The Guardian (20 page)

“Lucifer, I swear if I could—”

“Uh, uh, uh! Don’t swear! He doesn’t like that.” He made an “Oops!” look with his face. “That’s what got me into trouble. Remember? Ha, ha, ha!”

In the time it takes a lightning bolt to streak across the sky, Michael shot across the pew and had Lucifer by the throat. “You listen to me, you sick piece of garbage!” he said through clenched teeth. “Your days are numbered. You will never have that scroll. I have pledged to the Father that you shall never lay your hands on it. Do you understand me?”

Michael squeezed harder now, cutting off Lucifer’s airway. He wanted to end this right now. And he could. Lucifer was nothing more than an angel, just like him. Though God did give him authority over the flesh of this earth, he was still an angel. And Michael could destroy him.

But he knew his place. If he were to do such a thing, he would be no better than Lucifer. He let go of the fallen angel, but not before he gave him a swift, hard right cross to the face.

Lucifer never batted an eye. He ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his suit coat and tie that Michael had disturbed. “Temper, temper. You sure you don’t want to come over to my side? I could use a warrior like you. You know, between the two of us, we could really wreak some havoc down here!”

Michael had regained his composure. He stared down his sworn enemy and said matter-of-factly, “Thanks, but not interested.”

Lucifer shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh well. Too bad. We could’ve been great together.”

Michael just stared at him.

Lucifer stood up and stepped out of the pew. He buttoned his coat and said, “As riveting as this conversation is, I’ve got an important meeting to attend. Besides, this place gives me the creeps.” He laughed and shivered mockingly. He was halfway to the door when Michael called to him. He turned back around to face the great archangel, who was now standing an inch away from him. Michael towered over him by a good eight inches. “Yes,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” Michael replied. “I just wanted to correct you.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“On that day, the day when you will fail and be destroyed, it will be the Son who slays you. But you forgot what it says in the twentieth chapter of Revelation—and I quote: ‘I saw an angel coming down from heaven, holding in his hand the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain.’” Michael’s face lit up with a big smile. He turned around and started walking away from Lucifer. Halfway down the aisle, he turned back and taunted, just loud enough for Lucifer to hear, “I’ll give you one guess who that’s talking about!”

S
ix armed Swiss guards stood watch at the front entrance of the papal audience hall, located just south of St. Peter’s Basilica. They had been informed of nothing except that their presence was wanted and that no one, except for the people whose names were on the list they each had a copy of, were allowed to enter. It was, they were told, a matter of Vatican national security.

Cardinal Wickham was the last to arrive. Naturally. He never arrived first at a meeting that he called. He liked to make a grand entrance. Flamboyancy was far more interesting than decorum.

With quick steps, he walked across the Piazza del Santo Uffizio toward the hall. He didn’t even acknowledge the guards as he sidestepped his way past them and in through the front entrance. Neither did the guards acknowledge him. Wickham was the most well-known persona in the entire Vatican, next to the pontiff. The guards were well aware who had called this meeting of the senior cardinals. And each of them at some point in time had had the displeasure of being chastised by him for one thing or another. His arrogance and temper were also well known.

Wickham found the other cardinals all sitting down waiting for him, the room filled with the quiet buzz of conversation. He made his way to the front. “Ahem.”

Everyone quickly quieted and focused on the secretary of state. Wickham knew that while many of them were annoyed that they had been summoned to attend, interrupting whatever business they already were engaged in, none of them would have missed this meeting for the world. His rumors had been flying like a migration of birds. They’d come to learn about the mysterious letter. And he was not about to disappoint them.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about a certain letter today,” he began. “I will get to that in a moment.”

Heads turned and murmurs quickly scattered throughout the rows of seats. Every last one of them was pathetically predictable.

“Gentlemen, please …” He waited for the men to quiet down again. “Thank you. Now if I may continue, I will keep this brief.

“We all know the physical condition of our supreme leader. To put it plainly, the pontiff is not well.”

Again the crowd became vocal.

Wickham held his hands up, palms outward, to silence the men. “I, as well as a few of you, have made daily visits to the pope’s chambers. He is incoherent, has trouble focusing, and sleeps nearly all day. It saddens me to see such a great man suffer like this.”

“What are the doctors saying?” The voice came from one of the back rows.

“They say they are doing everything they can. We all know that the pontiff’s medical staff is top rate. However, barring a miracle, it’s time we face reality: our beloved pope may not make it through. We have to be prepared to act fast if that course of events should happen.”

This time the murmuring broke out into a full ruckus. Some began to stand and turn around to face other colleagues. Others started raising their hands to the heavens, saying short prayers. Still others just sat and let the information they had just heard sink in.

Wickham allowed the small outburst this time. One could hardly speak openly about the death of the pope and not let the natural reaction of such comments take its course. When he felt that he had let enough time pass, he stepped back in front of the small lectern and spoke again. “Which brings me to the letter.”

The room fell silent as quickly as it had erupted. Everyone retook their seats and stared quietly ahead.

“Gentlemen, let me explain.” He pushed the lectern aside and walked to the edge of the stage. He took a big breath, as if he were resigning to an idea he wasn’t in agreement with, then stepped down from the stage and leaned against it. Silence rattled throughout the auditorium.

“A couple of days ago, His Holiness called me into his office. We spoke about how he was feeling, and then he gave me this.” He reached inside his overcoat pocket and produced the now famous letter. Every eye was glued to it.

“Our beloved,” he continued, “told me it could be the most important letter he’s ever written in his entire life. He said the fate of the church could be determined by how we—that is, all of us—react to it. Given his condition, he insisted that I take it. Though it gives me no joy to see him decline so quickly, I’m glad he had the foresight to plan ahead for this eventuality.” Wickham hoped he looked mournful enough. “What I am about to tell you, gentlemen, is extremely top secret. If I find out that any of you let word of this slip, it will be grounds for immediate excommunication from the faith. Is that understood?”

The men, most with their eyes wide and mouths open, nodded in unison.

“Good. Then we can continue. It seems that our beloved pope has been busy these last years. Apparently he has come across a document that was written by Jesus Himself.” Once again the murmurs started up, but he continued, talking over the buzz. “And also apparently this document is very controversial. It’s controversial because it’s incomplete. Only half of the page was found. Now, I haven’t been informed of what exactly the document says. I only know that what is on it, thus far, could destroy the church as we know it if it got into the wrong hands. It could be exploited to do great damage to our faith. The pope believes that the rest of the document will clarify the first half, not destroying our faith, but making it indisputable. And he believes he knows where it is.” Wickham returned to stand behind the lectern on the stage.

“For the last three years, His Holiness has had someone working on this project for him. He has become a great friend to Pope Paul and is an extraordinary man. Most of you would know him in passing. His name is Joseph McCoy. Don’t bother to look around. I’ve excused him from this meeting for obvious reasons. Do not bother to ask him what it is he is researching for the pontiff. He has taken a vow of secrecy. He will only talk about it with the Holy Father.” Wickham held up the letter. “And that is what the first part of this letter is about. The next part even I found hard to accept. But, as my duty to the Holy See, as well as to our pontiff, I will reveal the rest of the letter. I think it would be better if I read it in his own words rather than paraphrase.”

In a clear voice, Wickham read the words that would open the door for his dearest dreams to come true.

Wickham set the letter down on the lectern and waited for the turmoil he knew was coming.

“That’s outrageous!” someone yelled.

“Who does he think he is?” cried someone else.

They really were all so very predictable.

The room became chaotic. Everyone was up, out of his seat, and weighing in on the situation. Wickham was in awe of his own performance. He was bursting on the inside. He felt like he had just won the lottery. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar. It took him a full five minutes to call the meeting back to order.

The members of Wickham’s secret brotherhood sat there holding their tongues. They knew never to question Wickham. Especially in public. They glanced at one another, silently speaking their thoughts. Wickham would have some explaining to do at their next meeting. They tried to hide their anxiousness and look as surprised at the news as the rest of the clergy.

“Gentlemen! Please!” Wickham yelled. “Take your seats. This is not a circus. We are not children. Let’s act accordingly.”

Finally, the room was restored. “Thank you. Now, I know how all of you feel. I felt the same way when I first read the letter. That is why I waited until this evening to tell you all about it. I wanted to spend some time in prayer and think about what Pope Paul had written.” He paced in front of them, taking on a professorial air. “Yes, it is an absurd request. We all know that. But look who it came from. Pope Paul is one of the most beloved popes in the history of the office. He is a great man. Each of you would gladly lay down your life for him. Am I correct? Consider that fact as you debate what it is he is asking. Do you honestly think that Pope Paul VII would make a request like this if he didn’t think the life of the church depended on it? If that man, lying on his death bed, thinks that our way of life depends on Joseph McCoy being the next pope, then how can I disagree? I will go on record right now by saying that if anything should happen to him, I will do everything in my power to see to it that Joseph McCoy is elected the next pontiff. And I would hope and expect that you all would do the same. That is all, gentlemen. Dismissed.”

Everyone in the room remained silent as they filtered out through the side exits. Wickham sat and watched as they each left. There was definitely a heavy scent about the place. He may as well have dropped a bomb on the Sistine Chapel. The effect wouldn’t have been any less surprising.

Wickham was about to leave, thinking he was the last one in the building, when he noticed a shadow sitting in the back. The man stood up and began clapping his hands, giving a standing ovation. “Bravo! Bravo! Louis, I couldn’t have said it any better myself. I do believe you had them eating out of the palm of your hand.”

Wickham recognized the voice and felt beads of sweat on the back of his neck. “What are you doing here?” he asked shakily. “How did you get in?”

“Louis, do I really have to explain that to you again?” He walked to the front of the room. “I’m the Prince of Darkness. I can go anywhere I want. This is my world. Remember? Where’s my scroll?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Well, you see, Louis, I have a new problem now. Do you know what it is? Of course you don’t. You’re only a stupid human. A glorified monkey. I’m sorry. I should know better than to give your race the benefit of the doubt. I’ll just tell you. I just had a nice little meeting of my own. Totally unscheduled, of course. Nonetheless, it was necessary.”

He put his arm around Wickham’s shoulder as if they were old buddies. Wickham wanted to vomit.

Prince’s fingers dug into Wickham’s arm. “You see, one of my faithful servants informed me that someone very important from my world stopped by today. His name is Michael. Ever heard of him?” He let his eyes get narrow and said, “I cannot afford for you to blow this, Louis.”

“I’ll get the scroll. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, you know what, Louis. I really don’t doubt that. I’m sure you will. What I want to make sure of is that you know who it belongs to when you do find it. You
do
know who it belongs to, don’t you? Or will I have to remind you?” He turned and walked away without looking back.

T
he driver dropped Anna and Jason off in front of a two-story, two-bedroom flat on a street called Tufton Court, just west of the House of Parliament. It was a quiet street. A few children were still outside playing. Several couples walked hand in hand, probably out for an evening stroll.