The Atlantis Code (22 page)

Natasha turned that over in her mind. The possibility that the cymbal had been sought hundreds of years ago intrigued her. Just as it was being sought now. Who would know about something that had been lost for so long? Who would remember it over the vast amounts of time since it had been cached, and would chase it now?

“These coins are what convinced Yuliya that the Khazars carried the cymbal north into Rus,” Lourds went on. “The coins are called
yarmaqs
. The Khazars minted them. They were so uniform and pure that they were used in trade throughout Rus, Europe, and China.”

Natasha peered at the coins in the digital image. A man lying on a litter showed on one side of the coin. Yuliya had also captured images of the obverse. That showed a structure that looked like a temple or perhaps a meeting hall.

“So we’re going to Leipzig to find out why the Khazars were carrying the cymbal into Rus?” Leslie asked. She’d evidently awakened some time during the discussion.

“Not exactly,” Lourds answered. “We’re going to Leipzig to search for documentation about the cymbal. Since the language on the cymbal, part of it at least, contains Yoruban writing, I hope that we can find some clue of where the cymbal came from. Discovering how and why the Khazars came by it would be a bonus.”

POPE INNOCENT XIV’S STUDY
STATUS CIVITATIS VATICANAE
AUGUST 22, 2009

T
ension gnawed at Cardinal Murani’s stomach and flayed his nerves as he sat outside the pope’s study. The chair was comfortable despite the ornamentation. He occasionally flipped pages in a book on Eastern European history, but he didn’t read. His mind was too jumbled for that.

He glanced at his watch and found it was 8:13
A.M
. The time was only three minutes after he’d looked at it previously. He reached to turn a page and found that his hand trembled slightly. The tremor seized his attention. He studied it with bright interest.

Fear?
he wondered.
Or anticipation?
He didn’t know why the pope had called this meeting.

He flexed his fist and willed it to be still. It became so. He smiled at his control over himself. In the end, that was all that really mattered.

The door to the pope’s study opened. A young priest stepped from within and looked at Murani.

“Cardinal Murani?” the young priest asked.

At first Murani thought the priest was being impudent by having to ask his name. After all, he was known throughout the Vatican.

Then Murani realized he didn’t know the man. Of course, that was acceptable. Murani didn’t trouble himself to learn the names of priests unless they aided him or offended him.

“Yes,” Murani answered.

The young priest nodded and waved toward the study. “His Holiness will see you now.”

Murani placed the book back into the leather bag he carried. Then he stood. “Of course he will,” he said. But he wished he felt more confident.

“Good morning, Cardinal Murani.” Pope Innocent XIV waved a hand at one of the plush chairs before his huge desk. The polished surface reflected the opulence of the room. “I trust I didn’t keep you waiting overly long.”

“Of course not, Your Holiness.” Murani knew no other answer was permitted. He approached the pope.

Pope Innocent XIV looked good for a man in his early seventies. His spare frame held no extra flesh, and his blue eyes gazed clearly. He had a hawk’s beak for a face, pulled out behind his large, long nose. Years of poring over arcane texts had left his head slightly sunken between his shoulder blades. The overall effect was that of a predatory bird. His white robes resembled a dove’s plumage, but Murani knew that image was misleading. There wasn’t anything gentle about the pope.

Before he had been elected to the papacy by the Sacred College of Cardinals, Wilhelm Weierstrass had been a librarian within that body. Prior to that he had been a bishop with an undistinguished career.

And, Murani felt certain, his years as pope were going to be equally undistinguished. He would change nothing, lead nothing, and—in the end—accomplish nothing toward reaffirming the Church’s place in the world. Murani hadn’t voted for the man.

“I’ve been told you’re feeling better,” the pope said.

“I am, Your Holiness.” Murani briefly knelt and kissed the Fisherman’s Ring on the pope’s finger before sitting. Gazing around the room, Murani took note of the two Pontifical Swiss Guardsmen inside the room. They stood at attention on either side of the pope.

The Pontifical Swiss Guard had been created in 1506 by Pope Julius II, but Pope Sixtus IV and Innocent VIII had provided the groundwork for recruiting the mercenaries for protection. To date, the Pontifical Swiss Guard was the only such unit still in existence. They’d begun as an offshoot of the regular Swiss mercenary army that had placed soldiers throughout Europe.

Although the Swiss Guard still wore their traditional red, blue, yellow, and orange uniforms during special occasions, most often they were dressed as they were now in solid blue uniforms, a white collar, brown belt, and black beret. The ones in the pope’s chambers also carried SIG P75 semiautomatic pistols. The sergeant carried a Heckler & Koch submachine pistol. The weapons had been integrated into the bodyguards’ armament after Pope John Paul II had nearly been assassinated.

Murani placed his elbows on the chair arms and rested his fingers under his chin. He didn’t feel comfortable in the pope’s chambers, but he strove to give the appearance of being so.

“You’ve been sick for a few days,” the pope said.

Murani nodded.

“I was wondering if perhaps you might think it was time to seek a physician’s attention.”

For a moment Murani sat puzzled. Then he realized that Innocent XIV was actually pointing out the fact that throughout his continued “illness” he hadn’t once been to a doctor.

It was an oversight. Murani promised himself that he would be more careful in the future. “I think it was just a bout of the flu, Your Holiness. It was nothing to trouble a physician with.”

The pope nodded. “Still, this . . . flu has claimed a number of days from your work.”

Heavy and oppressive silence rang throughout the room. Murani knew that the pope didn’t believe him. “Yes, Your Holiness. Thankfully, I have many more years to give in my service to God.”

“It also comes to my attention that you’ve taken an inordinate interest in Father Sebastian’s work in Spain.”

“The world seems to have taken an inordinate interest in Father Sebastian’s effort,” Murani countered. “The dig at Cádiz seems to have captured the attention of everyone.”

“That is, perhaps, unfortunate. I feel the world would be better served if it turned its attention to other pursuits.”

Murani knew that the pope wasn’t overly concerned with the attention of the world. It was Murani’s attention that the pope was addressing.

“Surely only another two or three days will pass before an incident in the Middle East, the economy, or the death of a celebrity will seize their attention,” Murani said.

“I wouldn’t wish for any of those things to happen,” the pope said.

Anger stirred within Murani, and he barely restrained it.
No
, he thought fiercely,
you wouldn’t have anything happen if that was under your control. You would simply fill the office of the pope and churn out more of the emptiness the Church has suffered for the last several popes.

He made himself breathe calmly, but his rage was a rock in his chest that threatened to break free. Innocent XIV was merely one more cancer that thrived on the Church and leeched away her strength.

“I know you have a great many things to do, Cardinal Murani.” The pope flicked his gaze to the appointment book on the desk before him. “You and I haven’t had a chance to talk for some time. I thought it was best if we became reacquainted.”

“Of course, Your Holiness.” Murani knew he was being put on notice. The pope was watching. The message—as well as the implicit threat—was clear.

“You’ve been remiss in your duties, Stefano.”

Murani looked at the older man seated across from him at the small, elegant table. Murani snapped a breadstick and kept silent.

Cardinal Giuseppe Rezzonico was in his early sixties. His white hair was carefully combed, and he was attractive enough to draw the attention of several women at nearby tables. Tall and thick through the middle these days, he still radiated power. He had come to service in the Church at a late age but had risen quickly among the scholars till he achieved a position within the Sacred College of Cardinals. Like Murani, he wore a dark blue business suit.

Staring at the man, Murani shook his head. “And what duties would those be?”

“The duties of your office, Stefano,” Rezzonico replied. “Calling in. Canceling the appointments you were assigned on behalf of the Church. Those things are red flags to our present pope.”

“
Your
pope,” Murani said sourly.

Rezzonico frowned. “Everyone is aware that you didn’t vote for His Holiness.”

“No, I didn’t.” Murani placed his breadstick aside.

“I’m quite sure the pope knows that, too.”

“Do you think he’s being vindictive, then?”

“No.” Rezzonico shook his head. “His Holiness wouldn’t succumb to that.”

“So you’ve already placed him next to Godliness, have you?” Murani found that interesting. Rezzonico normally didn’t get taken in quite so easily. “He’s still just a man, you know. Despite the office and vestments.”

Rezzonico’s frown deepened. “That’s sacrilege.”

“It’s the truth.” Murani wouldn’t let it go. He’d had to stand and be embarrassed before Innocent XIV this morning; he wasn’t going to allow himself to be bribed with a good meal and a kind word. “He’s shortsighted and you know it. He continues to entertain talks with the Jews and the Muslims.”

“Of course he does,” Rezzonico said reasonably. “The things that happen in those places affect the rest of the world. The economies are tied too closely today for it to be otherwise.”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Murani shook his head. “The
economies
? That’s what the Church is about these days? The
economies
?”

The older man leaned back and regrouped. “You swore an allegiance to the pope.”

“I swore an allegiance to God,” Murani said harshly. The anger and frustration were loose in him now. He was unable to stop himself. “That supersedes any oaths of fealty I might make to
anyone
else.”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

A young female server brought out salads and more wine. They ceased talking till after she’d gone.

“We’re all treading on dangerous ground these days.” Murani had himself under better control.

Rezzonico’s eyebrows shot up. “Because of Father Sebastian’s excavation?” He shook his head. “We don’t yet know that anything will come of that.”

“And if something does? If Father Sebastian does find something? Even if it’s not the book, what if it’s something else that points to the Secret Texts?”

“Then we will deal with it.”

Murani scoffed. “Dealing with something after it’s happened is worthless.”

Rezzonico shot up. “Stefano, please listen to me. I’m your friend. Everything is under control.”

Murani refused to believe that. “Everything is not under control.” He wanted to tell Rezzonico about the bell and the cymbal, and what he thought they might be. But he couldn’t. Rezzonico was part of the Society of Quirinus, and Murani didn’t trust them not to take everything away from him. That was something he couldn’t bear.

For a moment Rezzonico just looked at him. “We control the Swiss Guard. They’ve got members at the dig site. Should Father Sebastian find something—
anything
—they have orders to step in and seize it.”

Murani knew that. He’d helped arrange that negotiation. Thankfully, after all their years of service, many of the leaders within the Swiss Guard maintained the same core beliefs as the Society of Quirinus. For both those bodies, the preservation of the Church was of the utmost importance. Lives would be taken and lies would be told to get that job done.