Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

The wind picked up a sharp chill, but the cardinal barely noticed. In a week’s time he would be the Holy Father of the Roman Catholic Church, and the world would never be the same.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, snapping him out of the gratifying trance. It was Bishop Giordano. He stood there, mouth agape.

“Yes?” asked Cardinal Polletto.

“Cardinal, we’ve just received word from Father Ortega. He reports that Robert Veil and his partner just left Alison Napier’s hotel. They know where we’re keeping Samuel, and are going to try and rescue the child.”

Cardinal Polletto was mildly impressed. “That can be handled. Tell Father Ortega to await my instructions.”

“Yes, Cardinal, but there’s more,” said Bishop. Cardinal Polletto stared. His eyes gave the nervous bishop permission to continue. The bishop’s hand quivered. “We’ve heard from The Black Pope. He’s on his way to Bracciano. He’ll be here any moment.” Cardinal Polletto’s body stiffened. The Black Pope, the man who The Holy Father himself confessed his sins to, led a group more powerful than The Order of Asmodeus, and was head of The Order’s counsel. Throughout history, the Black Pope had a hand in some of the world’s most earth shattering events, giving final permission to bomb Hiroshima, and for President John F. Kennedy to be assassinated.

Cardinal Polletto took a deep breath to steady himself, placed a hand on Bishop Giordano’s shoulder, then headed for the castle.

C ardinal Polletto sat alone in Caesars Hall, mustering his strength.

He’d only met with the Black Pope on two other occasions. First, when he was chosen to head The Order’s day to day operations, and last, just after Samuel was kidnapped by the CIA. Each time, the cardinal felt as though a part of his soul had been drained away. He was used to dealing with the world’s most powerful men, many more than his equal. But he feared the Black Pope, a man who could end his life, or elevate him to head the Vatican, with barely a whisper.

The cardinal poured himself a glass of wine, but didn’t immediately drink it. He held the glass up and watched the dull light from a yellow bulb, dance and sparkle inside the fermented grape. He wanted desperately to put the ritual behind him. Success meant his ascension to the office of Holy Pontiff, failure meant something worse than death, right before they took his life.

Cardinal Polletto finally took a long sip of wine, then another. He closed his eyes and let the alcohol coarse through his veins, soothing and comforting. His hands steadied with his resolve. When his eyes opened he felt stronger, self-assured.

Bishop Giordano entered, sweating profusely, wringing his hands.

“Cardinal, he’s here,” he said.

Cardinal Polletto stood. “Good, I’ll be right down.” Bishop Giordano shifted uncomfortably, shivering as though he’d just stepped out of the ice-cold lake. “I’m sorry, Cardinal, but he said for you to wait here. He’ll be up just as soon as finishes a few phone calls from the car.”

The cardinal resumed his seat. “Fine, bring up a bottle of Bordeaux, the Chateau Petrus.”

The bishop left and returned in record time. He waited nervously while Cardinal Polletto opened the bottle to aerate the wine. “You may be excused,” he finally told the bishop, after letting him stew.

Bishop Giordano bowed multiple times as he backed out of the room, effusive and obviously relieved. Cardinal Polletto sat for forty-five minutes before hearing someone slowly ascend the stairs. He stood behind the desk, hands behind his back.

From around the corner, an old man with deep set black eyes, silvery gray hair, a soothing, kind countenance, and grandfatherly smile, floated inside the room, two large, wide shouldered aides in tow. Cardinal Polletto quickly moved around the desk, fell to one knee, and kissed the large gold and black onyx ring on the Black Pope’s left ring finger.

“Welcome, Your Eminence. It’s an unexpected, but gracious privilege to have you honor us with your presence.” Cardinal Polletto stayed on one knee until the Black Pope gave him permission to stand.

“Thank you, my son,” said the Black Pope, stroking the cardinal’s head as though he were a child. “Please, let a tired old man sit.”

“Of course, my lord,” the cardinal gushed, leading the old man to the seat behind the desk. “We’re surprised to see you today,” he said, pouring two glasses of wine. “If we’d known you were coming, we could have prepared a meal.”

The Black Pope, draped in a fine black vestment, held the glass in the air, examined it closely, tested the wine’s nose, then took a small sip.

“Wonderful choice,” he said, in a whispery tone. “I’ve heard tell that wine is a specialty of yours.”

Cardinal Polletto gave his thanks and sat down in front of the desk.

The Black Pope waved his aides out of the room. He took another sip of wine, this time a longer drink.

“I know this is a bit of a surprise,” said the old man. “But I wanted to make sure everything is going smooth.” He stared into Cardinal Polletto’s eyes. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” answered the cardinal. “Everything is going as planned, and will be ready as scheduled.”

The Black Pope took another drink, staring intently at Cardinal Polletto, as though reading his thoughts. “I trust precautions have been taken to ensure that young Samuel Napier will not escape again,” he finally said.

The cardinal swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Eminence,” he stuttered.

“It was an unfortunate incident. It won’t happen again.” Cardinal Polletto told the old man where Samuel was hidden, and explained the precautions taken to make sure the boy was secure, not mentioning that Samuel’s location had been discovered. The longer he explained, the cardinal got the feeling the old man already knew more than he’d let on.

“I see,” the Black Pope said, resting back in the velvet of the high-back chair. “I’d like to meet with Father Tolbert before I leave. Is he available?”

Cardinal Polletto cleared his throat. A direct lie could end his life immediately. He forced a smile. “I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment, Your Excellency. Maybe sometime later?” The Black Pope placed both palms on the table and leaned forward.

“Perhaps.” He bored a hole right through the cardinal. The grandfatherly countenance was replaced with something sinister, something wicked.

Then just as quickly, the kind face reemerged. “I understand the ritual area is almost complete.”

Cardinal Polletto, relieved that the questioning ended quickly, stood.

“Yes, it’s almost completed. Shall I show it to you?” The old man slowly rose, finished his glass of wine, then crept around the desk, hands behind his back, and headed for the door in silence. Cardinal Polletto finished his glass, wanting another, but followed the Black Pope outside. The old man’s two heavyweight aides trailed them both.

Cardinal Polletto proudly showed the ritual stadium to the old man, proudly commenting on how fast his men had brought it together in a short amount of time. The Black Pope simply nodded here and there, but didn’t utter a sound. When they reached the last platform, where the children would be herded and dumped into the lake, the old man faced Cardinal Polletto, and asked his men to leave them alone.

He stared at the cardinal for awhile, sizing him up. “You’ve come a long way, Cardinal Polletto, and many inside The Order are extremely proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

The Black Pope moved closer. “This event is more important than anything, anyone, inside The Order will ever take up.”