The Celtic Conspiracy (4 page)

The Systematic Annihilation of Celtic Culture and Indigenous European Peoples and Its Effect on the World in Terms of Culture, Politics, and the Economy: A Lecture by Professor Ronald MacClary

Thomas Ryan had kept his word. A year earlier, he had met the Irishman at a meeting of alternative healers in Vienna. In his opinion, Ryan was a bit of a radical. He lived near Dublin in a commune that had dedicated itself to a return to a life in harmony with nature. Ryan had promised to get in touch with him since Shane wanted to learn more about the project. They’d spent an entire evening together talking about the Celts, the original inhabitants of Europe, and Shane had gotten the distinct impression that Ryan was making fun of the neo-Druids, who, as he put it, had never understood the true message of the scholars, the chieftains, and the Druids. There hadn’t been enough time in this first meeting to learn more, but one thing was clear: contemporary excavations
suggested a very different image of the Celts than that of a group of barbarians who practiced human sacrifice.

What is happening here?
Shane wondered. He’d just dreamt of this exact period and people.
It can’t be an accident
.

He sat down at his desk nervously and fished out his calendar, rashly deciding to accept the invitation to the conference. That was when he noted the date. Tomorrow.

Without hesitating, he took pen and paper and wrote a sign that read, “The office will be closed until further notice.”

He had very little time before his first patients would be standing at his door. He didn’t want to have to turn them away personally, so he needed to leave before they arrived. He added a few clean things to his suitcase, grabbed his passport and his wallet, and got dressed instantly. He performed the high-wire act of pulling his pants on while standing on one foot, while at the same time trying to call the airport on his cell phone. As he did this, something akin to peace suffused him. He put down his cell phone and sat on his office chair, his pants only halfway on.

“Slow down, Shane, slow down. What’s going on? You should listen to your logical side and not follow some crazy fantasy.”

Could it really be true? Was there really more behind the decline of the Celts than people knew? Ryan hadn’t yet succeeded in making a convincing argument for the superiority of the culture, laws, and lifestyle of the Druids, but he also hadn’t come anywhere near telling him
everything. Shane was thinking about one particular detail from their conversation. Ryan had said that the dubious culture of the Western world, where nature, individuals, and entire peoples were sacrificed to the rule of money, wasn’t necessarily the only way. Maybe it was just a small but powerful accident—or an event—that had set Europe on this path. If you could find that point in time and show the alternative, the other path, it should be possible for mankind to go in a new direction.

Ryan was surprisingly confident that mankind would consciously choose to turn away from this path—a path that had cut them off from their true nature, that had made them apathetic and dumb as a herd of sheep—if they only understood the true reasons behind their original choice. There had to be a greater goal than the eternal chorus of growth, competition, and wealth, which was making it impossible for future generations to lead a healthy life, or to survive at all.

“Why do I always come back to this point of frustration when I think about mankind?” groaned Shane. Ryan had promised him that he would learn more about the secret of the Druids and the Celts when they saw each other again. Maybe his dream had been no accident after all and Victoria was right.

There would be time to try to answer that question. For now, though, he needed to pack the rest of his things and make his way to the Vienna airport.

But the obligation to chasten and punish is imposed on you as well, holiest of Emperors, and, by the law of the highest God, you must in your austerity track down the crimes of idolatry in every form.

—Church Father Julius Firmicus Maternus

Not far from the pope’s inner sanctum was the Vatican government building, the true center of power for the little country with exceptionally unusual status in the international community. The building itself was quite unspectacular, with its four floors and modest architecture. Only the oversized crest of the Vatican state made it clear that you weren’t in Rome anymore.

Thomas Lambert reached for the telephone, his long day at work wearing on him. As he did, he looked out his window into the courtyard. Even outside of the Vatican,
Lambert always wore black as he dashed from one meeting to the next, running the international affairs of the Church. Almost six feet five, the Briton made quite an impression, especially in Italy. He inspired respect and fear in those around him with his square jaw, steel-blue eyes, and pale skin. There were few who exercised as much influence and control in the “country of God” as Lambert, but after sixteen straight hours, even this Christian giant of the Opus Dei was ready for some rest.

By the time he was working under Monsignor Giovanni Montini, who was later to become Pope Paul VI, Lambert had already risen unimpeded to become the most powerful man in the Vatican. Montini had had an interesting career path; he had worked for the American Secret Service and had also been a member of a Freemason lodge. He had been an easygoing superior who had made it possible for Lambert to bring the second Vatican council to an end, satisfying the modernists inside the Church and the public for quite some time.

In the meantime, Lambert continued his work in peace. He couldn’t burn the heretics at the stake anymore, but there were other ways to enforce the pure tenets of the Church. One established method was a network of agents and spies, built up over centuries, for sniffing out the modernists inside the Church and, at the very least, muzzling them. Lambert was so good at his job that not even the current pope—John Paul III—could contest his position.

“Lambert,” Thomas barked into the phone.

“This is Salvoni. We need to talk.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ve worked long enough today.”

“There are some things on God’s earth that can’t wait. We have some unsettling news from Dublin about a certain Ronald MacClary.”

Lambert groaned inwardly. “Please spare me the concerns of Padre Morati. I’ve already heard them directly from him. God knows we have bigger problems in Dublin than a crazy Irishman who wants to raise the profile of his lost culture at the expense of the Church. If he weren’t such a public figure, we would have turned him into a laughingstock a long time ago.”

“I’m not sure if Morati has told you everything this time.”

“Fine. Come up.”

Lambert fell back into his chair, exhausted. Within moments, the door to his office opened and a nervous figure entered the room.

“So, Padre Salvoni, what in God’s name can I do for you?”

For a good ten years as head of the oldest secret service in the world, Salvoni had been taking care of matters that should never reach the public ear. He was short, lanky, and athletic, and his small mustache, along with his skin, tanned and pockmarked from acne, gave him the aura of a snake. It was this aura that had ensured his positions over the past years, and even Lambert was never
certain of his trustworthiness, as much as he valued his contributions.

“We have to go to Dublin immediately so that we can control the press reaction and the extent of this horrible thing,” Salvoni said calmly. “It wouldn’t hurt to observe the lecture at the very least.”

“What do you expect to gain from that?”

“Certainty. Just certainty.”

“You can’t go. I need you somewhere else. Send Caloni, but he should only watch MacClary and he should only concentrate on the lecture, nothing else. I don’t want an incident with a man who is one of the most important judges in America. To be honest, as much as I value your caution, I don’t share your concern here. Do we understand each other?”

With a cold smile, Victor Salvoni nodded and gave Lambert a bow.

“Brother Morati has been watching the MacClary family for a long time now,” Salvoni said when he again made eye contact with Lambert. “MacClary is putting the downfall of the pagans in a context that, paired with actual events, could be dangerous.”

Lambert’s eyes narrowed as he attempted to control his temper. “If you were to make a mistake, it could make the troubled atmosphere around the Church more dangerous than ever. Do you really believe it’s worth it?”

“In my opinion, yes.”

Lambert suddenly felt more tired. “Fine. I know the Lord has always protected your ambitions. Since I don’t think you’ll have to do anything about the MacClary situation that our press department can’t handle, I expect to have recommendations by Monday about how we can watch out for our lost brothers in Ireland.”

“As you wish,” Salvoni said before turning to leave.

Shane was accustomed to the weather in Ireland, where there was seldom a cloudless sky or a summery day, but today in Dublin there was so much rain pouring down that this flight’s landing was going to stretch his nerves to the limit. He’d been a horrible flyer for more than twenty years, ever since surviving a near crash. Since then, he boarded every plane expecting the worst. As if to underscore this thought, the plane met the landing strip roughly, just barely coming to a stop before the end of the runway.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience, and I hope that the slight turbulence did not cause you any undue discomfort,” spoke the copilot over the intercom.

With a pale face and wobbly legs, Shane stood up.

“Are you all right?”

Shane turned to meet the eyes of an old man who had to be over seventy but swung his carry-on over his shoulder like a kid. Shane had sat next to the man the entire flight, but he had been so preoccupied with his fears and
thoughts about the conference of healers that he hadn’t engaged his seatmate for a moment.

“I’ll be better soon,” Shane said, trying to wipe the tension from his voice. “Thanks for asking. I just don’t like to fly very much.”

“Good man, if God wants you, he’ll come and get you, whether it’s with a plane crash or a banana peel. Why worry about it?”

“I don’t know if I want to leave my fate in the hands of God,” Shane responded promptly, his body relaxing, “even though you’re probably right. Of course, that leads to the question of which god you’re talking about. The old creator who looks benevolently down, guiding the fates of his sheep?”

With an amused smile, the spry man introduced himself. “Eric Fink. I write for the
Standard
in Vienna. It’s probably better if we don’t start a theological debate, unless it helps you calm down.”

Shane chuckled. “What brings you to Dublin?”

The man’s eyes twinkled. “I’m writing an article about the blessing that the Catholic diocese has brought to the children of Dublin. That should tell you what I think of your idea of God.”

Shane held up a hand in defense. “It’s not my idea.” He pulled out his conference invitation and pointed to the agenda item that had sent him here. “I’m here for this lecture, which should tell you everything you need to know.”

The reporter skeptically examined the invitation, then looked up brightly. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

It was time to disembark, and the two said good-bye quickly. The brief exchange with the old man had gotten Shane thinking. What did the Dublin child abuse scandals have to do with the question of God?

* * *

Thomas Ryan was sitting—or rather lying—with his arms spread out on a table in Porterhouse, one of the largest pubs in the heart of Dublin, right near Trinity College.

“Man alive, Thomas,” Deborah Walker said, clearly in much better shape, “you have your discussion with Ellison in two hours and you’re tight as the last Celt.”

Ryan burst out laughing, spraying a mouthful of Guinness a good two yards across the table. “Yep, exactly, as the last Celt. You’re completely right, my friend. I realize now what a fool’s fest this is every year, and I don’t give a shit if Ellison tries to mess around with me. If I’m there or alone, what’s the difference? Three hundred years ago, I would have just chopped the head off this wannabe Druid.”