“Kill him. Bring the scroll directly to me.” Dino Rossi, the Head of the Santa Alleanza, delivered his message clearly and precisely with no hint of emotion. Don hesitated for a moment. They had determined how to deal with the archaeologist when he had first been assigned the task and Rossi’s tone made it evident that there was no room for further discussion.
“Don?” Rossi pushed.
“Understood,” he replied and terminated the call. The scroll had been safely retrieved and was in a secure case by his feet. Another case contained the necessary materials to set fire to the archaeologist’s office, which would kill him and destroy all evidence of the scroll. He glanced at his silver Rolex; it was a minute past 4 am. There was plenty of time to plant the small explosive device in the right place and remove any trace of his presence before the target arrived between 8 and 8.15 am.
As Don worked, he thought carefully about the first few months of his service in the Vatican Secret Police and how he was now about to kill an elderly archaeologist, who had unfortunately made a discovery that would unveil an uncomfortable early secret of the Church.
The Head of the Santa Alleanza had called Don into his elaborate office in the secret underground complex underneath the Vatican some weeks ago.
“Ah, Donatello,” he had begun, “as you must know, we have agents all around the world monitoring archaeological digs and sending us word of new and fascinating historical findings. You would also know that our network is particularly robust here in Italy. I’ve been informed that confirmed intelligence has been received that a local dig in Rome has uncovered some documents dating back to the eleventh century.” Rossi often spoke like a professor, his supercilious manner both irritating and condescending.
“Okay,” said Don. “And what seems to be the issue, signor?”
“The finds are mostly unremarkable and incomplete. Except for one particular scroll, which is troubling me. The document alleges that the statue believed by pilgrims to have been built in the image of St Peter and housed for centuries now in his eponymous basilica in Rome was originally that of the pagan god Jupiter.”
Don was very familiar with this statue and had visited it to pay obeisance many times. It was a bronze sculpture which held a prime position in the St Peter’s Basilica, depicting a seated figure with a distinctive sun-like wheel over its head. Don knew that the disc was a key feature of the many representations of Jupiter. “Does it have to do with the wheel? That story has been around for as long as the statue itself,” he said.
“No, Don. The scroll is a firsthand account describing how the statue was forcibly removed from the Pantheon and re-designated as St Peter, since there were no statues of the saint available at the time to decorate the new church. It could cause the Church considerable embarrassment if word gets out.”
“I can go and ask the archaeologist to hand it over –”
“The lead archaeologist is, unfortunately, not very cooperative. He’s reluctant to give the document to the Vatican for our authentication and is currently making his own independent enquiries into dating and validating its contents. We cannot let him get to the bottom of it all. It is one of the most important icons of the church.”
“What would you like me to do, signor?” Don was keen to impress his powerful new boss.
“Retrieve the document, of course, but also destroy any evidence of its existence, especially any photos. Make sure that archaeologist is no longer an issue to us. Ever.” Rossi’s meaning was clear.
“What about the enquiries he has already made?”
“The Santa Alleanza already has experts from around the world working to discredit the source and its accusations. As long as the original document is never found again, the findings will be dismissed as an anti-Christian conspiracy theory. Everything has been arranged. It’s just you who needs to do your part now. Are you ready to prove your allegiance to the Alleanza?”
“Certainly, signor,” Don had said. What else could he do? Don knew that he had been specifically recruited from the Gruppo di Intervento Speciale for his skill as an assassin.
Since then, he had spent days inspecting the classified records held in the Vatican Secret Archives, just so he wouldn’t lose sight of the truth in this gruesome quest to do the Church’s bidding. He had been shocked to find that the scroll was right – the statue had indeed been that of Jupiter; that it was only one of numerous historically important artefacts around the Vatican masquerading as Christian, when in truth they had simply been stolen and hurriedly repurposed to provide legitimacy to the new church.
As Don got closer to carrying out his mission, his misgivings about the very nature of the job deepened. His missions for the Italian military had typically involved targets that held strategic value; going after terrorists and foreign agents was one thing. This felt altogether different.
Don was seated outside the coffee shop directly across from the offices at 7.40 am – everything was ready. The plot was underway. He understood the risks of being so close to the scene; his broad, six-foot-three frame was impossible to disguise, and his deep voice was far more memorable than he liked. The narrow scar snaking down from his left eye to his jaw had faded over the years, but up close, it was still visible enough to identify him. It was of the essence that he ensured the plan worked. He had been made to fully understand the importance of what was at stake.
Don reflected on the elegance of his plan. The archaeologist was always the first to come into the office. Don knew from days of observation that he went into the small kitchen to start his coffee machine as soon as he arrived. The old fuse box on the wall was already a hazard and the accelerants that Don had put in strategic places would ensure that all evidence would be burnt long before any fire services could arrive at the scene. The fire would kill the man right there too, if he got the timing right.
Don spotted the archaeologist. Small and wiry with birdlike features, he was neat and presentable in his tweed jacket. Only his shock of wispy white hair was unkempt. He walked leisurely, like a man without a care in the world. He waltzed into a small shop to collect his daily newspaper on the way to his office – just as he did every day. Don knew that he would reappear in less than two minutes with the paper tucked under his right arm.
Don fidgeted. Although the archaeologist’s wife had passed away three years ago, he had four children and six grandchildren, the youngest of whom was a three-year-old girl called Helena. Could he really sit here and watch this innocent man die?
Before Don had a chance to resolve his dilemma, the archaeologist, Señor Varane, emerged from the shop. Don knew that using his name would humanize him and make him feel like less of a target. The mobile phone he would use to trigger the explosion felt heavier in his hand. He considered all the targets he had killed during his career. They would all have had families too. This was not so different. He only had seconds to decide what to do.
Varane stopped a few feet from his door. There was an old lady sitting on the pavement with a handmade sign. Don had rushed past her earlier without a thought. A beggar – Eastern European, he would have guessed. There were more and more on the streets of Rome lately. Varane crouched next to her with a smile on his face and they exchanged a few words. The archaeologist reached into his pocket, pulled out a few notes and handed them to her. He then touched her gently on the head with the familiarity of a grandfather before moving on.
Don gripped the phone tighter in his hand. Rossi’s words echoed in his head. He watched as Señor Varane approached the door, fishing in his pockets for the key. Did he know something was wrong? Perhaps not.
Excerpted with permission from The Curse of Muziris, Hamish Morjaria, Pan Macmillan India.
