Luis Rocha - Papal decree

So when his cell phone began to ring in the room, interrupting his expected rest, it left him irritated, but he answered the phone with a smile.

‘Good afternoon.’ Even if it was dark as night.

Whatever the call was about, whoever was calling, didn’t give Schmidt a chance to reply to anything that was said, not even an interjection or expression of surprise. The flush on his face indicated that the subject was uncomfortable to him in some way. Expectations and illusions could be controlled in theory, but not in real life.

‘Okay, I’ll find a way,’ he said. Just as he was hanging up the phone, someone knocked timidly on his door. ‘Who is it?’ he called out loudly.

‘Trevor,’ he heard from the other side.

Schmidt got up from the bed, still in his clothes, and went to open the door.

‘Good afternoon, Reverend Father.’

‘Good afternoon, Trevor. Come in, please. I was just getting up to go see the secretary,’ he explained.

The secretary’s assistant came in with a certain shyness appropriate to his position.

Schmidt sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes.

‘His Eminence asked that you come to see him. He has news,’ Trevor informed him.

‘Oh, yes? What news?’ he asked, tightening the laces on his shoes.

‘The parchments are in the possession of the church,’ Trevor said, uncertain if he should reveal anything, but prompted by the obvious affection between Schmidt and Tarcisio.

‘Yes, I was informed.’

Trevor looked at him in amazement. ‘May I ask by whom?’

‘By Cardinal William. He called to say the congregation was meeting to decide my future,’ Schmidt replied.

‘I see,’ Trevor replied, a little confused by the explanation. Cardinal William had been with the secretary when he was asked to go look for the Austrian priest. There was no meeting of the congregation.

One of the two was lying, either William to Schmidt or…

There was no more time to devise plausible or credible explanations. A belt tightened around his neck with suffocating intensity. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to resist, but Schmidt twisted harder from behind, applying more pressure. The fight for life under these unequal circumstances couldn’t last long, not two minutes, and Trevor’s life left him.

Schmidt removed the belt from around the corpse’s neck, and slipped it through the loops of his pants.

Finally he took the phone and dialed three numbers, sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at Trevor’s body with a serious expression. When the call was answered, he assumed a stricken tone.

‘Tarcisio, please, come here, for the love of God. Come quickly. The murderer. The murderer is still in the Vatican.’

When a routine is broken, altering the natural predisposition of events that, normally, are governed by a well-outlined chronology, it is God’s way of showing believers and heretics that everything obeys His will. At least that’s what he believed as he returned down the Via degli Astalli, for the second time looking for suspicious eyes. No one was following him.

He’d received the message on his cell phone at his personal number and not on the other card, the black one, where he communicated when he needed information, locations he couldn’t find on his own, or some request that required special authorization. This time, against all rules, they demanded his presence, overriding all the standards of security, a sign of urgency. Although the message included a security sign that only his mentor used in the name of God, he couldn’t be too careful.

He looked at his watch and decided to take a third turn around the neighborhood to remove all doubt. Ten minutes later he came out on the Piazza di Gesu. He glanced at the passersby, few at that hour, perhaps because it had rained hard earlier in the afternoon. A smattering of tourists were admiring the facade of the Church of the Gesu, designed by Giacomo della Porta, and taking pictures; others walked by in a hurry, paying no attention to what was around them. The traffic was heavy, since the plaza was a central location of the Eternal City with access to the heart of Rome and a transfer point for many other locations.

At first glance all the doors were closed, but he knew that was not so. Not for him.

He walked to the door on the far left, opened a glass-paned door and another wooden one painted green. The creaking hinges announced his presence.

The interior was grandiose. Ten side chapels dedicated to various religious subjects from the Passion to the Sacred Heart, and to the mortal remains of Saint Ignatius, the helmsman for eternity for the society.

At the back, next to the high altar, a man in black was kneeling, hands joined, head bowed. With his back turned he couldn’t see who it was.

‘Come nearer,’ the man in black said.

He came forward slowly, checking each niche and exit where he might hide in case of an attack. His senses were fully alert.

‘Come, my son. Don’t be afraid,’ the other said. ‘Ad maiorem Dei gloriam. We don’t attack our own. Perinde ac cadaver. Deus vocat. You have been a faithful servant,’ he said irritably.

He walked more quickly. He remembered the verse that came to him in the street and smiled. Have no fear, for the Lord, your God, will fight for you. He was welcome. He knew it. He felt it.

When he came to the transept, he stopped at a respectful distance from the man who was praying to the Almighty.

‘Come closer,’ the other ordered. ‘Kneel beside me.’

He obeyed hesitantly. Terrified would more accurately characterize his feelings, but he knelt down, blessed himself, joined his hands, and shut his eyes.

He didn’t even try to look at the other man out of the corner of his eye. All he could see was the stems of his glasses.

‘The enemy deceived us,’ said the man in black.

What? He hadn’t expected this revelation. He had to say something or look like an idiot.

‘How did that happen, sir?’

‘I lack men like you, my son. Dedicated, competent, believers. We are living in difficult times.’

‘You can count on me, sir. My purpose is to serve God, and God only.’ This escaped him before he could control his tongue.

‘You’re my best servant, my son,’ the other repeated sorrowfully. ‘Two names are left on your list.’

He confirmed that with a nod, though he knew it wasn’t a question.

‘You’re going to have an opportunity to fulfill the will of God tonight. I’m going to give you all the necessary information.’

‘I’ll do it with dedication, sir,’ he asserted.

‘I know, Nicolas. I know,’ the other said, calling him by his name in a clear demonstration of confidence. He took a paper from his pocket and gave it to the servant. ‘This is all the information you’ll need.’

Nicolas took the paper and put it away. It was not appropriate to read it at the moment.

‘Your help has been invaluable,’ the man in black praised him. ‘What was the code for Ursino?’

‘KS,’ he said.

‘We have an RO for the Spaniard, HT for the Turk, IS for the German, and KS for Ursino. What will Ratzinger’s be?’

Nicholas was like a timid child who thought he knew the answer, but was uncertain and afraid to reply.

‘Say it, man,’ the other ordered, not missing anything.

‘If you will permit me to suggest, sir, I think that Ratzinger and Wojtyla have no code. It seems to me the code should be KHRISTOS.’

The other reflected on this a few moments and then raised his hand to his forehead. ‘Of course. We’re blind to the obvious, Nicolas.’

‘And now, sir?’

‘Now follow the instructions I gave you. Our enemy is now no longer Ben Isaac. We were deceived, but there is time to correct the error,’ he proclaimed vehemently. ‘The dice have been rolled.’