The Tower (6 page)

‘I hope to see Father Antonelli quite soon,’ he continued, ‘and you have my word that I will attempt to arrange an appointment for you as well, but if your father has revealed something more to you, something that might help us and convince Father Antonelli to receive you, I’d ask you to let me know about it. That’s all. As you can see, I’m only trying to assist you.’

‘Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ replied Philip. ‘Allow me to be frank: I had the impression that you were trying to see my cards without revealing your own. What you’ve told me, instead, is very interesting and explains a number of things. It’s possible that knowledge of this language you speak of may have been essential to the research my father was conducting on the Book of Genesis.

‘As far as the sign, the clue that I’ve spoken of, I’m afraid there’s not much to tell. On my honour, Father. All I have is a book, a scientific study that my father wrote many years ago,
Explorations in the South-eastern Quadrant of the Sahara
, in which he has added phrases at the beginning of several chapters, the meaning of which I’m still attempting to decipher. Actually, I have no idea why he saw Father Antonelli and what they had to say to each other.

‘If I could find a way to meet him now, he might be able to give me some information, some useful lead to help me locate my father in the middle of that endless sea of sand. I hope this is enough to convince Father Antonelli to see me. I hope so with all my heart . . .’

‘The Book of Genesis . . .’ repeated Father Boni, as if he’d heard nothing after that. ‘The Book of Genesis is no small topic. How could your father have attempted research in such a difficult field without any training as a Bible scholar?’

‘I have no idea. I only know that he’d come to the conclusion that the characters in Genesis were actual historical personages.’

Father Boni could barely contain his surprise. ‘Did you use the word “historical”?’

‘I did.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean by this term. You realize, of course, that not even the most conservative scholars believe that all humanity was born from a single couple, from a man and a woman named Adam and Eve . . .’

‘Not in that sense,’ said Philip. ‘No, not in that sense. If I remember correctly from my father’s writings and notes, he came to the conclusion that it was not the actual origin of man that was narrated in Genesis, but rather the passage from the Palaeolithic era to the Neolithic era. He postulated that the Garden of Eden was nothing more than a symbol for or a parable of the era in which man was part of nature and lived on the fruits of the earth and was nourished by the animals around him – that is, a symbol of the early Palaeolithic. Then man chose to eat from the tree of knowledge, of good and evil – that is, he evolved into a perfectly conscious being, a being who was equipped with a complex system of knowledge. This made him aware of the possibilities of evil and resulted in the loss of his primeval innocence.’

Philip became more and more excited as he spoke, as if his father’s convictions were the fruit of his own research.

‘ “Ye shall earn your bread by the sweat of your brow,” ’ he continued, quoting from the Bible. ‘That was their punishment. “Ye shall work the land.” It was in Neolithic times that man became a sheep-herder and a farmer, developed a sense of property, forged metal to craft agricultural tools . . . But not only tools; weapons, as well. Especially weapons.’

Father Boni raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite a simplistic hypothesis, and very banal all told. Hinted at long ago by the ancient poets of the pagan world in the myths of the age of gold and the age of iron.’

‘You say so? Then tell me, did man ever have the choice of not evolving, of not becoming conscious of good and evil? Wasn’t evolution an unavoidable process, provoked by a series of uncontrollable events like climatic and environmental changes and, in the final analysis, by man’s genetic predisposition as well? And if this is the case, Father, if man had no choice, what is original sin? What was the human race so guilty of? Why was man forced to bear the horror of violence, the awareness of decay and death?’

‘The author of Genesis was simply trying to explain the mystery of why evil is present in the world. It’s an allegory that can’t be interpreted literally.’

Philip smiled ironically. ‘A similar affirmation would have sent you to the stake just a couple of centuries ago. You surprise me, Father Boni. But furthermore,’ he continued, ‘if evolution is not the fruit of chance but rather of the will of a divine providence who dictated the rules of the universe and the development of every form of life, well, then the problem gets even thornier, wouldn’t you say?’

Father Boni broke in. ‘You’re running away with yourself, Garrett. In the first place, the Darwinian theory of evolution has not yet been definitively accepted, or demonstrated, in particular as far as the human race is concerned. And nor have theories about the expansion of the universe. The mind of God is a labyrinthine mystery, Garrett, and our presumption to fathom it is ridiculous,’ the priest concluded. ‘But tell me, what did your father hope to find in the desert to support theories that, do pardon me, are debatable at the very least?’

‘I don’t know. I swear to you I do not know. But perhaps . . . there was a document . . . something that my father had discovered. Perhaps it led him first here to Rome and then into the heart of the desert. Can’t you see that only Father Antonelli has the answer?’

Father Boni did not let on how excited he felt. Could this ‘document’ be the bilingual text mentioned in Father Antonelli’s notes, so hurriedly stashed in the safe? What Desmond Garrett had found in the desert had provided him with the key to reading ‘The Book of Amon’!

He merely nodded. ‘I’ll try to help you, Garrett. I’ll ask to have Father Antonelli meet you, but on one condition. If you find out something about this text that your father discovered, you’ll tell me about it.’

‘I will,’ said Philip. ‘But I’m curious to know why this text interests you so much. You’re not an epigraphist, you’re a mathematician.’

‘That’s right,’ replied Father Boni. ‘You see, I suspect that that text may contain a mathematical formula of revolutionary importance, given that we’re dealing with such a remote era, in which it is supposed that mathematical knowledge was quite elementary.’

Philip was puzzled and felt tempted to push matters further, but he was certain that no more answers would be forthcoming. Boni was the type of man who gave nothing without getting something in return.

Philip said goodbye and went towards the door, but as he gripped the handle he turned around. ‘There is more,’ he said. ‘It seems that something inexplicable has been happening in the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara. That’s where my father disappeared ten years ago.’ He left.

As he walked down the long, dim corridor, he crossed paths with a young priest heading in the opposite direction with a hurried step. He instinctively turned around and saw that the other man had turned as well. They exchanged glances for a moment, but neither spoke and each continued in his own direction.

The young priest paused a moment in front of Father Boni’s door, knocked lightly and entered.

‘Come in, Hogan,’ said Father Boni. ‘Any news?’

‘Yes,’ replied Father Hogan. ‘He’s in a rest home, outside a small town between Lazio and Abruzzo.’

‘Very good!’ exclaimed Father Boni. ‘And how is he?’

Father Hogan darkened. ‘He’s dying,’ he said.

Father Boni sprang to his feet. ‘Then we must leave immediately. I absolutely have to speak with him, before it is too late.’

Shortly afterwards a black car with Vatican number plates left through the San Damaso Gate, entered Spina del Borgo and disappeared down Lungotevere.

P
HILIP DINED THAT EVENING
at Giorgio Liverani’s house but his conversation was less than brilliant. He couldn’t get the meeting with Father Boni out of his mind. The priest’s explanations were strange and ambiguous and the story of the mathematical formula was not really credible. What was he truly looking for?

Philip went back to his room rather early and, although he felt quite tired, he picked up the book of his father’s that Colonel Jobert had given him.

The first step had not been difficult, but unless he managed to meet Father Antonelli, it led nowhere. He wondered whether the other clues followed on from the first. If that were the case, he had found himself on another road leading nowhere. He leafed idly through the pages. It seemed that the dedication to him on the title page was written with the same pen and ink as the subsequent messages, but he saw no meaning in it. Perhaps his father had prepared the book years before as a gift for him and then had never given it to him.

Fatigue won out as he struggled to give meaning to those words and he fell asleep, still fully dressed, on the sofa on which he had stretched out to read.

T
HE CAR WAS JUST
beginning to wend its way up the curving Apennine road when the first drops of rain fell. The tarmac instantly turned shiny and black and the trees lining the road were soon bending over in the gusting wind. Father Hogan switched on the windscreen wipers and slowed down, but Father Boni, who had remained silent at his side until then, protested. ‘No, don’t. We can’t afford to lose any time at all.’

Hogan stepped on the accelerator again and the big black car raced through the night, illuminated now and then by flashes of lightning from the storm.

The tarmac ended a few kilometres later and the road became a kind of mule track, furrowed by streams of muddy water descending from the scarp above.

Father Boni turned on the reading light and consulted a topographical map. ‘Turn left at the next crossing,’ he said. ‘We’re almost there.’

Father Hogan did as he was told and, a few minutes later, started down a narrow path paved with rough cobblestones which ended in a courtyard. There they found a building dimly lit by a couple of street lamps. They got out under the driving rain, pulling their coats close, crossed the small, illuminated square and entered the building through a glass door.

A very elderly man sat behind a desk reading the sports pages. He lifted his head and pushed his glasses up to his brow, considering the newcomers with considerable surprise. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, looking them over from head to toe.

Father Boni showed his Vatican identification. ‘We’re from the Secretary of State,’ he said. ‘Our visit is strictly confidential. We must see Father Antonelli with the utmost urgency.’

‘Father Antonelli?’ repeated the man. ‘But . . . he’s very ill. I don’t know whether . . .’

Father Boni stared him down with a look that brooked no objection. ‘We have to see him now. Understand? Immediately.’

‘Just a moment,’ said the man. ‘I must notify the doctor on duty.’

He picked up the telephone and a very sleepy-looking doctor soon appeared, quite elderly himself.

‘Father Antonelli is in a critical condition,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if he’ll be capable of understanding or answering you. Is this really necessary?’

‘It’s a matter of life and death,’ replied Father Boni. ‘Life and death, understand? We’ve been sent by the Secretary of State and I’ve been authorized to assume all responsibility.’

The doctor shrugged. Such a commanding, self-assured individual must certainly have had a very good reason for coming all that way in such awful weather.

‘As you wish,’ he said resignedly, and led them down a flight of stairs and along a long corridor that was badly lit by a couple of lamps. He stopped in front of a glass door.

‘He’s in here,’ said the doctor. ‘Please, be as quick as you can. He’s on the brink of death. He has suffered atrocious pain all day.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Father Boni opening the door, beyond which the faint glow of a night light could be seen. They entered.

Father Antonelli lay on his deathbed, pale and sweat-drenched, his eyes closed. The room was in semi-darkness but, as soon as he became accustomed to that dim light, Father Hogan could make out the austere furnishings, the crucifix at the head of the bed, a breviary lying on the bedside table, along with a rosary, a glass of water and several medicine bottles.

Father Boni approached and sat on the bed without even taking off his raincoat. He leaned down and spoke into the sick man’s ear. ‘I’m Father Boni, Father Ernesto Boni. I must talk to you . . . I need your help.’

Father Hogan leaned back against the wall and watched.

The man slowly opened his eyes and Father Boni continued in a low voice. ‘Father Antonelli, we know how much you are suffering and I would never have dared to disturb you at such a time were it not out of desperate necessity. Father Antonelli . . . can you understand what I’m saying?’

The man nodded with great difficulty.

‘Listen to me, please. Ten years ago you were in charge of the cryptographic holdings of the Vatican Library, and you received a man named Desmond Garrett.’

The old man gave a violent start, his chest heaving with a painful intake of breath. He nodded his head again with a moan.

‘I read . . . your diary, in the safe.’

The old man clenched his teeth and turned his head towards Father Boni, astonishment in his eyes.

‘I found it . . . by chance, you must believe me,’ continued Father Boni. ‘I was looking for some documents and I found it by chance. Why? Why did you show Desmond Garrett the Stone of the Constellations and “The Book of Amon”?’

The old priest seemed on the verge of drifting into unconsciousness but Father Boni gripped his shoulder and shook him. ‘Why, Father Antonelli? Why? I must know!’

Father Hogan felt paralysed, stunned at that brutal violation of the old man’s pain. Father Boni seemed not even to notice him and continued to torment the dying man with pitiless insistence. Father Antonelli finally turned towards his interrogator with an immense effort and Father Boni lowered his ear to the old man’s mouth so as not to miss a word.

‘Garrett could read “The Book of Amon”.’

Father Boni shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s impossible!’