the disease, not to alleviating the disease itself.’

‘I thought there was some promising research coming out of the United States.’ This time the question came from Cardinal Rinato Fiore, Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation for Bishops.

‘Eminence, I assume you are referring to some work done at the University of Colorado and the Columbian University where they are assessing whether or not cell transplants can restore the dopamine function.’ Professor Martines chose his words carefully. ‘Medical scientists in the United States have shown that dopamine-producing cells can take root, survive and function after a transplant. That gives us some useful clues for further research, but I’m afraid that while the work has shown some promise, implanted cells cannot be fully controlled. An overproduction of some chemicals can trigger involuntary movements which can be quite disturbing.’

‘And the Holy Father’s present condition?’ asked Cardinal Fumagalli, Prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy.

‘You will appreciate, Eminence, that the Holy Father has been on medication for a very long time. One of the characteristics of Parkinson’s is that over time, its effects become commensurately more severe. His Holiness’ stooped posture is, I’m afraid, just one symptom of that. As the illness progresses, more and more medication is required and unfortunately the side-effects become more pronounced.’

‘I understand that in time, Professor Martines, medication might no longer be effective?’ Petroni’s interjection was designed to ultimately force the direction of a decision in his favour.

‘Sadly, we are probably close to that point now, Eminence. To be blunt, apart from his problems with movement and writing, and sometimes with speech, His Holiness is suffering increasingly from nausea and vomiting. He is not sleeping and he is becoming progressively more tired as his dosage of levodopa is increased. There will come a time when the drugs will no longer be effective and appearances in public may be difficult, if not impossible.’

‘And what of the Holy Father’s mental state?’ Cardinal Fiore had ventured where no one else had so far dared, but this was too much for Castiglione.

‘Someone should rule that question out of order!’ Castiglione spluttered, looking directly at Cardinal Petroni. ‘It is not up to us as cardinals to sit here and discuss the Holy Father’s mental capacity as if he were some priest we’re considering putting in a home.’

‘I can understand that some of us, all of us, find this distasteful,’ the Secretary of State responded calmly, ‘but it is not the first time that the Church has had to face this sort of difficulty.’ The Secretary of State turned to face Cardinal Castiglione. ‘There is a lot of experience around this table and none of us have more than you, Eminence, but if the stewardship of the Church should pass into our hands, we need to be prepared.’

‘You make it sound as if His Holiness is half-dead already,’ Castiglione snapped.

‘Forgive me, Eminence, I don’t mean to. Please continue, Professor Martines,’ Petroni said, coldness creeping into his voice.

‘If you are asking me whether or not His Holiness comprehends what is going on around him, the answer is unequivocally yes. His mind is still very sharp. However,’ Professor Martines warned, ‘some patients have difficulty with short-term memory and, for some, complex issues are increasingly more difficult to grasp. His Holiness has been accustomed to a very full working day, which is no longer possible. This is causing him a degree of stress which further lessens the effectiveness of the pharmacological intervention.’

Petroni scanned the faces of his fellow cardinals. The reality was that modern medicine could not provide a recovery, nor could it provide a peaceful death. In a way, the cardinals were also refusing to face their own mortality, grimly hanging on to the old inflexible Church they loved. Petroni was determined to press them for a decision on the Pope’s resignation, but tonight was not the time.

‘Thank you, Professor Martines,’ Petroni said, bringing the meeting to an end. ‘You have given us all much to think about and again we are indebted to you. I propose, gentlemen, that over the coming days we should all devote some time, thought and prayer to this serious issue with which the Holy Church is now faced.’

As Petroni walked back to his apartments he thought about how close he was getting to ultimate power. Nothing could be allowed to stand in his way – not Donelli, not Schweiker, and especially not the woman.