The Inca Prophecy (39 page)

The scrutineers threaded each vote on to a string and passed them over for burning in the stove. Another wisp of smoke drifted out of the Sistine Chapel chimney, and at first the crowd started to go wild. Someone had taken it to be white and shouted, ‘We have a pope!’ Some of the journalists amongst the huge contingent of media called it in straight away, only to retract it minutes later as the scrutineer in charge of the antiquated stove threw on more and more black candles in an effort to clarify the message.

Four hours later, the scrutineers rose to announce the result of the third ballot:

‘Cardinal Salvatore Felici, 82 votes …’

‘Cardinal Ferdinando Sabatani, 33 votes …’

‘Cardinal Felix Schäfer, 6 votes …’

Felici’s face jumped in a spasm of emotion but he quickly controlled himself. He had triumphed. The announcement was greeted with applause. In the end, wary of electing someone as progressive as Sabatani, and even warier of a long papacy, they’d gone with what seemed like the safest pair of hands. Felici remained inscrutable as the dean of the College of Cardinals approached.

‘
Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?
Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?’

‘I do,’ Felici replied. His voice was strong and confident.

‘
Quo nomine vis vocari?
By what name shall you be called?’

‘
Vocabor Petrus
. I will be called Peter.’

A gasp echoed around the Sistine Chapel. Out of respect for the founding pope, St Peter, no pope had ever taken the name of the Apostle. But Felici was determined to meet the prophecy of Saint Malachy head on – the prophecy that predicted every pope until the end times, and that this papacy would be the last. The famous words read:
In the last persecution of the Holy Roman Church, there will sit Peter the Roman, who will pasture his sheep in many tribulations: and when these things are finished, the city of seven hills will be destroyed, and the terrible judge will judge his people.

‘Are you sure, Holiness?’ the dean whispered.

Felici fixed the dean with a stony stare. ‘Petrus II,’ he said.

The dean nodded numbly and guided the newly elected Pope
Peter II to the small red sacristy on the left of the chapel. The room was widely known as the
sala delle lacrime
, the room of tears, as more than one new Pope had been known to succumb to his emotions in the sacristy’s privacy. But Felici was not the emotional type. The tailors from Gammarelli, the prestigious outfitters, were waiting with his papal garments. Felici accepted the temporary Fisherman’s Ring from the dean before re-entering the chapel and assuming the throne that had been set up near the altar. One by one the cardinals approached Peter II, kissing his ring, and pledging obedience.

White smoke belched from the old chimney and the crowd in the Piazza San Pietro went wild, all eyes focused on the central balcony of the basilica. The senior cardinal deacon appeared on the balcony and the sound system carried his voice across the square:

‘I announce to you a great joy –
Habemus Papam
! We have a pope! Cardinal Felici of the Holy Roman Church, who takes the name Peter.’

Images of shocked faces in the crowd were beamed live to hundreds of millions around the world. Felici soon appeared on the balcony attired in the papal choir dress of an ivory silk cassock, gold-fringed white sash, a tunic of linen and lace topped by a red shoulder cape and a white zucchetto. An unusual gold pectoral cross was suspended from a chain around his neck.

Peter had arrived to claim his Church.

Chapter 48

‘Two train journeys in two days and this one is even more luxurious … I could get used to this,’ Aleta said, trying to relax as the Orient Express Hiram Bingham pulled out of Poroy, just to the north of Cusco. The zenith was less than a week away. She cast her eye around the carriage. Their table had been laid with gleaming crystal glasses and polished silver, and the carriage décor was true to the 1920s-style Pullman carriage: polished wood and brass.

‘Yes, although we’re getting into country that’s very different from the high Andes,’ O’Connor replied as the train headed into the rain-forests of the sacred Urubamba River, dominated by the snow-capped volcanic rock of the Andes.

The waiter approached carrying champagne and orange juice and a menu.

‘I suppose I’d better make the most of this,’ Aleta said, tossing
up between corn tamales with tomato salsa, a herb and mushroom omelette and a roast of alpaca loin with an elderberry compote. O’Connor opted for the cannelloni of spinach, quinoa and chicken.

‘And for sweets,
señora, señor
?’ the waiter asked.

O’Connor shook his head and smiled as Aleta ordered the passion-fruit cheesecake.

Two hours later the train pulled into the station at Aguas Calientes, and O’Connor was on high alert. The little town was nestled on the banks of the Urubamba River at the base of Machu Picchu and surrounded by near vertical cliffs. A minibus was waiting to take them up through the hairpin bends of the roads to Machu Picchu, to the southeast. Once they’d reached the ruins, O’Connor and Aleta climbed the stone steps that led to the highest point in Machu Picchu, the Pyramid of the Sun and the granite slab at its peak, the Intiwatana Stone.

‘The last time I was here was years ago with a bunch of undergrads,’ Aleta said, ‘but it doesn’t matter how rarely I come, there’s something absolutely mystical about this place. A profound spiritual energy,’ she added, breathing the clear, cool air. Far below they could see the Urubamba tumbling towards the Amazonian basin. To the north, the peak of Huayna Picchu was shrouded in mists.

The Intiwatana Stone stood like an upturned keel of a yacht, the area around it deserted. O’Connor and Aleta took their bearings and together referred to the translation of the cipher:

To the east lies Apu Veronica, to the west Apu San Miguel. To the south lies Apu Salkantay, to the north Apu Huayna Picchu. Look to the dissection of Intiwatana, as the Condor flies 8560 metres to the ancient capital. Through gold and obsidian it will be revealed.

‘Machu Picchu is surrounded by sacred mountains. That’s the Veronica range over there,’ Aleta said, pointing towards a series of jagged peaks on the skyline to the east. ‘The highest point is Apu Veronica – over 5600 metres high.’

O’Connor took a compass bearing to the summit. Aleta turned towards the west. ‘There’s Apu San Miguel, and those snow-covered peaks way over there are part of the Pumasillo range. At the winter solstice, the sun sets behind the highest peak, Apu Pumasillo itself.’

‘So the location of the Intiwatana Stone is no coincidence.’

‘No, the ancients planned this precisely,’ Aleta said. ‘In the Quechua language Intiwatana means “hitching post of the sun”. Originally people thought it was just a sundial, but it’s much more complex than that, and the cipher bears that out. The Intiwatana Stone also enabled the Inca to pinpoint where the sun would rise at the winter and summer solstices, and at the equinoxes. You can’t see it from here, but Apu Salcantay, another sacred mountain, lies precisely due south of the stone. And the name Salcantay comes from the Quechua
saliqa
, which means wild, savage or invincible.’

‘Perhaps the Inca were trying to warn us,’ O’Connor said, only half joking. ‘I’m assuming “as the Condor flies” is the Inca version of a straight line. If we take the dissection in the direction of Cusco to the south-east, that would put our target in here.’ O’Connor pointed to an inaccessible area north-east of the Inca trail. He glanced at his watch. ‘Time to move,’ he said. He and Aleta shouldered their backpacks containing the Inca skull and their sleeping bags. ‘We’ll want to be well down the Inca trail by dark.’

Wiley’s asset kept well back, mingling with a small group of tourists moving more slowly up the steep, uneven stone track. There was, he knew, only one path ahead. If his targets moved on to the relative isolation of the Inca trail, he would at last have the opportunity he needed. He adjusted the straps on his rifle case, disguised as a guitar case, and waited while his group paused to rest before resuming the climb.

O’Connor and Aleta reached Intipunku, the Inca Gate of the Sun, and they turned to survey the ruins below, the white corkscrew track leading from Aguas Calientes clearly visible through the rain-forest.

‘Stunning isn’t it?’ Aleta stretched her arms as if to embrace the warm afternoon sun, occasionally shrouded by clouds drifting amongst the peaks.

‘Yes, although all may not be what it seems,’ O’Connor said, adjusting his high-powered binoculars and scanning the rocky path below. He focused on the guitar case, which looked out of place. Not that backpackers didn’t occasionally bring along a guitar, but their cases were invariably bashed and battered and covered in travel stickers. ‘Why would you be carrying a brand-new guitar case up to the Gate of the Sun?’ he wondered aloud.

‘You think it might not be a guitar?’ Aleta’s heart sank.

‘Every possibility. Let’s move; I want to see whether he follows us.’ They quickly descended the even steeper jungle path that led to the Urubamba River below. The trail took a sharp turn to the right
and O’Connor moved off the track to find a hide, motioning Aleta to follow.

‘The path moves into open country after this, and if there is a sniper rifle in that guitar case, the last place we need to be is out there, silhouetted against the skyline,’ he whispered.

O’Connor didn’t have to wait long. From his position behind a cedar tree, he could see the dark-haired, thickset hiker treading quietly down the track. There was still a faint possibility that this was an innocent backpacker with a new guitar case, but there was only one way to find out. O’Connor knew that time was on his side – tourists usually arrived at the site around lunchtime, long past, and the trail was now, thankfully, deserted.

O’Connor put on a pair of leather gloves and screwed the silencer on to his Glock. He let the target pass and then stepped out onto the track. Wiley’s asset turned, made eye contact and in an instant produced a knife. O’Connor swayed to one side as the heavy hunting knife flashed past his face, missing him by centimetres. The assassin desperately tried to free his guitar case but while he struggled O’Connor fired once, aiming for his assailant’s heart. The man fell backwards, dead before he hit the ground. O’Connor moved forward and dragged the body off the track, into the depths of the jungle.

‘Heckler & Koch sniper rifle,’ O’Connor observed, opening up the guitar case as Aleta joined him.

The archaeologist shivered involuntarily.

‘Well, he’s clean,’ O’Connor said, after he’d finished going through the assassin’s pockets. ‘A professional, whoever he was.’ O’Connor wedged the body and the guitar case in a rock crevice and covered both with leaves. ‘With a bit of luck, we’ll be long gone by the time
they find him – if the animals don’t get him first,’ he said, taking his gloves off and heading back to the trail, followed by Aleta.

They reached more open country as the trail ran parallel to the sacred Urubamba River and a kilometre or so further on, they came to a campsite beneath the Wiñay Wayna ruins.