Sidney Sheldon - The Doomsday Conspiracy

At seven o’clock, the driveway gates opened and a car appeared. Willard Stone was at the wheel. Instead of his usual limousine, he was in a small, black van used by the household staff. A feeling of exultation spread through Thornton. He knew he was on to something. People lived according to their pattern, and Stone was breaking the pattern. It had to be another woman.

Driving carefully, and staying well behind the van, Thornton followed his father-in-law through the streets of Washington to the road that led to Arlington.

I’ll have to handle this very delicately, Thornton thought. I don’t want to push him too hard. I’ll get all the information I can about his mistress, and then I’ll confront him with it. I’ll tell him my only interest is in protecting him. He’ll get the message. The last thing he wants is a public scandal.

Dustin Thornton was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed the turn that Willard Stone had taken. They were in an exclusive residential district. The black van abruptly disappeared up a long, tree-shaded driveway.

Dustin Thornton stopped the car, deciding the best way to proceed. Should he face Willard Stone with his infidelity now? Or should he wait until Stone left and then talk to the woman first? Or should he quietly gather all the information he needed, and then have a talk with his father-in-law? He decided to reconnoitre.

Thornton parked his car on a side street and walked around to the alley at the back of the two-storey house. A wooden fence blocked off the back of the yard, but that was no problem. Thornton opened the gate, and stepped inside. He was facing huge, beautiful, manicured grounds with the house at the rear.

He moved quietly in the shadow of the trees that lined the lawn, and stood at the back door, deciding what his next move should be. He needed proof of what was going on. Without it, the old man would laugh at him. Whatever was happening inside at this moment could be the key to his future. He had to find out.

Very gently, Thornton tried the back door. It was unlocked. He slipped inside, and found himself in a large, old-fashioned kitchen. There was no one around. Thornton moved toward the service door, and pushed it open slightly. He was facing a large reception hall. At the far end was a closed door that could have led to a library. Thornton walked toward it, moving quietly. He stood there, listening. There was no sign of life in the house. The old man was probably upstairs in the bedroom.

Thornton walked toward the closed door and opened it. He stood in the doorway, staring. There were a dozen men seated in the room around a large table.

“Come in, Dustin,” Willard Stone said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Rome proved to be difficult for Robert, an emotional ordeal that drained him. He had honeymooned there with Susan, and the memories were overpowering. Rome was Roberto, who managed the Hassler Hotel for his mother, and who was partially deaf but could lip-read in five languages. Rome was the gardens of Villa d’Este in Tivoli, and the Ristorante Sibilla and Susan’s delight at the one hundred fountains created by the son of Lucrezia Borgia. Rome was Otello at the bottom of the Spanish Steps, and the Vatican, and the Colosseum and the Forum and Michelangelo’s Moses. Rome was sharing tartufi at Tre Scalini and the sound of Susan’s laughter, and her voice saying, “Please promise me we’ll always be this happy, Robert.”

What the hell am I doing here? Robert wondered. I don’t have any idea who the priest is, or whether he’s even in Rome. It’s time to retire, to go home and forget all this.

But something inside him, some stubborn streak inherited from a long-dead ancestor, would not let him. I’ll give it one day, Robert decided. Just one more day.

The Leonardo da Vinci airport was crowded, and it seemed to Robert that every other person was a priest. He was looking for one priest in a city of – what? Fifty thousand priests? A hundred thousand? In the taxi on the way to the Hassler Hotel, he noticed crowds of robed priests on the streets. This is impossible, Robert thought. I must be out of my mind.

He was greeted in the lobby of the Hassler Hotel by the assistant manager.

“Commander Bellamy! What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you, Pietro. Do you have a room for me for one night?”

“For you – of course. Always!”

Robert was escorted to a room he had occupied before.

“If there’s anything you need, Commander, please …”

I need a bloody miracle, Robert thought. He sat down on the bed and lay back, trying to clear his mind.

Why would a priest from Rome travel to Switzerland? There were several possibilities. He might have gone on vacation, or there might have been a convocation of priests. He was the only priest on the tour bus. What did that signify? Nothing. Except, perhaps, that he was not travelling with a group. So it could have been a trip to visit his friends or family. Or maybe he was with a group, and they had other plans that day. Robert’s thoughts were going around in a futile circle.

Back to the beginning. How did the priest get to Switzerland? The chances are pretty good that he doesn’t own a car. Someone could have given him a lift, but more probably he travelled by plane or train or took a bus. If he were on vacation, he wouldn’t have a lot of time. So let’s assume he took a plane. That line of reasoning led nowhere. Airlines did not list the occupations of their passengers. The priest would be yet another name on the passenger manifest. But if he were part of a group …

The Vatican, the official residence of the Pope, rises majestically on Vatican Hill, on the west bank of the Tiber, in the northwest end of Rome. The dome of St Peter’s Basilica, designed by Michelangelo, towers over the huge piazza, filled day and night with avid sightseers of all faiths.

The piazza is surrounded by two semicircular colonnades completed in 1667 by Bernini, with 284 columns of travertine marble placed in four rows and surmounted by a balustrade on which stand 140 statues. Robert had visited there a dozen times, but each time the sight took his breath away.

The interior of the Vatican, of course, was even more spectacular. The Sistine Chapel and the museum and the Sala Rotonda were indescribably beautiful.

But on this day, Robert had not come here to sightsee.

He found the Office of Public Relations for the Vatican in the wing of the building devoted to secular affairs. The young man behind the desk was polite.

“May I help you?”

Robert flashed an identification card. “I’m with Time magazine. I’m doing an article on some priests who attended a convocation in Switzerland in the past week or two. I’m looking for background information.”

The man studied him for a moment, then frowned. “We had some priests attend a convocation in Venice last month. None of our priests was in Switzerland recently. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“It’s really very important,” Robert said earnestly. “How would I go about getting that information?”

“The group you are looking for … what branch of the Church do they represent?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There are many Roman Catholic Orders. There are Franciscans, Marists, Benedictines, Trappists, Jesuits, Dominicans, and several others. I suggest you go to the Order they belong to and inquire there.”

Where the hell is “there”? Robert wondered. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Neither have I, Robert thought. I found the haystack. I can’t find the needle.

He left the Vatican and wandered through the streets of Rome, heedless of the people around him, concentrating on his problem. At the Piazza del Popolo, he sat down at an outdoor cafe and ordered a Cinzano. It sat in front of him, untouched.