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CHAPTER 1
10:30 p.m., 452 Madison Avenue, NYC
Even a man whose life entails death was not prepared for what was being witnessed. It wasn't the acrid smell of smoke or the ominous silence of blue-uniformed police and brown-suited detectives that proved so disconcerting, rather it was the body of a thin young man dressed in priestly black cloth wholly saturated with blood. Across his mouth was stretched a broad piece of silver duct tape, and through his heart was thrust a wooden stake that penetrated the wall behind — a body hanging as lifeless as Christ on his cross.
Dr. Jeffrey Moss considered the scene, fixing on a thin strand of cord suspended about the slumped neck, tied at each end to a piece of rotted wood on which was scrawled in large bloody letters the words Soli Deo Gloria. He took a deep breath, sparingly releasing the air to clear his mind, unable to avert his eyes from the sight before him. As a detective, physician, and assistant medical examiner of the City of New York, he had seen death in many forms and from multiple causes, yet this was different. Perhaps if it had occurred within the darkest reaches of the city where life can be valueless and survival an ongoing drama, it would have eased his senses, but not at 452 Madison Avenue. The building is a magnificent neo-gothic four-story structure adjoining St. Patrick's Cathedral in the heart of Manhattan, one of the city's most gracious homes, and one of its most sacred, for it is the official residence of the archbishop of New York, His Eminence, Patrick Cardinal Healy. Anthony DePalma, chief of Manhattan detectives, was directing the investigation with several of his officers when he recognized Jeff's tanned six-foot athletic frame clothed in a well-fitting dark blue suit and white dress shirt open at the collar.
"Apologies for the late call. Disturb anything?"
Jeff broke his gaze. "Tosca, at the Met."
"Sorry."
"No worries, the ending never changes — there's always an execution."
DePalma glanced at the victim. "Same here. Thirty years with NYPD, never saw anything like this."
Jeff combed his fingers through his light brown hair as he surveyed the third-floor room, one of several that led from the narrow hallway. The scene seemed as staged as the opera he had just left, yet filled with a horror that no librettist could dare conceive. The place was in disarray, lamps sprawled on the floor, empty dresser drawers flung open, mattress overturned, clothing scattered, a bloody hammer lying on what was once a pristine thick-piled taupe carpet now singed from flame, and an empty red overnight carrying bag with an ID tag that read "Air Italia."
"Who is he?"
DePalma took out a small notepad. "According to Monsignor James Quinn, the cardinal's secretary, his name is Alonzo Fabrizzi, a young priest, just arrived from Rome to meet with the cardinal tomorrow. Quinn stated he had never met Fabrizzi and assumed it was a personal matter. It appears that the request came from Rome, but not through official Vatican channels."
"And the cardinal?"
"Out of town until morning."
"Motive?"
"Not money. His wallet was found with three hundred euros."
"Then why?"
"No idea, but whoever did this tried to burn the place down."
Jeff stepped aside, allowing the police photographer to complete capturing the crime scene. "Nothing random about this."
DePalma nodded in agreement. "Any ideas?"
"Wooden stake through the heart, body hung as if crucified — that's how you kill a vampire."
DePalma scribbled a note onto his pad. "And the sign?"
"I figured you'd know."
"I was never the altar boy type."
"Soli Deo Gloria?" Jeff shook his head. "Only took Latin 101. Something about God's glory, but why here?" He removed several business cards from his wallet and placed them on the table. "Maybe we'll get lucky."
Jeff walked to the body and examined the wounds, as if trying to appreciate what the young priest had experienced. "He was alive."
"What do you mean?"
"When he was hung."
"How can you tell?"
"His eyes — they're raised toward heaven, as if praying to his God."
DePalma looked up at the crucified priest. "Wonder what kind of prayer?" He paused before adding, "Wonder what kind of God?"
"What do you mean?"
He looked back at Jeff. "I'm not a good Catholic, but what God could allow this to happen?"
"That's always the question, isn't it?"
Jeff made a final survey of the room before getting back on point. "Bring him down to the morgue. Once we do the autopsy, I'll know more."
JULY 1
1 July, 11:00 p.m., Vatican City
The weather in Rome had been threatening, but the dire prediction would only shortly be realized. The sturdy figure of Cardinal Secretary Ludvik Jarogniew, wrapped in a loose-fitting dark cloak that overlaid his black clerical garments, made his way through the great doors of the Palazzo Apostolico, the Papal Palace. He gave a bare nod to the Pontifical Swiss Guards uniformed in red, blue, and yellow, colors of the Medici worn since the Renaissance, and took the private elevator to the third floor, where the new pontiff resided. Jarogniew's seventy-plus years still carried broad shoulders and a thick neck upon which balanced a squared cranium. He had a set jaw and a defined noble nose that revealed a violent history — features more often associated with a football linebacker than a God-fearing priest.
Jarogniew had held the position of cardinal secretary for the previous two popes, continued during the recent sede vacante, the election period, and agreed to remain until this new pope could choose his own. The cardinal secretary is the Vatican's Secretary of State, the head of its government, responsible for Vatican finances, and the pope's principal advisor. To veteran Vatican observers there was little doubt, nor to Jarogniew himself, that he would be reappointed for a third tenure.
But tonight was an inopportune time for such a visit. Jarogniew had more pressing business than to assist the new pope acclimate to his recently elected position. What possible emergency could have warranted his being summoned to the papal apartment at so late an hour — and with a forecast of such inclemency? Did the Holy Father have more questions about Vatican protocol? Did he seek advice on what activities the pontificate should be involved with? Surely these queries could wait until the day, regardless of how difficult it must be for this unknown cardinal from a poor country to be called to such prominence. The fact was, such concerns were minor compared to the issues that preoccupied Jarogniew, for tonight he was to learn if a mystery that has challenged man for over three thousand years had been solved.
Jarogniew glanced expectantly at his cell phone, awaiting the outcome of the intense but covert search that had taken place within a massive chamber, secret to but a few, whose only entryway was to be found within the depths of the Vatican itself, depths that history had christened the Vatican's Vault.
The Vatican's Vault. The name alone brought forth centuries of fear, suspicion, and myth attendant with the tortuous passageways and ancient crypts lying in the bowels of the Holy See. Secretum was how the mysteries that echoed inside its walls were described.
The search of the Vatican's Vault was more than a modest quest to discover papal documents stored in the Archivum Secretum Apostolicum Vaticanum, the Vatican secret archives. Those archives, many dating from the eighth century, had already revealed such significant matters as a letter to Pope Clement VII requesting the annulment of Henry VIII's marriage to Catherine of Aragon; letters from Michelangelo and Martin Luther; the official documents of the fourteenth-century heretical trials of the Knights Templar; and the seventeenth-century proceedings against Galileo for suggesting the earth, and its Church, was not the center of the universe. Such searches were conducted by religious scholars who devoted their lives to seeking holy truths and who considered their tasks as sacred as seeking the place where God himself dwelled.
But this exploration of the Vatican's Vault was of a different nature. It demanded greater discipline within a strict time restraint and was carried out by those with less holy intentions, whose heavenly obligations were subordinate to a craving for earthly power. Their purpose was explicit: to uncover an enigma that could be traced to the pyramids of ancient Egypt and earlier, a long-lost treasure so placed as to never be found yet containing a source of power greater than any other in the ancient world. To those trusted few who understood the significance, its discovery would unravel the Final Mystery. Ludvik Jarogniew was foremost of those trusted few.
The cardinal walked the stately third-floor hallway lined with priceless furnishings, sculpture, tapestries, and paintings by Raphael, da Vinci, Fra Angelico, Caravaggio, Titian, and an endless list of the world's finest artists. He well knew that should all the world's greatest art be destroyed, the Vatican's collection alone would preserve the ultimate achievements of man's culture. Yet, tonight, with his hand tightly clutching his cell phone, he had no inclination for gallery exploration. Rather, his concern was with an abducted object transported to the vault in the midst of the first century.
As Jarogniew approached the elegantly carved double walnut doors at the hall's end, his phone vibrated. His heart contracted with anticipation as he viewed the digital dispatch, its subject succinctly written: II Vault del Vaticano — the Vatican's Vault. Finally, the moment had arrived, the culmination of all that he had devoted his adult life to. Impatiently he scrolled down to read the remainder of the disclosure: Abbiamo fallito, maestro. Non siamo riusciti a trovare il Tesoro. We have failed. There was no treasure to be found.
Was this possible? Perhaps he had misunderstood. Jarogniew focused again on the simple message, but the letters remained the same. There was no misunderstanding. There was no treasure.
A crushing feeling swept over him, and an avalanche of thoughts filled his mind: Was this all for naught? Was it only myth? Was there no Final Mystery, no ancient power that would enable him to achieve what he and those who came before him had sought for so long? The cardinal forced a deep breath and pounded his fist against his chest, punishing himself for failure while calling forth the strength for renewed dedication. There could be no mistake. The treasure had to be somewhere, he was certain of it, but if not in the vault, then where?
* * *
Jarogniew powered off his phone and entered the imposing papal apartment overlooking St. Peter's Square. As he crossed the threshold into the richly appointed drawing room, he was greeted with a raised hand by a modest appearing, cherubic-faced man with probing blue eyes and an engaging, unsophisticated smile. To Jarogniew, the new pope seemed out of place in his opulent surroundings. He was seated in an oversized wingback chair covered in acid-green velvet. He was wearing a white skullcap and a crisp white cloak over which hung a large gold cross. On his right hand, he wore the newly received piscatorial ring, the pure gold ring of the fisherman presented to each new pope that recalled the original Holy Father, Peter the fisherman.
Jarogniew bowed and sat opposite the pope, considering how prudent a choice it had been to orchestrate the election of this unassuming priest. Without the papal regalia, the man before him could well have passed for a common fisherman concerned only about netting his day's catch. The cardinal secretary already envisioned being handed the keys to the kingdom.
"Thank you for your presence on such short notice and especially on a most threatening evening."
Jarogniew settled confidently into the richly upholstered chair's scarlet cloth. "Of course, Your Eminence, how may I be of service?"
The broad smile and sweet tones of the humble priest unexpectedly took on a declaratory demeanor. "It is time to convene an Extraordinary General Assembly of the Synod of Bishops."
Jarogniew was taken by surprise, and few events within the Catholic world had ever taken the veteran Vatican leader by surprise. He leaned forward, momentarily uncertain. Had he heard correctly? It's time? The cardinal was trying to understand what was being called for. This pope, in office but two months, wanted to convene an Extraordinary General Assembly? He knew well that a synod was only called to consider matters of extreme urgency and then only for questions of faith and morals. What circumstance could be of such great concern?
Jarogniew struggled to regain his composure. "For what purpose, Your Eminence?"
"Because I fear, Ludvik, that the direction the Church has taken since the Second Vatican Council has been lost, and unless we redirect it, it will challenge our very existence."
"And what challenge is that, Your Eminence?"
"Modernity. In the spirit of the Second Vatican Council, we must find a means to make a life of piety and prayer acceptable to our new age."
Modernity? The word rang like an alarm through Jarogniew's mind, his piercing sanpaku eyes constricting reflexively. So this was why he was called? The seasoned cardinal knew well what the code word meant: a liberal's call for the Church to conform to the invading pluralistic society, to modify tradition so that it would be acceptable to modern man. And why? Was it not true that every generation of church fathers had to deal with such concerns? And hadn't time proven that as long as the Church continued steady on its path of custom and ritual it always survived? Then why now?
"If I may say, Your Eminence, you are just learning our ways, how we function, how we oversee our canon, our liturgy."
"I can assure you, my dear Ludvik, I've been here long enough to know when it's time for change."
Change. Another alarm. Another word not to be tolerated.
"As you say, Your Eminence. I will summon the synod in accordance with current law, moto proprio Apostolica Sollicitudo, but it will take time."
"Time is one thing we don't have. It is to be convened by the month's end."
"But that is not enough —"
"That is all we have."
It had been a long time since Jarogniew had been silenced, even by a pope. He sat stunned.
"Our Church has lost its guidance, our world is in upheaval, authoritarian governments are challenging the rights of their people, the plague of poverty encompasses our children, and our flock knows not its direction. We are living in a new age, one in which the concept of family has been transformed and the definition of marriage redefined. No longer is it the joining of a man and woman but simply the uniting of two people. The demand for our Church representatives to perform same-sex marriages reverberates across the globe, gay couples ask to be blessed, gay priests choose to be recognized, and the deadly sins of child molestation that have cursed our houses need a response."
A sudden chill ran through the cardinal. With caution, he replied, "Of course, Holy Father. And has it been determined what that response will be?"
"Interpreting our faith in a new world will require input from Catholic leaders across the globe. It is time for a doctrine of inclusion."
Inclusion — a word that threatened the very position of power that Jarogniew had cultivated over the years. Democratization, equality for all — had these indulgences not resulted in today's chaos? Was it not the lack of authority that had occasioned the rise of terrorism, the vulnerability of nations, and the waywardness of their citizens?
"Does that mean, Holy Father, that you are questioning Church doctrine?"
"That is precisely what I am doing."
"If I may speak frankly, Holy Father, the papacy has traditionally relied on those of us here in the Vatican, men of long experience in Church matters, to provide such counsel."
"That must also change. Did not Pope John the Twenty-third say it was time to open the windows of the Church and let in the fresh air?"
"Of course, Your Eminence, but —"
"Did not Vatican Two teach that a pope is to share his papacy with bishops under our Principle of Collegiality?"
"Yes, but —"
The pope raised his hand and calmly continued.
"I've selected eight bishops, yourself included, with whom to meet before the full synod convenes, men of experience and repute, as you say, throughout the Catholic world to help guide us through this maze. Now when shall that meeting be?"
Jarogniew's response reflected how the past forewarned the future. He knew precisely what day was to be selected. "The sixteenth of July."
The pope smiled. "Perfect. Then we have two weeks to prepare."
The cardinal shifted uneasily in his chair. "Yes, Your Eminence, but to reinterpret our faith that casts aside tradition —"
Again, he was silenced. "We must deal with the world as it is, not as it was!"
This was a side of the pope Jarogniew was not aware of. It was all he could do to control his rising anger. "There will be opposition."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Vatican's Vault"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Barry Libin.
Excerpted by permission of Sunbury Press Inc..
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