"But Paolo Dezza, the delegate Lolek chose, was a Jesuit," Schmidt argued.
"But he wasn't named by the superior general."
"Because Pedro Arrupe was in no condition to do so," Schmidt said, showing some indignation. "A stroke had left him partially para lyzed and unable to speak clearly."
"Go explain that to them. For many Jesuits it was an outrage," the secretary continued.
Schmidt frowned and changed the subject." I assume it's in Ben Isaac's possession."
Tarcisio nodded. "That gospel is very intriguing."
The gospel was mentioned for the first time in the apocryphal Gospel of Mary Magdalene, the same one that revealed the correct location of Christ's tomb. Who better than Magdalene to know where He was buried? Who better to guard a gospel written by her own com panion, Jesus?
"So Loyola didn't recover the Gospel of Jesus?" Schmidt asked.
"He couldn't find it. The Gospel of Magdalene, as you know, was not complete."
Pius IX got involved in the nineteenth century. He read the secret and formed a trusted group to investigate. They found three more parchments that mentioned the Gospel of Jesus, and, more seriously, when and where and by whom it was written . . . but not the gospel itself."
Tarcisio wiped the sweat from this face.
Every previous attempt to find the Gospel of Jesus had failed. The only certainty was that it did in fact exist.
"Until Ben Isaac," Tarcisio declared.
"Until Ben Isaac," Schmidt repeated, looking at his friend. "Some thing's bothering me, though. The society and the church are on the same side. Why all this conflict? Couldn't they negotiate and arrive at an agreement? The Jesuits wanted the Gospel. Why not negotiate with Ben Isaac?"
Tarcisio smiled as he got up, bent over with the effort. "The soci ety and the church haven't been on the same side for a long time." He looked down again on the empty square below, lashed by the wind and incessant rain.
"They must have talked about it?" Schmidt asked.
"Many times," Tarcisio answered painfully. "Today I have to meet with Adolph."
"Let him know you know what's going on. Lean on him," Schmidt suggested.
"It doesn't help, Hans. I'm going to be talking with the CEO of a large corporation. There are many interests at play. The Jesuits know they can't attack us directly." He sighed and wiped his face again. "Nor can we attack them."
William returned to the papal offi ce, flushed, obviously tired.
"The CIA is onto us," he said.
"That's all we needed," Tarcisio grumbled.
"What do they have to do with all this?" Schmidt asked.
"What do they have to do with anything they get involved in?" Tarcisio protested, and looked at William. "Excuse me, William, but your compatriots are always sticking their nose into situations that don't concern them."
William could have said, Lo
ok who's talking,
but he was silent. Tarcisio had a point.
"What do they want?" the secretary inquired.
"They want to know about Rafael, Ben Isaac, and Sarah. They know something, but don't really know what they know. They have Jacopo. I gave them a few crumbs of information in exchange for his release."
"You didn't have to give them anything. He could have been released if he'd been patient. Are they going to be a problem?"
"I don't think so."
"Any news from Rafael?"
"He's going to have dinner with the director of the CIA at Memmo. Now he's lying low in Mayfair at the Church of the Immaculate Conception."
Tarcisio whispered, "Let's hope he gets away intact."
49
D
avid Barry was better informed after talking with Cardinal William on the phone. Jacopo had revealed almost nothing, but had said that, if he wanted to know more, Barry should contact Jacopo's superior, who by coincidence was a fellow American. David Barry played this same card, talking about Long Beach and the RMS
Queen
Mary,
the transatlantic liner that now served as a hotel and museum, permanently anchored at that California city. He also talked about Houston's incomparable museum and theater district, aware that a cardinal, unfortunately, always owes his duty to the pope, and not his country of birth. That's how careers are. Everyone sells his work and loyalty to his job.
"Did you call me?" Aris asked from the director's offi ce door.
"Yes. Come in and close the door."
Aris came in and sat down without being asked.
"I talked with the Holy See," Barry informed him.
"Okay, you've got my attention."
"It was the only thing I could drag out of that son-of-a-bitch histo rian. The name of his superior, Cardinal William, who happens to be from Long Beach," Barry muttered.
"Long Beach? How does someone from Long Beach become a car dinal?" Aris asked curiously.
"The conversation was cordial. They have almost everything under control," Barry continued, ignoring Aris's remark.
"Do you believe that?"
"Of course not. I threw him a few crumbs to let him know we're informed without letting him know we're just outside the door."
"And the door is still shut," Aris added, jokingly. "And locked."
"Well, he half opened it. An Islamic terrorist group kidnapped Ben Isaac's son."
"Who's claiming it?"
"Islamic Jihad."
"Those bastards."
"They go after the very rich, study them, analyze their weaknesses, and then strike. In this case Ben Isaac's son," Barry explained, joining his hand together on the desk.
Aris thought about the story for several moments and then found flaws."That doesn't explain what happened in Paris, or Rafael's presence."
"That's what I thought," Barry agreed.
"What did Cardinal William say?"
"That Ben Isaac was a devout Catholic and well thought of by the church. Besides, he has
partnerships
with the Vatican and the Bank of the Holy Spirit."
"A banker with interest in banks. Tell me something new," Aris said sarcastically. "So the guy gives money to the church, and that's why the priests want to save him. This doesn't explain the murders. Or the agreement, the Status Quo."
"The agreement was another weakness for Ben Isaac. An agreement between financiers. They used the excavations as a way for Ben Isaac to transfer money to the church legally as investments. Islamic Jihad eliminated almost everyone involved to demonstrate they weren't kid ding, and would kill his son in the blink of an eye."
They thought over William's explanations, looking for a fl aw.
"Does that seem believable?" Aris asked finally, lifting his hands behind his neck to stretch.
"Not at all. The English and French have taken charge of the rescue operation. Let's wait and see. Then in Rome we'll know everything. Tell Sam to investigate these
partnerships,"
David said, making quotation marks in the air, "between Ben Isaac and the Vatican and the Bank of the Holy Spirit."
"Okay." Aris got up promptly, went to the door, and turned toward Barry. "Does this mean that Rafael doesn't know what he's doing?"
"Apparently." Barry took out his gun, checked the bullets, and returned it to his holster.
"Are you leaving?"
"Let's go," Barry said, grabbing his jacket. "Take care of the calls and come with me to the garage. It's time to deal the cards."
50
T
he voice echoed from the speakers in perfect English. Everyone listened in tense silence, some scarcely breathing. Garvis kept his hand in the air to restrain gestures or words. Ben Isaac was standing up next to the dining room table full of electronic paraphernalia. A few technicians were seated with headphones, listening in. Others con nected the call to special software that displayed the voices in graphic color on the computer screens.
Sarah put her arm around Myriam, who remained seated on the sofa, shivering with every word from the cold voice issuing from the speakers. This was the man who had hurt her son. Calculating and implacable.
"Stay calm, Myriam," Sarah whispered in her ear. "Everything is going to be okay. It's almost over."
Myriam wanted to believe those sweet words, but knew they were only painkillers for her soul.
"Listen carefully because I'm only going to say it once," the male voice said. "Since you ignored our instructions to get rid of the jour nalist, we're going to give you a fi
nal
opportunity." No one missed the emphasis on the word fi
nal
. "She'll be the one to hand over the parch ments. If Sarah Monteiro isn't at the Gare du Nord in two hours with the parchments in her hand, your son will die. We won't call again.
Ciao,
Ben Isaac."
The call ended abruptly. The man had been very clear. There was no room for doubt. All eyes were on Sarah. Since she'd left Francesco in their room at the Grand Hotel Palatino, everything had been out of her hands. The conversation with William in the Palazzo Madama, his instructions, going to meet Ben Isaac, the flight, the morning sickness, everything had unfolded with a will of its own that she didn't recog nize at all. It was enough to show her that even the remote appearance of control was pure delusion. She'd known it for a long time, since Florence, since JC, Rafael, Simon Templar, and John Fox. Ben Isaac, Myriam, and their son, the French inspector, the English one, all the paraphernalia to detect the undetectable, the phone call, Francesco, Rafael again, always . . . None of this had impressed her. No one con trolled anything, except God, if He existed, Who controlled everything.
Myriam hugged Sarah tightly. "Bring me my son, Sarah," she pleaded desperately. "Don't let them hurt him. Don't."
Garvis lowered his hand, and frenzy broke out in an ordered chaos that only those involved understood.
"Do we have a location?" Garvis asked.
"Rome," two technicians said.
"Jerusalem," said another.
"London."
"Düsseldorf."
"Oslo."
"Does this mean we don't have a location, Jean-Paul?" Gavache interjected.
"We're lost, Inspector."
"What's going on? The call lasted for more than a minute," Garvis asked uncomfortably.
"One minute and fifty-six seconds," Jean-Paul added, to give some precision to the information.
"We are unable to locate the origin of the call," one of the techni cians said. "They obviously know they're being monitored."
"I agree," Gavache said, taking a draw on his cigarette. "Or now they're monitoring us."
Ben Isaac was exhausted and pulled out a chair to sit down. "And now? And now what's going to happen to my son?"
"Now? And now, Jean-Paul?" Gavache asked, looking at Ben Isaac.
"We'll do what they say."
Gavache turned his glance from Ben Isaac to Sarah hugging Myr iam. Garvis approached her. "Are you willing to do what the kidnap pers demand, Sarah?"
Sarah didn't answer right away. She felt Myriam's arms squeezing her ever more tightly. It was as if not only the life of her son, little Ben, depended on Sarah's reply, but her own as well. There was only one answer.
"You can count on me," she finally said, timidly. She didn't feel like a heroine, just the opposite.
Myriam's embrace tightened even more, if that were possible. "Thank you, Sarah. You're an angel."
"I wasn't just talking, Myriam," she whispered in the ear of the stricken woman to calm her. "Everything is going to be all right."
"Excellent," Gavache applauded.
"We need your help," Garvis advised Gavache. "We don't have much time, and a crucial part of the operation is going to take place in your country."
"Bien sûr. Re
lax, Garvis. I'm going to convey the situation to the minister of the interior and prepare the team," Gavache said calmly. "I need to have them in place at the location in Paris the kidnappers specifi ed."
"I'm going to commandeer a plane immediately," Garvis informed them, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.
"Jean-Paul," Gavache called.
He appeared at his side almost before his boss fi nished pronounc ing his name.
"You're going to accompany Sarah from the first minute to the last. Give her all the protection she needs. Don't forget about her condi tion. Provide her every comfort possible. Understood?" he asked in French.
"Perfectly, Inspector."
"Guard her with your life if necessary. I'll find you later."
Gavache went over to Ben Isaac, who was holding his face in his hands, as if he were carrying the weight of the world, his world, and put his hand on Ben Isaac's shoulder. "We're going to fulfill our part. Now it's time for you to fulfi ll yours."
Ben Isaac uncovered his face and looked at the Frenchman arro gantly. "Tell me, Inspector. What do you mean by 'fulfilling your part'?"
"Look around." Gavache raised his hand and pointed around the room. "An international team dedicated to solving
your
problem. No one here knows your son, but they're doing everything possible to res cue him. As if he were their own son. They could lose their life doing it. A woman who could very well just turn her back on all this is risking her life without asking anything in return. We're going to complete our part, Ben Isaac."
The banker remained seated, staring into space. He analyzed all the options, and finally looked disdainfully at Sarah. "Why?"
Sarah didn't understand the question. With her exhaustion and nausea, she was slow to respond.