The Inca Prophecy (3 page)

‘
Een rezhim-e eshghalgar-e qods, bayad az safheh-ye ruzgar mahv shaved!
’ Ahmadinejad said, extending his fingers for emphasis. ‘This regime occupying Jerusalem must vanish from the pages of history!’ The audience of representatives from Hamas and Islamic Jihad, members of the Society for the Defense of the Palestinian Nation and hundreds of university students all cheered wildly, shouting ‘
Allahu Akbar!
God is great! We love you, President Ahmadinejad!’

O’Connor shook his head. The world was going barking mad,
he thought, and he flicked off the television, locked his laptop in the room safe and headed out towards the closest Métro station. It took only minutes to walk down the bustling Rue des Abbesses, where beneath the white-shuttered windows and wrought-iron balconies, wine shops competed with fruit stores and brasseries. The aromas of freshly baked bread wafted out of the patisseries, and waiters dressed in black served
café
,
thé
and
chocolat
on the pavement tables. Scooters, motorcycles and vans took up every available cobblestoned space between the plane trees and maples.

The Art Nouveau entrance to the station, Metropolitain Abbesses, with its striking green wrought-iron and glass roof, had been designed in the early nineteen hundreds. It was one of the deepest stations on Paris Métro Line 12, and O’Connor scanned the surrounds warily before taking the stairs. Lifts enabled an attacker to operate at close range.

O’Connor changed trains at Pigalle and a short while later the train arrived at Gare du Nord. With 190 million passengers passing through the station each year, the huge terminus was Europe’s busiest. O’Connor took up a position opposite the platform where the train for Auvers-sur-Oise was ready to depart and waited. With less than thirty seconds to go, he strode across to the last of the red, blue and white carriages and boarded. Why make it easy for anyone tailing him?

Chapter 3

Cardinal Salvatore Felici’s driver eased the big black limousine off the E80 Grande Raccordo Anulare, Rome’s greater ring road, and headed towards the city’s second airport. The guard on the VIP entrance snapped to attention at the sight of the cardinal’s coat of arms fluttering from the small silver flagstaff on the bonnet of the Mercedes.

The Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith alighted and walked the few steps to where his Russian-made Beriev Be-103 amphibious aircraft was waiting. Tall and powerfully built, Cardinal Felici had a good head of fine, black hair, flecked with grey and combed straight back under his scarlet zucchetto. He had a long rectangular face, and a large aquiline nose. His piercing grey eyes were hooded, underscored by dark circles, but, like a peregrine falcon, Salvatore Felici missed nothing.

As soon as the cardinal was strapped in, his pilot radioed for
permission to depart and was given an expedited clearance in front of five commercial passenger jets. They taxied towards the end of the airfield, and Felici watched as a 737 on late finals approached, the pilot adjusting as a sudden gust of wind lifted the starboard wing. Felici’s pilot brought the stylish twin-engine red Be-103 to a stop just short of the runway. Manufactured by the same Russian company that made Sukhoi jet fighters, when the Be-103 landed on water, it floated on its wings. Unencumbered by floats, it was capable of an impressive turn of speed. Never known for his patience, Cardinal Felici found the Be-103 a perfect match for his travel requirements.

‘Ciampino Tower, this is India November Oscar Juliet, holding short of runway three three.’

‘India November Oscar Juliet, you are cleared for an immediate take-off, runway three three, direct to Lake Como. Contact departures when airborne and have a pleasant flight.’

‘Oscar Juliet, roger, cleared for immediate take-off, runway three three.’ Felici’s pilot eased the aircraft on to the ‘piano keys’ and moved the throttles forward. The Continental engines growled in response and as the Be-103 reached 70 knots, the pilot eased back on the stick and they climbed rapidly.

Felici reclined in his leather seat behind the pilot. Through the haze to the west he could make out the Tiber River and the distinctive dome of St Peter’s Basilica surrounded by the walls of the Vatican City. It was a city that in the not-too-distant future Felici was determined to rule. Just two months shy of his sixty-third birthday, Felici contemplated the age factor, aware that some might still believe him too young to be considered
papabile
, one who might
likely be elected Pope. After the long reign of Pope John Paul II – twenty-six years and 168 days – the curial cardinals would, he knew, be wary of electing someone who might be Pope for a long time. Felici smiled to himself. John Paul II’s predecessor, John Paul I, had lasted for only thirty-three days, but he had made the mistake of trying to reverse the Church’s stance on contraception. Even more threatening to some of the curial cardinals in Rome had been his plans to investigate the sinister activities of the Vatican Bank. After it became known that John Paul I was about to dismiss a number of powerful cardinals and bishops who were all members of the notorious P2 Masonic Lodge, the pontiff had been found dead in his bed. Felici stroked his powerful jaw thoughtfully. The Curia would need to be brought on side.

Felici opened his soft Italian leather briefcase and extracted the briefing notes for the meeting he’d convened at his private villa, out of sight of prying eyes. Could ancient crystal skulls pose a threat to the Holy Church? The meticulous Felici was not prepared to take any risks. Centuries before, the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s intelligence service created by order of Pope Pius V in 1566, had recovered a crystal skull and kept it hidden ever since. Now there were reports of others.

Three hours later the plane began its descent towards the dark-blue waters of one of the deepest and most stunning lakes in Europe: Como. During the Ice Age, a massive glacier had ground the mountains aside, forming the lake in the shape of an inverted Y. Cardinals
had long been associated with the luxurious villas that graced the shores of the lake. More recently, the likes of George Clooney, Madonna, Gianni Versace, Sylvester Stallone and Richard Branson had added their names to an illustrious list.

On the western side, Felici could make out Isola Comacina, Lake Como’s only island. A ferry, smoke belching from a single black funnel, was pulling away from the little jetty below the famous Locanda restaurant. Beyond the island, the red terracotta roofs of the small lakeside towns stretched towards the Alps: Lenno, Mezzegra, Tremezzo, Menaggio; and on the east, San Giovanni, Bellagio and Varenna; each with their distinctive churches, some turreted in Romanesque stone. To the west and to the north, jagged snow-capped granite peaks marked Italy’s border with Switzerland.

Felici’s pilot searched the lake for an area clear of the hydrofoils, ferries and myriad smaller craft that plied between the towns. He set the flaps at 30 degrees, came in low over the smooth waters and held the aircraft nose up with the power still on, allowing the wings to finally settle onto the lake in a burst of spray. The pilot maintained a nose-up attitude until the Be-103 slid off its bow wave, gently bobbing on the lake about a kilometre from Villa Felici, which was clearly visible in the distance, nestled amongst cyprus pines, sycamores and candelabra plane trees on one of the lake’s many promontories. Almost immediately, a classic polished mahogany Italian speedboat emerged from behind the stone sea wall of the villa and powered towards the plane.

Within minutes, Felici was on board and the throaty, throbbing inboard echoed around the lake as his boatman gunned the sleek wooden craft, Felici’s personal coat of arms flying from the flagstaff
at the stern. They planed across the water at nearly 30 knots and Felici looked towards his villa with a sense of deep satisfaction. Left to him by his father, Alberto Felici – Gentleman of His Holiness, Pope Pius XII, and Papal Knight Commander of the Order of Sylvester and banker to the Vatican during the Nazi years – the eighteenth-century property covered several acres and was considered one of the finest in all Italy. The villa was dominated by a magnificent stone loggia with views towards Isola Comacina and the Gulf of Diana to the south, while the Gulf of Venus, and the towns of Tremezzo and Bellagio beckoned from the north. Climbing fig trees were entwined around stone arches connecting a chamber music hall on one side with the library on the other. A secret passage, known only to Felici, led from the library, providing an escape route to the waterline. A gravel path, flanked by marble statues and gnarled wisteria, wound its way down to the main buildings below the loggia, red terracotta roofs reflecting the last of the sunlight. Just above the private wooden jetty, twin stone bell towers, remnants of a thirteenth-century Franciscan monastery, rose above the sycamores.

Felici’s boatman manoeuvred the speedboat through a narrow stone gap that led to an enclosed subterranean boathouse beyond, and nudged the tyres around the two piers either side of the stone steps leading to the main house. The deckhand leapt on to the steps and steadied the boat, offering his free hand to assist the cardinal. Sister Bridget, who had driven up from Rome the day before, was waiting at the top of the steps, her long dark hair tied neatly under her veil. Sister Bridget was a striking beauty, with soft blue eyes and flawless creamy skin, and her appointment to Felici’s household had raised more than one eyebrow in the Vatican.

‘Welcome, Eminence,’ she said, smiling demurely. ‘Everything is ready,’ she added, anticipating her master’s first question. ‘Professor Macchiarolo is waiting for you in the fumoir.’

The professor was not only a respected world authority on the crystal skulls, but he was also a staunch Catholic.

‘And the wine for dinner?’ Felici asked.

‘Chef has procured some Clos des Goisses 1975 and he has managed to acquire another case of Château Haut-Brion 1989.’

‘Excellent.’ Château Haut-Brion, Felici knew well, was one of Bridget’s favourites. The smile that appeared on Felici’s lips was almost as rare as the wine.

Eighteenth-century wood panelling lined the walls of the villa’s smoking room. Renaissance paintings on leather hung from brass hooks on the picture rail. Exquisite Louis XV and Louis XVI side tables were matched with comfortable leather chairs and a deep-blue felt sofa. Elegant blue and gold lamps threw a soft light onto the Persian carpet. The mantelpiece above the log fire was dominated by a softly lit wooden case containing Italian Renaissance bronze statuettes. It was a setting Cardinal Felici considered only fitting, given his status as a prince of the Church.

‘Professor, how good of you to come,’ he said, offering his fine, bony hand to the tubby professor.

‘The pleasure is all mine, Eminence. Before you arrived I was admiring the view. It’s a beautiful part of the world.’

‘It is indeed, Professor.’

‘But I must confess, Eminence, I’m puzzled as to why the Vatican would be interested in the crystal skulls,’ queried Macchiarolo, peering over his tortoiseshell glasses.

Felici smiled enigmatically, waving Professor Macchiarolo towards a leather chair. ‘I will come straight to the point, Professor. Every so often, the Church is faced with threats; some real, some imagined. You were interviewed for this article in
Panorama
.’ Felici withdrew the glossy magazine from his soft leather briefcase. The cover featured a photograph of Silvio Berlusconi, flanked by two beautiful models, but it was the equally striking photograph of an ancient crystal skull below the cover story that had caught the cardinal’s attention.

Professor Macchiarolo nodded, a wry smile on his lips. ‘Ah, yes. The article on the Inca skulls.’

‘You’re smiling, Professor?’

‘That article was written by a journalist who is not an expert in this field, Eminence. Despite my best efforts, I’m afraid there are a number of errors, reported from … shall we say, more sensationalist sources.’

‘Then we can perhaps be more relaxed about the journalist’s assertions that these ancient crystal skulls might pose a threat to the doctrine of the faith?’