The Celtic Conspiracy (24 page)

“I hope you’re right.”

Just then Ronald entered. He’d been soaked by the pouring rain, which only added to his agitation.

“Jennifer, Adam, this way,” he said, opening an office door and waving them inside. A moment later, Deborah joined them. Ronald slammed the door shut rather loudly.

“Jennifer, have you contacted your district attorney?”

“No, she won’t be back from Europe for another two days, but I have an appointment with her.”

“All right, we’ll need the time anyhow. I’ve hired three independent experts to work with Deborah to translate
the parchments and date them precisely. When Thomas arrives with his parchment, that will be translated and dated as well. With that, and his testimony, we’ll at least have a strong motive. And given the cultural and historical dimension of this find, we should have the attention of the world.”

“Has Thomas contacted any of you?” Jennifer said as she took some notes.

“No, he hasn’t.”

Jennifer gave MacClary the Reuters report and fell back into her chair with a sigh.

“Blast!” Ronald roared. “They’re doing their absolute best to keep Thomas from getting here. Is what he’s carrying worth killing him over?”

“Ronald! He probably recognized who they were. That should be reason enough,” Jennifer said and looked at MacClary in surprise that he hadn’t realized this himself.

MacClary shook his head in bewilderment. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. At least he got away. That’s the most important thing.”

An elderly man in a lab coat suddenly stood in the doorway, several computer printouts in his hand. “Mr. MacClary, I think this might be of some interest to you.”

When the man looked at the others and hesitated, Ronald said, “Go ahead. We don’t have any secrets amongst this company.”

“First of all, we can say with certainty that Ryan’s family tree parchment comes from the same period as the
scrolls from the cave. Incredibly, we can also find traces of earth and a particular form of pollen on both scraps of parchment, evidence that the documents were made in the same region.”

“You’re kidding,” Shane said incredulously.

“No, no, I’m completely serious,” the man who Shane guessed was the laboratory director assured him.

Ryan had told Shane about his family tree, but Shane had dismissed it as wishful thinking and a fairy tale, like all the other legends and myths that swirled around the Celts and Druids.

“That’s not all,” the man continued. “The other family trees also come from this period, and they were written with the same quill, as if someone wanted to make sure that the background of these families would be definitively documented.”

“That makes complete sense,” Jennifer responded. “The Druids fled to the islands, but before they left, they had their family trees set down in writing to document their ancestry and their status, to firmly establish their claim to leadership.”

“This actually proves that Thomas and the other families are descended from those Druids on the continent who fled the henchmen of the pope,” Ronald said. “And that means that we have claim to their legacy, wherever in the world it may be found. Deborah has contact information for all the families. I think we should let them know about this latest development, and I’ll also inform the Irish foreign minister. I think we can expect a great deal
of support from him, since he was the most vehement in his arguments that Great Britain recognize Druidism as a state religion.”

“But Ronald, that doesn’t help us,” Jennifer said, looking at Ronald in surprise. “We don’t have sufficient proof that the Vatican is behind this.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know this, of course. That means you have something up your sleeve, something you’re not telling us about, otherwise you would—”

“Give me a little time. Wait until I see the president. I still have to clarify a few questions before—”

“Before what? I think it’s time that we lay all our cards on the table here,” Shane demanded.

“Just give me until tonight,” MacClary insisted. “I know what I’m doing.”

“All right, Ronald,” Jennifer said, taking Shane’s hand to signal that everything was fine. “You go to the White House. We’ll hold the fort here and keep working on the indictment.”

“Good. We’ll meet in my apartment tonight.”

With that, Ronald turned and hurried out of the office.

* * *

Thomas Lambert stood in front of the mirror at the entrance to the pope’s private rooms and straightened his clothes. He looked pale and bleary-eyed, and the news of
the failed attempt to arrest Ryan didn’t make his job any easier. He couldn’t trust Salvoni, of that he had become certain. He picked up his briefcase, which he’d been holding between his feet, and knocked twice on the door.

As usual, one of the watchmen of the Swiss Guards opened it. “Good morning, Cardinal.”

“Good morning. Is the Holy Father already in his office?”

“Of course, Cardinal.”

The Swiss Guard welcomed Lambert in. Compared with the enormous frescoes, antique paintings, furniture, sculptures, and other symbols that decorated the holy rooms of the Vatican, Pope John Paul III had furnished his rooms much more modestly. He had even had many things removed that had just been too much for him. Directed through the main room, Lambert opened the door to the office of the pope, who was busy preparing for his upcoming audiences.

“Cardinal Lambert, God bless you. Sit down. Would you like some tea?”

Lambert shook his head slightly. “Holy Father, I am sorry, but I have some unpleasant news,” he said, coming directly to the point. He paused for a moment, as if he wanted to give the eighty-year-old man time to prepare himself for what he was about to say. John Paul III’s face had very few wrinkles for his advanced age, and his skin had a healthy, rosy glow. He was almost as tall as Lambert, which was somewhat unusual for an Italian, although he had become somewhat bent over with back pain. He had
a full head of snow-white hair, and his strong eyebrows lent his dark eyes charismatic radiance.

“You look quite concerned about something,” the pope said. “What in God’s name is happening to us this time?”

“Do you remember Padre Morati? For nearly forty years, he headed up our ancient archive, with articles from the period of the founding of the Church. Among other duties, he was responsible for working with the parchments from the period of the First Council.”

“Yes, of course I remember him. Is he still among us?”

Lambert nodded. “The good Lord has blessed him with biblical longevity. Yes, he’s over ninety now. But that’s not why I’m telling you this. In 1945, he received an invitation from a fanatical heretic, an archaeologist by the name of Sean MacClary. MacClary asked him if he would like to see a parchment that he had found in Austria. Apparently Morati was shocked by the contents of the parchment, but he always refused to tell us what was in it. Then he must have done something that he regretted for the rest of his life, though he’s always stubbornly refused to tell us about that too. In any case, he was convinced that there had to be a place where many more of these scrolls were hidden, and he was just as convinced that these writings would have the power to topple the walls of our Church. At that point, he requested that he be allowed to stay in Dublin to make sure that no more of these scrolls would surface and to be able to interfere if something did happen.”

“Wait a minute. What was this man’s name again?”

“Padre Morati?”

“No, no, the other. The archaeologist.”

“Sean MacClary, Holy Father.”

“And Ronald MacClary is his son. I know the man and his work. He has gathered the best critics of the Church around him, and he’s practically obsessed with the idea of proving we were involved in a historical crime, a crime that would bring our entire existence into question. An utterly ridiculous idea and a fool’s errand. No one denies the failings of the young Church, and these documents—”

Lambert had to make sure that the pope was on his side before he told him about the mistakes he and Salvoni had made over the past several days. At the same time, he wanted to make sure that the old man—as he usually called the pope to himself—didn’t learn too much about the dramatic nature of their discovery. This pope was too unpredictable to let him in on everything.

“These documents contain things, Holy Father, which we don’t need to have in the public eye just now.”

“What sorts of things? I am starting to get irritated with your secrecy, Cardinal. Do not forget with whom you are speaking!”

“With all due respect, Holy Father, the Curia bears responsibility for protecting the Holy See from any harm, and that includes your person as well,” Lambert said. He fully realized that he was crossing a line with words like these, but he had to give himself some room
to play with so that he could continue to work without interference.

“You’re taking liberties!”

“I am, just like you, only a servant of God. I act in the interests of the Lord and in accordance with the Holy Scripture. Like you, I battle every false word, every defamation, and every attack that could harm us. And it’s better if you are not directly involved in this conflict.” Lambert could only hope that the old man accepted this line of reasoning. It had always worked before. “Several zealous members of the Vatican police followed a tip and found a place in Austria, a place that Morati had always feared existed. We arrived too late and could only retrieve a few of the artifacts. Some men, apparently friends of the judge, were faster than our men, and we couldn’t prevent some of the documents from ending up in their possession.”

The pope bowed his head and crossed himself. “Cardinal, are you telling me that we were in Austria, acting without the permission of the local authorities?”

“Holy Father, I saw the scrolls with my own eyes. You should see them yourself and form your own opinion. I think you will agree with me that it really was a matter of imminent risk. I’m afraid MacClary wants to make the whole incident public and to oppose us.”

“Very well, I will go and view the documents, Cardinal, but I hardly think that we have anything to fear. Particularly the more recent research and hostilities about the period of the founding of the Church are unable to harm
us. Pope John Paul II apologized on numerous occasions for the overzealousness and doubtlessly brutal methods of the early Church and the Inquisition, and he led our Church into the present. So what should we be afraid of? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Holy Father, it’s possible that mistakes have been made in the recovery of the objects and in the surveillance of MacClary, but the fact is that we have no idea what he is planning. He has an enormous amount of support, but you could use your influence on the American president to keep him from using his office or his privileges to harm us.”

“You question my authority, and yet you want to use it to cover up your mistakes?”

“It is not I who questions your authority, Holy Father, but rather the artifacts themselves that could do that. Our chronicles and records have always said that the testimony of the pagan elites would be dangerous for us.” Lambert hoped this was enough. He would only confide his true fears to the old man if there were no other alternative.

“And what do you think I should do now? Call the American president, who isn’t exactly in our corner as it is, and complain that one of her most high-ranking justices is speaking ill of us?”

“Yes, precisely, Holy Father.” Lambert handed the pope several reports from his briefcase about the goings-on in Dublin. The pope sat down and began to read. His face started to twist in rage.

“This is completely unacceptable. He’s trying to exploit our position in the most despicable manner imaginable. Cardinal, I’ll draw up a document today. Keep me apprised of the situation. I’ll have to think about how to explain this to the president.”

“Very well, Holy Father. For my part, I have already registered an official complaint with the US ambassador, but your involvement will give even more weight to the matter. Perhaps they’ll start to realize in Washington that they want to win the next election as well.”

Lambert stood and kissed the Ring of the Fisherman. Perhaps they could get the whole thing under control after all. He had to find some way to pressure the justice.

“My dear Salvoni, now it’s your turn,” he muttered as he left the anteroom. “You’ll have to perform an unusual service for our flock.”

The black limousine drove up to the back entrance of the White House, where Bill Axton was already waiting for MacClary. MacClary knew that he had to carefully consider every word when dealing with the president, and it made him extraordinarily uncomfortable to have to lie to her, because they had been good friends for many years.

They went through the winding corridor to the Oval Office. When Axton led him in, the president told the man that she only wanted to be disturbed in the case of an emergency. Diana Branks, now forty-eight, had been in office for a little more than a year, having won the election in an upset of her Republican opponent. That the American people chose her didn’t surprise MacClary as much as it did many of the pundits. She was eloquent, modern, and had long ago learned how to communicate policy in a way that calmed public fears and gave them the courage to change. She was also up for taking risks. From their conversations, MacClary knew that the president was aware that she probably had only one term to
put her plans into effect. Her unconventional manner, coupled with the radical nature with which she greeted the economic and ecological downturn, didn’t exactly make everyone her friend and gave ammunition to her opponents. However, one term of office could be a long time if one used it well.