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He had his share of both.
The upcoming conclave could be his last. Cardinals over the age of eighty were forbidden to vote. And though he was two dozen years away from that prohibition, depending on who was selected, the next papacy could be a long one. So if anything was going to happen his way, the coming few days could be his best shot.
A man clambered up from the stairway to the sunny parapet. He was swarthy, beak-nosed, with an unreadable expression. His face, neck, and hands cast the texture of desert sand, burned brown from the sun. Definitely Indian, but whether Hindu, Muslim, or Christian remained to be seen. He wore dark-green fatigues, a black pullover shirt, and boots. His hair, black, wild, and unruly, sprang from a high skull in uneven tufts that tousled in the wind. A piratical gold earring glinted in the sunlight.
“I’m honored to make your acquaintance,” the man said in perfect Malti, which he’d not heard in a while.
A callused hand was offered to shake, which he accepted.
Kastor had come dressed not as a cardinal, resplendent in a black simar with scarlet piping, his chest wrapped in a scarlet sash, as he was accustomed to wearing in public. Today he wore street clothes, an ordinary man out to enjoy the sights. Thankfully, the parapet was empty, save for the two of them.
“What’s your name?” he asked the man, keeping to Malti.
“How about kardinali?”
The reply rubbed him wrong. But since he knew nothing about this envoy he decided to keep the irritation to himself. Still, he felt compelled to point out, “I was under the impression I was the only bearer of a red hat here.”
The man grinned, smug and self-contained. A finger was pointed his way. Long, with a slight upturn past the middle joint. “Quite right, Eminence. It’s only that you’re not dressed like a cardinal. Not even a ring to kiss. But I understand the need for discretion. You are, after all, a person of, shall we say, infamous notoriety.”
Like he needed reminding.
Four years ago the now dead pope had decided the job of prefect of the Apostolic Signatura demanded a more moderate personality, somebody less outspoken, more complacent, a man who could inspire trust not controversy. True, he’d been warned about his public comments. And equally true, he’d ignored the advice. So his firing had not been a shock. But what happened afterward had given him pause. He’d been publicly chastised by colleagues and privately commanded to obey the Holy Father, ordered by the curia to keep his opinions to himself. He hated that bunch of bishops and bureaucrats, ingrates who administered the church as eunuchs had once run the Chinese court, attenuated to every subtlety, immune to all decency and emotion. They were supposedly concerned with the essence of Catholicism, practicing an obedience to superiors and a reverence for tradition.
Sadly for them, they were anything but.
Something he’d heard once had been driven home during the ordeal.
War doesn’t determine who’s right, only who’s left.
And that had not been him.
For the first time in his professional life he’d felt like a pawn, powerless to either stop or change what was happening. Just a muted observer. What had the Vatican secretary of state told him?
If a man knows to do right and doeth it not, to him it is sin.
Jesus to the Pharisees.
But they’d seriously underestimated the indignation that their petty rationalizations could not extinguish. Thank heaven his reputation as a man who breathed the Catholic past had remained intact.
His beliefs had never been in doubt.
He strongly opposed the radical feminism of the church, which was why he’d publicly criticized a recent papal decision to allow altar girls. Marriage, to him, was only between a man and a woman, and homosexuality should never be tolerated. Abortion was nothing more than murder, no matter the circumstances. Embryonic stem-cell research seemed a heretical abomination. Euthanasia and assisted suicide repulsed him. Never should divorced and remarried Catholics be allowed to receive communion.
And Islam.
Nothing good would ever come from placating that plague on faith.
Thankfully, he was not alone in his orthodoxy. For him, and many others within the church, there was only black and white, the pope’s job to steer toward the white. Of late, though, popes liked to proclaim nothing but gray. They avoided the extremes, craving the middle, wanting more to be loved and admired than feared.
Big mistake.
But he’d made his share of bad moves, too.
And paid a heavy price.
He’d been stripped of his office. Ostracized. Proclaimed a threat to all the faithful in every parish of every country. He became radioactive, the other cardinals withdrawing—even the damn hired help had avoided him. He’d gone into free fall, relegated to doing little to nothing these past four years, except wait.
The injustice only fueled his indignation.
But watching the church prostrate itself before the masses had sickened him most of all.
Then fate finally shone down.
Thirteen days ago a blood vessel in the pope’s brain burst, bringing instant death. The pontificate had been meant to be one of average length, five to ten years at best. The pope had just started his fifth year. His plan had been to use the remaining time to quietly compel the support needed for the next conclave. Cardinals were, by nature, pliable. Negotiable. They also gathered in flocks. But it took a careful mixture of persuasion and intimidation to coalesce them into doing anything meaningful. Thankfully, he’d already amassed an impressive collection of damning information on many of the so-called princes of the church. Lots of juicy secrets.
But he needed more.
“What is your gi
ven name,” he asked the man facing him, keeping his voice low.
“Arani Chatterjee.”
He nodded, then stared out at the great sparkling plain of the Mediterranean, admiring the arc of a flawless azure sky. A tempest of swells rolled and tumbled, as they had all his life. He counted four parasailers enjoying the day.
“Men have searched a long time for what I seek,” he said to Chatterjee.
“The Nostra Trinità has proven elusive, as it was meant to be.”
This man was informed. “What do you know of it?”
“A great deal. The Turks tried to find it. Holy Roman emperors tried and failed. Napoleon came with an army, occupied the island, stripped the churches bare, but didn’t find it, either.”
“And Mussolini?”
Chatterjee inclined his head. “Now that is the question we are here to answer.”
Kastor had no choice but to tolerate this man’s brashness. But who was he to judge. He, too, had exhibited that quality on more than one occasion to more than one superior.
Pope Francis had been the worst.
They’d never seen eye-to-eye. How could they? The crazed Argentine was far more concerned with people worshiping him than protecting the faith. It is not necessary to believe in God to be a good person. What a ludicrous statement to be made by the Vicar of Christ. The traditional notion of God is outdated. How did Francis think a billion faithful would react to such nonsense? It is not necessary to go to church and give money. Really? Talk about naïveté. For many, nature can be a church. Pure garbage. Some of the best people in history did not believe in God, while some of the worst deeds were done in his name.
On that alone Francis had been right.
“Thankfully,” Chatterjee said, “you have me to aid your quest. I’ve been working on this for some time.”
