The sound in the square amplifies. Foreign ministers, ambassadors and heads of governments, with their entourages, are jostling for position. Lines of cardinals swathed in red and bishops in purple begin to cluster. Parade and pageantry mold into view. Some faithful kneel. Many women kiss their rosaries.
Youngsters sporting t-shirts stenciled with interlocking V’s, shorthand for viva (life), flurry about. Expectancy fills the air. Soon, the elite of the Vatican dignitaries, followed by the Pontiff, will appear. Group prayers will climax the birthday celebration.
Emilio snubs the hullabaloo. He proceeds as planned. As he approaches the two Swiss guards, one of them snaps from at ease to a pronounced ready stance. Admittance demands a previously booked appointment, validating credentials and a duly signed pass. Emilio, without subtlety or charm, reaches inside his open-collared shirt to pull out his necklace. He flashes a two inch square medallion pinched between his fingers, rocking it side to side like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. It is a bronzed representation of two winged horses, the insignia of the Stregheria society. Only a handful of influential people hold this treasure. The young guards, surprised and alarmed, step aside.
Emilio walks steadily through the passageway, across the square into the Audience Hall. He advances to its kitchen quarters. Albertine
Sisters, Servants of God, are busy with their many tasks. Emilio stands waiting and regards them with the offering of a serene smile. A Sister, in a black habit with a crucifix necklace, makes contact. She approaches and slips him a key. Snuggling next to Emilio, she says, with scorn adorning her own words, “Deo est Gloria’’ (God is glorious).
Emilio pinches the nun’s butt. She reacts with a giggled delight before she leaves quickly and approaches a side door of the Sacristy and Treasury building. The key works.
In less than two minutes, he walks the hallway and ends up standing outside the open door of the office of the Secretary of State.
The room is richly clad with frescoes. It is an executive sanctuary masterminded by a history of plundering and the commissioning of talented artisans.
Cardinal Pio is just rising from his majestic desk to go and join the heated celebration in St. Peter’s Square.
Emilio steps forward without any greeting. He frowns at the environment and shakes his head at the Cardinal. His face grimaces into unbridled condemnation. Cardinal Pio looks up. It is judgment day.
“Emilio, my brother. Why are…”
Cardinal Pio’s voice falls. His moment of jovial surprise switches to trembling terror. He senses Emilio’s ordered assignment and moans.
“Forgive me.”
He closes his eyes and begins making the sign of the cross. Before Pio’s hand reaches his
chest, a bullet ruptures his skull as if a watermelon that has detonated from inside its core.
Chapter 14
Rome, central Italy Vatican City
Three men in uniform are arguing. It is a common occurrence in Italy. Disagreements over soccer games or politicians run rampant throughout the populace. This time it is very different.
“I have to see the Cardinal.”
Lieutenant-colonel Giacomo is insistent. He is pleading with the guards to forego procedure this one time.
The Swiss guardsman maintains his position. “Commander, the carabinieri have no jurisdiction here. You know the protocol. We cannot let you in without permission. You do not have the
requisite pass.”
“Listen to me. I have critical news for
Cardinal Pio and the whereabouts of two families that he is expecting. For God’s sake, he is my uncle and you know that.”
“Maybe so but we can’t break the rules.
Maybe in Italy but this is the Vatican.”
Before the give-and-take advances further, Emilio, sucking a lollipop, re-enters the tunnel from behind the guardsmen and intrudes on the exchange.
“It’s ok. Let him in.”
Emilio’s grin is for the guardsmen. He winks at his nephew.
Giacomo is shocked. He is stunned to see his
uncle and the professore’s brutal enforcer.
Emilio approaches Giacomo and looks deeply into his face.
“You look frazzled. You must learn not to take your job so seriously.”
Emilio plants a caressing schiaffo (slap) across the side of Giacomo’s surreal expression.
“See you at the wedding, Giacomo. Oh, do clean up matters for me. Pio’s office is a mess. Ciao ragazzo. We have much to talk about. Later.”
Chapter 15
Tarquinia, central Italy Albergo Americano
I am going through another angst in a string of bad days. I can feel it in my gut and in my head as I awaken from a fitful night’s sleep bothered by the shimmer of street lamps. I have neglected to bring my habitual sleep mask. It helps me darken the devilish thoughts in my subconscious.
With daybreak, Tarquinian sunshine insists I surrender any notion of further rest and get out of bed.
The radiance from the rising sun surges through cracks in the Venetian blinds and decorative crochet curtains. I stare at the sunburst image on the white plaster ceiling. It resembles rebellious, abstruse modern art. I never liked avant-
gardism. Rather than experimental or innovative, ‘vanguardism art’ is not particularly progressive. Its surrealism is phony. It is disconnected from the masses and the roots of culture. It does not appeal to my emotions.
The walls of the two-room suite, painted off-white, are naked except for two tiny terracotta topographical drawings. They are undecipherable. I am drawn to these primeval illustrations: ancient graphical representations that depicted man- made structures and social relationships. There is a wooden crucifixion over the bed with dried-out laurels tucked behind the cross. I cannot remember the last time I went to church.
I turn to look at Emily. She sleeps innocently. Her acquiescence is alluring. I feel my face relaxing. The grinding of my teeth and the tension in my jaw subside. I love my wife but, with all my intellect, I fail to understand her incessant, juvenile needs. She never seems happy with what she possesses. She is still on the lookout for more. I just do not understand what more she wants or needs. She makes me feel inadequate. She makes me feel abandoned.
The night has been hot and sticky. I am only wearing loose-fitting, cotton pajama shorts. Emily sleeps in a sexy Brazilian lace thong and a silk neckline Cami. She wears no bra. Her black lingerie is a striking contrast to her milky-white skin.
I always want to arouse my wife. I want to give her the pleasures portrayed in novels and movies. I slip off my shorts and toss them behind me onto the floor. I snuggle up to her and spoon her. I stiffen at her touch and scent. There is a cashmere
aroma rising from her core. She owns a brigade of perfumery. This fragrance opens and pumps my blood vessels. My erection is strong.
I caress her side and buttocks. I reach underneath her top and cup her left breast. With my thumb and finger, I circle her nipple. It responds involuntarily. I feather touch my way to her belly button and languidly upward to her other nipple. It is already inflamed. I squeeze it gently. My loving exploration incites my loins and thoughts. I want to pounce on top of her, tie her hands to the bedposts, blindfold her and ravage her to exhaustion. I want her total surrender. I need her. I want her total trust. I need to love my wife. However, I restrain myself. I have read that women crave a slow hand.
“You’re moving too slow,” complains Emily. “You’re making me fall back asleep.”
The