The Psalter Read online

  “Because, my young colleague, I bring sad tidings.”

  Rashid was in a panic. “The imam, what did they do to him?”

  “Fear not, the imam is safe.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Sayyid placed his hand over Rashid’s. “Dear Rashid, Hassan is dead.”

  “How can that be?”

  “He was killed the night you escaped.”

  Rashid was caught off guard. Of all the things he might have suspected, he didn’t expect that. His comrade was gone. As reckless and worldly as he was, Hassan was the only person he could call a friend in Europe. Tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them before he was shamed by their rolling down his cheeks, like a soft schoolboy.

  “There’s no indignity in weeping for a friend, but you should be rejoicing, for Hassan died a martyr. Even now, he reaps his reward.”

  Rashid sniffed, “I hope Allah in his infinite goodness saved the most beautiful virgins for Hassan. He would be overjoyed and mock me for not joining him.”

  “Is that what you wish, to be one of the holy martyrs?”

  Rashid’s eyes grew cold like steel. “I want to avenge my friend.”

  “Perhaps you can do both.”

  “I’m not ready to be one of the ishtishhadi, a suicide bomber, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Of course not. The ishtishhadi are called by Allah to give the supreme sacrifice. Should you be summoned, you’ll know.”

  Rashid nodded, but he knew it wasn’t the whole truth. He had seen boys in the camps schooled by their teachers when he was being trained to serve the will of the imam. While they were taught the Qur’an, their lessons were filled with fanciful stories of the glorious istishhadi, lone warriors against the armies of the infidels and the apostate. It was forbidden, of course, to send anyone younger than fifteen; however, these boys were trained from the age of five to fulfill Allah’s divine plan, and they revered the martyrs.

  Yet Allah was not the one who chose them, but commanders of the resistance. All too often, Rashid witnessed unquestioning youths sent out to kill fellow Muslims in their own public marketplaces, where guilty blood intermingled with the virtuous. And was it not a sin to attack the innocent? Certainly women and children deserved protection and not bombs.

  The choice to be a martyr was supposed to be the ishtishhadi’s alone. However, Rashid had seen the brainwashing firsthand, peer pressure and chidings from the trainers. These poor boys enter the camps eager to learn the Prophet’s words. Their unwitting parents only want an education for their children to break the heavy burden of poverty. Yet when they pass through the gates, they’re doomed. “No, Sayyid, I don’t wish to martyr. I still have battles to fight. Nevertheless, Hassan deserves justice.”

  “We can avenge him without your needless death,” Sayyid said.

  “How?”

  “I know who killed him.”

  “Who?” Rashid leaned forward, piercing Sayyid’s eyes with his own.

  “An Italian colonel named Del Carlo and a priest.”

  “A priest?”

  “The one in the apartment who beat Hassan.”

  Rashid grew excited, focused. “He’s here in Paris. We can strike now.”

  “He’s not in Paris. He’s at the Vatican.”

  “Then I’m going home.”

  “Of course you are, and I can show you how to get to the priest and the colonel as well.”

  “Tell me?”

  “Certainly, but you must understand that this is a divine plan. First the mission, then the priest and the colonel. Allah shines His light on our path. It’s a sign.”

  “Allahu Akbar.”

  “Yes, Rashid, God is great and now is the time to make our move, my young friend.”

  34

  Saint Malachy

  Pascal folded the sheet of paper in half lengthwise, then the corners at one end in forty-five degree angles to fashion an aerodynamic nose. He added creases along the sides for wings and small bends at the rear for elevators. He flicked his wrist and launched his missile. The paper plane banked in a semicircle as it soared to its zenith, floated for an instant, then plummeted and crashed on Isabelle’s computer keyboard. She rolled her eyes. “Really, Papa, you’re acting like a child.” She crumpled the plane in her hand and tossed the wad into the waste bin.

  Pascal embellished a sigh. “There must be something for me to do?”

  “I’m going as fast as I can. Revise one of your translations. Surely they could use another glance.”

  “They’re perfect, more than perfect, ultra perfect. I’d rather stab myself in the eye than read them again.”

  “I need a couple of hours to finish this one. Why don’t you get a coffee?”

  “What’re you working on?” Pascal leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the screen.

  “How should I know? I can’t read Aramaic.”

  “Go to the top so I can figure out who claims to be writing.”

  “You’re driving me crazy.” Isabelle scrolled up the page. Faint words grew darker or lighter as she digitally painted, erased, and repainted the area.

  “Stop, that’s good enough,” Pascal said as his mind translated the Aramaic. “Jesus said to them, My wife…she will be able to be my disciple. An unheard-of Gospel of Jesus’ Wife!” He turned his head toward Isabelle and grinned. “Somebody’s not going to like this. Can’t you go a little faster?”

  “Not if you keep interrupting me. Get out for an hour or so and give me some peace. What did you say about a wife?”

  Pascal stood and stretched his wiry frame. He was about to reply when the door burst open.

  Two Swiss Guards in blue uniforms stormed into the room. The taller guard who wore captain’s bars barked, “Please, Madame, stop what you’re doing and move away from the computer.”

  Isabelle spun her chair. “Get out, we’re working.” She tried to sound stern, but her words squeaked and she wished she could say them over.

  “You hold no authority here, Madame Héber. Now if you please.”

  “On whose orders do you dare—”

  “On my orders.” A tall, gray-haired priest wearing a scarlet sash and zucchetto eased into the office. “We don’t need to be so military, Captain. I’m sure the Hébers will be cooperative.” Cardinal Keller challenged Pascal with a haughty glare.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Isabelle demanded.

  “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. You’re quite right to be offended. Please forgive our atrocious lack of manners, but we’re accustomed to working among men. We seldom host such lovely guests. I’m Cardinal Keller, the Defender of the Faith, and we’re taking possession of the Psalters and your computers, as well as everything in this room.”

  “You can’t. All our work.”

  “Don’t fret. You’ll be fairly compensated and yes, we can. Indeed, we can.”

  Blood rushed to Isabelle’s cheeks. “Who are you to give us orders?”

  “Isabelle, please,” Pascal interrupted their exchange. “The good cardinal is what we Jews called the Grand Inquisitor. He’s second only to the Pope. Vatican City is a sovereign country and he can do whatever he wishes. I believe he wishes to hand us our walking papers.”

  “An unfair sentiment, Pascal. We’ve simply decided that for security’s sake, we must protect the church’s treasures until we develop adequate precautions. I’m aware of the unfortunate incidents at your apartment and the French Archives. Of course, you should interpret nothing I’ve said as impugning either your credentials or integrity, which are illustrious.” Cardinal Keller looked at them imperiously, confident of his unquestionable authority.

  “Can’t we appeal?” Isabelle said. “Who are the we that made this decision?”

  The Grand Inquisitor narrowed his eyes. “The we is me. Now, if you please, the captain will escort you to the gate, and I hope you’ll accept the gratitude of the church for your contribution.”

  “What are you going to do with the Psalters, our tra
nslations? You can’t hide them away. They must be—”

  Cardinal Keller simply turned to the captain. “You have your orders. They may take nothing from the room.” Under his breath but loud enough to be heard, he added, “Search them before they leave.”

  “Efficiently German of you, Herr Cardinal,” Pascal said.

  The cardinal bowed and walked out.

  Romano struggled to reassure Isabelle as he sat next to her at the kitchen table in her small apartment while Pascal paced. “I tried, Isabelle. Keller won’t even see me.”

  “But all of your work, everything’s gone,” she said.

  “We can’t be sure.”

  “I think we can, Michael.” Pascal sounded disgusted.

  “I’ll appeal to His Holiness.”

  Stopping in his tracks, the professor faced Romano. “You can’t believe the Pope is unaware? More likely, the fan on Isabelle’s new-fangled computer scarcely stopped its infernal racket before he knew each and every word she uncovered. Trust me, the Pope knows more about what we’re doing than we do ourselves. Nothing will happen until he decides what to do with your discovery and issues some sort of Papal Bull or whatever you call it.” He waved his hand in the air pretentiously, as though he was delivering an oration. “If history is any judge, his pronouncement won’t happen in our lifetime. I told you Isabelle,” Pascal shook his finger at her. “We should have taken the Psalters to the Archives. Anywhere but here.”

  “Despite what you might think, the Pope is a just man, and I believe I can get an audience,” Romano said.

  “Is that so?” Pascal said. “Have you actually met him?”

  “No…I’m sure he doesn’t even know who I am, but my cardinal is a personal friend and one of his closest confidants. I’m certain he would speak on our behalf.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t hold my breath, and I’m not going to stay here as a tourist. My work is piling up in Paris.”

  “Drink your tea while it’s hot, Michael.” Cardinal Minissi patted him on the hand.

  “Eminence, he was heavy handed.” Romano protested to the Protector of the Vatican Library.

  Cardinal Minissi shook his head. “The old rascal thinks he can bully everyone, his Prussian upbringing. He should have spoken with me first, but I think he loves the drama.”

  “What can we do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We need to get the Psalters back,” Father Romano said.

  The cardinal shrugged. “It’s a setback I admit, but rather insignificant in the scheme of things.”

  “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Don’t you recall that I’m hiding a cache of Giovanni Psalters? We must simply be more discreet.”

  Romano arched his eyebrows. “Are you saying you would keep our secret from His Holiness?”

  “Of course not, but I don’t intend to tell Keller. I assure you.”

  “Don’t you think that’s how Cardinal Keller found out? His Holiness probably told him.”

  “Impossible.” Minissi shook his head.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I haven’t spoken with the Pope yet.”

  “Then who told him?”

  “Who can say? Keller has spies everywhere, but don’t waste your time worrying about him. You must carry on.”

  “Where will we work? Cardinal Keller banished the Hébers from the Vatican.”

  Minissi rubbed his chin. “That does present a problem. Keller has his nose all over.”

  “Only one option is left,” Romano said. “We must take the Psalters outside of the Vatican.”

  “Oh no, it’s far too dangerous. I can’t allow it.”

  “Eminence, we have no choice if we’re to discover what Giovanni has hidden. Otherwise Keller will confiscate everything.”

  “Listen to me.” Minissi leaned forward in his chair. “I realize how important it is for you to translate these books. However, your life cannot be jeopardized.”

  “I’m ready to risk my life for God’s word.”

  “I fear you will one day, Father Romano. It’s your destiny, only not today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can’t you guess? Don’t you realize who you are?”

  Romano stared at his newest mentor, feeling as though his skin was being peeled back to reveal his hidden self, stripped bare not of his clothes, but the mortal shell that shrouds the soul.

  “Didn’t you wonder why you were promoted so quickly, the youngest professor of paleography at one of our most prestigious universities, then custodes of the Archives? Now you’re co-Prefect of the Library. Look around. We’re all old men and you’re so young.”

  “I’ve worked hard for the church and I thought…”

  “You thought that stealing a book from the Library and having it stolen from you would get you another promotion? An interesting career move, but I wouldn’t recommend it to just anyone. But then you’re not just anyone, Peter Romano.” Cardinal Minissi emphasized the priest’s name as though the mere mention would help him come to some sort of epiphany.

  “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” Romano was perplexed.

  “Father, we brought you here to protect you.”

  “From what? More assassins?”

  “Assassins, spies in the church, from everything, even yourself, so you can take your rightful position when the time comes, and I believe the time is near.”

  Romano stared blankly at his boss. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Do you know the prophecies of the medieval priest, Maelhaedhoc Ơ Morgair?”

  Romano shook his head.

  “Drink your tea and I’ll tell you a story. You might be familiar with his Latin name, Father Malachy.”

  “I heard it from an unlikely source.”

  “He was an Irish priest in the twelfth century who had come to Rome to give an accounting of his diocese. Yet when he arrived, he fell into a trance and had a vision of the life of every pope right up to the last one, and he wrote it all down.”

  “There’s a list of every pope until the end of the papacy?”

  “One hundred and twelve of them,” Minissi nodded.

  “He lists them by name?”

  “Not their names, he called them by arcane titles like Religio depopulata or Fides intrepida. At first, no one understood what the designations meant. Over time, we began to understand that they described their lives or a significant event in their reign.”

  “People see what they want in a prophecy,” Romano said. “They’re so nebulous.”

  “Saint Malachy called Pope John Paul I from the half moon. He was pope for only a month? He was a wonderful man, loved books. Did you know his papacy began at the half moon and he died during the half moon?”

  “No.”

  “Or that His Holiness John Paul II was called, from the eclipse of the sun.”

  Now Romano’s interest was piqued. “Don’t tell me John Paul II was born during an eclipse.”

  “He died during one as well. Each pope had some event or personality trait linking him to the name Malachy had given.”

  “Where does the list end?” Romano asked.

  “The last pope will be the 268th since the Apostle Peter.”

  “But His Holiness is the 267th. Are you saying the next pope will be the last?”

  “That’s what Malachy said, but he says even more. He prophesied that during the reign of the last pope, Rome would be destroyed and our Judge would pass judgment upon his people.”

  “Really Eminence, this sounds like the ravings of medieval crackpots.”

  “Please, Father Romano. Malachy was no crackpot, as you put it. He was a brother and a Saint. Do you think Pope Pius X was a crackpot as well?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Pius predicted that The Pope will leave Rome and, in leaving the Vatican, he will pass over the dead bodies of his priests! Other modern popes had similar visions and they weren’t medieval crack
pots.”

  “Forgive my poor choice of words,” Romano said, chastened, “but what you’re saying is too fantastic to believe.”

  “You must. Do you remember the Miracle of Fatima?”

  “Every Catholic knows the story.”

  “Ten-year-old Lucia de Santos was visited by the Virgin Mother in 1917 and given three prophecies. She kept the last vision a secret. She wrote everything down and sealed the account in an envelope, saying the Virgin had given instructions that it not be opened until 1960. When the time came, Pope John read her vision and fainted. Why? Because Lucia repeats the same visions as these Popes and Malachy. I have a part of it right here in my drawer.” Cardinal Minissi pulled a page from his desk and wiped it smooth with his hand. He pointed with his finger at the words, mumbling as he scanned. “Here it is.”

  …the Holy Father passed through a big city half in ruins and half trembling with halting step, afflicted with pain and sorrow, he prayed for the souls of the corpses he met on his way; having reached the top of the mountain, on his knees at the foot of the big Cross he was killed by a group of soldiers who fired bullets and arrows at him…

  “Do you understand now why you must be protected?” Minissi stared intently at his protégé.

  Father Romano had no idea what his cardinal was driving at. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Because, Father, for one hundred and eleven popes, Saint Malachy gives no name, just a description. The only name on the list is the last pope, Petrus Romanus.”

  “So…?”

  “In English, you would say Peter the Roman or Peter Romano.”

  “But you’re saying I’m to be the next pope? Popes are elected by secret ballot in a conclave, not because they have the right name.”

  “I am well aware of how they’re chosen since I’m a member of the College of Cardinals who does the electing. We’ve been watching you for some time, or, rather, watching for you. The name Michael threw us off the trail.”

  Romano’s breathing quickened. “It can’t be. I’m not worthy to be Pope. I’m not sure if I’m good enough to be a priest.”

  Minnissi squeezed Romano’s shoulders and spoke to him in a soothing, paternal voice. “We all suffer from our shortcomings and failures. We’re Human.”