The Parchment Read online

  Barbo buzzed for Alessandri.

  “Enrico, have Bishop Renini come to my office at once.”

  Ten minutes later, Alessandri escorted the director of the Vatican Library into the cardinal's office. Barbo handed Renini the photocopy of the parchment.

  “This translation goes along with it. Read the document and tell me what you think.”

  The Bishop perused the Hebrew carefully, occasionally looking at the translation.

  “Your Eminence, this must be someone's idea of a tasteless joke.”

  “Two of your visiting scholars — professors Bielgard and Mi-chellini — claim they found the original among some uncatalogued Templar documents in the Vatican Library. Check through all our databases and see if anything like this is listed in the collection. Have your staff look through the uncatalogued documents as well. They may discover something relevant.”

  “A thorough search of the uncatalogued collection would take weeks, Your Eminence.”

  “Do what you can.”

  Barbo thought for a moment. “Will a search of the Vatican Library databases pick up items in the archives of the Palais des Papes in Avignon?”

  “No our files are not linked.”

  “Alessandri, get Bishop Pellent on the speakerphone.”

  In a matter of minutes, the director of the papal archives in Avignon came on the line.

  “Your Excellency, this is Cardinal Barbo. Bishop Renini from the Vatican Library is here with me on the speaker phone.”

  “How can I help you, Your Eminence?” Pellet's Italian was heavily accented by his native Flemish.

  “A first-century Hebrew census record has been found in a chest full of Templar manuscripts in the Vatican Library. Finding it with Templar documents may or may not be coincidental. I understand that the databases for the Vatican Library and the Palais des Papes are not linked.”

  Pellent sounded nervous speaking to the Secretary of State. “That's right, Your Eminence.”

  “Then I need you to run a search for any reference to this census record in your archives at the Palais. Bishop Renini is running a similar search here in the Vatican Library.”

  “Fax the text and I'll start immediately, Your Eminence.”

  “Pellent, if you discover anything, send it to me immediately.” The cardinal paused for a moment and addressed both librarians “These searches must be conducted in absolute secrecy. Administer an oath of silence to both your staffs.”

  As Cardinal Barbo clicked off the speakerphone, Bishop Renini stood up to leave. “Is there anything else, Your Eminence?”

  Barbo thought for a moment. “There is one thing. Could you send me several reference books on the Templars and a general history of medieval France?”

  “Should I include a copy of your dissertation?”

  “Yes, bring that, too.”

  Visconti hailed a taxi at the top of the Via della Conciliazione.

  “That was easy.” Michellini smiled at Visconti and Bielgard.

  Visconti was silent for a moment. “Perhaps too easy. Barbo is shrewd. He may try to take the parchment from you. Where is it?”

  Bielgard answered. “Right now it's in my room at the hotel.”

  “Put it in a bank vault for safe keeping.” Visconti's voice left no room for debate.

  As they were about to get into the taxi, Visconti's cell phone rang.

  “Hello ... Ah Baldini ... at Tre Amici? ... Let me ask.”

  Visconti pushed the hold button on his cell phone. “Baldini would like to test the manuscript for salt residue. He suggests meeting for a late dinner tonight at Tre Amici. He can do the test at the restaurant.”

  Bielgard frowned. “Baldini said he had finished testing the parchment. Why the change?”

  “He apologizes. He didn't have the necessary chemicals yesterday to do the test. There is a high alkaline content in parchment from the Holy Land. If the document you found has a high salt residue, it would further corroborate its authenticity.”

  Michellini nodded to Visconti. “Don't worry about Jim. We'll bring the parchment to Tre Amici at 10 o'clock.”

  Finnergan rang Cardinal Barbo's office late that evening. His voice sounded tired. “Your Eminence, the Israeli Prime Minister will not release the last five gunmen. He's under tremendous pressure from the extreme right wing. They want him to avenge Eilat. He appreciates the extra negotiating time, but he can't make any more concessions. Letting all the Hamas terrorists walk out of the Sepulchre free men is politically out of the question. I'm sorry, Your Eminence. I tried.”

  Barbo was disappointed but not surprised by what Finnergan said. “Then it's up to the Americans. They have one more day to find some way to convince the Israelis.”

  Bielgard and Michellini arrived at Tre Amici Restaurant ten minutes early. Visconti was already talking to the captain. When he saw the two professors, Visconti hurried over to greet them. Michellini nervously gripped her briefcase.

  “Ah, my friends — the corner table is ours.”

  As they sat down, a waiter appeared from inside the restaurant with a plate of steaming pasta and a bottle of Bardolino.

  Visconti signaled the waiter to pour the wine.

  “Unfortunately, I have some bad news. Professor Baldini called on my cell phone with his apologies. His youngest son was taken to the hospital — a car accident. We'll have to meet with Baldini tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! When?” Bielgard was visibly roiled by the change in plans.

  “Baldini suggested eleven in the morning at my office. In the meantime, let's enjoy a good meal and good wine. I have asked the waiter to order for us.”

  After their meal, the waiter brought espresso and biscotti. Bielgard and Michellini soon made their excuses and stood up to leave. Visconti also rose to his feet but did not leave the table. “My cell phone is full of unreturned calls. I will have another espresso and answer them. Until tomorrow at eleven.”

  As Bielgard and Michellini left the restaurant, Visconti nodded to two men at a nearby table. They followed the Americans along Via Piacenza to Via di San Marco. As the professors tried to hail a cab on the busy thoroughfare, Visconti's men walked up to them. One grabbed Bielgard. The other shoved Michellini and pulled at the briefcase in her hand. Her high heel shoes caught in the pavement and still grasping the briefcase, she tumbled to the ground. When her assailant reached down for the bag, Michellini kicked him in the groin. While he was doubled over in pain, Michellini struggled to get up. The second assailant, who had thrown Bielgard to the ground, grabbed Michellini's arm and twisted it behind her back. She screamed in pain and dropped the briefcase. One of the men picked it up, and they disappeared into the crowd.

  The assault had occurred so quickly that, by the time Bielgard understood what had happened, Michellini was already on her feet. “I'm okay, Jim. Get those bastards.”

  Dodging through traffic, Bielgard ran after the two assailants. Michellini followed him out into the thoroughfare. Motorists slammed on their brakes to avoid hitting them. A panel truck swerved to the right, careening into several cars. Drivers jumped out of their vehicles and started shouting. The ground was strewn with glass from shattered headlights. A student carefully maneuvered his Vespa through the angry crowd. Without looking in his side-view mirror, a burly taxi driver pushed open his door and hit the passing Vespa.

  The cab driver got out of the taxi with a conciliatory look on his face. “It was an accident. Troppo traffico.”

  “Cornuto!” The student growled back the insult.

  “Figlio di puttana!” The taxi driver could not resist responding in kind. Angered by the suggestion that his mother was a prostitute, the student kicked the door of the taxi.

  The cab driver exploded with rage. Grabbing the student around the neck, the driver pummeled him on the head. As others joined in, Bielgard and Michellini reached the far side of Via di San Marco. They spotted the two assailants running toward a parked Alfa Romeo. The driver of the car pulled out from the curb
and the assailants jumped in. As the car picked up speed, Bielgard threw his walking stick at the windshield and jumped spread-eagle onto the hood. Unable to find a grip, he lost his balance and rolled to the ground. The driver slammed on the brakes but not fast enough to avoid hitting Bielgard. He then put the car into reverse to avoid rolling over Bielgard's body. He did not see Michellini rush over to help her injured colleague. Shifting the Alfa Romeo into third gear, the driver floored the gas pedal. Suddenly, he saw Michellini kneeling on the ground and swerved to avoid hitting her. It was too late. The right fender of the car struck her full force.

  Pedestrians poured into the street—some tried to help Bielgard and Michellini — others tried to stop the Alfa Romeo. Gunning the accelerator, the driver sped off, weaving furiously through the stalled traffic. Within seconds, the taillights of the Alfa Romeo disappeared down a narrow street.

  Detective Giorgio Cameri from the Rome Police Department took a phone call at 11:45 P.M. It was a report of an accident on Via di San Marco. Two Americans had been injured, but the details were sketchy.

  Normally a detective would not be sent to investigate a car accident unless there were fatalities. But as a favor, Cameri thought the captain might give him this assignment. It was almost midnight, and Via di San Marco was on his way home. After he had finished the investigation, he could leave early and fill out the necessary paperwork at home.

  Cameri walked over to the captain's desk.

  “I'll take this accident on Via di San Marco. Two Americans have been injured.”

  The captain smiled. “There must be a vehicular homicide before a detective can go out on the investigation. You know that as well as I do, Giorgio.”

  “Come on, Captain. I've been working lots of overtime lately.”

  “Okay, go ahead. Remember you owe me one.”

  The first ambulance arrived with two police cars. A surgeon jumped out of the ambulance and ran over to the bodies lying on the street. Detective Cameri followed her.

  The surgeon attended Bielgard first, searching for a heartbeat.

  “Blood pressure's falling.” The surgeon pushed hard on Bielgard's chest with her hands. “He's going.” The doctor shouted to the paramedic. “Get a defibrillator.” The doctor hit hard on Bielgard's chest a second time. Cameri saw Bielgard's lips move.

  “Doctor, he's trying to say something.”

  The surgeon put her ear next to his lips.

  A shudder ran through Bielgard's body.

  “He's seizing.” The doctor gave Bielgard a shock from the defibrillator. “Damn it! No pulse.”

  The surgeon jumped up and ran to Michellini.

  “What did he say?”

  “‘Barbo — Francesco Barbo.’ Detective, get these people out of the way. I've got to work on the woman here in the street or she'll die, too.”

  Cameri pushed back the crowd of onlookers. The surgeon hooked Michellini to an intravenous injection and strapped an oxygen mask over her face.

  “Get the tent up. Hurry!”

  The paramedic pulled a large canvas bag from inside the ambulance and quickly assembled a tent in the street. Cameri and the paramedic gently lifted Michellini onto a stretcher and carried her inside the canvas flaps of the emergency enclosure.

  “Shine the headlights into the tent. I've got to do a tracheotomy right now.”

  Cameri maneuvered the ambulance so its headlights illuminated the inside of the emergency tent.

  A second ambulance arrived. Two paramedics lifted Bielgard's body onto a gurney and wheeled it to the back of the vehicle. When Bielgard's body was securely racked, the ambulance moved off through the crowd. The wail of the departing ambulance was soon lost in the sounds of Rome.

  Traffic on Via di San Marco edged around the tent as drivers' heads craned from car windows to get a closer look at what had happened. Behind the canvas walls of the tent, the doctor and paramedic fought to save Michellini's life. In the muted light, their moving shadows reminded bystanders of ministering angels.

  After Bishop Renini left Barbo's office, the secretary of state asked Alessandri to brief him on the diplomatic mail that had been received during the past several days. Events in the Middle East had so preoccupied Barbo that he had been unable to focus on developments elsewhere in the world. As Alessandri worked his way through the dispatches, Barbo stared absentmindedly at his television monitor. A picture of an emergency tent and several ambulances suddenly flashed across the screen. The cardinal turned up the volume.

  “This is Telegiornale's Giorgio Cucchi reporting live from Via di San Marco, the site of a fatal accident this evening. Two Americans were struck by a black Alfa Romeo as they ran across the busy thoroughfare.”

  Split-screen photos of the professors flashed on the television monitor.

  “Professor James Bielgard, a historian from the University of Michigan, died at the scene of the accident. His colleague from Bard College in New York, Professor Jane Michellini, was seriously injured. As you can see behind me, doctors have set up an emergency facility on the Via di San Marco in an attempt to stabilize her condition.”

  Alessandri put down the dispatches in his hand. “My God, Your Eminence, it's the two professors who were in your office earlier today. I recognize the woman.”

  The Telegiornale reporter paused for a moment and adjusted his earphone.

  “We have just learned that Professor Michellini will be moved to Gemelli Hospital. Her condition is described as critical. We have also been informed that Professors Bielgard and Michellini were visiting scholars at the Vatican Library.”

  The cardinal shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he switched off the television monitor. “Call Gemelli Hospital, Enrico. Make sure Professor Michellini gets the best medical care available.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence. Do you wish to finish the dispatches?”

  “Not now. We'll do the rest tomorrow.”

  Once Alessandri had left the room, Barbo hastily dialed a number on his cell phone.

  “Visconti?”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the phone.

  “Ah, Eminenza, I didn't recognize your voice.”

  “One of your clients is dead and the other seriously injured. I assume you will return the parchment to its rightful owner, the Church.”

  “We must meet.”

  Barbo played nervously with a pencil. “Why?”

  “There are matters still to be discussed with respect to the ownership of the manuscript. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow night in Trastevere, in Piazza Santa Maria.”

  “Not tomorrow night, Visconti. Now!”

  “As you wish, Eminenza. The restaurants in Trastevere stay open late. Let me suggest La Cappella Sistina just off the piazza. One of my clients owns it. I'll bring a good bottle of Tuscan wine — perhaps a Tignanello.”

  “I know the restaurant.” Barbo looked at his desk clock. “It's almost eleven o'clock now. I'll be there in half an hour.”

  Barbo hurried back to his apartment on Via Mascherino just outside the Vatican walls. Searching through his wardrobe, he chose a gray blazer, a dark blue turtleneck and khaki pants. Dining in Trastevere was casual. The last thing Barbo wanted was for some paparazzo to photograph his meeting with Visconti.

  CHAPTER V

  AN ENCUNTER WITH EVIL

  VISCONTI WAS ALREADY standing outside La Cappella Sistina when Barbo pulled up in a taxi. Punctuality was one of Visconti's trademarks.

  “Ah, Eminenza, it is good to see you.” Visconti's face was framed with smiles. “Come, join me. I'll have the Tignanello opened.”

  The two men entered the restaurant. Visconti signaled the captain. “Mario, open the wine and bring some prosciutto and melon. His Eminence may be hungry.”

  Barbo sat impatiently while the wine was uncorked and Visconti tasted the vintage. A tray of prosciutto and melon was brought to the table.

  “I assume you'll return the census record to the Vatican Library.”

  “Ah the
Hebrew parchment! You know Professor Baldini carbon dated it for me. There's no doubt it's from the first century.”

  “If you wish a small finder's fee for retrieving the manuscript,” Barbo declared, “that can be arranged.”

  “Patience, Eminenza. Let me finish. When the conclave opens, the parchment could be a powerful weapon in the hands of your colleague from South Africa, Hans Cardinal Diefenbacher, and his liberal supporters. It would advance their agenda for approving married and women priests.”

  “You're posturing, Visconti. The parchment will naturally have some symbolic effect, but nothing more. As for Diefenbacher, for years he's been campaigning to become Pope Benedict's successor. I'm not worried.”

  “You should be worried,” exclaimed Visconti. “Diefenbacher will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He has an agenda for restructuring the Church.”

  “An agenda that's too radical for most Catholics. Let's not waste each other's time, Visconti. How much do you want for the parchment?'

  “It's not a question of money. It's a question of relationships.” Visconti poured more Tignanello into Barbo's glass. “There are many situations where our institutions could support each other with very practical assistance.”

  Barbo looked contemptuously at Visconti. “I can hardly imagine one.”

  “The Church preaches against my clients in Sicily and throughout the Mezzogiorno. Priests tell the people to vote against candidates we support. My clients are good Catholics. Their children are baptized in the Church, they marry in the Church, and they die in the Church. They do not wish to hear themselves condemned from the pulpit.”

  Barbo became impatient. “So you want the Church to become less aggressive in condemning extortion, prostitution, and drug dealing?”

  Visconti nodded his head. “The Church's rhetoric could be moderated.”

  “I'm sure that this isn't the only price for the manuscript.”

  Visconti grinned. “On occasion, there might be ways that my organization could help direct the energies of the Church.”