The Parchment (8 page)

“You're posturing, Visconti. The parchment will naturally have some symbolic effect, but nothing more. As for Diefenbacher, for years he's been campaigning to become Pope Benedict's successor. I'm not worried.”

“You should be worried,” exclaimed Visconti. “Diefenbacher will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He has an agenda for restructuring the Church.”

“An agenda that's too radical for most Catholics. Let's not waste each other's time, Visconti. How much do you want for the parchment?'

“It's not a question of money. It's a question of relationships.” Visconti poured more Tignanello into Barbo's glass. “There are many situations where our institutions could support each other with very practical assistance.”

Barbo looked contemptuously at Visconti. “I can hardly imagine one.”

“The Church preaches against my clients in Sicily and throughout the Mezzogiorno. Priests tell the people to vote against candidates we support. My clients are good Catholics. Their children are baptized in the Church, they marry in the Church, and they die in the Church. They do not wish to hear themselves condemned from the pulpit.”

Barbo became impatient. “So you want the Church to become less aggressive in condemning extortion, prostitution, and drug dealing?”

Visconti nodded his head. “The Church's rhetoric could be moderated.”

“I'm sure that this isn't the only price for the manuscript.”

Visconti grinned. “On occasion, there might be ways that my organization could help direct the energies of the Church.”

“Get to the point, Visconti!”

“At the moment there's an opening in Turin for an antiterrorism prosecutor. It's an important post and needs a man or woman of unimpeachable credentials. Signor Rospalli would make an excellent choice. He has demonstrated great courage and ability as the organized crime prosecutor in Palermo.”

“Yes, I know Rospalli.” Barbo could sense what was coming.

“If the Church were to suggest to the interior minister that Rospalli should be given the position in Turin—”

Barbo finished the sentence. “...the Mafia would be rid of a thorn in its side.”

“Perhaps, but Italy would also get an effective antiterrorism prosecutor.”

“So the price of the parchment is silence from the pulpit on your activities and a new post for Rospalli?”

“And one thing more, Eminenza. I understand the Vatican Bank receives contributions from all over the world to the Peter's Pence collection.”

“Yes. The proceeds of the collection support many Vatican charities.”

“In the last year, transferring money from our operations in Latin America to Italy has become problematic. The Americans are carefully monitoring international bank transfers.”

Barbo seethed. “So you want to use Church accounts in Latin America to transfer money to the Peter's Pence fund here in Italy.”

“Yes. When the money reaches the Vatican, it will be transferred to various corporations here in Italy. Financial transfers made by the Church are not closely monitored by the Italian government.”

“In essence, Visconti, you want the Church to help you with your money laundering schemes?”

“You forget one thing, Eminenza. Money from what you contemptuously call laundering schemes already supports many Church programs. When it comes to accepting donations, some of your colleagues are less scrupulous than you are.”

Barbo slowly stood up from the table. Although angry, years of diplomatic training had taught the cardinal to mask his true feelings. “You will hear from me, Visconti.”

The cardinal turned and left the restaurant.

Detective Giorgio Cameri was annoyed with himself. He should never have volunteered to investigate the car accident on Via di San Marco. A routine car accident would normally have taken him fifteen minutes to investigate, but this accident was far from routine. Still something told him that this might become an important case. An American professor had been killed and another seriously
injured. Given that there was a vehicular homicide, Cameri knew it would be more prudent to return to his office to dictate the required reports than it would be to dictate them at home.

From the outset Cameri sensed that the theft of Michellini's briefcase was not the random act of petty thieves. Everything pointed to the work of professionals — the well-dressed assailants, the Alfa Romeo parked across the street, the quick getaway from the scene of the accident. What intrigued Cameri most about the case were Bielgard's dying words spoken to the doctor. Why did Biel-gard whisper the name of the Vatican secretary of state? He toyed with the idea of including Barbo's name in the accident report but thought better of it. A reference to a prominent Vatican official in a police report would be a red flag. The investigation would be taken away from him and become lost in the bureaucracy.

Cameri's office phone rang as he was completing his accident reports.

“Giorgio, this is Mario Esposito — the captain at La Cappella Sistina in Trastevere.”

“Eh, Mario.”

“Stop by for a drink on your way home. Something interesting happened tonight.”

“I'll be there.”

Since his earliest years on the Rome police force, Cameri had cultivated the friendship of wine stewards, waiters, and bartenders. He was always willing to help with a favor—fixing a parking ticket, keeping a son out of jail, stopping a too-ardent courtship of a daughter. Favors given led to favors returned. Over time Cameri built up an impressive network that kept him apprised of what was happening in the city.

Cameri left his office at almost 2
A.M
. and took a taxi to La Capella Sistina.

“Mario, how's your beautiful daughter?”

“She's getting married. He's a nice boy. You know how much we are in your debt, Gio.” Mario poured Cameri some grappa.

“That's in the past, Mario. What happened here tonight?”

“You know Pietro Visconti?” Mario spoke sotto voce to the detective.

“What policeman doesn't? He knows everyone and has his finger in everything.”

“Well, tonight he met with Cardinal Francesco Barbo.”

“The Vatican secretary of state?”

“Yes, they sat over there at the corner table. The cardinal came late and spent about twenty minutes with Visconti. When they left, both were upset.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They left behind a three-hundred-euro bottle of Tignanello.”

Cameri walked up the flight of stairs to his apartment. Pouring himself another grappa, he turned on his computer and ran a Google search for the name “Francesco Barbo.” He stared at a picture of Barbo receiving his cardinal's biretta from Pope Benedict. Barbo's name had come up a second time tonight. Better than most of his colleagues, Cameri had good intuition. Tonight it told him that Visconti and Barbo were linked to the incident on Via di San Marco.

When he left La Capella Sistina, Barbo decided to walk back to the Vatican over the Janiculum Hill. Although it was late, he had a lot to think about.

Barbo was not naïve. He knew the release of the parchment would have an explosive effect on the Catholic laity—but in varying ways. Those in Europe and North America, chafing under Vatican secretiveness and medievalism, would see the parchment as a support for radical change in Church policy. On the other hand, Catholics who lived in Asia, Africa, and Latin America, where the traditions of the Church were still deeply woven into local cultures, would be scandalized. They light candles before their santos and believe in the devil, in miracles, and in the healing power of relics. These Catholics would not accept the idea that Jesus was married— let alone to a reformed prostitute. If the parchment were
released, many of these more traditional Catholics would desert the Church.

As for Diefenbacher, Barbo doubted the parchment would enhance his chances of being elected pope. The archbishop of Durban was simply too controversial in his views to persuade two-thirds of the electors plus one to vote for him. He had strong backing from liberal European and American electors, but little support anywhere else.

But there was a more serious problem that worried Barbo — apostolic succession. When he was growing up in Milan, there was never any expectation that he would take over his father's bookshop. In today's world, children routinely have careers separate from those of their fathers. But that was not true in earlier cultures. In first-century Palestine, the children of rabbis themselves became rabbis and assumed the leadership of their fathers' congregations. Jewish culture, therefore, would have expected that, if Jesus had borne a son, his son would have taken over the leadership of his followers. But until the appearance of this Jewish census record, there was no credible evidence that Jesus had male offspring. Only the Gospel of Philip — a Gnostic text not included in the Christian canon of the New Testament—makes passing reference to a divine bloodline.

In his Gospel, Philip, one of the Twelve, calls the Magdalene the person whom Jesus loved above all His disciples, someone whom he often kissed on the lips—a sign of intimacy. At the end of his Gospel, Philip speaks enigmatically of the Son of Man and the Son of the Son of Man — presumably a reference to a male offspring of Jesus and the Magdalene. Scholars have never paid much attention to Philip's reference because of a lack of corroboration. But now the Magdalene parchment could provide that corroboration. It intimates that Jesus and the Magdalene gave birth to a son — the Son of the Son of Man as Philip calls him. In Jewish tradition this child, not Peter, would have been expected to lead Jesus' followers. The references in the New Testament to Jesus' making Peter the rock on which he would build his Church might have been a later emendation justifying what in fact happened rather than what Jesus wanted.

The possibility that Jesus wished leadership in his Church to pass down through his own bloodline rather than through apostolic succession would be a major distraction in the next conclave. Even if it were true, there was no remedy. It would be impossible to trace Jesus' bloodline through two thousand years of history. In the midst of such turmoil, however, there would be an army of Judases who would come forward seeking to manipulate and destabilize the Church. There was a risk that all of the good that the Church had stood for would be forgotten. In a real sense, the next conclave could very well be the last.

As he approached Ponte Sant'Angelo, Cardinal Barbo saw the dome of St. Peter's looming ahead. He felt a sudden chill from the Tiber. He could sense a presence moving in the dark waters. As he looked down into the river, the presence was rising to the surface. At first it looked like the face of a young child. But as Barbo watched, the face grew old, and a malevolent smile formed on its lips. He smelled a fetid, almost putrid odor coming from the water and recoiled in terror. When he looked again, he saw the papal crown materialize on the figure's head.

Barbo hurried across the bridge. He knew who it was in the river—it was the Trickster, the Master of Lies. From his seminary days, Barbo believed that Satan was as real as God himself. The eternal struggle between Good and Evil takes place every day in thousands of conversations and in thousands of decisions. Barbo had an intuition that this Magdalene scroll was somehow part of that eternal struggle. If the parchment were made public, the Trickster would go about in the guise of a scholar or journalist, sowing confusion and deceit, chipping away at the legitimacy of the apostolic succession of the papacy.

By the time he reached St. Peter's Square, Barbo was wide awake. He decided to go back to his office to read the books he had asked for. When he opened the outer door to his office suite, Father Alessandri was still working at his desk.

“Enrico, did Renini send the books I asked for?”

“Yes, they're on your desk. Renini included a biography of Philip IV of France, even though you didn't ask for it.”

“Good.” Barbo glanced at his watch. “It's after two o'clock in the morning, Enrico. This is your second night without sleep. Go to bed.”

Barbo entered his office and hung his blazer on the back of a chair. Pouring himself a glass of water, the cardinal did a quick inventory of the books that Renini had left for him—a biography of Philip IV of France, a history of medieval France, and several reference books on the Templars, including his own dissertation. Barbo smiled as he thumbed through a volume about the founding of the Order of the Temple. He remembered using the book to write his doctoral dissertation on the Templars. He was embarrassed to see how many pages he had left dog-eared. Barbo's father had admonished him not to damage books this way, but these paternal admonitions fell on deaf ears. Turning to the last page of the book, Barbo found a Latin epigram he had copied from the Roman poet Horace.
Et mihi res, non me rebus, subjungere conor
. “I try to suit life to myself, not myself to life.” The epigram reminded Barbo of the idealism and sense of purpose he felt as a young seminarian. Little of those feelings had survived the successes and honors of his life. Idealism and a sense of purpose may be things you experience perfectly only once and then feel their loss forever, he thought.

Alessandri brought a tray into Barbo's office. “You might like some espresso and dolci.”

“Thank you, Enrico.” Barbo continued to page through the books on his desk.

Alessandri turned to leave. When he was halfway out the door, the cardinal looked up. “Enrico, do you believe in the devil?”

“Not if you mean the one with horns and a pitchfork.”

Barbo smiled. “I forgot. The devil of old has been relegated to the basement along with our childhood toys. What about evil? Do you believe that there's a force capable of destroying the Church?”

“Yes, if you put it that way, Eminence.”

Barbo looked at Alessandri. “I felt the reality of that evil tonight, Enrico — on Ponte Sant'Angelo. What frightened me was how chillingly close it felt.”

Several hours later, having read a history of medieval France, Barbo yawned. He opened a balcony window to let in some fresh
air. The first glimmers of dawn had begun to brighten the ancient facades of the city. Seeing the light of the morning drive off the darkness of night always comforted Barbo. God performs his greatest miracle every day, he thought, but few take the time to witness it.