The Omega Scroll (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Milano

G
iorgio Felici flexed his gloved fingers and steadied his breath as Professor Rosselli moved towards the lecturn. He moved the cross-hairs to the centre of his quarry’s chest.

‘Thank you, Dr Bassetti, a most interesting exposé. Unfortunately,’ he said, turning back to the audience, ‘for the remainder of the evening you will have to put up with me, although I hope you will find the subject of “The lost civilisation of the Essenes, DNA and the Omega Scroll” intriguing.’

A murmur of expectation echoed through the theatre.

‘In 1962 Francis Crick shared the Nobel Prize for Medicine and Physiology with James Watson and Maurice Wilkins for the discovery of the molecular structure of DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, which contains the genetic code for life. In 1973, the Nobel Laureate wrote a book called
Life Itself
. In it he argues very persuasively that the DNA helix is so intricate that there was insufficient time on this planet for it to have evolved of its own accord and that it had to have been introduced to our planet from a higher civilisation.’

Professor Rosselli put up an overhead of the complex double helix of nucleotides made up of phosphates, smaller deoxyribose sugar molecules and the bases, adenine, thymine, cytosine and guanine.

‘As Crick describes them, DNA and its sister RNA are the dumb blondes of the biomolecular world. Exquisite to look at and good for reproduction, but unable to cope without the help of a myriad of complex proteins.’ Professor Rosselli was warming up.

Felici inhaled.

‘Indirectly supporting the theory of higher civilisation is the almost unimaginable number of galaxies and planets that make up the cosmos. In our own galaxy alone there are over 100 billion stars, and we need to multiply that billions of times over because there are at least 10 billion galaxies. The odds of planet Earth being the only inhabitable planet amongst billions of other galaxies must stretch the scepticism of even the most fundamental views,’ he said, looking at Walter C. Whittaker the Third. ‘You must now be wondering where the Essenes and the Omega Scroll fit—’

Felici exhaled, felt the first trigger pressure, held the cross-hairs on Rosselli’s chest and gently squeezed through the second pressure on the trigger.

Phut. Phut. No one heard the two shots from the projection room.

Someone in the audience gasped as Rosselli fell backwards, clutching his chest. Allegra saw the bloodstain blossoming on his shirt.

‘Antonio. No!’ Allegra rushed to his side as Professor Rosselli lay on the floor, struggling for life. ‘Call an ambulance,’ she commanded. ‘He’s been shot.’

Giorgio Felici closed the fire escape door and quickly descended to the car park.

Roma

Cardinal Lorenzo Petroni was in his office early. The timing for terminating Rosselli’s investigation into the origins of DNA and the Omega Scroll could not have been better. A massive pile-up of more than two hundred cars on the autostrada just south of Florence had killed eleven people and had pushed everything else off the front page. There had been one or two lines of speculation on the Omega Scroll, but as they had done over the death of the previous Pope, in the absence of any strong leads Petroni knew the media would lose interest.

Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. Cardinal Secretary of State, back in the Vatican in the second most powerful position in the whole of the Catholic Church. He was getting closer and closer to absolute power and the sexual jolt it gave him reminded him of the need to arrange for Carmela, the fallen but beautiful nun, to be appointed to his personal staff in the Holy See. Her guilt was his power, the perfect way to subdue a beautiful woman.

Petroni caressed the arms of his large leather chair, savouring his power. He made a mental note to have his desk raised, then moved to look over his notes on the Vatican Bank. It was time to remove the squeaky-clean Garibaldi. A new director for the bank was needed, one who could be controlled. Despite some meticulous research, there was not a whiff of scandal about this quiet, unassuming priest with a double degree in accounting and financial management. An hour later Petroni buzzed his secretary.

‘Ask Monsignor Garibaldi to come in.’

The double doors were opened and the Head of the Vatican Bank was shown in to the Secretary of State’s opulent and spacious suite.

‘Pasquale, how good to see you again. It’s been a very long time. Please, have a seat.’ Monsignor Garibaldi was shown one of three crimson couches, the soft approach.

‘Thank you, Eminence,’ Pasquale responded, nonplussed as to why he had been summoned on the Cardinal’s second day in office.

‘I was reading your report on the Latin American Bishop’s Conference in Quito. Very insightful, but I fear not much has changed.’

‘A sad indictment, Eminence.’ Pasquale was wary but, who knew, despite Cardinal Petroni’s reputation for ruthlessness, perhaps this Prince of the Church would finally give some support to the desperately poor people of South America. ‘I am preparing a paper as to how we might better use the resources of the Vatican Bank to sponsor the programs they need.’

Petroni already knew that. Given half a chance this bothersome humanist priest would no doubt suggest opening a branch of the bank in downtown Bogotá.

‘I would find that very interesting, Pasquale, and when you have finished it I would be grateful if you could submit it directly to my office for my personal attention. Regrettably there are some in these corridors who might oppose your plans. They guard His Holiness’s vaults as if they were their own,
non è vero!
’ Petroni’s diplomatic laugh held not a scintilla of mirth.

‘But of course, Eminence. I understand.’

‘Which brings me to the reason I’ve asked you to see me. I think we need a closer look at the problems in Latin America. An independent view. I wondered if you would be prepared to return, as one of my emissaries?’

Pasquale was taken aback and more wary than ever. He had been Head of the Vatican Bank for less than two months.

‘I don’t know what to say, Eminence. Would it be for long? The bank … There is so much to do …’ Pasquale had a sinking feeling that he was being comprehensively sidelined.

Petroni smiled his practised, reassuring smile. He had predicted Garibaldi’s reaction and he smoothly applied his rehearsed response.

‘You will forgive me, Pasquale, but for this task I need people who not only have an understanding in here,’ Petroni said, tapping his forehead, ‘but who really care, from here.’ Petroni clenched his fist and held it to his soutane. ‘Bankers are easier to find.’

‘Of course, Eminence,’ Pasquale responded coolly. ‘Wherever I can be of best service.’ It was a line Petroni himself was fond of using but when he did, it lacked sincerity. ‘You mentioned emissaries. Can I ask if there are others?’

‘Not initially. We have to get the right people and that will take time, which is one of the reasons I would like you to leave as soon as possible. We are making arrangements for you to travel to Peru, which I think you will agree is at the very heart of the Liberation Movement?’

Despite his misgivings Pasquale felt a strange pang of excitement. Peru! It was the home of the founder of Liberation Theology, Gustavo Gutiérrez.

‘Of course, Eminence.’

‘San Joaqun de Omaguas. A parish in the eastern part of the country. You will shortly receive some written directions on the more precise requirements, but I am sure you will be pleased to know that I have allowed scope for you to administer the sacraments to the local people and to gain some first-hand experience of the conditions. If only I were in your shoes instead of being stuck here in these dusty corridors, but don’t tell Il Papa I said that.’

Petroni got to his feet, confident that the chances of Monsignor Garibaldi and Il Papa having a conversation in the next five years were about zero.

Pasquale left the Secretariat of State enthused about the prospect of bringing the aims of a church ‘for and of the poor’ to greater prominence in the corridors of power, but the uneasy feeling that he’d been ‘got out of the way’ wouldn’t leave him. He realised that his concern over what he had found, or more to the point, what he had not found in the accounts, was well founded and disturbing, but he needed more time and more proof. Once he had left for Peru he felt sure Petroni would remove anything that might be remotely questioned. Well, he thought bitterly, at the very least the photocopier could do some overtime in the short time he had left. San Joaqun de Omaguas? He had never heard of the place and he headed in the direction of the Vatican library and an atlas. He would find that discovering details of the more remote areas of the Amazon would take a little time; places that were inaccessible by road often did.

Lorenzo Petroni put in a very long day, intermittently monitoring the news for any signs of an escalation of interest in the Rosselli case, but the carnage on the autostrada was overshadowing everything else. It was nearly midnight by the time he turned in, and he slept fitfully, tossing in the large bed in his apartment in the Vatican, trying to push back his recurring dreams.

Lorenzo Petroni’s dreams were hidden memories. Lorenzo at ten, a lonely only child. His father, Emilio, was a small, bald man with a small black moustache, a small man’s complex and a big, violent temper. Lorenzo’s mother, Marietta, was tall, very thin and very, very timid. The Petroni family lived in a run-down house in Pianella, a small town in the foothills of the Abruzzo Apennines. Every day Emilio would travel up and down the east coast, making a meagre living selling shoes, his samples in the boot and stacked on the back seat of his little Fiat. Lorenzo was a difficult and petulant child, prone to violent tantrums followed by long periods of sulking if he didn’t get his own way; and the source of constant tension between his mother and father. On rare occasions his parents would make up and Marietta would go with Emilio on one of his trips. Lorenzo would then be dropped off to stay with his bachelor uncle, Gustavo.

Petroni groaned in his sleep and pushed himself up against the wall, but it was no use. Uncle Gustavo pulled back the covers and climbed into bed with him.

Two days later he would be home again and the next morning he would creep out to the laundry to wash his sheets, terrified that his father would appear from the ramshackle outside toilet.

‘
Stronzetto inetto!
You useless little shit!’ his father would snarl, grabbing Lorenzo by the hair and reaching for the big strap that was kept on a nail behind the laundry shed door.

‘You’ve wet the bed again, haven’t you! Haven’t you! Answer me you useless piece of dogshit!’

Lorenzo would say nothing, his bottom lip quivering as his father shoved him on top of one of the donkey’s bales of hay and hit him with the heavy strap.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Lorenzo would sob hysterically.

‘
Stronzetto inetto!
You will never amount to anything! Never!’

‘Emilio. Please …’ Marietta would appear at the back door and plead for her son.

‘
Vaffanculo! Testa di cavolo!
Butt out, cabbagehead! Or you’ll be next.
Il tuo filio è un frocio!
Your son is a fairy!’

Suddenly the alarm woke him. Petroni sat up in bed, sweating, a hatred for a father and the curse of never amounting to anything burning deep within his soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Acre

T
he waters around Acre were clear and calm. Yossi’s neighbour Khalil had let him borrow his boat and the big single cylinder in the old side-valve engine chugged away contentedly, pushing the heavy boat slowly out of the harbour. The ancient stone walls caught the morning sun, lapped by the smooth green waters. A score of old fishing boats were tethered to stone jetties, nets piled underneath palm trees. A solitary lighthouse stood guard at the entrance to the harbour where the Romans had placed massive blocks of stone to protect their ships.

‘Khalil has a good spot about 500 metres off the point,’ Yossi said, pointing out to a placid Mediterranean. ‘We’ll drift around there for a while and see what we get.’

Giovanni closed his eyes and leaned back against the transom. The sun was warm on his face and bare chest.

‘You’re quieter than usual, Giovanni.’ Yossi’s energy levels were up. Fishing trips were rare and he was ready to enjoy the day.

‘Just soaking up the sun,’ Giovanni said lazily. ‘And thinking about poor Antonio Rosselli.’ Giovanni had taken Yossi into his confidence over the Omega Scroll and the murder of Professor Rosselli had not been lost on either of them. ‘And reflecting. Here we are, a committed Christian, a committed Jew and a committed Muslim, and the only ones in danger are the fish!’

‘If I get my way there’s going to be a lot more of that,’ Yossi replied, cutting the engine and reaching for the rods lying against the starboard gunwale.

‘There’s live bait in the bucket here, so help yourself.’ Yossi had cast his rod before the other two had even baited their hooks, but despite his enthusiasm, the fish appeared to be on strike and the conversation turned to politics.

‘Is there any common ground for peace talks, Ahmed?’ Giovanni asked.

‘There is,’ Ahmed replied, ‘but it needs genuine will on both sides. We are often critical of the Israelis, but we need to look at our own backyard. The PLO makes no secret of the fact that any peace deal is just the first step towards taking over the whole of Palestine. For Arafat, Fatah and the PLO it’s not only the land, it’s a struggle between two civilisations – one Arab, one Zionist. For them there is only one acceptable outcome: Israelis becoming citizens of a single democratic Palestinian State. A state that is an inseparable part of the Arab and Muslim homeland and that will never work.’

‘Would you run for president?’ Yossi asked.

‘Not at the moment, but I’m thinking about it. If Arafat ever goes I will make a move, and I’m quietly building support. What about you? Giovanni tells me you’re going to form a new party.’

Yossi nodded. ‘Neither Labor nor Likud can bring peace to this country because first and foremost we have to convince ordinary Israelis of the need for a Palestinian State. A man without a country is a man without a soul.’ It was a phrase that Yossi was fond of repeating. ‘In exchange, the Palestinian people must recognise the Jewish State and her right to exist.’

‘If it means peace, a lot of Palestinian people will go along with that,’ Ahmed replied. ‘To my mind, the other three key issues are the Jewish settlements, the return of the eight hundred thousand or so Palestinian refugees who lost everything in the wars against Israel, and Jerusalem. What would you do about the settlements?’ Ahmed asked Yossi.

‘That’s one area where we Israelis are going to have to compromise. For years now we’ve had a furious building program on Palestinian land in the West Bank and Gaza. We’ve destroyed a lot of your olive groves and stopped a lot of Palestinians from farming their land.’

‘It’s a big issue, Yossi,’ Ahmed agreed. ‘That’s been our life and our existence since way before Christ or Muhammad, or even Abraham.’

‘It’s a political strategy, Ahmed. Designed to take over what is left of Palestine by stealth, and it’s a big mistake. It breeds untold resentment and despair and it will never work. When a man has nothing left to lose he will readily resort to violence. As painful as it might be for those we’ve allowed to build on Palestinian land, we are going to have to give them incentives and relocate them back into Israel.’

‘And the Palestinians who were exiled in 1948 and the other wars?’ asked Ahmed.

‘That’s an area where both sides will have to compromise. Sometimes we have to deal with reality. There is not much point in insisting that the six hundred thousand Palestinians who were forced out during the 1948 war be allowed to return to homes that no longer exist or have been occupied for half a century in Israel,’ Yossi said. ‘There are people on both sides who think a return to a new State of Palestine, coupled with compensation, is a sensible and workable compromise.’

Ahmed looked thoughtful. ‘And Jerusalem?’ he asked.

‘Jerusalem. Oh Jerusalem,’ Yossi sighed. ‘Someone once said it wasn’t so much a city as an emotion. On our side there are just as many who won’t give an inch but if we’re going to get out of this cycle of killing, we’re both going to have to give a little. Neither side can have it all.’

‘An international city?’

‘Not necessarily, although to a certain extent Jerusalem belongs to the people of faith around the world and certainly any agreement has to maintain the integrity of the holy sites and allow free and unimpeded access to people of all faiths. It’s bigger than just the Old City and I think the solution lies in considering Greater Jerusalem. We agree to demolish this obscene wall and recognise al-Quds in East Jerusalem as the capital of Palestine, and you recognise our capital Yerushalayim in West Jerusalem.’

‘What about the Temple Mount and the Western Wall?’ Ahmed asked.

‘The Old City is not going to be easy,’ Yossi acknowledged. ‘In principle, if I’m elected the Palestinians would get jurisdiction over the Temple Mount, under al-Quds. We would get jurisdiction over the Western Wall under Yerushalayim. What would you do about the militants?’

‘I think the militants would come on board if the negotiations resulted in a genuine Palestinian State,’ Ahmed replied. ‘It won’t be easy, but if I could ever win an election I think I could get agreement to the sort of principles we’re talking here. Does the Old City fall into Israel or Palestine?’

‘For the moment not even you and I could sign that one away, but I would hate to see the chance for peace fall at the final hurdle. Leave the national borders as they are at present and re-visit them when there is a bit of goodwill in the tank. Baited again!’ Yossi stared absentmindedly at his bare hook. ‘It’s theft.’

Giovanni smiled. A stolen prawn. Could these two, he wondered, steal the peace from those who had imprisoned its chances for so long.