The Parchment Read online

  2005

  Lindisfarne Books

  400 Main Street

  Great Barrington, MA 01230

  www.lindisfarne.org

  Copyright © 2005 by Gerald T. McLaughlin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any other means electronic, mechanical, photocopy, sound recording, or other, without permission from the publisher.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  McLaughlin, Gerald T.

  The parchment: a novel / by Gerald T. McLaughlin.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-58420-030-8

  I. Manuscripts—Collectors and collecting—Fiction. 2. Church history—Sources—Fiction. 3. Vatican City—Fiction. 4. Catholics— Fiction. 5. Popes—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.C548P37 2005

  813'.6 — dc22

  2004023450

  First edition, printed in the U.S.A.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  HISTRICAL BACKGRUND & DISCLAIMER

  The story of The Parchment is played out against the Palais des Papes in Avignon, St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, the destruction of the Temple of Herod, and the Crusades. This story was not written as a work of history and should not be read as one. Although there is much history in it, historical accuracy has been sacrificed when necessary to the demands of the narrative drama. The characters depicted in this story are purely fictional. With the exception of historical figures, any similarity to actual individuals is coincidental.

  PREFACE

  “Latin American liberation theology, Catholic peace movements in the United States and Europe, ashram movements in India, and base groups in many countries in the Northern and Southern hemispheres are examples of how the catholicity of the Catholic Church is not just a principle of faith but a human reality which is lived out in practice.”

  —HANS KÜNG, The Catholic Church: A Short History.

  “[O]ur Church is a faith institution. A home to Christ's people. It is not a criminal enterprise. It does not condone and cover up criminal activity. It does not follow a code of silence.... To resist grand jury subpoenas, to suppress the names of offending clerics, to deny, to obfuscate, to explain away; that is the model of a criminal organization, not my church.”

  — GOVERNOR FRANK KEATING, Letter of Resignation as

  Chair of Bishops Oversight Committee.

  DEDICATIN

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY WIFE IRENE. Writing a novel—particularly a first novel—is a lonely occupation. During the long hours, during the constant rewriting and sharpening of the story, there were times when I needed inspiration, times when I needed humor, times when I needed encouragement, and times when I needed a friendly hand on the shoulder. Irene was there during all these times. One could ask for little more.

  Contents

  CHAPTER I: A CRISIS IN JERUSALEM

  CHAPTER II: THE REWARDS OF SCHOLARSHIP

  CHAPTER III: A MEETING OF NUNCIOS

  CHAPTER IV: PIETRO VISCONTI

  CHAPTER V: AN ENCOUNTER WITH EVIL

  CHAPTER VI: THE DEATH OF A RABBI

  CHAPTER VII: A SPEECH IN CLERMONT FERRAND

  CHAPTER VIII: TANGLED LOGIC

  CHAPTER IX: GERARD DE MONTELAMBERT

  CHAPTER X: THE CRUSADER'S ROAD

  CHAPTER XI: OUTREMER

  CHAPTER XII: THE COPPER SCROLL

  CHAPTER XIII: SULTAN HASSAN

  CHAPTER XIV: THE PARCHMENT

  CHAPTER XV: EXTORTION

  CHAPTER XVI: HERESY AND CAPTURE

  CHAPTER XVII: A JOURNEY TO ROME

  CHAPTER XVIII: ABDICATION

  CHAPTER XIX: THE GENERAL CONGREGATION

  CHAPTER XX: THE DEATH OF A POPE

  CHAPTER XXI: A TRIP TO AVIGNON

  CHAPTER XXII: TRUST IN THE LORD

  CHAPTER XXIII: THE PRELATE FROM DURBAN

  CHAPTER XXIV: EXTRA OMNES

  CHAPTER XXV: A NEW PONTIFF

  CHAPTER XXVI: AN EXHIBIT IN THE VATICAN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER I

  A CRISIS IN JERUSALEM

  POISED TO SHOOT, the sniper crouched behind a concrete barrier. He kept the casement window of the church in his sights.

  A man with an infrared sensor huddled next to him. “He's about ten yards from the window. He's on a cell phone.”

  The sniper whispered. “Is it him?”

  A soldier with earphones nodded. “We have voice confirmation from central command. He drove the car at the Wailing Wall bombing.”

  “I have a clean shot. Should I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  The sniper pulled the trigger. The crack of the rifle reverberated through the church square, sending a flock of pigeons flying into the sky.

  At the report of the gun, Habib instinctively ducked behind the altar. He heard a cell phone clatter to the ground next to him. His brother Mahmood had slumped to the floor of the church. Blood foamed from his mouth.

  One of the hostages ran over to help.

  “I'm a doctor.” He quickly checked the body. “The bullet went through his heart.”

  Enraged, Habib shoved the barrel of his pistol into the doctor's mouth.

  “Son of a bitch. You're Jewish, aren't you?”

  Yassir, the commander of the Hamas terrorists, quickly moved between them and pushed the gun aside. “Habib, stop it! The hostages aren't Jews....Doctor, go back to your place.”

  Hamas's brutal car bombing near the Wailing Wall had set off another spiral of violent recriminations in Jerusalem. Within days of the bombing, Israeli soldiers closed the Al-Aqsa Mosque on the Temple Mount and arrested dozens of suspected Hamas militants. To force Israel to reopen the mosque and release their captives, Hamas notched up tensions further still. Gunmen stormed the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the most sacred church in all of Christendom, capturing over a hundred Dutch pilgrims who had been worshipping at the Tomb of Christ when the raid occurred. The siege at the church was now in its fifth day, and conditions inside the building were becoming increasingly grim. Hostages huddled in frightened groups throughout the sanctuary. The only exercise permitted them were trips to the baptismal font, which now served as a lavatory. The Israeli army lit up the walls of the church with giant floodlights and played loud music to keep the terrorists from sleeping. The nightmare inside the church had already caused several hostages to succumb to depression and bouts of crying.

  Yassir took Habib to the far end of the transept.

  “Your brother knew the Israelis would kill him for his part in the bombing. Mahmood understood the risks. He died a martyr for Islam.”

  Habib glared at the commander. “The Israelis arrest our brothers and sisters. Their marksmen kill us. It is time to act, Yassir, not talk.”

  Stung by Habib's rebuke, Yassir stared for a moment at the door of the Basilica.

  “Habib, give me your brother's cell phone.”

  Yassir dialed a number and waited. A voice came on the line.

  Yassir spoke English with a slight accent. “Tell your Prime Minister we've been negotiating with words. Now he negotiates with bullets.”

  Yassir walked to where the doctor was sitting. Sunlight splashed color on the floor of the church.

  “I'm going to release you, Doctor. The world must see that the hostages have not been harmed. Come with me to the entrance.”

  Yassir unlocked the metal bolt on the inside of the door.

  “Put your hands above your head and walk slowly out into the square. The Israelis won't shoot.”

  The doctor stepped thr
ough the church door, arms raised high. He stood for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the bright light of the square.

  An Israeli bullhorn crackled. “Walk straight ahead and keep your hands where we can see them.”

  Without warning, Yassir pulled out his pistol, took aim, and shot the doctor in the back. The doctor's body fell in a pool of blood in front of the church.

  Yassir dialed the cell phone again.

  “It's six o'clock in the morning. Unless the Al-Aqsa Mosque is reopened and our brothers released, we will start executing Christian hostages at noon tomorrow—thirty hours from now.”

  Yassir clicked off the cell phone and handed it back to Habib.

  Outside, a stray dog poked curiously at the body of the doctor, but a shot from an Israeli marksman drove him away.

  Cardinal Francesco Barbo, the Vatican secretary of state, was awakened at 5:30 in the morning and told of the shootings at the Sepulchre. Barbo quickly dressed and hurried to his office. Given what had happened at the church, Barbo knew he had to take charge personally of the Vatican's response.

  The cardinal secretary of state was a tall, big-boned man with an aristocratic nose and dark silver hair. Although seventy years of age, Barbo's energy and stamina were legendary. He had risen through the Curial ranks with meteoric speed. Born into a middle-class family in Milan, he entered the priesthood when he was sixteen. From his earliest days in the seminary, Barbo was singled out to join the papal diplomatic corps. After finishing four years of study in Milan, he was invited to attend the Pontifical Ecclesiastical Academy—the Vatican school for diplomats. Then after two years, he was sent to the Jesuit-run Gregorian University for his theological training. At the “Greg,” Barbo became fascinated with the Crusades — most particularly with the fabled Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon. Led by laymen, the Templars were a unique brotherhood of warriors, priests, monks, bankers, diplomats, and scientists. Barbo's doctoral dissertation—Mixing the Secular and the Religious: The Knights of the Temple and Their Structure of Governance—had won plaudits, both for the depth of its research and the incisiveness of its analysis.

  Barbo's advancement in the Vatican diplomatic corps was assured when he was sent to earn a doctoral degree at the Woodrow Wilson School for Diplomacy at Princeton University. While at Princeton, Barbo was asked to give a series of guest lectures on Church history at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government. Barbo possessed a first-class mind and an acerbic wit. The cardinal spoke six languages fluently and was comfortable in four more. Little passed him by without notice and, once noticed, little was ever forgotten. When he was named cardinal, the Latin coat of arms he chose read Tides et Utilitas—“Faith and Pragmatism.”

  Father Enrico Alessandri, the cardinal's chief of staff, stood in the corridor outside Barbo's office. Although he had spent the night monitoring events in Jerusalem, the thirty-two-year-old Alessandri showed no sign of fatigue. Lean and muscular from years of soccer playing, Alessandri's starched Roman collar and pressed cassock gave him a clean, almost scrubbed look.

  “Your Eminence, our nuncio in Israel, Archbishop Finnergan, called. The Israelis have retrieved the body of the doctor. It is being flown to the Netherlands for burial.”

  “’This has been a sad day for everyone, but that is good news, Enrico. Have there been any further communications from inside?”

  A secretary, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, stuck her head into the hallway. “Your Eminence, I'm sorry to interrupt but the Holy Father is on your line.”

  Barbo strode quickly to his desk. The cardinal waved a handful of staff members out of his office so he could speak privately with the pontiff.

  “Francesco.” There were traces of sleep in Pope Benedict's voice. “The Israeli Prime Minister just called. The terrorists inside the church have issued an ultimatum; they will start executing hostages in thirty hours unless Israel gives in to their demands.”

  Barbo clenched his teeth in anger. “Holy Father, the Israeli sniper was the cause of this. The Israelis must take steps to defuse the situation.”

  “The prime minister understands that. He's willing to reopen the mosque and release the Hamas militants they recently arrested. But he refuses to free the gunmen inside the church. The Israelis believe they were behind the Wailing Wall bombing.” Pope Benedict was silent for a moment. “Francesco, send Archbishop Finnergan into the Sepulchre to talk to the Hamas commander. It might help calm matters.”

  “Holy Father, Finnergan grew up on the streets of Belfast. Sometimes he forgets he's a papal nuncio and tries to negotiate with his fists.”

  “That's why he's the right person to deal with Hamas. He can't be intimidated.” There was a resolve in the pope's voice that Barbo had not heard for several months. “What is Washington saying to the Israelis?”

  Barbo fingered through a pile of emails on his desk. “Washington's trying to persuade the Israelis to let the gunmen go free, but the Americans are meeting resistance. The Israelis have told Washington they cannot do it politically.”

  A familiar voice suddenly came on the line. It was Sister Consuela, the pope's housekeeper. “Your Eminence, the Holy Father is exhausted. I must cut the conversation short — it could excite him too much.”

  “I understand, Consuela. I'll keep the Holy Father informed of developments.”

  The phone clicked off. Barbo walked to the window and looked up at the papal quarters. The solitary light in the pope's bedroom went dark.

  CHAPTER II

  THE REWARDS F SCHLARSHIP

  PROFESSOR JANE MICHELLINI walked across the reading room in the Vatican Apostolic Library to where her colleague James Bielgard sat facing a pile of manuscripts.

  “Don't forget, we've got to put in an appearance at the director's office today or our library clearances will expire. We don't want to lose access to the uncatalogued manuscripts.”

  Preoccupied, Bielgard barely heard what Michellini said. “Holy shit! I don't believe this.” Bielgard's voice ricocheted around the room.

  An elderly priest examining an illuminated Bible glared impatiently at Michellini and Bielgard.

  “Jim, be quiet. If there are complaints, the library could revoke our privileges.”

  “Look at this! It appears to be a Jewish census record, Jane. Your Hebrew is better than mine.”

  Michellini lifted the manuscript from the table and read it. After a minute, she pulled a chair up to the desk, sat down, and studied it more carefully. Bielgard nervously tapped his walking stick on the library floor.

  After several minutes of concentration, Michellini stood up and stared at Bielgard with a stunned look on her face. “Where in God's name did you find this?”

  “Upstairs in a chest filled with twelfth-century documents from the Knights of the Temple.”

  Distracted by the nervous tapping of Bielgard's cane, the priest slammed his hands on the table and angrily motioned for a library attendant to carry the illuminated Bible into an adjourning reading room.

  At sixty, James Bielgard, the Robert M. Kevin Professor of Medieval History at the University of Michigan, was a tall avuncular looking man, with a high forehead and a thin aquiline nose. With his inexhaustible collection of bow ties, Bielgard cultivated a flamboyant image among his academic colleagues. He admitted to a close friend, however, that the walking stick he carried with him at all times was an affectation, not a medical necessity. A brilliant and entertaining lecturer, Bielgard's classes at the university were always over-subscribed. Some students thought Bielgard's intellectual pretense bordered on the humorous. Amused, they would organize a weekly lottery. Whoever guessed how often Bielgard would cite his own publications won twenty dollars.

  Jane Michellini, an arrestingly beautiful woman, was an associate professor of European History at Bard College in New York. Unlike Bielgard, her former teacher and mentor, Michellini was a stylish dresser, sporting a trademark red and gold scarf that set off her long black hair. Her concentration and focus were
legendary. She was reputed once to have sat reading manuscripts for three consecutive days in the Huntington Library in Pasadena, California, with virtually no food or drink.

  A few years earlier, Michellini and Bielgard had coauthored a biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine, which had won the coveted United States Historical Association Prize for Medieval History. The decision to award the prize to the two American scholars, however, was not a simple one. A French colleague had accused Bielgard and Michellini of plagiarizing several pages from his article on Eleanor's relationship with her son, King John of England. In a close vote, a jury of historians exonerated Bielgard and Michellini on the plagiarism charge but warned them about “failures in appropriate citation.” They hoped their second collaborative effort, tentatively entitled “Jihad in the Middle Ages,” would be as critically acclaimed as the Eleanor biography but with less controversy. Initially, at least, they had every cause for optimism. After two unsuccessful attempts, they had finally been given access to the library's uncatalogued manuscript collection. Bielgard attributed the access to their perseverance; Michellini, to a phone call from the White House Press Secretary, who coincidentally had been Michellini's former roommate at Mount Holyoke College.

  Standing up from the table, Michellini motioned Bielgard to follow her out of the reading room. The two professors found a quiet corner in the coffee bar.

  “God, Jim. If this parchment is authentic, it dwarfs the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Think of the recognition we'll get. The Vatican Library should call a press conference.”

  “Forget the library! We found the manuscript, not them.”

  Michellini glanced at Bielgard with a puzzled look. “What does that mean?”

  “I'm not sure — let me think. The parchment is uncataloged. We could smuggle it out of here and sell it to a collector.”

  “Right, and get caught like Robert McNabb.”