The Chimera Sanction (24 page)

Dulac approached the lad. ‘I’ll give you five Euros.’

‘Ten.’

‘Thief. Here.’

Dulac grabbed the newspaper, walked briskly home and as he hurried up the stairs to his flat, he tripped, just managing to hang on to the railing before falling. Good God, he thought. Continuing to read below the bold headlines, he felt a strange mixture of curiosity, exhilaration, and fear.

‘It’s me, Cardinal,’ said Sforza, anger in his voice as he knocked on Fouquet’s office door. The door opened and Sforza rushed in, newspaper in hand, shaking it at Fouquet. ‘Have you read this?’

‘What could I do?’ said Fouquet. ‘I couldn’t deny it, could I?’

‘A bit more vagueness wouldn’t have hurt.’

‘I reacted as best I could.’

‘The Pope planted this. He leaked the information to the press. Now the truth comes out. He plans to eliminate cardinals as well,’ said Sforza, still shaking the newspaper at Fouquet. ‘He’s trying to pre-empt any deposition procedure on our part. This is a declaration of war. War to the finish.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ said Fouquet.

‘First we have to find out who our allies are. Who we can count on. We must draw up a list of all the conservative archbishops, cardinals, bishops, everybody. We must call them before it’s too late.’

‘I agree.’

‘I won’t allow him to take the Church down the path of heresy,’ said Sforza. ‘Catholic dogma is not to be determined by a popularity contest.’

‘What can I do?’

‘You can gather the complete Canon law legislation and
jurisprudence
on the procedure to depose the Pope. There’s no time to waste.’

The Vatican’s telephone lines were swamped. Calls were flooding in from everywhere. Calls of congratulations, calls of support, threats and expressions of joy, anger, disbelief and admonition: atheists, agnostics, priests, bishops, archbishops from Uruguay to Greenland, all wanted to be heard.

The following morning, fuelled by the news of the upcoming reforms, St. Peter’s Square was filled to capacity, as word spread that the Pope would make a loggia appearance. Situated over the main doors of the Basilica and overseeing the Square, the loggia – or balcony – was reserved for the Pope’s special announcements, such as the beatification of a recent candidate for sainthood, or the official papal reaction to a world event.

At 10.30 a.m., Cardinal Legnano, standing next to the French doors which gave access to the balcony, pushed aside the drapes, and peered discreetly outside. He looked at his watch. At that moment, Gonzales rushed in. ‘Sorry your Holiness, your Eminence. I was delayed.’

‘Never mind, Cardinal. Where are the others?’ said Legnano.

‘They should be joining us any minute,’ said Gonzales.

Through the space of the slightly ajar doors, Legnano could hear the dull murmur of the crowd’s anxiousness and impatience.

‘We can’t wait much longer, your Holiness,’ said Legnano, looking out the window.

‘You’re right, Cardinal. The people have waited long enough.’

Legnano opened the large, glass paneled doors, and the three most influential men of the Catholic world walked outside onto the balcony. At the sight of the prelates, suddenly the crowd broke into a thunderous cheer, rising into a crescendo of joy. ‘Viva il Papa. Vi-va, Vi-va, Vi-va!

The words became a rhythmic incantation of 100,000 voices
chanting
in unison.

‘You have certainly won their hearts, your Holiness,’ said Legnano as he responded to the cheering crowd by waving discreetly.

At the western extremity of the Square, a scuffle had broken out between a handful of dissenters and some of the faithful. Members of the Vigilanza, the Vatican’s security forces, were already intervening.

‘You can’t please all of them, your Holiness,’ said Gonzales.

‘I know. Not even all of the Curia.’ He threw a critical glance at Legnano.

Directly below, fervent followers waved hastily-made placards bearing
Finalmente
, and
Papa te amo
, in bold, handwritten letters.

‘It’s time you joined them, your Holiness,’ said Gonzales. ‘I’ve had the pope-mobile prepared.’

‘Yes, I should,’ he said, waving to the crowd.

Gonzales walked to the entrance of the papal chamber and talked briefly to one of the Swiss Guards standing in the doorway.

Moments later, the threesome walked downstairs to the entrance of the Basilica. As the pope mobile pulled up and stopped in front of it, Gonzales signaled the driver over.

‘Your Holiness, your Eminences,’ said the driver as he bowed. ‘Your Holiness wishes to have the top up, or down?’

‘Down. I want to shake hands with members of my flock.’

Moments later, the white customized Mercedes started its slow tour of St Peter’s square, to the tumultuous applause of the crowd. Cries of joy erupted from well-wishers, who would rush out, sometimes briefly clutching his offered hand, sometimes prostrating themselves in front of the car. ‘God bless His Holiness. We support you. We love you.’ The crowd would not let the popemobile return to the steps of the Basilica, so the driver started another slow tour of St Peter’s Square, stopping now and then before overenthusiastic worshippers standing in front of the Mercedes and blowing kisses. The crowd chanted louder still: ‘
Viva il Papa. Vi-va. Vi-va.
’

After the triumphant tour, the popemobile slowed and came to a stop at the entrance. Still the well-wishers grabbed his hands, touched his cassock, and prostrated themselves before him.

Cardinal Gonzales walked up, embraced him, and whispered in his ear. ‘Congratulations. You have won. They won’t dare depose you now.’

As Dulac walked down the corridor and neared Roquebrun’s suite in the Hotel Durocher, his palpitations started again. I don’t believe it. I’m participating, no, instigating the very crime we’re arresting de Ségur for. How the hell did I get into this? I should tell Roquebrun to take a hike, phone Legnano, and call the whole thing off.

The door at room 237 opened.

‘Come in, Dulac, come in. Meet my assistant Fernando. Good news. I’ve just received the deposit money and the team is a go.’

‘Great,’ said Dulac apathetically, barely acknowledging the short heavy set man with a scar running down his left cheek.

‘We’ve just chartered a helicopter in Belize. Fernando and I were going through the logistics of the oil truck hijacking. Care for a drink?’

You’re bloody right I’d care for a drink. ‘Scotch, no ice. On second thought, make it a double.’

Later that afternoon, Dulac returned to his flat and sat in front of the Steinway, trying to park his conscience in a faraway place. He attacked the fortissimo first chords of Chopin’s Polonaise in A flat major and rushed the piece at double the normal tempo. Two mazurkas later, his hands cramped and useless, Dulac repaired to the kitchen to toss a frozen macaroni into the microwave. After drowning the tasteless pasta with a half-bottle of Julienas red, he retired to the study and went to his bookshelf. He glanced at his collection of assorted, often read books on French history, and something undefined, subconscious drew him to his copy of Zoe Ogdebourg’s The Cathars and their beliefs: Massacre at Montségur. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read it, but some vague pulsation buried deep in his subconscious resurfaced, summoning him to read it anew.

A few hours, Gitanes and scotches later, his book having fallen beside his recliner chair, Dulac fell into a deep, sonorous sleep.

The following morning, Dulac’s conscience had returned, somewhat
mollified by the previous night’s workings of his subconscious. He could justify the hiring of Roquebrun. After all, had anyone criticized the Mossad’s methods when they’d abducted Eichmann from Brazil? On the contrary, they’d earned the world’s admiration and praise. Surely, there would be no reproach if de Ségur was brought before the French courts. It was the ‘if’ that bothered him. A thousand things could go wrong, any one of which would turn his plan into a well-publicized fiasco: Interpol plot to illegally abduct French citizen backfires, would read the headlines of Le Monde. His fragile tenure at Interpol would come to an abrupt end.

But that could wait. Something else bothered him: the curious
similarity
between the papal announcements and what he had just finished reading the previous night about Catharism and its basic tenets. The coincidence started to foster an intuition, and the strange, bizarre insight hatched in his mind, took hold, and grew. He went to the bathroom and started to shave.

No, impossible, he thought. It couldn’t be. Just a bit too wild, even for you. And the helicopter incident.

‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course!’ He phoned Karen. ‘Still mad at me?’ he said.

‘Who is this?’

‘All right, so it was wrong to bring you to Belize.’

‘Not at all. The rest of my vacation, if I can call it that, was fabulous. I—’

‘Listen, you’ve seen the news about the Pope.’

‘So? It’s about time they let the other half of the world into their private club.’

‘Never mind the details. I’ve got to see you this morning.’

It was the urgency in his voice that made her accept.

An hour later, they sat at Dulac’s favorite morning hangout, the Café Montfort, waiting for their croissants and espressos.

‘Why the sudden interest in Catharism?’ Karen said.

‘I studied Catharism in my law courses at Montpellier University. Everybody in the south does.’

‘You mean the French south.’

‘Certainly not the American,’ said Dulac, as the waiter deposited
their breakfast on the table.

‘It’s just an expression.’

‘You Americans are so damn ethnocentric.’

‘Touché.’

Dulac took a bite of his coffee-dipped croissant and continued. ‘Know anything about the Cathars’ beliefs?’

‘If I remember from my mythology courses, it’s a sort of dualistic religion, with a greater and a lesser God. But it’s been a while since I’ve delved into the subject.’

‘I’ll give you a quick summary. They recognize the Pope, but have only one layer beneath him: bishops. No archbishops, no cardinals, just bishops. They have women priests, they have a credo that has nothing to do with the Catholic one. They do not believe in the physical
resurrection
of Christ or the virginal birth. They—’

‘And what does Cathar doctrine have to do with my otherwise
enjoyable
breakfast with you?’

‘It may be just a coincidence, but the reforms proposed by the Pope….’

‘Surely other religions have the same beliefs. Take my friend Anna Singer. She’s an Episcopalian minister in Montana. Women pastors are becoming common in the Anglican Church. It’s about time Catholicism finally caught up to the 21st century.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But let me tell you something that I can’t explain, but that has been troubling me since….’ Dulac’s gaze trailed off into the distance.

‘Since?’

‘I can’t pinpoint it exactly. Karen, I have this, this strange feeling about the Pope.’

‘So do a lot of people. They’re saying he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Then there’s the disturbing parallel with Jean-Paul I and his sudden death after he proposed to revamp the Church. Every newspaper has brought this story back to life. Crass reporting at its worst, but it sure sells newspapers.’

‘It’s not that really. Well, yes that too partially, but it’s the coincidence.’

‘So you’re saying the Pope, just because he’s finally introducing changes, is being influenced by Catharism?’

‘Maybe.’

Karen stiffened in her chair and crossed her arms. ‘That’s preposterous.’

‘At the risk of sounding crazy, I’ll go one step further. What if the Pope isn’t really the Pope?’

Karen looked at Dulac, then suddenly burst out laughing. ‘If it weren’t this early in the morning and I didn’t know you better, Thierry, I’d say you were—’

‘I’m dead serious.’

Karen stopped giggling and stared at Dulac’s somber, dispassionate eyes. ‘I’m beginning to think you are serious. You’re beginning to freak me out. What the hell do you mean?’

‘I’m saying the man, the man I rescued from Libya, the man who waved at the balcony last week, is an impostor.’

Karen sat speechless, mouth agape. After a moment, she spoke. ‘That’s the wildest, most unbelievable thing I’ve ever heard. Surely someone, you, anybody in his immediate staff, the rest of the world would’ve noticed before now. You were sitting next to him in the helicopter.’

‘I was in pretty bad shape during that helicopter ride. His head was heavily bandaged. Speaking of the helicopter, there’s something that happened during our return from Libya that supports my theory.’

‘I’m dying to hear it,’ Karen said, a supercilious smirk across her lips.

‘Stop being so damn facetious for a second. When we were attacked by Libyan jets, Klein was hurt and passed out. The ’copter went into a dive and I asked the Pope if he could take over. He flatly refused, without even trying. Actually, he panicked, saying this helicopter was totally different from the papal helicopter, which by the way, he
routinely
pilots.’

‘Sounds plausible.’

‘Except that the principles of flying any helicopter are the same: pedals, joystick, throttle. Believe me, I’ve been in enough of them recently to have observed that.’

‘What about his immediate staff? Surely they would have recognized an impostor?’

‘With today’s techniques in microsurgery and plastic surgery, not necessarily. And, I’m told he’s started to replace key members of his staff,
including members of the Curia.’

‘Wait a second, you said they checked the blood type when they received the ear, and that it matched the Pope’s.’

‘Yes. That was before we rescued the, the impostor. The switch was made in Libya.’

‘OK, so assuming for a moment I go along with your theory. Who would want to do this?’

‘Hugues de Ségur, for one.’

‘Jesus,’ Karen said, her shoulders hunched, her forearms leaning on the table, her hands crossed as she started to listen intently. ‘Why him?’

‘Suppose you have a Cathar whose only real motivations are revenge and control. By kidnapping the Pope, the ransom money serves as a front, a false flag. A useful one at that. This would be the sweetest revenge of all. Payback for the Catholics’ murderous crusades against the Cathars, and a chance to control the Catholic world, the majority of whose members merely pay lip service to antiquated, irrelevant dogma. They are ripe for drastic changes. His timing is perfect. Think of it: 1.2 billion Catholics will follow his puppet, cloaked in the persona of the Pope, while believing in his infallibility. It’s as ironic as it is brilliant.’

‘Thierry, this is absolutely insane. Surely someone, someone would have noticed and tried to remove your impostor from office.’

‘To answer your question as to why I, or anybody else for that matter, didn’t notice, let me remind you of Saddam Hussein’s doubles. Two have been confirmed only recently. Interpol and MI6 suspect they
impersonated
the dictator for years. The CIA has proven beyond doubt that President Clinton negotiated the release of the American hostages held in Pyongyang with one of Dictator Kim Jong’s three doubles. That’s only the ones we know about. It took the CIA years to find out. There are other cases of impersonations by—’

‘I get your point. So what now?’

Dulac took another sip of his espresso. ‘I was afraid you’d ask that.’

‘You have no real, tangible evidence, nothing concrete.’

‘Worse. I don’t know whose agenda I’d be playing into.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll bet my bonus de Ségur is behind this. Apart from Romer, he had to have someone inside the Vatican. Someone higher up.’

Karen’s eyes widened yet again. ‘You’re suggesting there’s a
conspiracy at the Vatican to remove the Pope and replace him by a Cathar impostor?’

‘Why not? Between prelates who want changes at any cost, and can’t afford to wait for reforms that may, or may never occur. It’s perfect. An alliance between the Cathars and some avant-garde prelates in the Vatican. Not all that far-fetched, if you look at the Church’s history of murderous alliances and conspiracies.’

‘This is absolutely mind-blowing, Thierry. But how can you prove any of this?’

‘I’ve got to call Gina.’