The Sixth Station (39 page)

“Things are really heating up. I was taken to Federal Plaza quite by force. The Feds, the CIA, Interpol—it was a reporter’s dream—except I was the prey this time. They grilled me for three hours. Thank God I know nothing. I pointed out that there were more pressing issues right now, like stopping the rioting and figuring out who was inciting it, which, by the way, they seem to think is you, or your
operatives.

“I know they’re tailing me. Please. Stay deep under.
Please.
If any of my online postings have the words
Little Big Man
in them, it means I found out that they’ve got a bead on you again. I’m calling in some big favors here. I love you. This is a pay-and-toss phone, and I’m about to toss. Stay safe.”

Too late
.

I took a quick shower and packed up the few things that would fit into my red bag. It was either the Chanel dress or the Prada shoes, which I just noticed Pantera had been cool enough to pick up from where I’d dropped them outside last night, and which I had been ready to blow off. I knew the shoes meant extra baggage, but damn! That was a killer right there.

No. Leave them. If you’ve only one life to live, you should live it as a redhead in a Chanel dress.

I walked down the stairs to the side entrance, where a man was waiting. “Ms. Russo, I am a friend of Yusef’s,” he said, with just a hint of a French accent. “I shall drive you to the airport.” Somehow I hadn’t expected a motorcyle. I hopped on the back of his Ducati and we took off. In minutes we were through the drawbridge and out of the magical city and on to the airport.

The airport was fifty miles away, but we sped like crazy. I was able to make the morning EasyJet Rome flight without any of the usual airline fuss. The flight was smooth, and more important, it was quick.

Fiumicino Airport is not my favorite place in Italy—or anywhere, actually. But thanks to the European Union, however, I didn’t have to go through the dreaded customs, which was more of a blessing than getting blessed by the pope himself.

Now what
?
Wait for Pantera?

I took a cab to the Atlante Garden Hotel, which was located right near the Vatican. The restaurant overlooked the Vatican and was literally a stone’s throw away. I ordered a cappuccino and turned on Sadowski’s cell. There was a voice-mail message.

“My dear, did I not warn you to trust no one?”

Maureen!

“Naive? I’m very surprised. How can you not know that Pantera—who clearly is not dead—is more dangerous than you seem to comprehend? He is an assassin—a paid killer for one of the most radical groups on the planet. Worse, he’s a true believer. Nothing more dangerous.

“Do not ever forget that he was part of the team responsible for the monstrous cloning of a child. Really, I thought you had more grit and more wisdom.”

You thought wrong.

“He
will
use you to find the source blood, and then you, my innocent girl, will be history. I hope you did not give him anything that you may have uncovered, because if you did, he’ll take off and you’ll never see him again. You will probably think he’s dead. They are very,
very
good at that, as I know all too well. Get away from him any way you can.”

Too late for that.

“I just hope you get this message and that you have escaped with your life. Believe me, if you never believe another thing, believe this: He is your sworn enemy. He will charm and disarm you, and then he will disappear again. It’s seduce and abandon on a global scale. Just hold on to every bit of evidence you have amassed and let nothing out of your sight or you are doomed.

“He
will
find you when he needs to. I just hope you see him first.”

Oh, shit. The scarf! She can’t be right. You’re not some babe in the woods who can’t tell the truth from a lie. You’re a reporter, for God’s sake! But seriously, the fact that he’s not here is not good.

I began sweating.

I downed the cappuccino and ordered a cold double espresso. The TV at the bar was tuned to the local news. After the weather—clear and sunny—came the news. A reporter was standing outside a tunnel and was reporting on a horrible smashup. The burned-out wreckage of a car being towed away on the
autostrade
made my blood run cold. The reporter said that the driver of the car, a man, driving alone, had died on impact, after his car had crashed into the walls and flipped over in one of the tunnels dotting the roads in, around, and outside of Rome.

I could see it was a Citroën. But it was so charred I couldn’t make out the color.

Don’t panic. Every other car in Europe looks like that.

The announcer then said in Italian, “The man’s car was caught on surveillance video when it crossed the border from France into Italy earlier today. It was registered to one Edward Gibbon of Carcassonne, France.”

Oh, God. They got him. Or did he get me?

35

I watched the rest of the newscast with my hand stuffed into my mouth to keep from screaming. The body bag was placed on the stretcher, and the ambulance drove off with all the bells and whistles blaring.

“I’ll meet you there. Trust me on that. I’m not done with you yet. I may never be done with you
.
”

I was torn between anger and tears, hope and fear. Had he simply arranged an accident in order to disappear with my DNA-loaded scarf? Was he really dead? Or possibly had he directed me to a restaurant because he somehow knew they’d have the news on? He was, after all, very good at arranging accidents. That I knew from firsthand experience. But last night had not been arranged; it had been from some deeper place.
Sure.

Can any man fake it like that? Answer: You’re kidding—right?

And so I just sat there not comprehending what the hell had just happened. I was playing a rough game in a playground not of my own making, against a team of bullies who all had bats, while I was alone and armed with just a keyboard.

The word may be mightier than the sword, but except for the
s
they are pretty much the same. Both are used to kill—and to save.

And both were out of my reach right now. Use the word and get nailed on my location. Use the sword and be outgunned.

If Pantera was really dead, the other side wouldn’t have made it such a spectacular event,
I thought. Then I remembered Princess Diana and all those death-by-tunnel conspiracies.

If he
wasn’t
dead, then he’d just screwed me over—literally and figuratively. I was back where I started, almost. I had more information, but I didn’t know what to do with it or where to go next. Tears, nausea, disgust, hope, and misery hit me all at once.

Do what you do. You’re a reporter. Do what you do. Don’t stay here.

I paid the bill and asked the waiter if they had a computer terminal available, and he directed me to the business office. For ten euros I got an hour of Internet service.

In Google, I entered the key words “Cathar treasure” (904,000 results), “Baphomet” (5,230,000 results), and “Veil of Veronica” (1,750,000 results).

Overwhelming when on a short leash, for sure.

I refined the search and added the keyword “Vatican” to each of the above. “Baphomet & Vatican” (12,200,000), “Cathar treasure & Vatican” (989,000), and “Veil & Vatican” (3,650,000).

The top hits in the first two categories seemed like too many amateur sleuths, wackos, and conspiracy theorists with equally nutty videos—mostly overweight men sitting in Barcalounger chairs in their dens spouting hidden wisdom. But none of any of the top hits connected the Veil with the Cathar treasure.

The third category, “Veil & Vatican,” however, seemed to be filled with researchers and fewer kooks.

I scanned the results, and the second one on the hit list was for a book called
The Face of God
by a journalist named Paul Badde, whose credits included Vatican correspondent for the German newspaper
Die Welt.

I looked up his book, and he was apparently the foremost researcher of the Veil of Veronica. One review particularly caught my attention when it stated that his book unmasked the popular and accepted account that a woman called Veronica wiped the face of Jesus as he carried the cloth. The actual cloth that came to bear the image of Jesus was kept in a monastery in a town called Manoppello. It was known there as the Holy Face.

It also said that there was a so-called Holy Face or Veil of Veronica in the Vatican—but that it wasn’t the authentic one. I was getting more confused by the minute. Whether it was a woman named Veronica or Maryanne, for all I cared, and whether the Vatican had the fake or the genuine article—I needed to see it for myself.

I Googled up Badde’s Italian book publicist and placed a call. I introduced myself as Alazais Roussel, a producer for the History Channel. I explained that I was doing the preliminary research for a two-part special we’d be doing and would very much like to speak with Paul Badde about his research on the Veil.

You would have thought it was the pope himself calling. Of course I knew why: A hit on History would translate into a big bump in book sales. She put me on hold while she made a conference call to Badde himself.

“Mr. Badde, thank you for taking my call,” I said when he was connected.

“Yes, it is my pleasure. History Channel is one of my favorites,” he said in a very refined German accent.

“The feature I’m working on is about the great treasures of the Vatican,” I lied, praying he wouldn’t look up my bio.

“Oh, wonderful,” he said, but I could tell he was disappointed that it wasn’t a whole show about the particular Veil in Manoppello that he’d written about.

“I understand that you are an expert on the greatest relic in the Vatican, the Veil of Veronica, and I was wondering if we could meet.”

“Yes, of course.” Now he sounded downright disappointed. “When would you like to meet, Ms. Roussel? I have some time tomorrow afternoon.”

Not good.

“I’m, ah, leaving for, ah, Perugia, tonight,” I said, paranoia rising.

Don’t overdo it. You’ll sound like a liar.

Instead of listening to myself, the pushy reporter took over.

“Are you free today?”

“Well, not really. I have an appointment.”

“What about right now?”

“Ms. Roussel, I am at work on a book now. It’s not a good time.”

His publicist cut in. “Is there another time you could meet, Ms. Roussel?”

“Not really. Like I said, flying to Perugia later.”

“May we call you back, Ms. Roussel, with a more convenient time for Mr. Badde?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m on a time constraint. There’s a relic in Perugia that takes precedent, I’m afraid.”

You sound like a nasty American bitch.

It worked.

He told me to meet him at one of the private gates of the Vatican—which he explained was around on the side of Saint Peter’s on one of the myriad streets that encircle the complex. “Ask any guard and he will direct you to the proper gate.”

I met him on a side street after asking directions. He was standing alone. Middle-aged, handsome in tweed jacket and brown slacks—very old-world gentlemanly and elegant. Not like my crowd. If you’re a print or online reporter in NYC, and you wear clean jeans to work, everyone thinks you hit the lotto the night before.

Two Swiss Guards who were standing watch saluted us and parted the gates like Moses at the Red Sea. Inside those gates was a spectacular garden complete with helicopter pad and shiny Pope-a-copter sitting idle but ever ready for Christ’s representative of the earth’s poor and downtrodden to hop aboard. The garden was blooming, despite how early in spring it was, with roses and every imaginable flower God ever dreamed of and more. There were mini-mazes, contemplation benches, and little chapels for private prayer.

We sat on a bench—and I was surprised that we were totally alone in this magnificent place in the center of the Vatican grounds. I took out my notebook.

“This is the pope’s private garden. He loves to sit here and read, pray, and contemplate.”

“Well, if ever there were a place for contemplation, this is definitely it.”

“Yes, I love it here. But tell me, what do you want to know of the Holy Face?”

I was relieved to see that he didn’t connect the crazy redheaded rocker chick named Roussel with the brunette reporter in NYC named Russo—the one who was kissed by ben Yusef and had become a worldwide sensation/disgrace.

I continued lying: “I was told that you are the foremost expert in the Veil of Veronica, which I understand is kept right here in the Vatican.”

I was baiting him. He knew it, I’m sure.

“I guess you have not read the book then?”

“Not fully.” He looked annoyed, as well he might be considering I got him in the middle of work and hadn’t even bothered to read the book.

“We didn’t actually know about it, and when I discovered
The Face of God
this morning on the Internet, I thought I’d better meet the author slash expert before I left Rome.”

“Where would you like to start, and what time is your flight?”

“Ah, in three hours.”

“I see.”

“Can you show me the Veil?”

“Can I show you the Volto Santo?” he repeated incredulously. With that he rose and said, “It took me one year—using every bit of influence I had—to get permission to see it
once.

“But I can show you the location of the Vatican’s relics. Yes, there is a relic of the Holy Face here, but…”

“But?”

“But there are at least six images purported to be the
real
relic. The real Veil.”

We began walking toward the same gate from which we had entered. The day was warm and clear, and we moved at a good pace, walking toward Saint Peter’s Square.

“Six images. I’m astounded to hear this. But the one that’s here is the
actual
Veil of Veronica—correct?”