The Inca Prophecy (30 page)
The long polished table had been designed to seat the twelve members of the National Security Council, and those who’d been invited this morning stood as the President entered the nerve centre: the vice president, the secretary of state, the secretary of defense, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, the director of national intelligence and the national security advisor. Chuck Buchanan and Lauren Crawford, along with Howard Wiley and Professor Lapinski, occupied some of the advisors’ chairs that were positioned against the walls.
‘Mr President, can I introduce Professor Lapinski, from the nuclear physics department at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,’ the vice president offered. ‘Wiley will start with the current brief on Iran, and the professor will then give us his take on what the Iranians are up to.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor – I understand you’re also going to simplify nuclear physics for us,’ McGovern said, grinning as he stretched out his hand.
‘I’ll do my best, Mr President.’
‘Well, I warn you, the last time I saw a physics laboratory was way back in junior high, so go easy on the quantum mechanics!’
The President took his place at the near end of the table and Wiley flicked on the latest satellite imagery of Iran’s nuclear installations. The DDO presented a point-by-point brief of what the CIA and other agencies knew about Iran’s capabilities, before offering an opinion on the Islamic Republic’s pursuit of the bomb.
‘Mr President, there seems little doubt that Iran is pursuing a nuclear capability beyond that which is required for nuclear power. These satellite images are less than twenty-four hours old, and provide the latest data on Iran’s progress,’ Wiley said, as the crystal-clear photography appeared on the screen. Six months earlier, a massive US Delta IV rocket, over 50 metres high and capable of lifting over 13 tonnes, had blasted into space from the Vandenberg Air Force launch pad on the Californian coast, carrying the National Reconnaissance Office’s latest Keyhole spy satellite. The size of a school bus, the huge camera platform orbited as high as 1000 kilometres above Iran, passing over the Islamic Republic twice a day. The sensors operated in the visible light spectrum and in the near infrared, as well as having a thermal infrared system that could detect heat signatures. Thanks to this, intelligence analysts could read licence plates on trucks in Iran if they wanted to. And the massive Lacrosse satellites, with their 45-metre solar panels and radar antennae, complemented Keyhole. They were equipped with radar imaging sensors and orbited at speeds of up to 25 000 kilometres an hour. They could see through bad weather and could pick out surface-to-air missiles, even when the missiles were deployed in Iran’s oak forests of the central and western districts, or the forests of the limestone mountains to the north-east.
‘The Bushehr nuclear power plant, which is located here,’ Wiley
said, using a laser pointer, ‘one thousand two hundred kilometres south of Tehran on the Persian Gulf, is expected to come on line in the next six months, producing 1000 megawatts of power. A Russian company, Atomstroyexport, has finished cleaning the interior of the plant, along with the main circulation pipeline, and has begun loading the uranium fuel rods. Some 800 kilometres to the north, at Esfahan, the Iranians have constructed a plant to convert uranium oxides, or yellowcake, into uranium hexafluoride gas, which is the first step in enriching uranium to weapons grade.’ Wiley flashed his pointer over the images of mountainous desert country, detailing the Iranian’s nuclear facilities, including the heavy-water reactor at Arak.
‘Perhaps of greatest concern,’ Wiley continued, ‘are the underground centrifuge systems at Natanz, located here, 240 kilometres south of Tehran. And we also have evidence of a second construction, deep underground, just 32 kilometres north-west of the holy city of Qom.’ The satellite images clearly showed the massive reinforced-concrete tunnel entrances. ‘If the Iranians perfect the bomb using either uranium-235 or plutonium-239, then they already have the delivery systems,’ Wiley emphasised. ‘During the Holy Prophet war games in 2006, the Iranians unveiled the Fajr-3 missile system. More worrying still, the nose cone of this missile carries multiple independently targeted re-entry vehicles, which means it could strike, for example, several Israeli cities at once. Iran’s latest missile, the Sejil-2, is an improvement on the Fajr-3, using solid fuel, which means it can be readied for firing much more quickly.’ Wiley activated a second screen, showing footage of Iran’s latest missile test.
The gleaming 18-metre-high two-stage Sejil-2 missile stood on
its launch pad at Iran’s top-secret missile site in the Dasht-e Kavir, the great salt desert in Semnan Province, 200 kilometres due east of Tehran. A heat haze shimmered off the brown, pebbly sand as the warning sirens sounded, followed by the launch announcement in Farsi. Suddenly, a powerful sheet of flame erupted from the missile’s engines, sending clouds of sand billowing around the launch pad; the 26-tonne monster rose gracefully into the desert sky, the deadly nose cone arcing downrange behind a white exhaust trail.
‘The Sejil-2 has a range of up to 2500 kilometres,’ Wiley explained. ‘That puts all of Israel and every US base in the Middle East in range, as well as some key cities in Europe. In addition, we now have reports that Venezuela and Iran have signed an agreement to base Iranian missiles in Venezuela, which puts Miami and other major US cities in range as well.’
The President and the secretary of state exchanged glances. The Iranians were on the move.
Chapter 37
Cardinal Felici moved effortlessly amongst his guests beneath the chandeliers of the Louis XIV-style reception room. Some had wondered whether it was protocol to attend a function prior to the pontiff’s funeral, but in his position as Camerlengo, Felici had personally assured them that the pontiff would have wanted the affairs of the Church to continue as normally as possible. He had put equal care into selecting his guests. Twenty of the most influential cardinals from the Italian, African, Asian and Americas blocs, who in turn could influence others, had received invitations to his apartment. The waiters were immaculately dressed in white, carrying trays of freshly shucked oysters, warm scallops and dill, and a host of other delicacies. The wine waiters moved unobtrusively, with crystal flutes of Moët, and for those who preferred something else, two barmen were on duty at a discreetly located but well-stocked bar.
‘Frederic, I’m so glad you could come,’ Felici said warmly to the leader of the African delegation. ‘A sad occasion, but we must turn our attention to the future,
n’est-ce pas
?’ Felici took the trouble to address his guests in the language in which he knew them to be most comfortable. ‘And if not an African pontiff this time around, we must ensure that the next pontificate puts Africans in positions of considerable authority. It is high time we had an African secretary of state …’
Having planted the seed, Felici moved on to a cardinal from the Italian bloc. ‘It’s perhaps time we went back to our roots, Giorgio,
non è vero
?’
‘It’s been a long while since an Italian was chosen, Salvatore, but who do you have in mind?’ the cardinal patriarch of Venice probed.
‘Someone who can keep the Church on a steady course. At a time when there is so much pressure to relax our standards – to allow contraception, to allow homosexuals to receive the sacraments, to allow divorcees to marry again in the Holy Church – it would be a disaster to elevate a progressive,’ Felici argued, without once mentioning his arch-rival Sabatani.
‘I couldn’t agree more, Salvatore. We need a strong conservative at the helm.’ The patriarch of Venice put a reassuring hand on Felici’s shoulder, a look of understanding in his eyes.
‘If you like, Excellency, I could ask the Swiss Guard to make a more thorough search, although Father McLoughlin did say he wouldn’t be very long and it was just the Galileo document he wished to view,’
the archivist offered. Both men were standing directly beneath the cupboard in which O’Connor had hidden.
Bishop Romano considered his options. ‘No, I think you’re right,’ the prefect of the archives said finally. ‘The guards have enough on their hands at the moment, although I’ll see if we can track this Father McLoughlin down. Make sure everything’s secure, and we’ll call it a day.’
O’Connor listened to the retreating footsteps. Ten minutes later, he crawled out of the cupboard, descended the wooden steps and three further flights of stairs into the very bowels of the archives. O’Connor shone his torch around the kilometres of shelving. Finally, in the very far corner, he came across a heavy cedar door with a cast-iron lock. For all its security, the Vatican had retained the creaking wooden lifts and cabinets that went back to the Middle Ages. The priests had yet to join the twentieth, let alone the twenty-first century, O’Connor thought, and within thirty seconds the old door squeaked on its hinges and swung open. O’Connor followed the sloping passage downwards towards the crypts of the basilica. Fifty metres in, he came to another locked door, which yielded almost as quickly as the first.
‘Bingo,’ O’Connor muttered, as he entered a chamber containing a heavy oak table and two similarly heavy chairs, but it wasn’t the furniture that intrigued him. At the far end of the room, which had been excavated out of solid rock, a long-dead pope with something to hide had ordered the construction of a vault, sealed with a steel door. O’Connor was prepared for anything, including an electronic delay lock, and had even included a stethoscope in his bag in case the lock was simple. To his surprise, it would come in handy. The
old Mosler vault door had only a single combination dial and handle and O’Connor spun the dial to clear the tumblers. He pulled out his stethoscope and placed the diaphragm on the edge of the gradations before slowly turning the dial to the right. O’Connor smiled as the cam and lever mechanism engaged with a click. Even the last number was standard: twenty-five. There were ninety gradations on the dial, and O’Connor was convinced the old mechanism only had three tumblers. He advanced the dial back and forth, over each gradation, until the soft
nikt
in his earpiece told him he had the first number: seventy-six. He grinned to himself as he picked up the second
nikt
on fifty-six, followed by the final number on forty-one. O’Connor cleared the tumblers and then dialled in the code in the old standard four-three-two-one revolution sequence. He turned the rusted wheel and the vault door swung open on heavy, greased hinges.
O’Connor felt for the light switch and moved into the vault. There were surprisingly few documents inside, although O’Connor knew there was a separate area of the basement above the vault that had been set aside for the mass of documents relating to the Vatican’s relationship with Hitler and the Nazis. Yet another area catered for the highly sensitive documents on the paedophilia scandal the Vatican had ignored for decades. Only the most sensitive documents of all would be stored in this vault, and it wasn’t long before he came across a small cream vellum file embossed with the title ‘The Third Secret of Fátima’. Intrigued, he opened it. Inside was a copy of the four-page public version of the Third Secret released by Pope John Paul II in June 2000, but attached to the binding in a clear plastic sleeve was a small, single sheet of paper, written in Portuguese.
O’Connor set it aside. He knew many still believed the Vatican had hidden the real secret, and the hand-written version might well be that secret.
A few minutes later, he was convinced there was no crystal skull in the vault, but he could see that someone had been working on a file embossed with a coat of arms bearing the words Foedus Sanctus and marked
Top Secret
. O’Connor sat down at the table and opened the file. The Vatican might have changed the name of its intelligence organisation to the Entity, but the coat of arms still bore the Latin for its predecessor, the Holy Alliance.
‘Paydirt,’ O’Connor muttered, as he went through the papers. The file contained a photocopy of numbers headed simply:
The Cipher
299 4 164 177 3 228 45 287 36 224 84 200 83 232 50 145 194 219 101 10 125 127 9 166 216 113 241 38 158 1 3 61 306 187 199 272 217 206 6 183 152 67 145 200 106 306 253 310 231 218 12 108 156 23 126 111 78 219 279 281 260 145 287 166 106 304 7 6 225 66 270 246 204 223 126 218 171 108 140 273 170 281 50 272 243 145 307 270 6 27 250 295 314 107 146 48 207 189 108 304 53 204 180 126 158 210 78 279 68 3 9 105 124 108 6 253 172 280 125 256 78 71 206 225 7 6 70 206 279 225 126 218 9 108 125 212 182 101 291 106 147 219 61 218 152 190 38 24 150 243 189 145 217 55 125 35 234 152 71 158 38 156 6 123 101 219 96 187 125 69 217 117 169 223 270 250 3 225 252 158 68 240 182 104 38 158 196 6 107 124 218 125 79 112 232 114 78 241 55 111 247 170 227 137 145 162 38 192 253 33 96 206 125 69 293 52 287 78 69 147 70 125 78 168 17 152 33 239 52 219 140 3 254 158 309 207 242 75
The file also contained a photocopy of an ancient document, the edges of the page cracked and torn: