That was the limit of his knowledge, but the paucity of information didn’t stop him speculating. Indeed, for the next hour or so he did little else but hash and rehash possible scenarios. Bronson let him—it was probably good therapy for him to get it out of his system—and, to be selfish, it gave Bronson a chance simply to sit there, contributing little to the conversation, as his mind spanned the years and he remembered Jackie when she’d been plain Jackie Evans.
Bronson and Mark had first met at school, and had formed a friendship that had endured, despite the very different career paths they’d followed. They’d both known Jackie for almost the same length of time, and Bronson had fallen helplessly, hopelessly in love with her. The problem was that Jackie only really ever had eyes for Mark. Bronson had hidden his feelings, and when Jackie married Mark, he had been the best man and Angela Lewis—the girl who would become Mrs. Bronson less than a year later—was one of the brides-maids.
“Sorry, Chris,” Mark muttered, as they finally took their seats in the rear section of the Boeing 737. “I’ve done nothing but talk about me and Jackie. You must be sick of it.”
“If you hadn’t, I’d have been really worried. Talking is good for you. It helps you come to terms with what’s happened, and I don’t mind sitting here and listening.”
“I know, and I do appreciate it. But let’s change the subject. How’s Angela?”
Bronson smiled slightly. “Perhaps not the best choice of topic. We’ve just finalized the divorce.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think. Where’s she living now?”
“She bought a small apartment in London, and I kept the little house in Tunbridge.”
“Are you talking to each other?”
“Yes, now that the lawyers are finally out of the picture. We
are
talking, but we’re not on particularly good terms. We just weren’t compatible, and I’m glad we found out before any kids arrived to complicate things.”
That, Bronson silently acknowledged, was the explanation both he and Angela gave anyone who asked, though he wasn’t sure if Angela really believed it. But that wasn’t why their marriage failed. With the benefit of hindsight, he knew he should never have married her—or anyone else—because he was still in love with Jackie. Essentially, he’d been on the rebound.
“Is she still at the British Museum?”
Bronson nodded. “Still a ceramics conservator. I suppose that’s one of the reasons we split up. She works long hours there, and she had to do field trips every year. Add that to the antisocial hours I work as a cop, and you’ll see why we started communicating by notes—we were almost never at home at the same time.”
The lie tripped easily off Bronson’s tongue. After about eighteen months of marriage he’d begun to find it easier to volunteer for overtime—there was always plenty on offer—instead of going home to an unsatisfactory relationship and the increasingly frequent rows.
“She loves her job, and I thought I loved mine, but that’s another story. Neither of us was willing to give up our career, and eventually we just drifted apart. It’s probably for the best.”
“You’ve got problems at work?” Mark asked.
“Just the one, really. My alleged superior officer is an illiterate idiot who’s hated me since the day I walked into the station. This morning I finally told him to shove it, and I’ve no idea if I’ll still have a job when I get back.”
“Why do you do it, Chris? There must be better jobs out there.”
“I know,” Bronson replied, “but I enjoy being a cop. It’s just people like D.I. Harrison who do their best to make my life a misery. I’ve applied for a transfer, and I’m going to make sure I get one.”
4
Joseph Vertutti changed into civilian clothes before leaving the Holy See and, striding down the Via Stazione di Pietro in his lightweight blue jacket and slacks, he looked like any other slightly overweight Italian businessman.
Vertutti was the cardinal head, the Prefect, of the dicastery of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the oldest of the nine congregations of the Roman Curia and the direct descendant of the Roman Inquisition. Its present-day remit hadn’t changed much since the times when being burned alive was the standard punishment for heretics, only now Vertutti ensured that it was somewhat more sophisticated in its operations.
He continued south, past the church, before crossing to the east side of the street. Then he turned north, back toward the piazza, the bright red and green paintwork of the café building contrasting with the Martini umbrellas that shaded the tables outside from the afternoon sun. Several of these tables were occupied, but there were three or four vacant at the end, and he pulled out a chair and sat down at one of them.
When the waiter finally approached, Vertutti ordered a
café latte,
leaning back to look around him and glancing at his watch. Twenty past four. His timing was almost perfect.
Ten minutes later the unsmiling waiter plopped a tall glass mug of coffee down in front of him, some of the liquid slopping into the saucer. As the waiter moved away, a heavyset man wearing a gray suit and sporting sunglasses pulled back the chair on the other side of the table and sat down.
At the same moment, two young men wearing dark suits and sunglasses each took a seat at the nearest tables, flanking them. They looked well built and very fit, and exuded an almost palpable air of menace. They glanced with disinterest at Vertutti, then began scanning the street and the pedestrians passing in front of the café. Although he’d been watching the road carefully, Vertutti had no idea where the three men had come from.
The moment his companion was seated, the waiter reappeared, took his order and vanished, taking Vertutti’s slopped drink with him. In less than two minutes he was back, two fresh
lattes
on a tray, together with a basket of croissants and sweet rolls.
“They know me here,” the man said, speaking for the first time.
“Who exactly are you?” Vertutti demanded. “Are you a church official?”
“My name is Gregori Mandino,” the man said, “and I’m delighted to say I’ve got no direct link to the Catholic Church.”
“Then how do you know about the Codex?”
“I know because I’m paid to know. More important,” Mandino added, glancing around to ensure they weren’t overheard, “I’ve been paid to watch for any sign that the document the Codex refers to might have been found.”
“Paid by whom?”
“By you. Or, more accurately, by the Vatican. My organization has its roots in Sicily but now has extensive business interests in Rome and throughout Italy. We’ve been working closely with the Mother Church for nearly a hundred and fifty years.”
“I know nothing of this,” Vertutti spluttered. “What organization?”
“If you think about it you’ll realize who I represent.”
For a long moment Vertutti stared at Mandino, but it was only when he glanced at the adjoining tables, at the two alert young men who hadn’t touched their drinks and who were still scanning the crowds, that the penny finally dropped. He shook his head, disbelief etched on his florid features.
“I refuse to believe we have ever been involved with the
Cosa Nostra
.”
Mandino nodded patiently. “You have,” he said, “since about the middle of the nineteenth century, in fact. If you don’t believe me, go back to the Vatican and check, but in the meantime let me tell you a story which has been omitted from official Vatican history. One of the longest-serving popes was Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti, Pope Pius IX, who—”
“I know who he was,” Vertutti snapped impatiently.
“I’m glad to hear it. Then you should know that in 1870 he found himself virtually besieged by the newly unified Italian state. Ten years earlier the state had subsumed both Sicily and the Papal States, and Pius encouraged Catholics to refuse cooperation, something we’d been doing for years. Our unofficial relationship began then, and we’ve worked together ever since.”
“That’s complete nonsense,” Vertutti said, his voice thick with anger. He sat back in the chair and folded his arms, his face flushed. This man—virtually a self-confessed criminal—was suggesting that for the last century and a half the Vatican, the oldest, holiest and most important part of the Mother of all Churches, had been deeply involved with the most notorious criminal organization on the planet. In any other context it would have been laughable.
And to cap it all, he, one of the most senior cardinals of the Roman Curia, was now sitting in a pavement café in the middle of Rome, sharing a drink with a senior
Mafioso.
And he had no doubts that Mandino
was
high-ranking: the deference exhibited by the normally surly waiters, the two bodyguards, and the man’s whole air of authority and command proved that clearly enough. And this man—this gangster—knew about a document hidden in the Vatican archives, a document whose very existence Vertutti had believed was one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Catholic Church.
But Mandino hadn’t finished. “Cards on the table, Eminence,” he said, the last word almost a sneer. “I was christened a Catholic, like almost every other Italian child, but I’ve not set foot inside a church for forty years, because I know that Christianity is nonsense. Like every other religion, it’s based entirely on fiction.”
Cardinal Vertutti blanched. “That’s blasphemous rubbish. The Catholic Church can trace its origins back for two millennia, based upon the life and deeds and very words of Jesus Christ our Lord. The Vatican is the focus of the religion of countless millions of believers in almost every country in the world. How dare you say that you’re right and everyone else is wrong?”
“I dare say it because I’ve done my research, instead of just accepting the smoke and mirrors the Catholic Church hides behind. Whether or not huge numbers of people believe something has no bearing whatsoever on its truth or validity. In the past, millions believed that the earth was flat, and that the sun and the stars revolved around it. They were just as wrong then as Christians are today.”
“Your arrogance astounds me. Christianity is based upon the unimpeachable authority of the words of Jesus Christ himself, the son of God. Are you really denying the truth of the Word of God and the Holy Bible?”
Mandino smiled slightly and nodded. “You’ve gone right to the crux of the matter, Cardinal. There’s no such thing as the Word of God—only the word of man. Every religious tract ever written has been the work of men, usually writing something for their own personal gain or to suit their individual circumstances. Name me one single thing—anything at all—that proves God exists.”
Vertutti opened his mouth to reply, but Mandino beat him to it. “I know. You have to have faith. Well, I don’t, because I’ve studied the Christian religion, and I know that it’s an opiate designed to keep the people in line and allow the men who run the Church and the Vatican to live in luxury without actually doing a useful job of work.
“You can’t prove God exists, but I can almost prove that Jesus
didn’t.
The only place where there’s any reference to Jesus Christ is in the New Testament, and that—and you know this just as well as I do, whether you admit it or not—is a heavily edited collection of writings, not one of which can be considered to be even vaguely contemporary with the subject matter. To come up with the “agreed” gospels, the Church banned dozens of other writings that flatly contradict the Jesus myth.
“If Jesus was such a charismatic and inspiring leader, and performed the miracles and all the other things the Church claims he did, how come there’s not
one single reference
to him in any piece of contemporary Greek, Roman or Jewish literature? If this man was so important, attracted such a devoted following and was such a thorn in the side of the occupying Roman army, why didn’t anybody write something about him? The
fact
is that he only exists in the New Testament, the “source” that the Church has fabricated and edited over the centuries, and there’s not a single shred of
independent
evidence that he ever even existed.”
Like every churchman, Vertutti was used to people doubting the Word of God—in an increasingly Godless world, that was inevitable—but Mandino seemed to harbor an almost pathological hatred of the Church and everything it stood for. And that begged the obvious question.
“If you hate and despise the Church so much, Mandino, why are you involved in this matter at all? Why should you care about the future of the Catholic religion?”
“I’ve already told you, Cardinal. We agreed to undertake this task many years ago, and my organization takes its responsibilities seriously. No matter what my personal feelings, I’ll do my best to finish the job.”
“You’re lucky to be living in this century if you harbor such heretical views.”
“I know. In the Middle Ages, no doubt, you’d have chained me to a post and burned me alive to make me see things your way.”
Vertutti took a sip of his drink. Despite his instant and total loathing for this man, he knew he was going to have to work with him to resolve the present crisis. He put the mug back on the table and looked across at Mandino.
“We must agree to differ in our views of the Church and the Vatican,” he said. “I’m much more concerned about the matter in hand. You obviously know something about the Codex. Who told you about it?”
Mandino nodded and leaned forward. “My organization has been involved in the quest to find the source document since the beginning of the last century,” he began. “The task has always been the sole responsibility of the head—the
capofamiglia
—of the Rome family. When that mantle fell upon my shoulders, I was given a book to read, a book that to me made little sense. So I sought clarification from your dicastery, as the source of the original request, and your predecessor was kind enough to supply me with some additional information, facts that he believed would help me to appreciate the critical nature of the task.”