The Omega scroll Page 3

  ‘Your message sounded urgent?’ Giorgio ventured, coming straight to the point. Crooked white teeth showed in what was more a quick mechanical action than a smile. Petroni waited while the young waitress delivered their first course of scallops, sauteed to perfection in the finest olive oil and garlic, with just a touch of chilli, served on a bed of steamed spinach. The Cardinal was struck by the young girl’s face. Her olive skin was flawless, her hair as dark as her eyes.

  ‘ Vi verso il vino, Signor?’ she asked, proffering a bottle of Vigna Colonnello Barolo for Petroni’s approval. Petroni savoured the bouquet. A powerful wine from the Italian nebbiolo variety, it was recognised around the world as being comparable to Burgundy and to the clarets of Bordeaux. Lorenzo Petroni had long been accustomed to the perks of high office.

  ‘ Si. Bellissimo,’ he replied. ‘I hope you don’t mind the break in tradition, Giorgio?’

  ‘ Scusi?’ Giorgio asked, somewhat puzzled.

  ‘Red wine with seafood.’

  ‘Oh! Non importa. An unnecessary restriction.’

  ‘The contracts on Schweiker and Donelli are in place?’ Petroni asked quietly.

  ‘The journalist is under surveillance. If he gets too close to your past, he will be dealt with. The threat from the Cardinal is more difficult.’ Despite not yet having a solution for the troublesome Cardinal Patriarch of Venice, Giorgio smiled. He was enjoying the stickiness of the web that Petroni had woven around himself. As long as Petroni remained useful, and he might be very useful as Pope, Felici would continue to solve his problems, for a price.

  ‘We have another small problem, Giorgio.’

  Giorgio Felici smiled once more, bemused by the powerful Cardinal’s ability to give other people ownership of his problems. ‘Small’ invariably meant blowing someone’s brains out, but he said nothing.

  ‘There is some property that may have fallen into the wrong hands and the Church would be grateful for its recovery.’

  ‘That does seem a small request, Lorenzo. What sort of property?’

  ‘You have heard of the Dead Sea Scrolls, non e vero?’

  ‘ Naturalmente, but I thought they were international property?’

  ‘They are. The Catholic Church is cooperating with L’Ecole Biblique et Archeologique Francais, the French Biblical and Archaeological School in Jerusalem, as well as the Rockefeller Museum where these scrolls are rightfully housed for translation.’

  Felici looked sceptical.

  ‘Are you a good Catholic, Giorgio?’ Petroni asked. It was a time-honoured attack. No matter how unscrupulous the target, there was always that small doubt of how one might fare in the afterlife. The theology of fear. It was something the Vatican had practised for centuries.

  ‘But of course.’ The uneven teeth flashed.

  ‘Then you would understand that anything that impinges on the Faith is properly in the domain of the Holy Father.’

  ‘And this clearly impinges on the Faith,’ Felici mused cynically. ‘So who might have these wrong hands?’

  Petroni unzipped his soft leather briefcase. Normally it contained crimson files with gold Papal coats of arms emblazoned on the centre of the covers, but the file he handed Giorgio Felici was dun coloured. When it suited, no matter what the target, Petroni was a master of the smallest details of indifference.

  ‘Some further information on Dr Allegra Bassetti, the one you already have under surveillance for us in the Middle East.’ Other than a photograph and the bare details of her scholarship, Petroni had avoided providing Felici with too much background information on the bothersome ex-nun. The fewer people that connected her with the Omega Scroll the better, but circumstances had now changed dramatically and the wily little Sicilian would have to be brought into the loop.

  ‘She used to belong to one of our convents but regrettably she has now succumbed to a life outside the Church. She and her companion, the Israeli archaeologist Dr David Kaufmann, are in possession of a Dead Sea Scroll that belongs in the Rockefeller Museum. We would, of course, pay handsomely for its return.’

  ‘What is her background?’ Felici asked. Originally he had been happy to organise surveillance on the Italian woman without too many questions. It had been money for old rope, but now he was more than a little intrigued as to why a Prince of the Church might have a personal interest in eliminating an ex-nun and recovering an ancient parchment.

  ‘Southern Italy. A little place called Tricarico. Poor farmers mostly. Decent law-abiding people, although clearly there are exceptions.’ Lorenzo sniffed pointedly. ‘After we accepted her into the town’s convent we made the mistake of sending her to the State University in Milano to further her education, which is where she went off the rails.’

  ‘Don’t you normally send your priests and nuns to Catholic Universities?’

  ‘Normally yes, but against my advice the Holy Father decided that the Church should better understand the youth in a secular world, and Bassetti was part of the pilot program.’

  ‘She is a doctor?’

  ‘Chemistry. After she resigned from her Order she took a research doctorate in applied archaeological DNA. The details are in her dossier,’ he said, pointing to the file. ‘Kaufmann’s details are in there, too.’

  ‘Ah yes, from the reports we are getting they seem to spend a lot of time together. Any relation to Professor Yossi Kaufmann, the Israeli mathematician?’

  ‘His son.’

  Conversation was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of the main course. Petroni had ordered his favourite dish, bucatini all’Amatriciana; thin hollow tubes of pasta with a sauce of tomato, garlic and ham. This time it was delivered by a young boy who could not have been more than sixteen. Had the other patrons been remotely interested it would not have escaped their attention that Petroni gave the boy more than a casual look as he topped up the wine glasses and then quietly withdrew.

  ‘Does the fact that he is Professor Kaufmann’s son matter?’ Petroni probed, suddenly wary of how much P3 might know about Professor Kaufmann and the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  ‘It might,’ Giorgio responded. ‘The recovery of anything in the Middle East these days is not without difficulty, Lorenzo, and this David Kaufmann is obviously very well connected. His father is not only a world-famous mathematician and archaeologist, he is a General in the Israeli Defense Force Reserves and an honorary Director of the Shrine of the Book. And you are no doubt aware that he is also running for Prime Minister.’

  Cardinal Petroni reflected that Giorgio Felici was extraordinarily well briefed. He said nothing.

  ‘It might be quite an expensive operation, Lorenzo.’ Again, the quick, mechanical flash of uneven white teeth.

  Petroni had expected nothing less. On previous occasions when it had been necessary for someone to meet with an accident, Giorgio Felici had never come cheaply, but he was the best in the business and the protection of the Holy Church demanded nothing less. Whatever it took, the Vatican Bank would pay.

  ‘It is essential that we recover this scroll quickly,’ Petroni replied, leaving the issue of Felici’s expenses and undoubted profit unanswered. ‘I want you to see to it personally.’

  ‘As difficult as that might be, we are not without our contacts, Lorenzo, and for a price I am prepared to go to the Middle East and oversee the operation.’ Giorgio Felici didn’t elaborate but he knew that terrorist groups had a constant need for funds to buy expensive arms and ammunition. Even a group like Hamas could be distracted from blowing up buses for long enough if the price tag was sufficiently attractive. ‘But it raises another issue.’

  Petroni was immediately on guard, although he was careful not to show it. ‘Oh?’ he said offhandedly.

  ‘My colleagues in P3 have been considering offering you membership. Again,’ Felici said pointedly. ‘We met last night and that offer is now confirmed and I’m very happy to be the one to pass on their decision. I’m sure there will be just as many benefits for you as there might be for us,’ Felici opined casual
ly.

  ‘Membership of P3 is out of the question,’ Petroni responded, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘Freemasonry has long been banned by the Vatican. Have you forgotten 1978?’

  ‘You will not be surprised to learn, Lorenzo,’ Giorgio continued quietly, ignoring Petroni’s protest, ‘that once again we count amongst our members some of the most influential men in Italy and the United States. But perhaps you would be surprised to know that several of them are cardinals?’

  Petroni was not surprised at all. He had a very good idea of who was on Felici’s list. That sort of information could be valuable currency should a cardinal or bishop be reluctant to take a particular direction.

  ‘That does surprise me, Giorgio,’ he said. ‘You must have been very persuasive.’

  ‘We have our means, my friend. I won’t divulge any names of course, but let me give you an example. One or two of our members are quite prominent in the Comune di Roma. It is perfectly normal for a very senior cardinal to have a luxury apartment outside the Vatican. But,’ Giorgio added pointedly, ‘if, come si dice – how do you say? – the “other arrangements” were known publicly there might be some very awkward questions.’ For once Giorgio Felici’s mechanical smile held a touch of mirth. Like a fisherman who had just hooked a very large fish.

  Petroni’s lips compressed into a thin line as he felt a rush of cold, hard anger. He eyed his adversary with barely disguised contempt.

  ‘Clearly I have been careless.’

  ‘Not really,’ Giorgio replied. ‘It’s just that P3 has very good intelligence. Keeping track of someone as important as you is nothing personal, Lorenzo, purely business. Besides, we’re all men of the world, and look on the bright side: when it comes to dealing with rivals for the Papacy, it is much better to have P3 backing you than the other way round.’

  Cardinal Petroni had chosen his apartment with the same meticulous care he had chosen the restaurant. Via del Governo Vecchio was close, but across the Tiber and far enough away from the Vatican. It was fashionable, but eclectic. On one side, the narrow twists and turns housed expensive and richly decorated apartments and exclusive jewellery salons and designer fashion stores. On the other, there was anything from Abbey’s, the Irish pub, to a servizio for motor scooters. Anonymity, but apparently, not anonymous enough.

  Lorenzo Petroni’s housekeeper was petite with dark shining hair. Quiet but determined, Carmela was used to his odd hours and she was waiting for him. He would need to leave before the grey winter dawn reached the dome of St Peter’s, but that thought quickly evaporated. Carmela caressed Lorenzo gently with her tongue until he was wet and hard. She had a way of using the forbidden ‘ il preservativo ’ to heighten Lorenzo’s arousal and without losing the moment she fondled him as she reached for the already prepared condom in the bedside drawer. She murmured softly and took him inside her.

  Back in his own apartment Giorgio Felici punched a code into the scrambler in his study and dialled a number for Hamas in the Gaza Strip.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Langley, Virginia

  M ike McKinnon closed the door to his office, put the file marked ‘Top Secret – Special Atomic Demolition Munitions’ on his desk and walked to the window of his office that overlooked the lawns and the fishpond of the New Headquarters courtyard in the CIA’s complex.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. ‘The world is going fucking mad!’ Osama bin Laden and God knows how many of his mad mullahs had the means to destroy Western civilisation, and now some equally wacky Bible basher from his own side had enough pull with the White House to have the President concerned about the recovery of a mythical Dead Sea Scroll. Hans Christian Andersen had moved into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he thought ruefully. Religion had a lot to answer for, and so did the politicians. At least his latest assignment would give him the opportunity to get out of Washington for a while. It had been years since he’d been to Jerusalem and apart from the constant bombings, neither the city nor his favourite hotel, the American Colony, would have changed. He made a mental note to look up his old buddy Tom Schweiker. They had got to know each other well during the years Mike had been posted to the Middle East, and Schweiker owed him one. After all, if it hadn’t been for him carrying on about a Dead Sea Scroll on CCN the White House knickers would still be in reasonable order. If there was anything to this scroll, he mused, journalists were often a good source of intelligence, particularly those of Schweiker’s calibre.

  Mike McKinnon rubbed his eyes wearily and went back to his desk. Since the arrival of the new Director, the Central Intelligence Agency had been under siege and his own boss, the head of the powerful and covert Operations Division, had resigned. At fifty-four, Mike had also thought about chucking it in. With the wreckage of a couple of marriages well behind him, and being ruggedly fit and healthy with no ties, perhaps it was time to enjoy life. Yet he had decided to stay on, armed with the knowledge that this time the human race seemed to be on the brink of destruction. He reached for the top file in his tray. Unusually for Langley, it was a buff-coloured folder marked ‘Unclassified,’ containing a summary of Osama bin Laden’s speeches and remarks, aired on the Arab channel Al-Jazeerah as well as through major Western media outlets. Praise be to God, who says, ‘O Prophet, strive hard against the unbelievers and be firm against them. Their abode is hell – an evil refuge indeed…’ I tell you the American, and your hypocritical allies, we will continue to fight you… You attacked us in Somalia; you supported the Russian atrocities against us in Chechnya; the Indian oppression against us in Kashmir; and the Jewish aggression against us in Lebanon… It is the Muslims who are the inheritors of Moses (peace be unto him) and we are the inheritors of the real Torah that has not been changed. Muslims believe in all the prophets, including Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah be upon them all)… If we are attacked, we have the right to attack back… It is the duty of Muslims to prepare as much force as possible to terrorise the enemies of God, and I thank God for enabling me to do so.

  Mike McKinnon felt a chill run down his spine. The last statement had been issued under the heading ‘The Nuclear Bomb of Islam’. McKinnon had no doubt that bin Laden had not only gone nuclear, he planned to attack at the first opportunity. At the top of his list were the United States of America and her two principal allies, Britain and Australia.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jerusalem

  T he taxi dropped Dr David Kaufmann on the busy corner of King George V Street and Ha Histradrut. Just over six foot, olive-skinned, with blue eyes and thick, black curly hair, he strolled casually through the Friday night crowd and into Numero Venti, which took its name from nothing more imaginative than the street number. The small, intimate restaurant had not changed since the British mandate over seventy years before.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Kaufmann. Your table is waiting. I trust you’ve had a pleasant week?’

  ‘Not bad thanks, Elie. It’s been a pretty long one, so it’s good to have a night off.’

  The wizened old waiter with the large hooked nose smiled. His smile held genuine warmth, his old grey eyes matching the colour of his receding curly hair.

  ‘Your colleague, Dr Bassetti. She is coming later?’ Elie asked, pulling out a chair.

  ‘At the hairdresser’s,’ David said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Something from the bar while you’re waiting?’

  ‘A beer thanks, Elie.’ David stretched his long legs under the table and smiled to himself. Elie had been the head waiter for as long as David had been coming to Numero Venti and he never failed to make you feel as if you were the most important person in the restaurant. David had introduced Allegra on a very busy night and the next time they had come in Elie had greeted her as if he’d known her for years. He took the first mouthful of his favourite Maccabee lager and looked around. The restaurant was beginning to fill up. Over at the bar one or two members of the Knesset, as well as the odd prominent businessman, were in animated conversation
. David glanced casually at the solidly built Arab reading at a table in one corner.

  ‘Shalom!’ The couple at the next table clinked their glasses. A toast of ‘peace’ in a land that had known only centuries of bloodshed and war. Always lurking behind the laughter and the camaraderie was a noise of a very different kind; the shattering sound of death and destruction at the hands of Hamas and the Palestinian Arabs.

  Yusef Sartawi made it look as if he was engrossed in his book. The lone Arab at the corner table worked with Cohatek, the Israeli events company, but in reality he had a far more sinister role, of which neither Mossad nor the CIA was yet aware. He was now one of Hamas’s most experienced operations planners. It had been over twenty-five years since the Israelis had murdered his family in the small village of Deir Azun. The nightmares were still with him.

  Were it not for the large sum of money being offered, Dr Allegra Bassetti would not normally have interested Hamas, especially given the curious origin of the contract. It had come from somewhere high up in the Vatican, but if the Christians wanted their own killed that was their business. What had caught his attention was the target’s partner, Dr David Kaufmann, the son of Professor Yossi Kaufmann. Both men were already on the Hamas target list. It was Hamas policy to become thoroughly familiar with the target of an assassination and Yusef Sartawi’s planning was always meticulous. Tonight’s reconnaissance was just the first step.

  David Kaufmann took another sip of beer and reflected on Allegra’s breakthrough. Her DNA analysis had been nothing short of outstanding, but they were still only halfway through sorting the fragments. David glanced towards the door where Elie was taking Allegra’s coat. Allegra was slender with round, dark brown eyes and an oval face. In the lab Allegra normally wore her hair up, but tonight she had let it tumble to her shoulders, black and glistening in the light of the restaurant.