James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (5 page)

Chaney could tell just from the bewildered expression on Giasson’s face that this was unusual. Even he was surprised when he wasn’t given a time to meet the Pope, but was told simply to present himself as early as possible.

“I think it’s best if I go immediately.”

“I concur.”

“If you could point me the way—”

Giasson wagged his finger. “No, I shall accompany you personally.”

Chaney nodded and followed Giasson through the complex, thankful he had a personal guide, it far more vast and confusing than he could have imagined. Minutes later they were in an outer office, an elderly priest sitting at the desk rose and nodded at Giasson.

“Mr. Chaney?”

Chaney nodded, about to extend his hand, when he noticed the priest’s hands neatly tucked in the opposing arms’ sleeves.

“Yes, umm, Father?”

The man smiled slightly and nodded. “Follow me.” He stepped away from his desk and pushed open two large doors, the woodwork something he would expect at Buckingham Palace, and not in a house of God.
God’s palace on Earth?
He stepped forward, as did Giasson. The priest shook his head. “Only Mr. Chaney.”

Giasson halted in mid step. Chaney shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, mate.” Following the priest in, he found himself in a large, but not ostentatiously large, office, filled with history. His eyes travelled the bookshelves lined with books older than him, artifacts from through the ages, walls adorned with priceless works of arts, and behind a stunning handmade desk, rose the holy man himself.

Chaney, though not a Catholic, gulped.

“Mr. Chaney of Scotland Yard,” announced the priest who promptly left, closing the doors behind him.

The Pope rounded his desk, his hand extended. Chaney had seen the ring kissed on many occasions, but wasn’t sure if he was supposed to. He decided to err on the side of caution. He reached out to take the hand, and bent over to kiss the ring when the Pontiff’s other hand touched Chaney’s shoulder, stopping him in mid-stoop.

“That is not necessary, my son.”

Chaney, upright again, instead shook the proffered hand. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know.”

The man grasped Chaney’s hand in both of his, looking deep into his eyes, slowly nodding. Then suddenly he flipped Chaney’s hand over, exposing his wrist, and with his opposing thumb, pushed the strap of his watchband up, revealing his Triarii tattoo, two small, thin lines, with a third, slightly curved and thicker, underneath. The man quickly let go and stepped back, smiling. As he did, he flipped his own wrist over.

Chaney gasped as he saw a tattoo matching his own.

Papal Office

Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

“You’re Triarii!”

Chaney stared at the wrist and instinctively revealed his own tattoo, looking at it to compare, not trusting that his eyes were not deceiving him.

“Yes, my son.” The Pontiff motioned to a set of chairs near a window, the afternoon’s light pouring through stained glass accents reminding Chaney of church when he was a child. He followed, on autopilot, and dropped himself into one of the leather chairs. The Pontiff sat across from him, his elbows resting on the chair’s high arms, his fingers interlaced under a slightly jutting chin. “Would you like the full story?”

Chaney nodded.

“Very well, I will tell you as much as I can.” He took a deep breath, as if this were going to be long, then began. “You of course know the Triarii protect the twelve crystal skulls, discovered over the past two millennia.” He stopped, raising his eyebrows. “You are familiar with the history?”

“Of course, I was taught it as a boy by my father.”

“Good, good,” said the Pontiff, his head bobbing. “Then I will skip to recent events. I was a Cardinal, prince of the Church, for almost two decades.” He paused. “Has it been that long?” he asked, his eyes directed at the ceiling, or more likely, God. He returned his gaze to Chaney and smiled. “I apologize, my son, this old man sometimes drifts.”

“It’s okay, sir.”

“Thank you, my son, now, where were we? Oh yes, I was a cardinal, which, in case you aren’t aware, is very high, and is usually from which the next pope is chosen. When the events of several months ago occurred, I was automatically a candidate to replace the poor soul, and had, over the years, been positioning myself to be a serious contender.”

Chaney cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, I hate to ask, but—” He stopped, not sure of how to ask the Pope of all people the question on his mind.

“You wonder if I even believe in God, in the Roman Catholic Church. You wonder if I, by occupying this very post, defile it.”

Chaney felt his cheeks flush. “Yes.”

“I’m glad you asked. And please”—he leaned forward and touched Chaney’s knee—“don’t hesitate to ask me anything. If we are to get through this, we must be as trusting of each other as we can.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Pontiff returned to his position of contemplation. “Do I believe in God? Absolutely. Do I believe in our Lord, our savior, Jesus Christ? Absolutely. Do I believe in the teachings of the Holy Bible and the way in which this church has interpreted it? Absolutely. I am, in every way, a staunch Roman Catholic. I’m Triarii by birth, and honor its history and mandate, and will honor the vow I made when I formally joined the Triarii to fulfill the duties my ancestors have for thousands of years, but that in no way affects my ability to believe in God, to have religion. The two are not in opposition to each other.” He stopped and pointed a finger gently at Chaney. “Do you believe in God?”

Chaney shifted in his chair. “Yes, I suppose I do. Nothing formal. I mean, I don’t go to church, but, I guess I believe.”

“And does it interfere with your duties as Triarii?”

Chaney shook his head. “I suppose not.”

“Of course it doesn’t. The Triarii have always allowed all faiths to be members, as even the Triarii have no idea what the source of the skulls is.” He leaned forward. “Now, as I was saying, I had been positioning myself for years, at the request of the Proconsol, as we became aware of something after the war that demanded investigation.”

“The war? World War Two?”

The Pontiff nodded. “Yes. As I’m sure you’re aware, Hitler was a zealot when it came to historic relics. He had teams spread across the globe chasing down everything and everyone, in an attempt to find things that may help him in his efforts to conquer the world.”

“I thought that was just in the Indiana Jones movies.”

A smile spread across the old man’s face. “Ahhh, Indiana Jones. Were we ever concerned when that movie was announced.”

“The last one? I saw it. Once I realized the premise, I knew we had nothing to worry about.”

“I think every member of the Triarii around the world saw that movie opening weekend.”

“Probably boosted its numbers,” said Chaney, chuckling.

“No doubt, no doubt,” agreed the Pontiff, his head bobbing with laughter. “But, you brought up Indiana Jones. Though fiction, the premise of the first movie was based on fact. Hitler had his Nazis spread out, seeking everything, including crystal skulls.”

“Yes, one in Warsaw was lost, was it not?”

“Yes, and eventually recovered by the Soviets before we could get to it. Luckily it was later retrieved as you are well aware.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “The confusion after the war allowed us to put several operatives into their defunct archaeological branch, and investigate what they had found out about the skulls. In fact, my father led the team, which is why I know what I know.”

Chaney leaned forward as well, the distance separating the two men mere inches. “And what is it you know?”

“That they found evidence of a thirteenth skull.”

Chaney jerked back in his chair, his jaw dropping. “Are you serious?”

“Would I joke about something like that?”

Chaney shook his head.
Of course he wouldn’t.
His head spun with the ramifications. The fabled Thirteenth Skull. Some had thought it had existed, that it must exist, superstitions winning over science. But if it did exist, not only was it a fascinating discovery, it was a dangerous one. If there was a rogue skull out there, unprotected, the consequences could be catastrophic.

The Pontiff leaned back in his chair, his voice still low. “I see you understand the implications.”

Chaney nodded. “Of course. What’s being done about it?”

“The records gave the location.”

“And where is it?”

The Pontiff pointed his finger at the floor.

“Here.”

“It’s here?”

The Pontiff’s finger flew to his mouth, urging Chaney to lower his voice. Chaney flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, and leaning forward. “Have you found it?”

The Pontiff shook his head, all traces of joy leaving his face. “No, and I’m afraid this is why you are here.”

“You want me to find the skull?”

“No, I want you to find out who killed Father Granger, one of our own, who was searching for the skull.”

“There’s been a murder? At the Vatican?” Again Chaney was admonished to keep his voice down. “I’m sorry, sir, I just—” He stopped. He wasn’t sure what to think. He had to process this new information. And calm his racing heart.
A murder at the Vatican. The fabled Thirteenth Skull here. Triarii running the Roman Catholic Church.
It was all too much. He closed his eyes and leaned down, dropping his head between his knees and clasping his hands behind his neck.
I wish Reading were here.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing.

“Are you okay, my son?”

Chaney nodded, then unclasped his hands and sat back up, slowly. “This is fantastic. Simply too fantastic.”

The old man nodded, returning to his seat. “It is indeed. I can understand your confusion, your shock. It’s almost too much to take all at once.”

Chaney took a deep breath, then tweaked on something that was just said, his eyebrows shooting up. “Father Granger was Triarii as well?”

“Yes.” The Pontiff leaned back in his chair. “In this position I get to choose my own aides, so I naturally chose one of our own. He is fully qualified to execute the duties of the position, is as devout a Catholic as any man I know, and is also loyal to our cause. As well, he was a dear friend, who had worked by my side for years.”

“And he was murdered?”

A frown creased the Pontiff’s face. “Yes. Yesterday morning his body was discovered in his chambers. He was beaten to death.”

“Did anybody hear anything?”

“No, they think he was killed elsewhere and his body moved to his room.”

“Has the murder scene been found?”

“No, and it won’t.”

Chaney’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Because I know where he was killed, and it is a place known only to me, and until yesterday, Father Granger.”

“Where?”

The Pontiff took in a deep breath then slowly exhaled. “What I’m about to tell you is the most well-guarded secret the Church has. It can be repeated to no one. It is a secret you must take to your grave.”

Chaney’s heart thudded against his ribcage.
What possible secret could a church have?
He nodded.

“You have heard of the Vatican Secret Archives?”

Chaney nodded. “Everyone has. They’re not exactly secret.”

The Pontiff chuckled. “No, and secrecy is not the definition of ‘Secret’ in this case. It is actually ‘Private’ meaning they are owned by me. The archives are public, scholars are allowed to view the items, the inventory is public.” He leaned forward. “No, I’m not talking about the Secret Archives. What isn’t known, what can’t be known, is that there is another archive.”

Chaney said nothing, instead leaning closer as the Pontiff’s voice dropped further still.

“Beneath these very walls, under the foundations of this church, is an archive created and maintained by my predecessors. Each Pope upon their election, is presented with a chest, with a lock that only the papal ring can open. It is presented with instructions that it must be opened in private, and on the first day of his reign. Inside is a letter, written on stone, with no name on it, but there is a fish carved at the bottom.”

“A fish?”

“The fisherman. St. Peter himself.”

“Wasn’t he—?”

“The first Pope, the first head of the Church of Christ, the man who laid the foundation of what would become this very church, the Roman Catholic Church, the greatest church to have ever existed, with more followers than any other, and through the centuries, more power than it ever should have wielded.”

“What did it say?”

The Pontiff shook his head. “No one knows, the words were either worn away with time, or purposefully destroyed, perhaps by one of my predecessors too upset by what he had discovered inside the chest. But I can tell you this. Other documents inside refer to it, and from what I gather, it ordered all future Popes to protect the Church. Not only from blasphemy, but from truths that could damage, or worse, destroy. And over the years, over nearly two millennia, items were collected that my predecessors felt may hurt the Church, shake people’s belief, and they have been hidden away, eventually in secret chambers built under Saint Peter’s Basilica itself.”

Chaney wasn’t sure what to think. There was no doubt the old man took this extremely seriously.
A super-secret archive hiding things that could hurt the Church? Like what?

“What kind of things are hidden?”

“An inventory is kept in the Unos Veritas Chest of everything that has been hidden over the years, but the parchments are old, and some have crumbled to dust. Only the past seven or eight hundred years is known, and now, thanks to His Holiness, John Paul the Second, the inventory was archived on computer disk to preserve it. Unfortunately the first thousand years or more of the archive is mostly unknown.”

“Can’t you just go down there and look?”

The man looked almost mortified. “These are forbidden items. Things that could shake mankind’s very belief in Christ, in God, in the Church.”

“What could possibly do that, especially in today’s day and age?”