The Omega scroll Read online

  ‘You and I have kept a Christian President in the White House, and Islam will never triumph!’ Jerry Buffett paused to allow his emphasis to take effect. ‘Islam will never triumph over Christianity!’

  The audience cheered wildly, some of them stamping their feet.

  ‘Islam is an evil religion!’ Buffett thundered. ‘God only withdrew His support from our people on September 11 because we turned our backs on Him! Islamic terrorism is a message from God! It is flourishing because we no longer allow the commandments in our courthouses. Our schools no longer have prayers or Bible readings, that’s why God has given up on America because we’ve given up on Him!’ Many in the audience nodded in agreement.

  ‘God Almighty is no longer protecting America because Americans are obsessed with wealth, sex and drugs.’ Jerry Buffett began to pace up and down the huge stage. ‘Homosexuality is an abomination in the sight of the Lord, yet some of us want to legalise same sex marriages,’ Buffett stormed.

  Back at the lecturn he took his Bible in his right hand. ‘The husband is in charge of his wife,’ he said softly, ‘just as Christ is in charge of his Church. It’s right here in the book. And make no mistake,’ he continued, his voice rising again as he clenched his other hand into a fist, ‘just as the Almighty has sent the plague of AIDS against homosexuals, so there will be more terrorist attacks by the Muslims unless we turn back to the Lord!’

  Jerry Buffett was greeted with another round of applause that rumbled loudly into the Atlanta night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Roma

  P etroni leaned his tall, thin frame back into his leather chair. Mission accomplished. The precedent for resignation was now out in the public domain; the softening-up process was under way. Now, as long as Cardinal Donelli, the journalist and the woman could be kept out of the equation and the Omega Scroll safely recovered, anything might be possible. After all, he reasoned with himself, it was not the first time his beloved Church had needed protection from those who might seek to question her authority. Which brought him to the reaction of the other cardinals and any possible questioning of his own authority. Seeking resignation was a risky strategy but the Holy Father might go on for quite a time yet, and with each passing year Petroni’s chances of getting his hands on the Keys to St Peter were correspondingly diminished. Younger cardinals were threatening to overtake him.

  Cardinal Petroni unlocked the top drawer of his desk and took out a much-thumbed black leather book. Divided into sections for cardinals, archbishops and bishops, it showed their dates of retirements, dates of promotion and ages. Chances for further promotion were assessed under Petroni’s own system of stars, from a low of one to the more threatening four star rating and, in rare cases, five. Awarded according to competence, standing in the wider Church, mentors, age and a host of other factors that would have done justice to a bookmaker’s form guide. By his own reckoning Petroni had three main rivals.

  The first two on his list had been given five stars. Cardinal Thuku, the charismatic leader from Kenya, and Cardinal Medici, the noted Liberation theologian from Ecuador. The strategy to defeat the two Third World candidates from Kenya and Ecuador would have to be carefully managed, he mused, but he’d already developed a suitable line: ‘In due course, there would certainly be a Pope chosen from one of the many Third World candidates, but perhaps not yet.’ Cardinal Petroni was reinforcing this line at every opportunity. Closer to home, Cardinal Giovanni Donelli, the recently installed Patriarch of Venice and the youngest of the College of Cardinals by several years, was now a clear and present danger. Originally Petroni had countered Donelli by quietly reminding his cardinal colleagues that a long Papacy carried enormous risks if the candidate didn’t turn out as expected, but Donelli’s investigation into the Vatican Bank’s sale of shares in a bank in the Veneto had forced a dramatic change in Petroni’s approach.

  He and Giovanni Donelli had worked together once. In 1978 when Petroni had been an archbishop in the Vatican and Giovanni Donelli was private secretary to Pope John Paul I. Back then the ruthlessly ambitious Archbishop Petroni had identified the brilliant young priest as a potential threat and after John Paul I mysteriously died after only thirty-three days in office, Petroni had sidelined his young rival. As a result, Cardinal Petroni reasoned that Donelli would not be well enough known by others in the College of Cardinals and he had left his name circled in his black book as ‘B-list at best’. It had been a crucial mistake that would now be rectified.

  Petroni took a deep breath. It was time to set the wheels of his own destiny in motion. He pushed the preset button for the Papal Physician.

  ‘Vincenzo. Come stai? ’

  ‘Bene, grazie, e tu?’

  ‘ Molto bene, grazie. I am arranging for the Curial Cardinals to meet in the Borgia Chamber tomorrow night. I think it is time they were given a frank assessment of the Papal condition.’ Cardinal Petroni came straight to the point. Small talk was not his long suit. ‘I would be grateful if you could provide such a briefing?’

  ‘But of course, Eminence.’ Professor Vincenzo Martines politely stuck with protocol. The Papal Physician had long ago concluded he had no desire to be on anything other than professional terms with the current Secretary of State.

  ‘ Eccellente. I will send a car at seven. That will give us time to, shall we say, plan our approach. Fino ad allora. Until then.’

  The Papal Physician put down the phone and stared at it. For a long time now the Pope’s health had not been his only concern in the Vatican. Professor Martines was an eminent physician, but he also had an additional qualification in psychiatry. Not for the first time Professor Martines wondered whether the Cardinal Secretary of State was fit for high office. There was a long list of symptoms: egocentric and grandiose; deceitful and manipulative; a lack of remorse or guilt; shallow emotions; demanding automatic compliance with expectations; a need for excitement; and requiring excessive admiration. Martines wondered if his diagnosis was accurate, or was it something even deeper, even more sinister. Martines also wondered if there might have been problems in Petroni’s childhood. Had he been privy to the Cardinal’s private life, the Papal Physician’s innermost fears and diagnosis would have been confirmed.

  On the other side of the Tiber Cardinal Petroni buzzed to summon his private secretary, Father Thomas. Having sown the seed of resignation, his planned meeting with the Curial Cardinals could not be delayed any longer. It would be important to catch them off guard. Almost immediately there was a knock on the heavy double doors of his office.

  ‘ Avanti.’

  Father Andrew Thomas was a quiet man in his early thirties with a reputation for ruthless efficiency. ‘Yes, Eminence?’ he inquired.

  ‘How many of the Curial Cardinals are away from Rome?’

  ‘As far as I know, Eminence, all of them are here.’

  ‘ Eccellente. We will not require more than one briefing. I’ve asked Professor Martines to come and see me tomorrow night. Give each of the cardinals my compliments and ask them if they would join us in the Borgia Chamber at eight.’

  ‘Certainly, Eminence.’

  ‘Apologise for the inconvenience, Father Thomas, and tell them that the Papal Physician is providing a personal assessment on the Holy Father’s condition. Something that I note CCN has already done for us.’ Petroni smiled thinly. ‘I think you will find they will all want to be there.’

  ‘Certainly, Eminence. Will there be anything else?’

  ‘Just the usual, have the driver on stand-by to pick me up at nine this evening.’

  ‘Of course, Eminence.’ Father Thomas withdrew quietly and closed the double doors behind him, not questioning why such a senior member of the Curia ordered his car late every second Monday.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Washington

  M ike McKinnon, the CIA’s expert on the missing Russian ‘nuclear suitcase bombs’, took one of the leather adviser’s chairs along the panelled wall of the Situation Room that was located downstair
s from the Oval Office in the basement of the West Wing. A veteran of thirty-five years, Mike McKinnon had spent his early career in the Middle East acquiring a background in Arabic and Islam, before moving on to Soviet East Europe. McKinnon’s face was rugged and pockmarked, his dark hair closely cropped. At 5 foot 10 inches, he tipped the scales at a fit 198 pounds, unchanged from when he was on his last field assignment in Bosnia Herzegovina. Now, much to his chagrin, he was back at a desk in the Directorate of Operations at Langley.

  McKinnon nodded to the new Director of Central Intelligence, who was already seated at the conference table, along with the Secretary of State, the National Security Adviser, the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary for Homeland Security and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. One of the last to arrive was the Vice President and they all stood as the President entered the room.

  This was not the first time Mike McKinnon had been called to the White House Situation Room. He quietly scanned his notes while the President was brought up to date with Iraq, along with the growing nuclear threats emanating from Iran and North Korea. McKinnon had heard it all before.

  ‘Special atomic demolition munitions?’ the President inquired, glancing at the next item on the agenda.

  ‘Nuclear suitcase bombs, Mr President,’ the Director of Central Intelligence responded. ‘Officer McKinnon you’ve met,’ he added, nodding towards Mike.

  ‘Mr President,’ Mike began, ‘this morning’s brief covers the latest intelligence reporting on the likely whereabouts of some of the nuclear suitcase bombs that were manufactured in the Soviet Union. Several years ago, Alexander Lebed, Boris Yeltsin’s Security Secretary, admitted that eighty-four out of 132 nuclear suitcases produced in the nineties were missing. We have reason to believe that al-Qaeda have acquired several of these bombs and at least five of them are now in the United States. There may be two others: one in the United Kingdom and one in Australia.’

  ‘Where the hell did they get hold of those?’ the President demanded.

  Mike McKinnon maintained his passive expression. ‘As you are aware, Mr President, Osama bin Laden has considerable financial backing. After the break-up of the Soviet Union in 1991 several Russian officers, some of whom hadn’t been paid for months, turned to the black market.’

  ‘Several of these bombs turned up in 1994,’ the Secretary of State confirmed. ‘The leader of the Chechen separatists, Jokhar Dudayev, put some of them on the market when we refused to recognise Chechnya’s independence.’

  ‘So how did they get them into the United States?’ the President asked.

  ‘They may have been here already,’ Mike answered.

  The President looked stunned.

  ‘We have reason to believe that Soviet agents smuggled some of them in during the Cold War and pre-positioned them. Others may have been brought in more recently, probably by sea.’

  ‘How is this possible?’ the President asked angrily, looking at the new Secretary for Homeland Security.

  ‘As I’m sure the Secretary for Homeland Security is aware,’ Mike McKinnon continued calmly, ‘up until recently, less than 5 per cent of containers that came into this country were inspected.’

  The Secretary for Homeland Security nodded in agreement.

  ‘We should be able to do a lot better than that,’ the President insisted.

  The Secretary for Homeland Security took his cue. ‘The International Shipping and Port Security Code will help, Mr President, but we have over fifteen thousand ships docking in this country every day. We are not the only Western country facing this problem. In Australia last year, nineteen out of every twenty containers moved into that country without inspection, and a similar situation has existed in the United Kingdom.’

  The President grunted with exasperation. ‘What sort of damage can one of these suitcase bombs do?’ he asked.

  ‘It depends on how and where they set them off, Mr President,’ McKinnon answered. ‘The preferred method of delivery would be an airburst from a light aircraft.’

  ‘Why not on the ground?’ the Secretary of Defense demanded.

  ‘Buildings tend to minimise the blast and thermal effect of a nuclear explosion,’ Mike explained patiently. ‘Although in the case of a ground burst the long-term casualties would be higher due to a more concentrated irradiated fallout. But terrorists tend to look to the more dramatic short-term effect and for that reason I am suggesting that a nuclear suicide attack from a light plane would be their preferred option.’

  ‘Casualties?’ the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs asked.

  ‘Even a one kiloton nuclear blast, which is the equivalent of the smallest suitcase, is no ordinary bomb. The intense heat of a nuclear fireball reaches about ten million degrees. If you want a comparison, the September 11 fireball was of the order of four to five thousand degrees.’

  The President exchanged glances with his National Security Adviser.

  ‘In New York, London or Sydney, for example, anything within 500 feet will be vaporised. Within 1500 feet from ground zero metal will melt. The blast will generate winds of over 600 miles an hour and everything out to the 1800 feet range and beyond will be destroyed. In the big cities there will be up to a quarter of a million dead on the first day, and up to a million within two weeks.’

  Mike McKinnon paused to let his analysis sink in. He could sense his new Director looking at him, but he avoided glancing in his direction. The President had appointed the Congressman to head the CIA and within weeks several key Directors had resigned. A flash of bitterness crept into his thoughts. Politicians. Most of them had never seen a shot fired in anger and very few of them comprehended the Islamic mind. The Coalition’s policy in the Middle East and Iraq had been an unmitigated disaster, fanning the flames of Arab and Islamic hatred around the world. Now those same ‘backward Muslims’ had the means to strike a mortal blow, a blow from which the United States and her allies might never recover.

  ‘Over the ensuing days,’ Mike continued, ‘many hundreds of thousands more will die of radiation poisoning and burns. New York, London, Sydney or any other city that is attacked will be uninhabitable for years. Unless you have any further questions, Mr President, that concludes the brief.’

  The President shook his head and leaned toward his Director of Central Intelligence. ‘McKinnon’s background includes the Middle East and Islam?’

  The Director nodded.

  ‘Good. I’d like to see you both in the Oval Office after the briefing.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Roma

  T he Swiss guard on Saint Anne’s Gate snapped to attention and saluted as the Secretary of State’s black Volvo slipped quietly out of the Vatican. Petroni, dressed in civilian clothes and seated in the back, waved dismissively. Rome had come to life and the traffic was heavy as the car headed into the tunnel under the Tiber and wound its way along the Lungotevere Tor di Nona on the east bank. Over on the west bank the grisly Castel Sant’Angelo maintained a silent vigil over the river, the floodlights playing eerily on the battlements that for centuries had protected her archers and ancient catapults. Within the castle’s grim walls, countless atrocities had been committed in the name of Christ – Pope John X had been smothered, Benedict VI had been strangled and John XIV poisoned. Tonight the Castel Sant’Angelo looked no less forbidding, but if there was a parallel between earlier atrocities and the ones Cardinal Petroni was now contemplating, it was a thought that did not occur to the urbane Secretary of State.

  The car drove on towards the ancient part of the city. Towards the Colosseum that for nearly two thousand years had stood testament to the gory history of Rome. Past the Roman Forum and the ruins of the triumphal arches and the temples to the gods where at the height of the Roman Empire the marble pavements and steps were as busy as any modern city. Past the Circus Maximus that was now a public park. And finally, up the hill to an old Roman house on the Piazza del Tempio di Diana. Apuleius, Petroni’s choice of restaurant, had been deliberate. The food and wine were excelle
nt, but more importantly it was small and relatively out of the way. Once home to an influential first-century Roman family, its decor had not changed much in the intervening millennia. Red marble pillars supported the low roof and the remains of marble tablets decorated the frescoed walls. The ancient fireplace was intact and Roman pottery had been tastefully added to the small alcoves in the two living rooms in which guests could now choose to sit.

  Cardinal Petroni had reserved a table that was partly shielded from the main areas by an old leather screen. Just in case. Although Petroni was confident he was unlikely to be recognised by anyone other than Giorgio Felici, who was already seated at the table.

  ‘ Buonasera, Eminence.’

  ‘No titles please,’ Petroni replied, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice.

  ‘ Mi dispiace. Forgive me,’ Felici said, instant understanding combining with the shiftiness of his green eyes.

  Giorgio Felici had been raised in the Sicilian hillside town of Corleone. At a young age he had moved to Palermo when the Felici family had taken a stake in the cattle and heroin trade. More than one member of the competing Bontate and Buscetta families had met a grisly death at the hands of the young Giorgio as the Felici family gradually took control. It was a skill he still practised with ruthless efficiency. When the business expanded the family needed a safe means of laundering the proceeds and Giorgio had moved into the banking sector. Short, fit and muscled, with smooth black hair and tanned skin, he was immaculately dressed in an expensive cream suit. Giorgio Felici had become feared around the corridors of La Borsa di Milano, but his contacts in merchant banking were not of interest to Petroni tonight. Giorgio Felici had also risen to be Grand Master of Propaganda Tre or P3, the successor to P2, the infamous secret Freemason’s Lodge of the 1970s. Like its predecessor, P3 boasted among its members Italian cabinet ministers and judges, the head of Italy’s financial police, several of Italy’s top bankers, industrialists and media executives, as well as serving and retired armed forces chiefs and two of the secret service chiefs. P3’s tentacles stretched into the most influential Mafia families in Italy and the United States, into the CIA and the FBI, and, more importantly for Petroni, into one of the terrorist groups in Israel’s Occupied Territories.