The Templar Concordat (15 page)

Callahan rubbed a finger under the bandage on his head. “Tell me a bit more about those medallions. Is there any way you can imagine someone would bomb St. Peter’s just to get some trinkets? Understand, these things are new to me.”

Callahan saw him bristle at the word “trinkets.”

Santini didn’t like where this was going. “Even if I put myself in the criminal mind, it makes no sense, Mr. Callahan. As I said, they can’t sell them for their real value. I doubt any collector would go near them now. No museum, gallery, or dealer would touch them. The first thing they would do, just to protect themselves, is call the police.”

“Ok. Well, is there anything, anything at all in the Vatican Library that would even come close? Can you imagine anything here that a criminal would want so badly he would blow up a thousand people?”

“If a criminal was willing to kill a thousand people, I would think he could find much more lucrative places than our library. I suppose he could blow up a bank and kill a hundred people to haul off cash or jewels.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”  Callahan made show of putting his pen away and closing his notebook.

“Ok.” Callahan got up to leave and turned back toward Santini. “You know, Bishop, that nun never came forward to report she was kidnapped. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

“Of course it’s strange. Everything about that day was strange. It tells me she was an imposter who was in league with the thieves. She was one of them. You know that.”

“But you did get a good look at the tattoo? The frog?” Callahan smiled.

Santini sighed. “Yes, the frog. I can only report what I remember, and as I lost consciousness, I remember a frog. I can’t tell you if it was real, or if it was a dream. I can only report what I remember.”

Callahan stopped a few feet from the door. “And you didn’t see anything familiar in the pictures from the security cameras?”

The bishop brushed the front of his cassock and adjusted his pectoral cross. “I looked at thousands of pictures, and none of them looked like the man who kidnapped me. I don’t know… the pictures… it’s just… none of them match that man.”

The bishop came around his desk. “Truthfully, those security pictures from all over the Vatican aren’t very good. In most of them there is not enough detail to make out a face, and the ones that can be recognized just weren’t the thieves. Our cameras in the library are state of the art and had better angles, but the man was wearing that hooded bonnet, and the woman was covered with that bag in the library. You can see that yourself.” Santini seemed out of breath and Callahan wondered why he was offering such a spirited defense. “I did the best I could with the police artist, but I’m afraid the sketch looks like millions of men.”

“But you say he was British?” said Callahan.

The bishop hesitated. “Yes. He spoke English with a British accent.”

“Is there something else?”

“I’m not sure, but he sounded like someone who had been schooled very well in English, but there was a trace of a mother tongue there, too. It’s hard to say what, and it was faint, but it was there.”

“How do you know he wasn’t American?”

“Mr. Callahan, I have been around a long time. Trust me. I know the difference between a British and an American accent. Perhaps he was really a Russian pretending to be British. I don’t know.  How do you expect me to know?”

“Thanks for your time, Bishop. If we need anything else, I’ll get back to you.”

Santini picked up the paper clip again. That man will be back, he thought.

*     *     *

Callahan’s head pounded with each step back to Mancini’s office. Something was wrong at the library. It just didn’t add up. He didn’t believe for a minute the bomb had been a diversion for the library thieves, but the thieves had certainly known when it would be detonated. Was someone just trying to make a fast buck on the back of the bomb? But if that was true, why take those medallions instead of jeweled rings, chalices, and crucifixes? Those things contained a fortune in diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Pry the jewels out and they transport easily and can be sold anywhere in the world.

And that guy Santini? What was he so nervous about? Could it be an inside job? Did they really grab the jewels and bust up the glass cases for show? But that didn’t make sense either. The guy had given his whole life to the Vatican Library. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself outside of the scholarly world.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that library bishop, and that bothered him even more. Templar strike teams would go out tomorrow night, and he was worried about a library? He straightened up and quickened his stride when he approached Mancini’s office.

Mancini met him coming in the door. “You still look like crap, Callahan. How’d you do with the bishop?”

“They stole some medallions from medieval kings. About a hundred. It doesn’t add up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who blows up the Pope to get a few medallions? The risk is way too high.”

Mancini cocked his head. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to dig into the security logs. That’s my thing, anyway. I want to see what key cards were used and where.”

“You think Santini is dirty?”

“No, not that. I can’t put my finger on it. It just has a special stink. I’ll need a super-user code for the security system. I’ve worked with it before, and it’s really pretty good.”

“Super-user? You want access to the entire Vatican security system?”

“Yeah, unless you want me to hack into it, but that will take too long and be embarrassing to you.”

Like all Templars in Operations, Callahan had a real cover job. His was with Triad International. It wasn’t much different from Special Operations when he was in the Marine Corps. They were all shooters, but modern warfare, and especially anti-terrorist work, had gone way beyond chasing down the bad guys and shooting them.

“Look.” Mancini pointed to the office. “Go sit down at a terminal in there and I’ll have the computer geek come to you. I don’t want you wandering around scaring the help with your twisted face.”

“One more thing,” said Callahan. “When do our friends arrive?”

“A lot are here, and everybody will be here tonight. And it gets even better.”

“What’s that?”

 “The Templar Marshall himself is coming down from Zurich.”

*     *     *

Callahan studied the first floor plan of the library displayed on the screen and traced the route Santini told him the thieves had taken. Did Santini really understand how the computer logged every use of a keycard?

He saw nothing unusual until just after the bomb exploded. Then the logs showed the guards had hit the emergency auto-protect option before they redeployed to deal with the bomb. That was exactly what they should have done. The computer system would reject any keycard that wasn’t coded to a high-level user.

He highlighted the door where Santini said the thieves had entered and clicked for its log. Just after the bomb, it had been opened by Santini’s keycard. Ok. Then he accessed the camera covering the inside of the door. Just like Santini had said, it showed a man dressed as a priest wearing a beekeeper hat that blocked his face and a nun with a bag over her head. Then they moved out of camera range.

Now, Callahan asked for the next use of any keycard anywhere in the library. The screen displayed the drawing for the second floor and flashed on room H21. Santini’s card had been used there just minutes after they had entered the building. What was room H21?

He pulled up a room list and saw H21 was a sorting room. He flipped the list on the screen and found the library had fourteen sorting rooms scattered on different floors.

Santini hadn’t said anything about H21. Why not? What was in there?

Forty minutes after H21 had been opened, the camera and detectors showed a large priest and a nun, both wearing beekeeper hats, leaving the way they had come. It didn’t look like they had a hundred medallions, but with the camera angle, he couldn’t be sure.

Rome - Tuesday, March 24

“Tell me,” said the dead, flat, brittle voice on the phone.

Hammid couldn’t put it off any longer and he had dialed the Old Man in the Bekka valley, the leader of the Hashashin. The Old Man never gave a greeting or good word. No congratulations, no polite inquiries. None of the courtesy, small talk, and attention to personal detail which was so delightful among most Arabic speakers. It was always a terse, sterile, and efficient exchange of information. He expected the very same of others.

“Sheik, I have secured the Treaty of Tuscany from the Vatican Library. The woman from London sorted through the documents and says this is the treaty. She translated it and it agrees with what we know about the treaty. She had no prior knowledge of it. She is conducting more tests, but says final laser analysis must be done in London.” He hoped he had been as succinct and accurate as possible.

“Saad will contact you and inspect the treaty before paying her. She is not to be harmed. She cannot harm us. All her testimony can do is enhance the authenticity of the treaty if she says she stole it from the Vatican Library. She is valuable to us alive. Make sure you understand that.”

“Yes, Sheik.”

“Arrange for the London testing.”

The line clicked off.

London again, thought Hammid. Always London, or America, or Japan. No Arab universities had the equipment. Nobody journeyed to Arab universities for advanced research. No high-tech solutions were developed there. Even the science books they learned from were in English.

Once his people ruled the civilized world, leading it in science, mathematics, literature, astronomy, philosophy, and religion. But no more. While the world advanced, they watched. Their best students studied in the US, and the very best stayed with their American masters.

They had lost their unity, their spirit, and their drive. Worst of all, three hundred million Arabs blamed three million Israelis for their plight. If the Israelis magically disappeared one day, they would have to invent some other excuse.

Would they believe the West hated and despised them? No. Would they unite as a people to be reckoned with? No. Would they draw on their dormant energy? No.

All his people needed was a rallying point, something to snap them out of their lethargy. And the translation of the treaty was right in front of him.

Vatican - Wednesday, March 25

Bishop Santini fidgeted in the chair outside the office of the Vatican Secretary of State. The place was a madhouse. Under normal circumstances, the power and authority of the Secretary of State was second only to the Pope. A stately majesty prevailed at the Office of the Secretary of State. People moved slowly and deliberately, and any temptation to speed up was overridden by a solemn reverence. But today, agitated priests, bishops, and civil authorities dashed in and out of Agretti’s office and hovered in the reception area whispering to each other.

Santini had been waiting since 8:00 am. It was now 2:30 pm and all the Cardinal’s secretary did was shrug, balancing phones on each shoulder. With the Pope and so many members of the Curia dead, almost all decisions fell on Cardinal Agretti. He was only alive because his gout kept him from St. Peter’s on Easter morning.

In the three days since the bombing, Santini had thought long and hard about the situation. He had to see Agretti. That American, Callahan, suspected something. He knew he would be back, and he was terrified of what might happen.

When three priests hurried from Agretti’s office, the Cardinal himself appeared in the door. He leaned against the doorjamb, looked at his secretary, and asked, “What next, Antonio? Who’s next? Did we get that fax from the ministry?”

Santini knew he might not have another chance. He stood and walked over to the cardinal.

“Eminence, I have an urgent matter to discuss.”

Agretti looked at him through weary eyes, shook his head, and said, “Santini, everything is urgent today. Everything. I’m sorry for what those thieves put you through. I am. But there is just no time now. Father DeSantis might be able to get you some time later in the week. Just now I really don’t have the time.”

“You need to know what I know,” Santini replied with a firmness he didn’t know he had. “And you need to know it now, Eminence. Not later. Not tomorrow. Not next week. We cannot afford an appointment. Now. You need to know it now. Give me one minute, and you will never regret it. Now.”

Agretti was shocked by the impertinence of the man. Bishops did not speak to the Cardinal Secretary of State in that manner. He’s a librarian. Who does he think he is? He started to tell him exactly that when he locked eyes with the man. Agretti hesitated for a moment, and Santini saw it.

 “Now,” said Santini. “For the good of the Church, now.”

“One minute,” sighed Agretti, “and it better be good.” He stood back for Santini to enter the room, then closed the door.

“Ok,” said Agretti, slouching down in his chair behind the desk. “One minute. Go.”

“In 1189, the Vatican and three European powers signed a treaty prior to the Third Crusade. It was called the Treaty of Tuscany. The original with the signatures and seals of the three kings and two Popes was stolen from the Vatican Library during the bombing on Sunday.”