Authors: Gerald T. McLaughlin
B
IELGARD AND
M
ICHELLINI
motioned the cab driver to stop at the bottom of the Capitoline steps. They crossed the busy Via di San Marco and walked down Via Piacenza to the Piazza Mar-gana. When they reached the Piazza, Bielgard saw Pietro Visconti sitting at a table outside Tre Amici Restaurant. Next to him sat a diminutive man.
“Visconti is here already.”
“I'm nervous, Jim.” Michellini clutched a large briefcase tightly in her hand.
“It's only a dinner.”
“There is no such a thing as ‘only a dinner.’ Once you start a process, events sometimes have a way of getting away from you.”
“Ah! Professor Bielgard.” Visconti hurried over to greet his guests. “Your phone call intrigued me. I took the liberty of inviting Professor Baldini from the University of Rome to join us. He is an expert on the dating of Hebrew manuscripts.”
Baldini got up from the table and bowed stiffly to Bielgard and Michellini.
“Jim, you warned me that your colleague Professor Michellini was a formidable scholar but you never told me that she was so beautiful.” Always a master of the courtly gesture, Visconti took Michellini's hand and kissed it. “But come; why are we all standing?” Visconti's face was framed with smiles. “I've ordered some antipasti and a bottle of Tre Amici's best Tignanello.”
Carlo Visconti had the dark good looks of an Italian movie idol. Born into a poor Roman family, he had learned the rules of survival on the streets of Rome. Visconti studied law at the City
University and quickly gained notoriety as a shrewd and tough-minded negotiator. He had a reputation not only for brokering deals which others thought impossible, but also for his discretion. If a deal unraveled, one thing was certain — nothing would ever be traced back to Visconti or to one of his clients. Through his wife's family, Visconti was also reputed to have strong ties to the Mafia. There was sentiment among some that Visconti's father-in-law was the
capo regime
in Rome. Whether true or not, one thing was undeniable. Visconti had friends at all levels of Italian society. He was the consummate fixer — the person to hire for very private matters where there could be no scandal and, of course, no press coverage.
“I'm fascinated by this census record you discovered in the Vatican Library. Show it to Professor Baldini.”
Professor Michellini opened her briefcase and carefully unrolled an ancient piece of parchment and laid it flat on the table.
Baldini put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and bent over the document. After he studied it for several minutes, he looked up from the text.
“Remarkable — truly remarkable.” Baldini sat silent for a moment as if savoring the suspense of what he was about to say. “This census record notes that Yeshua of Nazareth and Mary from the village of Magdala were married in the Hebrew year 3791. A son named David was born to them during the following year and a daughter named Tamar the year after that.”
“Is the census record authentic?” Visconti was impatient for the answer.
“It has very distinctive writing. There's a superscript on one of the prongs of the letter
shin
. I have never seen a superscript like this except in first-century Hebrew manuscripts. A forger would have to be pretty sophisticated to get the
shin
right.”
“So it's real?” Bielgard almost bolted out of his seat.
“You are a historian, Professor Bielgard.” There was a scolding tone to Baldini's voice. “I would have to take it for carbon dating to be sure.”
Visconti interrupted. “How long would carbon dating take?”
“Normally three weeks, but if I pay our lab technicians to work through the night, I could have preliminary results by early afternoon tomorrow.”
“Pay what you have to, Baldini. Do the test as quickly as possible. Even preliminary results would be helpful.”
“Just wait a moment!” Michellini scowled. “I signed on for a dinner. Now we re talking carbon testing.”
Bielgard patted Michellini on the arm. “Jane has some misgivings about this, Pietro. But I'm sure she'll trust her old mentor a little while longer.”
Professor Baldini carefully scrutinized the parchment. “I must take a small piece for testing. Perhaps from here where there's no lettering?”
Bielgard looked at Michellini. “What do you say, Jane?”
Michellini stood up from the table and gathered her belongings. “Let him take what he needs. It's only carbon dating—right Jim?”
Cardinal Barbo had hardly fallen to sleep after the nuncios' meeting when the phone rang in his apartment. The alarm clock said it was 3
A.M
. The secretary of state was accustomed to late-night phone calls from around the world, but he sensed that this call was different.
“Your Eminence, come quickly!” The voice was Sister Consuela's. “The pope is not well.”
Cardinal Barbo hurried to the Holy Father's apartment. Sister Consuela led him into the bedroom. Barbo's heart fell when he saw Benedict. His hair disheveled, the pope sat in a chair staring vacantly out a casement window. His breviary lay open on his lap but it was upside down.
“The Swiss Guard found him wandering in the corridor. He kept asking the guard how many hours until the hostages would be shot.” Sister Consuela brushed a tear from her eye. “When I put the Holy Father back in bed, he immediately jumped up again and opened his birdcage. You know how he adores those two finches. Well, he ran around the bedroom chasing after them. He knocked
over a vase and a lamp. When he couldn't catch them, he looked bewildered and sat down on the bed. I gave him his breviary. It calmed him until I could get the birds back in the cage.”
The cardinal walked over to the Holy Father and spoke quietly. “Benedict, do you hear me? It's Francesco.”
The pope turned his eyes in the direction of Barbo's voice but seemed not to recognize who was talking to him.
There was a knock on the door. Doctor Roger Hendricks, a specialist in neurological disorders at the Mayo Clinic, hurried into the room. During the past several months, Hendricks had commuted to Rome regularly to monitor the pope's condition. Hendricks sat on the bed next to the pope and directed a small light into his eyes. Putting down the light, Hendricks examined the pope's arm and leg flexibility.
Hendricks asked Sister Consuela to stand in front of the pope.
“Who is this, Holy Father?”
The pope looked at his housekeeper without any sign of recognition.
“Francesco, you asked me to tell you when it was time to have the conversation. I'm afraid now is the time.”
The cardinal and doctor walked to the corner of the pope's bedroom, leaving Sister Consuela to minister to Benedict's needs.
Hendricks poured himself a glass of water. “Your Eminence, these bouts of memory loss are becoming more frequent. The pope's Alzheimer's is not going to get any better.”
Barbo stared hard at Hendricks. “Weren't the drugs you prescribed slowing the progression of the disease?”
“Yes, but they've stopped working.”
“Sometimes, Benedict refuses to take the medicine you prescribed.”
“Francesco, I wish it were just a question of a stubborn patient. The pills are no longer effective. There's nothing else to try.”
Barbo fingered his pectoral cross. “You know where all this leads?”
Hendricks nodded. “Yes, I do. But that's the Church's decision, not mine.”
“I must be sure, Roger.”
“I'll have the pope's medical records faxed anonymously from the Mayo Clinic to two colleagues — Doctor Johan Bentzel at the Royal Karolinska Institute in Stockholm and Doctor Henri Sou-venne in Montreal. Maybe they'll have some additional thoughts, but I'm not hopeful.”
Barbo sat for a moment looking across the room to where the Holy Father sat. “Roger, get their opinions. So much hinges on the medical prognosis.”
“Who would administer the Church if Pope Benedict were required to abdicate?”
“Cardinal Agostino Marini — the pope appointed him the camerlengo.”
“The camerlengo?”
Barbo smiled. “Roger, I guess you haven't been around the Vatican long enough to have heard about the camerlengo?”
I guess not.
“The camerlengo administers the day-to-day operations of the Church when there is no pope. If there's no encouragement from your colleagues in Stockholm and Montreal, I will inform Cardinal Marini about the pope's condition.”
“I'll have the medical records sent immediately.” Doctor Hendricks stood up and left the papal apartment.
Barbo looked at his watch. It was five in the morning. If Hamas carried out its ultimatum, the first executions would begin in seven hours.
At precisely 1:30
P.M
., Professor Baldini was ushered into Pietro Visconti's office. Professors Bielgard and Michellini sat nervously on a couch under a picture of Visconti walking arm in arm with the prime minister and the president of the republic.
“Well, Baldini? What does the carbon dating say?”
Baldini took out his note pad. “Preliminary results date the parchment to the first century.”
“First century, where?”
“First-century Palestine. I asked a colleague to perform a pollen test. Fie found several microscopic spores characteristic of plant growth in Palestine.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Visconti handed Baldini an envelope. “Take this for your efforts.”
When Baldini had left the room, Bielgard turned to Visconti.
“Pietro, how much would the Vatican pay for this?”
Visconti thought for a moment. “Ten million euros would be a good place to start discussions.”
Bielgard leaned closer to Visconti. “Would you approach the Vatican on our behalf?”
“Yes.”
“And your fee?”
Visconti smiled. “We'll talk about it at a later date.”
“Wait a minute!” Michellini started to put the parchment back in her briefcase. “First, it was dinner, then carbon dating, now extortion— events are moving ahead a little too fast for me.”
“Pure and simple, Pietro, Jane is worried that we'll get caught.”
Visconti stared at Michellini with a bemused look. “The Vatican is a multinational corporation and acts accordingly. It'll pay handsomely to keep this document from its shareholders. I assure you, there will be no police involvement. Trust me.”
“Mr. Visconti, could Jim and I step out of your office for a moment.”
“Of course. Use the conference room across the hall.”
When they entered the room, Michellini exploded. “Don't try to make me out as the frightened academic. I told you what I want out of this — peer recognition. I want heads to turn when I enter the room. I want them to say that woman over there is Jane Michellini from Bard College. She discovered the Jesus-Magdalene parchment. Now she's at Harvard!”
“Recognition doesn't pay college tuitions, Jane. I'll take the money every time.”
“I'll agree to let Visconti approach the Vatican to explore their level of interest and report back to us. Then we'll see.”
“You're making the right decision, Jane. Let's talk some more with Visconti.”
Cardinal Barbo sat at his desk, staring at his watch. In just over an hour, Hamas's threatened executions would begin.
Alessandri buzzed on the intercom. “The Portuguese prime minister is on line two, Your Eminence.”
Barbo anxiously picked up the phone. “Isabella, thanks for calling me back so promptly.”
“I wish I had better news. My staff tells me that taking these Hamas terrorists will give our anti-immigrant party here the opening they need to pillory me. The election polls are very close.”
“Thanks for trying, Isabella. Sometimes you must say ‘no,’ even to the Holy Father.”
“Please express my best wishes to His Holiness.”
“In all this talk of Hamas and hostages, I forgot to tell you some good news. Both you and Grand Duchess Charlotte of Luxembourg have been nominated to receive the Golden Rose. As you know, it is conferred only on women heads of state who have demonstrated their devotion to the Church.”
There was silence on the phone.
“I'm flattered. The Golden Rose has not been awarded in decades.”
“Not since 1956. But the Holy Father believes that you and the Grand Duchess are deserving candidates. It will be difficult for the Holy Father to choose which of you has most helped the Church.”
“I hope the Vatican realizes just how good you are, Francesco. How many Palestinians must I take to stay in the running?”
“Three.”
“And what have you asked of the Grand Duchess?”
“The Church has many needs, Isabella.”
“I guess I'll have to live with some extra political risk. Portugal will take your three Palestinians.”
Barbo had hardly time to enjoy his success, when Alessandri buzzed again on the intercom.
“There's someone named John on line three. He won't give his full name. He says he's an old friend of yours.”
“Put him through.”
Barbo waited impatiently for Vincent to come on the line. “John, Portugal will take three. The Dutch Prime Minister promised that he would take more if it put an end to the crisis. If the Israelis will let the remaining five gunmen go, I think the crisis is over.”
“I'm afraid they won't, Francesco. The Israelis just told Washington that all negotiations over the hostages in the church are off. They're furious over Eilat. They're threatening to invade the church no matter what the cost in lives.”
“John, that cell phone number you gave me. I never used it. Stay on the line.”
Barbo dialed the number of the Hamas commander in the church.
After three rings, someone picked up the receiver. “This is Cardinal Barbo, the secretary of state of the Vatican. Let me speak to your commander.” Barbo could hear several men arguing in Arabic. Finally a man who spoke English took the receiver.
“What do you want?”
“Time,” answered Barbo. “We are trying to convince the Israeli authorities to let all of you leave the country safely.”
“The ultimatum stands.” The man's voice was as hard as flint. “The hostages are innocent pilgrims. They have done you no harm. Allah is a merciful God.”
The speaker paused. Barbo heard him shout in Arabic to someone else in the church. The two men talked for several minutes. Finally the speaker returned to his conversation with Barbo. “Does this priest Finnergan work for you?”