The Parchment Read online

  Barbo sat for a moment looking across the room to where the Holy Father sat. “Roger, get their opinions. So much hinges on the medical prognosis.”

  “Who would administer the Church if Pope Benedict were required to abdicate?”

  “Cardinal Agostino Marini — the pope appointed him the camerlengo.”

  “The camerlengo?”

  Barbo smiled. “Roger, I guess you haven't been around the Vatican long enough to have heard about the camerlengo?”

  I guess not.

  “The camerlengo administers the day-to-day operations of the Church when there is no pope. If there's no encouragement from your colleagues in Stockholm and Montreal, I will inform Cardinal Marini about the pope's condition.”

  “I'll have the medical records sent immediately.” Doctor Hendricks stood up and left the papal apartment.

  Barbo looked at his watch. It was five in the morning. If Hamas carried out its ultimatum, the first executions would begin in seven hours.

  At precisely 1:30 P.M., Professor Baldini was ushered into Pietro Visconti's office. Professors Bielgard and Michellini sat nervously on a couch under a picture of Visconti walking arm in arm with the prime minister and the president of the republic.

  “Well, Baldini? What does the carbon dating say?”

  Baldini took out his note pad. “Preliminary results date the parchment to the first century.”

  “First century, where?”

  “First-century Palestine. I asked a colleague to perform a pollen test. Fie found several microscopic spores characteristic of plant growth in Palestine.”

  “Thank you, Professor.” Visconti handed Baldini an envelope. “Take this for your efforts.”

  When Baldini had left the room, Bielgard turned to Visconti.

  “Pietro, how much would the Vatican pay for this?”

  Visconti thought for a moment. “Ten million euros would be a good place to start discussions.”

  Bielgard leaned closer to Visconti. “Would you approach the Vatican on our behalf?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your fee?”

  Visconti smiled. “We'll talk about it at a later date.”

  “Wait a minute!” Michellini started to put the parchment back in her briefcase. “First, it was dinner, then carbon dating, now extortion— events are moving ahead a little too fast for me.”

  “Pure and simple, Pietro, Jane is worried that we'll get caught.”

  Visconti stared at Michellini with a bemused look. “The Vatican is a multinational corporation and acts accordingly. It'll pay handsomely to keep this document from its shareholders. I assure you, there will be no police involvement. Trust me.”

  “Mr. Visconti, could Jim and I step out of your office for a moment.”

  “Of course. Use the conference room across the hall.”

  When they entered the room, Michellini exploded. “Don't try to make me out as the frightened academic. I told you what I want out of this — peer recognition. I want heads to turn when I enter the room. I want them to say that woman over there is Jane Michellini from Bard College. She discovered the Jesus-Magdalene parchment. Now she's at Harvard!”

  “Recognition doesn't pay college tuitions, Jane. I'll take the money every time.”

  “I'll agree to let Visconti approach the Vatican to explore their level of interest and report back to us. Then we'll see.”

  “You're making the right decision, Jane. Let's talk some more with Visconti.”

  Cardinal Barbo sat at his desk, staring at his watch. In just over an hour, Hamas's threatened executions would begin.

  Alessandri buzzed on the intercom. “The Portuguese prime minister is on line two, Your Eminence.”

  Barbo anxiously picked up the phone. “Isabella, thanks for calling me back so promptly.”

  “I wish I had better news. My staff tells me that taking these Hamas terrorists will give our anti-immigrant party here the opening they need to pillory me. The election polls are very close.”

  “Thanks for trying, Isabella. Sometimes you must say ‘no,’ even to the Holy Father.”

  “Please express my best wishes to His Holiness.”

  “In all this talk of Hamas and hostages, I forgot to tell you some good news. Both you and Grand Duchess Charlotte of Luxembourg have been nominated to receive the Golden Rose. As you know, it is conferred only on women heads of state who have demonstrated their devotion to the Church.”

  There was silence on the phone.

  “I'm flattered. The Golden Rose has not been awarded in decades.”

  “Not since 1956. But the Holy Father believes that you and the Grand Duchess are deserving candidates. It will be difficult for the Holy Father to choose which of you has most helped the Church.”

  “I hope the Vatican realizes just how good you are, Francesco. How many Palestinians must I take to stay in the running?”

  “Three.”

  “And what have you asked of the Grand Duchess?”

  “The Church has many needs, Isabella.”

  “I guess I'll have to live with some extra political risk. Portugal will take your three Palestinians.”

  Barbo had hardly time to enjoy his success, when Alessandri buzzed again on the intercom.

  “There's someone named John on line three. He won't give his full name. He says he's an old friend of yours.”

  “Put him through.”

  Barbo waited impatiently for Vincent to come on the line. “John, Portugal will take three. The Dutch Prime Minister promised that he would take more if it put an end to the crisis. If the Israelis will let the remaining five gunmen go, I think the crisis is over.”

  “I'm afraid they won't, Francesco. The Israelis just told Washington that all negotiations over the hostages in the church are off. They're furious over Eilat. They're threatening to invade the church no matter what the cost in lives.”

  “John, that cell phone number you gave me. I never used it. Stay on the line.”

  Barbo dialed the number of the Hamas commander in the church.

  After three rings, someone picked up the receiver. “This is Cardinal Barbo, the secretary of state of the Vatican. Let me speak to your commander.” Barbo could hear several men arguing in Arabic. Finally a man who spoke English took the receiver.

  “What do you want?”

  “Time,” answered Barbo. “We are trying to convince the Israeli authorities to let all of you leave the country safely.”

  “The ultimatum stands.” The man's voice was as hard as flint. “The hostages are innocent pilgrims. They have done you no harm. Allah is a merciful God.”

  The speaker paused. Barbo heard him shout in Arabic to someone else in the church. The two men talked for several minutes. Finally the speaker returned to his conversation with Barbo. “Does this priest Finnergan work for you?”

  Barbo was taken aback by the question. “Yes, Archbishop Finnergan is our nuncio.”

  “I admire his courage. He risked his life for strangers. I will give you another day but no more. And no tricks from the Jews.”

  Barbo pushed the button to reconnect Vincent. “John, they'll hold off until noon tomorrow because of the courage Finnergan displayed in the church. Contact Washington and tell them they have more time to persuade Israel to change its mind and let all the terrorists go.”

  “I'll tell the president, but after Eilat I think we have run out of leverage.”

  “Gentlemen, Hamas will extend the deadline for another twenty-four hours.” There was loud applause from the nuncios when Barbo made the announcement. “That's the good news. The bad news is that the Israelis have withdrawn from negotiations because of Eilat. They're threatening to invade the church.”

  Archbishop Finnergan stood up. “Your Eminence, let me try to speak with the Israeli Prime Minister.”

  Goethals snapped at Finnergan. “With all due respect, Your Excellency, we can't be seen begging the Israelis.”

  “Goethals, I'd beg the devil if it meant s
aving the lives of innocent people.”

  “You're a diplomat, Archbishop Finnergan. We can't take sides.”

  Finnergan's eyes flashed with anger. “Go to hell with all your diplomatic niceties.”

  Goethals jumped up from his seat and glared at the Irish prelate. “Most Irishmen can tell a man to go to hell and still have him enjoy the journey. Somehow Archbishop Finnergan never inherited that skill. Whatever politeness he learned must have been in the back alleys of Belfast.”

  Barbo stood up from his chair slowly and deliberately as if to emphasize his impatience with the bickering in the room.

  “Archbishop Finnergan, call the Israelis. I'm expected at a reception in honor of the president of the republic at the Quirinal Palace. Archbishop Kennedy, will you chair the meeting in my absence?”

  “Of course, Your Eminence.”

  As Cardinal Barbo climbed the grand staircase of the Quirinal, steel-helmeted guards dressed in red and blue uniforms snapped to attention. After he had greeted the president of the republic and the Italian prime minister in the grand salon of the palace, Barbo saw Pietro Visconti coming toward him.

  “Could I have a moment with you, Eminenza?”

  “Of course, Signor Visconti.”

  “It is too noisy here. Perhaps we could step out on the balcony?”

  “As you wish, Pietro.”

  When they found a quiet spot on the terrace, Visconti handed Barbo an envelope. “Before I forget, one of my clients wishes to have Masses said in honor of his parents. I assume, Eminenza, you can make the necessary arrangements.”

  Barbo opened the envelope. “Of course I can, but this is too much, Pietro”

  “My client is a generous man. Use the rest to help the poor in Rome.”

  Barbo thanked Visconti and tucked the envelope in the pocket of his cassock.

  “Eminenza, I have been asked to approach the Church on a matter of some delicacy.”

  “My chief of staff, I'm sure can handle it. You know Father Ales-sandri, of course.”

  “Yes, but this matter requires your personal attention.”

  Barbo shrugged. “Come to my office today at five o'clock. I'm sure Alessandri can fit you in.”

  As they rejoined the reception in the grand salon, Barbo was surprised to see Hans Cardinal Diefenbacher among the guests. A Jesuit, Diefenbacher was archbishop of Durban and primate of South Africa. Jailed for his opposition to apartheid, Diefenbacher had recently become a passionate advocate of a decentralized Church. In a recent article in the Jesuit weekly, America, Diefenbacher had floated the idea of sharing the pope's spiritual authority with the Eastern Rite patriarchs and giving national bishops' conferences a much wider role in Church governance. Some suspected that what Diefenbacher really wanted was virtual autonomy for national churches, with the pope acting simply as a unifying symbol of faith and belief. “If Diefenbacher were ever elected pope,” Alessandri joked after reading the America article, “he would give away so much of his authority that he would have little to do. I guess he could wander about Rome in the morning shaking hands and in the afternoon passing out holy cards.”

  “Hans, it is good to see you. You know, of course, Pietro Visconti.”

  “Yes, of course. We had dinner with mutual friends the last time I was in Italy.”

  “What brings you to Rome, Hans?” Barbo noticed that Diefen-bacher wore no pectoral cross or other sign of his rank in the Church.

  “It's my five-year ad limina visit.” Diefenbacher looked at Visconti and rolled his eyes in mock aggravation. “Every five years, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith sifts through a bishop's statements on faith and morals to see if he's still orthodox. I have passed the test, but just barely. My interrogators looked concerned.” Diefenbacher made a dismissive gesture. “I'm now waiting for my audience with the Holy Father.”

  Visconti bowed to the two cardinals. “If you would excuse me. I'll let you two catch up on Church politics. Until this afternoon, Cardinal Barbo.”

  “Yes, at five.”

  As Visconti left, Diefenbacher took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Francesco, be honest with me. I have not been able to schedule an audience with the Holy Father for two weeks. How is the pope's health?”

  From years of diplomatic training, Barbo was skilled at answering one question by asking another. “If you were ultimately responsible for getting the hostages out of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Hans, wouldn't you be preoccupied? The pontiff thinks of nothing else.”

  A photographer pushed his way through the crowded salon and approached the cardinals for a picture.

  Diefenbacher looked uncomfortable. “Not with this in my hand.” He gave his glass to a waiter. “Some in my diocese would not approve.”

  As the picture was taken, there was a flourish of trumpets and the president of Italy stepped up to the podium to speak. The two cardinals turned their attention to the president's remarks.

  When Barbo returned from the luncheon reception at the Quirinal Palace, Roger Hendricks was waiting in his outer office.

  “Francesco, bad news.”

  “What?”

  “I faxed the pope's medical records to Bentzel and Souvenne and asked for an immediate response. I told them the patient was the CEO of a multinational corporation.”

  “And?” Barbo tensed.

  “They both think that, given the patient's failure to respond to medication, his pace of deterioration will increase rapidly. Like me, they think the pressure of the office may be speeding his deterioration.”

  “We've tried to relieve Benedict of most of his day-to-day papal responsibilities.”

  “But you can't relieve him of everything, Francesco. This Hamas crisis is literally killing him.”

  “So the three of you agree that staying in office worsens his condition.”

  “Yes. Stress has a known synergistic effect on Alzheimer's.”

  For a moment, Barbo stared at a silver icon of Jesus the Panto-crator that hung on the wall behind his desk. Barbo always drew strength from Jesus' eyes — strong but compassionate.

  “Thank you, Roger.”

  When Hendricks left, Barbo buried his face in his hands. As the highest ranked churchman after the pope, the secretary of state would have a decisive say in whether the pope would have to abdicate.

  Alessandri knocked softly at the door.

  “I'm sorry Your Eminence but Signor Visconti is here with two American professors. He has no appointment.”

  “See if you can handle the matter, Enrico.”

  “I tried to, but Signor Visconti insists on seeing you. He said he spoke to you at the reception.”

  Barbo felt the envelope in his pocket. Given the generosity of Visconti's clients, Barbo knew he would have to go through with the meeting. At least, he would keep the meeting short.

  “Show them in.”

  When Visconti and the two professors entered his office, Barbo waved them to a seating area to the right of his desk.

  “Eminenza, thank you for squeezing us into your busy schedule. Let me introduce you to Professor Bielgard from the University of Michigan and Professor Michellini from Bard College in New York.”

  “I am honored. Your biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine was superb. How can I help you? Pietro, you told me there was a matter of some delicacy.”

  “Yes, Eminenza.”

  Visconti removed a document from his briefcase.

  “Eminenza, this is a photocopy of a Jewish census record. Although I know you read Hebrew, I have prepared an Italian translation of the original.”

  Visconti stood up and laid the photocopy and translation in front of the cardinal.

  “Eminenza, I think you will find this manuscript troubling.”

  Barbo's face grew pale as he read down the document. “Where did you get this?”

  “It's a photocopy of a document from the Vatican Library, Eminenza. The original was in a pile of Templar records from the twelfth century. I don't thi
nk it's been read in centuries.”

  Barbo looked at Visconti. “Well if the original is from the Vatican Library, then give it to me. I'll see that it gets back into the right hands.”

  Visconti stood up and walked to a window overlooking St. Peter's Square. “The worshippers down there live such simple lives. For us life is not so simple.”

  “What do you mean, Visconti?”

  “You know as well as I that this census record contains information that could be damaging to the Catholic Church.”

  Barbo made a dismissive gesture. “I doubt it. Most of these discoveries turn out to be forgeries, as I'm sure this one is.”

  “Eminenza, this is not just another ‘Da Vinci code’ puzzle. It is a very straightforward document that simply states the facts. The parchment is authentic. Professor Baldini from the University of Rome has carbon dated it.”

  Barbo fingered his pectoral cross. “Look, Visconti. I'm busy. What do you want?”

  Visconti smiled. “Like you, my clients wish to see the document get into the right hands. Still they are academics — and poorly paid at that.”

  Barbo stood up from his desk. “Don't toy with me. What's your price for the original?”

  Bielgard interrupted Visconti. “Ten million euros — and in cash.”

  The cardinal's eyes grew cold. “You realize that I could have the three of you arrested for blackmailing the Vatican.”

  Bielgard responded caustically. “You could but you won't. We've obviously taken precautions.”

  Barbo walked toward the door to his office. “I've dealt with extortionists before, Professor Bielgard. It's one of the more distasteful aspects of being Vatican secretary of state. An expert from the Vatican Library will have to look at it and do whatever testing he feels necessary.”

  Visconti bowed to the cardinal. “My clients have no objection.”

  “I will telephone you as soon as I have made arrangements with the library. Now if you would excuse me, Father Alessandri will see you out.”

  Barbo paced angrily around his office. The Middle East and Benedict's health required immediate attention. Now this manuscript appears. He had to take the blackmail seriously. Visconti was too clever to become involved in a hoax.