Adrian D'Hage - The Omega scroll

‘They hate it when I rib them,’ he said to Yossi. ‘No sense of humour in the Vatican.’

‘Do you want to be a cardinal?’

‘Good grief no! Unless it was somewhere I could do some good. Too much powerbroking in the Vatican. I might as well become a politician.’

Giovanni replaced the receiver, a slightly stunned look on his face.

‘Well?’ Patrick asked, feigning ignorance.

‘Il Papa wants me back in Rome. He wants to make me a bishop,’ was all Giovanni could say.

‘First name terms at last, and about time. Congratulations, my boy. This calls for a drink.’

‘Congratulations, Giovanni, well done.’ Yossi stretched out his hand.

Giovanni was too surprised to resist Patrick’s renewed assault with the whiskey bottle. He realised now that the Spirit did indeed move in mysterious ways.

Mysterious things were also happening in a cave above Qumran, not far from the Dead Sea, as another few grains of sand trickled through a crack in a rock wall.

Milano

G iorgio Felici flexed his gloved fingers and steadied his breath as Professor Rosselli moved towards the lecturn. He moved the cross-hairs to the centre of his quarry’s chest.

‘Thank you, Dr Bassetti, a most interesting expose. Unfortunately,’ he said, turning back to the audience, ‘for the remainder of the evening you will have to put up with me, although I hope you will find the subject of “The lost civilisation of the Essenes, DNA and the Omega Scroll” intriguing.’

A murmur of expectation echoed through the theatre.

‘In 1962 Francis Crick shared the Nobel Prize for Medicine and Physiology with James Watson and Maurice Wilkins for the discovery of the molecular structure of DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, which contains the genetic code for life. In 1973, the Nobel Laureate wrote a book called Life Itself. In it he argues very persuasively that the DNA helix is so intricate that there was insufficient time on this planet for it to have evolved of its own accord and that it had to have been introduced to our planet from a higher civilisation.’

Professor Rosselli put up an overhead of the complex double helix of nucleotides made up of phosphates, smaller deoxyribose sugar molecules and the bases, adenine, thymine, cytosine and guanine.

‘As Crick describes them, DNA and its sister RNA are the dumb blondes of the biomolecular world. Exquisite to look at and good for reproduction, but unable to cope without the help of a myriad of complex proteins.’ Professor Rosselli was warming up.

Felici inhaled.

‘Indirectly supporting the theory of higher civilisation is the almost unimaginable number of galaxies and planets that make up the cosmos. In our own galaxy alone there are over 100 billion stars, and we need to multiply that billions of times over because there are at least 10 billion galaxies. The odds of planet Earth being the only inhabitable planet amongst billions of other galaxies must stretch the scepticism of even the most fundamental views,’ he said, looking at Walter C. Whittaker the Third. ‘You must now be wondering where the Essenes and the Omega Scroll fit-’

Felici exhaled, felt the first trigger pressure, held the cross-hairs on Rosselli’s chest and gently squeezed through the second pressure on the trigger.

Phut. Phut. No one heard the two shots from the projection room.

Someone in the audience gasped as Rosselli fell backwards, clutching his chest. Allegra saw the bloodstain blossoming on his shirt.

‘Antonio. No!’ Allegra rushed to his side as Professor Rosselli lay on the floor, struggling for life. ‘Call an ambulance,’ she commanded. ‘He’s been shot.’

Giorgio Felici closed the fire escape door and quickly descended to the car park.

Roma

Cardinal Lorenzo Petroni was in his office early. The timing for terminating Rosselli’s investigation into the origins of DNA and the Omega Scroll could not have been better. A massive pile-up of more than two hundred cars on the autostrada just south of Florence had killed eleven people and had pushed everything else off the front page. There had been one or two lines of speculation on the Omega Scroll, but as they had done over the death of the previous Pope, in the absence of any strong leads Petroni knew the media would lose interest.

Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. Cardinal Secretary of State, back in the Vatican in the second most powerful position in the whole of the Catholic Church. He was getting closer and closer to absolute power and the sexual jolt it gave him reminded him of the need to arrange for Carmela, the fallen but beautiful nun, to be appointed to his personal staff in the Holy See. Her guilt was his power, the perfect way to subdue a beautiful woman.

Petroni caressed the arms of his large leather chair, savouring his power. He made a mental note to have his desk raised, then moved to look over his notes on the Vatican Bank. It was time to remove the squeaky-clean Garibaldi. A new director for the bank was needed, one who could be controlled. Despite some meticulous research, there was not a whiff of scandal about this quiet, unassuming priest with a double degree in accounting and financial management. An hour later Petroni buzzed his secretary.

‘Ask Monsignor Garibaldi to come in.’

The double doors were opened and the Head of the Vatican Bank was shown in to the Secretary of State’s opulent and spacious suite.

‘Pasquale, how good to see you again. It’s been a very long time. Please, have a seat.’ Monsignor Garibaldi was shown one of three crimson couches, the soft approach.

‘Thank you, Eminence,’ Pasquale responded, nonplussed as to why he had been summoned on the Cardinal’s second day in office.

‘I was reading your report on the Latin American Bishop’s Conference in Quito. Very insightful, but I fear not much has changed.’

‘A sad indictment, Eminence.’ Pasquale was wary but, who knew, despite Cardinal Petroni’s reputation for ruthlessness, perhaps this Prince of the Church would finally give some support to the desperately poor people of South America. ‘I am preparing a paper as to how we might better use the resources of the Vatican Bank to sponsor the programs they need.’

Petroni already knew that. Given half a chance this bothersome humanist priest would no doubt suggest opening a branch of the bank in downtown Bogota.

‘I would find that very interesting, Pasquale, and when you have finished it I would be grateful if you could submit it directly to my office for my personal attention. Regrettably there are some in these corridors who might oppose your plans. They guard His Holiness’s vaults as if they were their own, non e vero! ’ Petroni’s diplomatic laugh held not a scintilla of mirth.

‘But of course, Eminence. I understand.’

‘Which brings me to the reason I’ve asked you to see me. I think we need a closer look at the problems in Latin America. An independent view. I wondered if you would be prepared to return, as one of my emissaries?’

Pasquale was taken aback and more wary than ever. He had been Head of the Vatican Bank for less than two months.

‘I don’t know what to say, Eminence. Would it be for long? The bank… There is so much to do…’ Pasquale had a sinking feeling that he was being comprehensively sidelined.

Petroni smiled his practised, reassuring smile. He had predicted Garibaldi’s reaction and he smoothly applied his rehearsed response.

‘You will forgive me, Pasquale, but for this task I need people who not only have an understanding in here,’ Petroni said, tapping his forehead, ‘but who really care, from here.’ Petroni clenched his fist and held it to his soutane. ‘Bankers are easier to find.’