The Templar Concordat (38 page)

Agretti forced himself to remain the calm diplomat. “You have a suggestion, perhaps?”

Santini stopped and faced Agretti in the middle of the Hall. “I think we should go to the Holy Father and tell him the truth, all the truth, ask for his forgiveness, and accept whatever fate he chooses for us.  When he asks a direct question, how can we deceive him in good conscience? How can that in any way further the interests of the Church?”

There it was, thought Agretti, another weak, spineless coward without the strength to fight for the Church. He made his decision. He had no choice now.

“You may not believe this, Santini,” Agretti said sadly, “but I, too, have spent hours in prayer over this, and I think I have to accept responsibility here. After all, I was the one who ordered you to conceal the facts about the treaty from the Holy Father. Yes, that is on my conscience.”

 “You didn’t have a gun at my head,” said Santini.  “I let personal ambition triumph over my duty. I have absolutely no problem keeping the treaty secret from the world. In fact, I see that as my sacred duty to the Church. But concealing the information from the Holy Father is a grave mistake.”

Agretti felt the conviction in Santini’s voice, and said, “Would you go with me to see the Holy Father, to explain what we did, why we did it, and beg his forgiveness? Is that something you would do with me?”

“I think that may be the answer to my prayers, Cardinal.” Santini nodded his head. “Yes, that is the only course available to us if we are to remain true to the Church.”

Stay on course, Agretti told himself, just stay on course. “Perhaps you could grant me a small request before we see the Holy Father, Bishop.”

“Yes?”

“Could you just walk me through the library and point out where the different events occurred, so I have a better understanding? Where you were tied? Where the treaty was stored? Where the medallions were? Just,” he shrugged and turned his chubby palms up, “just to satisfy curiosity and fill me in on all the details.” He paused and shook his head. “We have a lot to make up for, and I guess the more I know, the better I feel I can do that.”

For Santini, the weight was lifting from his shoulders. He knew prayer would be the answer. “Sure. I can give you a first-class tour.” Santini laughed for the first time in days. “I can take you where it all happened. Somehow it still doesn’t seem real.” He looked at his wristwatch. “But we can’t do it now. The library is full of people. Could you come by tonight? Say a little after ten? Everybody will be gone by then.”

Now Agretti’s prayers were being answered. “Ten would be fine. And we don’t want anyone else around. That can’t do any good.”

“Yes, yes. I understand.”

Agretti rubbed his chin. “How about if I come by the door down here,” he pointed ahead of them, “the door on the third floor here that connects to the library? Can you let me in there?”

“Yes, of course. That way we can keep away from those cameras Mr. Callahan is so fond of.”

“Ok. I’ll see you at ten, then. We’re doing the right thing here, Santini. Maybe we’re a bit late, but it’s the right thing.”

Agretti turned around and went back the way they had come, while Santini continued on to the library.

*     *     *

At 9:30 pm Agretti rose from his knees in his small Vatican apartment and felt the strength of the Holy Spirit flowing through his body. The Lord was with him.

He found a pair of heavy woolen socks he wore on the cold nights, and stuffed one inside the other so they formed a single, double layered sock. Then he took a heavy glass snow globe from his bookshelf, shook it, and watched the snow falling over a small church in the mountains. He had purchased the globe many years ago on a summer holiday in the Italian Alps. “Cervinia,” said the nameplate at the bottom of the globe.

He shook it again, smiled sadly, and stuffed it into the bottom of the sock. He grabbed the open end of the sock and gently swung the globe, whacking it into his other palm with a heavy and satisfying thud.

His briefcase on the coffee table was the type that opened at the top, rather than with a hinged lid, and he carefully lowered the sock into the case, stuffing the open end of the sock into a small pocket near the top.

*     *     *

At 10:02 pm, Santini opened the third-floor library door that connected to the Hall of Bramante, and ushered Agretti into the library.

“Sorry this is so late,” said Agretti. “I hope it doesn’t take long.”

“No problem at all, Cardinal.”

“Is this the floor where the treaty was kept?” asked Agretti.

“No,” said Santini. “That’s room H21, second floor, down one flight. Shall we take a look?”

“Certainly. Please,” Agretti extended his arm down the stairs, “lead the way.”

When Santini turned down the stairs, Agretti reached into his unfastened briefcase with his right hand and firmly gripped the top of the woolen sock. Santini was carefully picking his way down the middle of the marble, looking down and in front of him as he went. Santini was a good man. Agretti pulled out the sock, let it gently arc back behind him, and swung it forward with all his strength, smashing straight into the side of Santini’s head. It sounded like a rock falling on bare ground, thought Agretti.

Santini pitched sideways and forward, immediately unconscious, his forehead smashing into the hard marble of the steps. His long body folded over his head, wrenched the neck at an impossible angle, and tumbled down the steps until his head hit the landing with another dull whack.

Agretti hurried down the stairs with the sock still in his hand, and bent over Santini. He detected no breathing, the head was bent up and sideways, and the blue eyes were open and unfocused.  A pool of blood had gathered under Santini’s head on the landing, but there was nothing on the steps. He looked at the sock, inspecting it for blood, and found nothing. His hands… the cuffs of his shirt… shoes… cassock… all clean. Clean, very clean, thought Agretti.

Then he knelt next to the body and said some quick prayers, reached to shut the eyes, but stopped himself. Were the eyes normally open or closed after such a blow to the head? Better to leave everything as it is. Agretti trusted Santini was now enjoying his eternal reward with God.

He untied one of Santini’s shoelaces, and dangled the lace off the side of the dead foot. He knew Santini now realized he had no choice.

He went back up the steps, took a plastic bag from his briefcase and dropped the sock with the snow globe into it.  Then he packed it into his briefcase, and backed out of the door into the Hall of Bramante. He saw nobody as he bustled through the corridors to his own office, made a call to the Papal Legate in Washington about the Americans’ opposition to a UN resolution, and went back to his apartment.

Murder. Alberto Agretti had just killed a good man. That was murder. Or was it? He did it in service to the Church because there was nobody else with the strength to defend the Church. It must be protected from attacks from both outside and inside. The outside attacks can always be handled. It’s the rot from the inside, from this Mexican Pope, that posed the real danger. He can’t learn about the treaty. Now Agretti was the only one in the Vatican who knew the treaty had come from the Vatican Library and was authentic. The secret was safe. He would do his duty. He was a warrior.

God would forgive him, he knew. He was doing God’s work. And now that Santini had the true clarity of the beatific vision, he would also forgive him.

When he was safely behind his own door, he took the plastic bag with the sock and snow globe to his small sink, thoroughly washed the socks, soaked them in bleach, and put the snow globe back on his shelf. Then he picked it up again, shook it once, and watched the snow settle on the peaceful Alpine church. He put the globe down and dropped to his knees before a crucifix, thanking God for giving him the strength to do his work.

*     *     *

Rosa Molini pushed her cleaning cart out of the elevator on the third floor of the Vatican Library and tuned her radio to her favorite station. The clipboard on the cart said vacuuming of the hallway was scheduled, so she turned the radio higher and started the vacuum from the far end of the hall.

When she reached the halfway point, where the marble stairway went down to the basement, she glanced down the stairs, then back to the carpet in front of her. What was that on the next landing? She looked back and saw a figure cloaked in black crumpled at the foot of the stairs.

She ran to Santini, straightened him out, listened for breathing, hollered for help, slipped in the blood, and fell across the body. Remembering her CPR training from long ago, she gave him one breath followed by five heart massages. One and five. One and five until Vatican emergency services people arrived.

*     *     *

 “What’s it look like?” Carlos asked.

“What it looks like,” sighed Mancini, pointing up the staircase, “is Bishop Santini tripped on his shoelace and fell down twenty-two marble steps, smashing his head all the way down and breaking his neck on the way.”

“Any sign of foul play?” Carlos stopped. “Did I really say ‘foul play?’”

“There’s nothing to indicate that. And the cleaning woman messed everything up doing CPR on Santini.”

“The Vatican physician says it’s an accident. You agree? You have to sign off.”

Mancini knew what Callahan and Marie had learned about the Treaty of Tuscany at the Vatican Library, and he called the Marshall in Zurich as soon as he learned of Santini’s death. The Marshall said they didn’t need a murder connected with the treaty and instructed him to make it an accident. Actually, he didn’t need to do anything. The whole situation screamed accident.

“How’s it look to you, Carlos?”

“Looks like an accident to me.”

When both Templars and the Pope wanted an accident, that made life easy.

“Looks like an accident to me. Too bad. I kind of liked him.”

Mancini motioned to the paramedics and they loaded the body onto a stretcher and started down the stairs.

Rosa Molini looked over at Mancini and asked, “Can I clean up? The bishop always insisted everything must be clean in the library.”

Mancini nodded. “Yes, Rosa. I think he’d like you to clean up.”

Switzerland - Sunday, April 26

Callahan looked up in surprise when Marie came out on the chalet porch. “What are you doing? Isn’t she starting the final production? Aren’t you the official medieval gopher?”

Marie shrugged and boosted herself up on the railing. “She kicked me out. Kicked everyone out.  Klaus and the chemists, too. Says she figures her life depends on this, and she’s not going to let any of us get her killed.”

“Damn. There’s an awful lot riding on one weird woman.”

“Nothing we can do about it now. The ball’s in her court. She makes the rules. She says jump, we jump.”

Callahan looked up at the room Jean had chosen for the final forgery. “Well, let’s get out of here. You know the soft spot she has in her heart for me.”

They walked to a picnic table two hundred yards up the slope from the house.

“How long did she say it would take?”

“Shouldn’t be long at all, but it depends on when she really starts,” said Marie. “When she does these, she writes at the same speed the original scribe would have. She moves right across the page. She doesn’t pay a lot of attention to each letter. She just does the whole thing in one whack. But you never know when she will start. She might draw circles for an hour, or jump right into it.”

“That’s just plain weird.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’ve watched her do it. You know all those practice treaties she wrote? Once she gets the pattern right, she just sits down and knocks them out like she was writing a letter home.”

Marie looked at the surrounding mountains. “I’ll miss this. I’ve always wanted a place like this.”

Callahan looked up the mountain. “I had a place like this in Taos.”

“Taos?” Marie asked. “I’ve traveled a lot in the States, but never got there.”

“New Mexico. Up north. The mountains look a lot like these.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Oh, no. Part of another life.”

Well, that’s all I’m going to get out of him, she thought. Bit by bit.

Then she looked straight at Callahan and asked, “Do you know what happens to her, Jean, when she finishes? Will she live or die?”

“Zurich ask you about it?”

“Yeah. I had a long talk with the Archivist. I get the idea it’s his decision. At least he’ll have the most influence with the Master.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said we could use her. She’s strange, but I think she could finally find a home with the Templars. She’s like a gypsy who gets trapped everywhere she goes. She needs to be on the move.”

Callahan raised an eyebrow. “Working for a Templar company, or as an actual Templar?”

“Real Templar, with a cover job. Like the rest of us.”

“She’s a thief.”