The Parchment (14 page)

When Calvaux opened the door, the secretary of state was standing in front of a television set. “The BBC is about to broadcast live, Jean. Washington couldn't dissuade the Israelis from going in.” As Barbo spoke, the television monitor flashed to Jerusalem.

“This is Liam Stewart from BBC News, near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. At the moment, I'm standing on a rooftop about three hundred yards from where the fighting is still raging. I cannot let the contradiction pass. Men and women are dying here, near the spot where Christians believe Jesus rose from the dead.”

The reporter was handed a note. “One of our cameramen has managed to get out of the church with some footage. The BBC warns its viewers that the pictures are graphic.”

Barbo and Calvaux stood transfixed by what they saw. Israeli soldiers, their faces covered with gas masks, were pulling hostages along the floor toward the door of the Church. In the distance, the
sound of gunfire erupted as ghostlike figures appeared and disappeared into clouds of smoke.

A desperate cry came from near the high altar. The cameramen zoomed in on a Hamas gunman standing over a woman and two children.

“No, I beg of you—not my boys!” The woman grappled to take a pistol out of the man's hand. The gunman pushed the woman aside and shot the children at point blank range. When the mother fell over the bodies of her sons, the gunman took aim and shot her in the back.

Barbo slammed his fist on the desk, knocking a picture of his parents to the floor. “Damn it. Maybe Finnergan was right. In the face of inhumanity like this....” He angrily switched off the television.

“Jean, sit down for a minute.”

Barbo walked over and closed the door to his office. “The pope wants what I tell you to be kept in the strictest confidence.”

“I understand.”

Barbo paused for a moment and looked at Calvaux. “You know how engaged the Holy Father has been in searching for peace in the Middle East.”

“Yes, I know.”

Warming to the subject, Barbo began to pace around his office. “The Holy Father has often said that the key to peace in the Middle East is investment and economic development. He's hoping to propose a new initiative. For want of a better name, he calls it ‘A Covenant for Peace.’”

Calvaux looked skeptically at the secretary of state. “After what we just saw, you're not going to find many investors.”

“Jean, the pope has spoken privately to the CEOs of several multinational pharmaceutical companies. With some prodding, they have formed a consortium to build three world-class hospitals in East Jerusalem.”

“That's wonderful news. Who will staff them?”

Barbo picked up a fax on his desk and handed it to Calvaux. “Initially, Doctors Without Borders has agreed to recruit whatever medical personnel are needed.”

“What do you mean ‘initially’?”

“Hopefully the hospitals will develop research centers. Once that happens, there will be no problem recruiting quality staff.”

“Three hospitals will not solve the problems of the Middle East.”

“There is more to the pope's initiative, Jean.” Barbo handed Calvaux a second fax. “As you can see, last week Credit Mobilier agreed to relocate its claims department to Jerusalem. This move alone will create hundreds of new jobs. And don't forget the oil companies. A group of them have agreed to consider moving some of their satellite operations to East Jerusalem.”

Calvaux scanned the fax from Credit Mobilier. “The pope must be pleased.”

“Yes but his eyes have been on an even greater prize.”

“What?” Calvaux unconsciously moved his chair closer to Barbo as if the two men were about to share some conspiracy.

“He has talked with the secretary general about opening some UN programs in the city. UNESCO, in fact, is considering establishing five technical schools there. True, there's no commitment yet but talks are ongoing. If the UN agrees to this, it would be a dramatic gesture by the world community.”

Calvaux looked unconvinced. “Won't some members of the Security Council object to putting any UN facility in Israel?”

“They will consent, as long as the facility is built in East Jerusalem.”

“And what commitment will the Church make?”

Barbo chose his words carefully. “The Holy Father has something dramatic in mind, but he has not shared it with me. All he will say is that the Church's contribution will bring a sense of coherence and purpose to the rest of the projects.”

“Won't the Israelis stop the pope's initiative in its tracks? They won't want to see too many resources going into East Jerusalem.”

“That's where the United States comes in.” Barbo looked Cal-vaux in the eye. “You must convince the president to pressure Israel to allow the pope's initiative to go forward.”

“You want me to convince the president!” Calvaux scowled as if Barbo had made him the butt of a tasteless joke.

“Jean, the Holy Father wants this initiative to be handled outside diplomatic channels. He wants you to serve as his private envoy to the White House. If the president agrees to support the economic initiative, then His Holiness wants you to go to Tel Aviv and Ra-mallah to present it to the Israelis and the Palestinians.”

Calvaux realized Barbo was not being facetious. “Francesco. I have no training in diplomacy. It would be like sending a sailor to fly an airplane.”

“You have the qualities the Holy Father wants — intelligence, knowledge of the area, and a new face.”

Calvaux stammered. “I must speak with the pope — I'm not the right person for this.”

“You can't — not today.”

“Well then, tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow either.”

“You're hiding something from me, Francesco.”

“Jean, the Holy Father is suffering from Alzheimer's disease.”

Calvaux slumped back in his chair, dumbstruck. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“Completely.”

Calvaux did not move for several minutes. “Who knows about Pope Benedict's condition?”

“Four people — Sister Consuela, the pope's physician Dr. Hendricks, Father Alessandri, and myself. You're the fifth. The Holy Father needs your help.”

Calvaux took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “How can I refuse?”

“Good. The president is returning to the United States today from a NATO meeting in Brussels. He's agreed to land Air Force One briefly at Brise Norton, a Royal Air Force Base outside London
at about eleven o'clock tonight to meet with a papal envoy. He will give us only fifteen minutes of his time. Once you've been briefed, there's a plane ready to take you to the meeting.”

“Make your briefing as detailed as possible.”

“Don't worry. It will be.”

That evening, the secretary of state accompanied Calvaux to Leonardo da Vinci Airport. The VIP lounge was crowded with executives waiting for flights. Barbo and Calvaux sat unobtrusively in a distant corner but not unobtrusively enough for one portly Italian businessman. When he saw the two prelates, he deliberately sat down across from them and picked up a discarded newspaper. When Barbo and Calvaux lowered their voices, the businessman stood up and moved closer. Unsure of what to do, Barbo suggested that they speak in Latin. Outwitted, the businessman got up and walked to the bar where he ordered a glass of wine.

Calvaux smiled. “That's a trick I must remember.”

Barbo looked around the lounge to assure himself that there were no more eavesdroppers. “After our discussion this morning, Jean, your trip to see the president is almost ironic.”

Calvaux looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Like your ancestor Gerard de Montelambert, you are embarking on a crusade — but a crusade whose aim is to bring peace to the Holy Land, not kill Muslims.”

Calvaux signaled a waiter to bring an espresso. “Speaking of the Crusades, Francesco, I wanted to ask you a question about the Templars. They were originally founded both as a military and as a religious order, weren't they?”

“Yes — St. Bernard justified allowing Templar monks to kill non-Christians by adopting double-effect theory.”

“Yes, I remember Bernard made much of the distinction between the killing of evil, ‘malicide,’ and the killing of a human being, ‘homicide.’”

Barbo turned in his seat. “Once you accept Bernard's distinction, it all follows logically. Satan brought evil into the world and placed it in the bodies of non-Christians. When a monk killed a
non-Christian, it was ‘malicide,’ because his primary intent was to kill this evil. The death of the individual Saracen or Jew was the unintended consequence of destroying the evil and therefore was not sinful. But if a monk killed a Christian, that would be ‘homicide’ and sinful.”

Calvaux smiled. “As long as you intend to do good, you can accept any evil as an unintended consequence of your good intent. No matter how I try, I cannot envision Jesus preaching the ‘Parable of Unintended Consequences.’ You can justify almost anything with that tangled logic.”

Barbo nodded his head. “Double-effect theory reads well in a theological textbook, but it's not much help when making tough moral choices.”

“Let me ask you something, Francesco. Suppose you were offered a large sum of money to help the poor in your diocese but the offer had certain conditions attached to it. Would you take the money?”

“I see your interest in double-effect theory is more than theoretical. I would have to look carefully at the conditions—would they cause a disproportionate amount of evil or....”

A stewardess interrupted the two cardinals.

“Cardinal Calvaux, your plane is at the gate.”

Calvaux finished his espresso and picked up his attaché case. The stewardess escorted the churchmen through the airport concourse to a private gate where Calvaux's plane waited. Barbo and Calvaux shook hands.

“Jean, we can finish the conversation about double-effect theory when you get back. In the meantime, I'll pray for your success with the president.”

As the stewardess closed the door of the plane behind Calvaux, the pilot turned on the engines. The plane pushed back from the gate. Barbo noted it was precisely eight o'clock. Calvaux should reach Brise Norton by ten thirty—half an hour before Air Force One was due to arrive.

When Barbo returned to his office in the Apostolic Palace, Bishop Renini was waiting for him in the reception area. The Bishop held tightly to his brief case.

“Your Eminence, I have a preliminary report on the Magdalene parchment.”

“Come into my office.” Barbo signaled Alessandri to join them. “What did you find, Renini?”

The bishop walked over to Barbo's conference table and opened his brief case. “A member of the library staff discovered this — in a cabinet drawer no less.” Renini took out a yellowed document that had been placed inside a plastic folder. “This doesn't specifically mention a bloodline from the Magdalene but....”

Barbo grew impatient. “What does it say?”

“It's a letter from the grand master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, to someone named Gerard de Montelambert.”

“Gerard de Montelambert!” Barbo was stunned.

“We think he was also a Templar.”

Barbo could hardly contain his excitement. “Read the letter, Renini.”

“It's only a few lines. ‘Gerard, the Hebrew manuscript is in your safekeeping. Hide it well. Someday the world may come to learn whether there is a divine bloodline.’”

Barbo knew instinctively that this letter and the legend of the Montelamberts were somehow linked. For the second time in two days, Barbo felt the closeness of evil. Last night as he walked over Ponte Sant'Angelo, Barbo had seen the Trickster in the dark waters of the Tiber. Tonight he felt him staring out from the words of this letter. But this time Barbo was not frightened. On the contrary, he felt strangely alive and emboldened as if the Holy Spirit were calling him to some undisclosed task.

“Did you find anything else in the library?”

“No, but Bishop Pellent called me from Avignon. His computers are down. He'll work as fast as he can once everything is up and running.”

“Remind Pellent that whatever he finds should be sent to me immediately.”

GERARD DE M
NTELAMBERT

T
HE MEETING BETWEEN
the president and Cardinal Calvaux had gone on twenty minutes longer than scheduled.

The president's chief of staff paced up and down outside the stateroom where the two men were meeting. Finally he knocked softly on the door. “Mr. President, we must be on our way. They're waiting for us in Washington.”

The door opened, and the president and Calvaux emerged from the stateroom.

“Your Eminence, I apologize. My staff keeps me on schedule—too much so sometimes.” There was a hint of impatience in the president's voice.

The president ushered Cardinal Calvaux to the door of Air Force One. A light rain was falling as the two men shook hands.

“Tell Pope Benedict, the First Lady and I are looking for some excuse to come visit him. Perhaps tonight we've found one.”

“His Holiness would be pleased if you would come.”

A Marine sergeant opened an umbrella and escorted Calvaux down the wet boarding ramp to the tarmac. As Calvaux watched from the ground, the door of Air Force One slowly closed and the ramp pulled back from the aircraft. Two secret service agents walked around the plane with flashlights doing a final check of the tires and the landing gear. Lights flashing, the president's plane taxied out to the runway. Just then two Royal Air Force jets streaked overhead, waiting to accompany the president's plane out of English air space. Air Force One was soon in the air, and a member of the president's security detail drove Calvaux to his plane.