Murder Almighty: Murder in the Vatican

By S. P. Perone

A vibrant pope dies unexpectedly! Immediately, centuries-old sacred rituals unfold in Rome to memorialize and replace the Supreme Pontiff. Princes of the Church-cardinals in their crimson robes-converge on the Vatican from around the world.

But this papal election will be like none before.

Zealous lay advocates, distraught with the tragic downward spiral of the Church, are dedicated to radical change. As high-ranking cardinals clash in Rome over ideology and personalities, a deadly conspiracy unfolds inside and outside the election Conclave.

When a group of American reporters in the Vatican finds evidence of a conspiracy to fix the papal election, they become targets for the same ruthless assassins systematically removing all obstacles to their chosen papal successor.

But who is this chosen Heir to St. Peter? Is he complicit in this conspiracy? And who are the powerful lay advocates responsible? Is their motivation ideological or more sinister?

The reporters soon discover much more than they bargained for. High-ranking clergy have their own dangerous secrets. And supernatural forces appear to be at work.

Filled with bold religious personalities, Murder Almighty delivers thought-provoking confrontations, colorful Italian settings, a perilous journey filled with behind-the-scenes insight to an age-old secret process and a startling climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 26, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595810574

S. P. Perone

Sam Perone has worked in academic and government arenas and as a consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has published numerous technical articles, two textbooks, nine novels and two memoirs. He and his wife live in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. Visit his web site at www.samperone.com.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Prologue

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

PART II

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

PART III

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

PART IV

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

Epilogue

Author’s Notes

To Caterina, Giacomo, Novia, and Salvatore

Acknowledgements 

This novel was inspired by countless conversations with family and friends…too many to document here. But the participants know who they are and will remember many of the spirited discussions. I thank them all for the stimulating discourse and for their encouragement to produce this novel.

I want to acknowledge specifically those dedicated reviewers who, with their constructive insight, have made this novel the best that it could be. So…to Amy, Carol, Don, JR, Keith, Linda, Lyle, Mark, Melanie, Nora, Ole, Sammy, Sandy, Stephanie, Susan, Sylvia, and Vita…thanks a million! Your willingness to suffer through the early versions of this work speaks volumes for your commitment. I am truly grateful.

Finally, this work could never have been completed without the patient understanding and timely critiques of my wife, Sylvia. Thank you so much!

Preface 

This novel unfolds in the not-to-distant future when a fictional papal election occurs. The story is discreetly disconnected from the current hierarchy of the Church. Yet the basic setting is as it exists today.

Readers may find some of the background unfathomable, regardless of their religious orientation. Accordingly, some background is discussed here.

Much is made in this story of the impact of the ecumenical council held in the 1960’s, known as Vatican II, or The Second Vatican Council. An ecumenical council is a comprehensive meeting of all the bishops (and cardinals) of the Church at some central location. (The past two councils were held at the Vatican, therefore the name.)

Ecumenical councils are called from time to time by the reigning pope to address issues of major concern to the Church. Generally, there is about one ecumenical council per century. A council may last several years, even decades.

In the earliest days of the Church, these councils were called to address specific heretical teachings and to bring under control theological schisms that had occurred within the Church. The outcomes of these councils often have a profound impact on members of the Church regarding what they are expected to believe as a matter of faith or how they are to behave.

Previous ecumenical councils of historic importance include: Lateran I (9th council, 1123 AD) that instituted celibacy for priests; the Council of Trent (19th council, 1545–49 AD) that condemned Protestantism and formulated the catechism that defines Catholicism even to this day; Vatican I (20th council, 1869– 70 AD) that proclaimed the infallibility of the pope when speaking ex cathedra; and Vatican II (21st council, 1962–65 AD).

The Second Vatican Council was a pastoral council, not dogmatic. That is, no significant declarations regarding Catholic beliefs were made. Nevertheless, Vatican II has had a profound impact on today’s Church and its flock.

The pastoral recommendations of Vatican II emphasized ecumenism, with outreach to Protestants, Jews, and other faiths. It also resulted eventually in significant changes in many everyday Catholic practices. Restriction from eating meat on Fridays was lifted; the vernacular Mass was substituted for the traditional Latin; church altars were turned around so that the priest faced the congregation during Mass; lay persons were allowed to handle the Eucharist (sacred consecrated wafers of bread received in Holy Communion); greater participation of lay people in the sacrifice of the Mass was encouraged; more liberal rituals for celebrating the Mass were allowed, particularly in the use of modern musical accompaniment; nuns were not required to wear traditional habits; and so on.

These pastoral changes do not seem very significant, but they profoundly affected Catholics whose practices had not changed for centuries! Many felt that the Church had gone soft, conceding to the modernism of the Protestant churches. Large numbers of Catholics withdrew from the Church, if not officially, at least in spirit.

Even those more liberal Catholics who were encouraged by the changes of Vatican II were destined to be bitterly disappointed by some of the indirect consequences. Based on his interpretation of recommendations by a special commission of bishops, Pope Paul VI issued his encyclical in 1968, entitled Humanae Vitae, against artificial contraception.

In the years since Vatican II—and many trace the origins of the problem to that council—the numbers of religious vocations (priests and nuns) have been decimated. Many churches in Europe, for example, have no priests. (And most with priests have very few parishioners that attend Mass.) The explanation for the loss of vocations, some say, is that disaffected conservative Catholic families are no longer encouraging their sons and daughters into seminaries and convents.

Fast forward to the end of the twentieth century, and we find the American Catholic world rocked by the revelations of decades of sexual abuse at the hands of clergy. Some have speculated that the 11,000 known victims are perhaps ten percent of the total number. The fact that only a small percentage of the clergy were guilty of these crimes was more than offset by the fact that the Church hierarchy appeared to cover them up…and perpetuated the problem by failing to remove predators from access to potential victims.

When you put all of these together, you have a Church in crisis. That is the setting in which this novel is written.

S. P. Perone July 2005

Prologue 

Mission San Felipe, Peru—Two Years Earlier

The dank smell of the Monzon River—muddy from the recent rains and rushing turbulently a dozen feet down a treacherous bank—filled her nostrils. Carolyn Farrell slapped at a mosquito sipping at the nape of her neck, and struggled to follow Sister Maria Fortunato along the narrow path snaking between river and rain forest. Brushing away the branch of a large damp fern, Carolyn stumbled over yet another deep crevice gouged by the relentless rain. Perilous even without the threat of the ruthless drug maleantes that often used these same routes, the path was dark with overgrowth despite the midday hour.

"Perhaps we…should have waited…for the policía nacional…to accompany us, Sister Maria," Carolyn panted as she pursued her companion. Despite the flowing white tropical nun’s garb that she wore, Sister Maria was maintaining a blistering pace. Carolyn, in her hiking shorts and lightweight cotton blouse, was less encumbered but still dripping with sweat. She recalled that just a year earlier she had worn the same nun’s garb. Then, as Carolyn ducked to avoid the backlash of a fern branch whipped away by the nun ahead, she winced…not at the spray…but from a lingering sense of loss.

Señora Martinez needed the medicine urgently. We will be back at the mission soon. God will protect us, Sister Maria replied over her shoulder. The young nun’s speech reflected still the colorful Italian accent of her native Venice.

If we don’t make it…before sunset… Carolyn protested, we won’t—

Suddenly, standing directly in their path was a tall swarthy bearded man in camouflage gear with a dull black compact assault weapon in his hands. The weapon was pointed directly at Sister Maria. Behind him were three similarly garbed and armed men.

¡Alto! he barked, and the two women stopped short, each emitting a brief startled cry. They had seen the scarred ugly face of the leader before.

Quickly gathering her wits, Sister Maria said in Spanish, We are on a mercy mission. Let us pass.

Hah! Another mercy mission? Like the one that persuaded my mules to desert? I warned you, Sister Maria.

They were children, Juan. If you must transport drugs, use adults who know what they’re doing, Sister Maria responded defiantly.

You are telling me how to run my business now, Sister? he smirked.

The twisted smile on his face provided desperate hope to Carolyn that Juan Corona would let them pass.

But the smile quickly changed to a furious scowl, as he swept the back of his hand across Sister Maria’s face and knocked her back into Carolyn’s arms.

Bitch! he growled. Now you will pay.

With blood spattered on the white veil that framed her face, Sister Maria stood up, looked Juan Corona in the eye, and said simply, Take me first.

A sharp chill pierced her body as Carolyn suddenly grasped what Sister Maria had already known: that they would never return from their journey.

Carolyn closed her eyes, praying for the forgiveness she did not deserve…and praying that their captors would be mercifully quick.

Swiftly Corona waved one of his squad toward Sister Maria, and two others toward Carolyn. Sister Maria was jerked rudely to the side of the path and forced to kneel in front of a fallen tree. Roughly they pushed her head down on the trunk, while Corona pulled a large machete from his belt.

You want to be first, Sister? he sneered as he took a step toward the silently kneeling figure. Her hands were clasped together across her breast, and her head was turned sideways against the bark of the fallen tree. The tiny olive face, framed by the spattered white veil, was stoic. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

Do you have anything to say, Sister? he growled, raising the machete over his head.

Our Father, forgive them for they—

The high-pitched whine of the blade slashing through the air was punctuated with a sickening thwack as Corona cruelly cut short the final words and abruptly ended the life of the brave and saintly woman in white.

Carolyn, held tightly in the arms of two maleantes and forced to face the execution, could not believe how rapidly the scene had unfolded. She had closed her eyes at the last second, experiencing the horrid scene only through the nightmarish sounds.

As she felt herself being tugged forward, Carolyn opened her eyes to discover the crazed face of Sister Maria’s executioner only inches away from her own. She realized with horror that these men would not be so quick with her. Suddenly she became shamefully aware of the scanty attire she had chosen for the trip through the steamy forest. Unlike Sister Maria, Carolyn’s slender tanned body and long blonde hair were exposed to the lust of these savages.

Please, she cried, kill me quickly.

Corona scoffed and pulled back with a twisted grin, exposing Carolyn for the first time to the horrible bloody scene. Sister Maria’s headless torso lay on its back in a large pool of blood, while her head could be seen peeking out, eyes open, from under the fallen tree.

Carolyn wretched and vomited at her feet, as Corona jumped away, laughing cruelly.

You will die…soon. And you will welcome death, I assure you, Corona said, as he slipped the machete back into his belt and stepped toward Carolyn.

Suddenly a large crack came from beyond the nearest trees, and Corona lurched back, with large shards of cloth, skin and blood exploding from his chest.

In an instant the men holding Carolyn dropped her, turned, and began to run away from where the sound had come. The remaining captor took off along the path in the opposite direction, but was dropped by several loud cracks of an automatic rifle.

As Carolyn dropped to her knees, she saw a number of soldiers emerge from the cover of the trees and begin to chase after the two maleantes that had run away. The leader of the soldiers yelled at Carolyn to stay put. They would return quickly. His perfect English, and the distinctive camouflage gear of the squad, told Carolyn that they were not Peruvian. These were members of the mysterious American death squad, whose existence had never been acknowledged by either Peru or the United States.

Crawling past the body of Juan Corona, Carolyn scrambled to get to Sister Maria. When she reached her, Carolyn lay prone on the dirt with her head on Sister Maria’s feet. She clutched the white habit and kissed the dusty feet. Slowly she raised up on her hands and knees, reluctantly looking up at the top of the headless torso.

With a startled shriek, Carolyn gazed into the face of Sister Maria. The eyes were no longer open. And there was a peaceful smile.

But the head was now re-attached to the torso!

A bloody red crease appeared to run completely around the throat; and there was a deep crimson pool of blood surrounding the head and upper torso. But the lifeless body was intact!

Dearest Father in Heaven! Carolyn cried. Have You done this?

She grasped the dead nun’s hand and sobbed, Sister Maria…God has given a sign! It’s a miracle…

The quiet was shattered by several loud bursts of gunfire from the direction the death squad had run. Then silence.

The sudden calm prompted Carolyn to realize that there would not be another witness to this miracle. All the maleantes were dead. And the American death squad would quickly disappear into the forest…remaining nameless and unapproachable…once she and Sister Maria were delivered to the mission.

But Carolyn knew what she had to do. Quickly she removed the light blue kerchief that held the hair off her shoulders. She soaked it in the blood of the fallen nun, folded it neatly, and placed it in the leather medicine pouch she was carrying.

God bless you, Sister Maria, she sobbed. "You kept your promise…and now I make you this promise: I will go to the Holy Father…and I will not leave until he knows that a saint was created this day."

PART I

GATHERING STORM

CHAPTER 1

In the Beginning was the End

The setting sun had briefly cast the long shadow of St. Peter’s Basilica across the windows of the Vatican’s Papal Apartment. But the three clerics that had been invited to join the pope for dinner had been too engaged in table conversation to notice the orange and purple bands that sequestered the hills of Rome outside the windows of the Apostolic Palace.

Your Holiness, the portly cardinal across from the pope continued after washing down a mouthful of roast duck with white wine, have you heard of this American girl that’s been making a nuisance of herself with the Congregation for the Causes of Saints? She claims to have witnessed a miracle…by a martyred nun in South America.

When was this? Pope Leo asked. They spoke in English, but each had a discernible Italian accent.

Two years ago, the cardinal laughed. And she thinks we should declare the nun a saint already!

What did you tell her? the pope asked.

Tell her? I haven’t seen her. She’s an ex-nun! the cardinal sputtered. She’s told her story to a dozen different clerks. They’ve managed to keep her away from me.

Pope Leo sipped his wine and remained silent. He glanced at the other two dinner companions to see their reactions. The second cardinal, to the pope’s left, was taller and more subdued than his loquacious counterpart. Like the other he was dressed in a plain black suit with Roman collar and heavy gold cross and chain around the neck. He returned the pope’s gaze and rolled his eyes.

Across from the second cardinal was a priest—an aide to the tall cardinal. He was in a plain black cassock with Roman collar. The priest was Italian, but new to Rome and to the Curia. The pope regarded him curiously. But the slender young cleric avoided his eyes.

I haven’t heard the story, the pope declared to the speaking cardinal. Can you tell me about it?

As the cardinal related the girl’s story, the pope registered a mental note to make discreet inquiries. Then his mind wandered to other affairs. He had hoped to draw out the silent cardinal on his left this evening. The meeting tomorrow with this cardinal’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was vitally important to the pope’s new agenda for the Church. His pontificate was in its early stages—only a year-and-a-half. But he was a young pontiff, in his sixties. Surely the Conclave of Cardinals that had elected him expected significant changes, reform, and policies that would revitalize the ailing Church.

And Pope Leo would not disappoint them. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of a new era.

When his dinner guests had departed, and the pope’s personal secretary had informed the two colorfully uniformed members of the Swiss Guard at the door of his apartment that the pope was about to retire, Pope Leo dismissed the secretary and slipped into his private chapel.

The pope knelt before the modest altar—redecorated like the rest of the Papal Apartment in a more monastic simplicity by Pope Paul VI in the 1970’s—and bowed his head in prayer. Dear Lord, he prayed, give me the strength and wisdom to do your work—to guide your Church away from the abyss where it is perched.

Pope Leo meditated in silence for several minutes, communicating with his Saviour once again the bold proposals he would make on the following day. He ended by looking up at the crucifix above the altar. He gazed silently and reverently for a long time at the long bearded face of Jesus etched in the carved wood of the crucifix. Beneath the crown of thorns the Saviour’s eyes were downcast. Pope Leo hoped for a sign…for a furtive glance from the lifeless wooden figure.

But it did not come.

Abruptly the pope crossed himself and began to rise from the kneeler. But the sudden searing pain in his chest knocked his feet from under him and he dropped to the floor, his outreached hand pushing the kneeler over with a clatter. As the harsh coldness of the stone floor stung his face, Pope Leo struggled to breathe, slowly pulling himself into a fetal position and turning his eyes once again to the crucifix above the altar.

He opened his mouth to cry out, but no sound emerged. For several moments his thoughts continued to reach out to his Lord and Saviour. Have mercy on me! his thoughts screamed. Forgive my sins, Oh Lord.

Then, as the blackness closed in, he pleaded, Dear Lord, grant my successor the wisdom and courage I did not have!

CHAPTER 2

Bless Me Father

"Mi benedi, Padre—Bless me, Father… the shadowy figure recited in Italian, for I have sinned."

The Roman collar of the penitent could be seen through the separating screen by the aged Italian cleric seated in the dimly lit center chamber of the confessional. The ancient church of Santa Anna d’Illuminata in Rome was deserted…except for the third man, kneeling in the near total darkness of the other penitent chamber.

As the elderly confessor listened carefully to the words of the young priest who had come to him tortured with guilt that evening, the man in the third chamber pressed his ear against the thin partition that separated him from the other two.

Bruno Cascio had not come to the church of Santa Anna to have his confession heard.

As Cascio listened to the conversation, he heard the words he had expected—Santo Padre, the Holy Father. To be certain of his next move, he repeated in his mind what the penitent priest in the opposite chamber had said—I have killed the Holy Father!

Cascio did not listen to the rest of the confession. He already knew about the sophisticated undetectable poison that had been used, and the way it had been delivered. Cascio was too busy attaching the chunk of plastique explosive to the bottom of the partition before him. With a penlight he adjusted the fuse and quietly departed the confessional.

Quickly looking around to be sure there were no witnesses, Bruno Cascio walked briskly to the front vestibule and through the large wooden doors out into the darkened streets of the rundown neighborhood near Rome’s main railroad station. The only noises at this hour came from the clattering of his leather-soled shoes across the stone pavement.

By the time he had crossed the street and turned the corner, the electronic fuse had nearly expired in the confessional chamber he had vacated.

Bruno could envision the penitent priest lowering his tear-soaked face to accept the absolution of the elderly confessor, while he recited in Italian the words of his Act of Contrition, "O Dio mio…Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee—"

Bruno Cascio saw the flash of light that instantly illuminated the dark side street. A split-second later he heard the thunderous blast.

He did not look back.

Bruno Cascio was already thinking about his next target.

CHAPTER 3

All Roads Lead to…

Danny Vella couldn’t understand why the full red lips of the lithe blue-eyed blonde that had invited him into her bed that evening remained frozen just inches from his own eager lips. No matter how hard he tried to pull her to him, their lips remained separated by the same few inches of space. And why could he not focus on any other features but those large almond-shaped eyes?

And, goddam it, why didn’t she answer the phone? It had been ringing forever. The caller wouldn’t give up.

Finally, Vella twisted his head, spied the phone next to the bed, and reached out to lift the receiver so that he could quickly dispatch whoever was rudely intruding on their lovemaking. Curiously, he noted that the phone was a bronze Sony mobile just like his own. Then, as he lifted the receiver, mercifully cutting off the electronic chirping, he noticed a sudden brightening of his surroundings…as if the sun had risen in an instant. He brought the receiver to his ear and looked up at his bedmate…only to find she was no longer there.

The blonde had disappeared again…as she did every morning when he awoke.

Someday, he sighed silently, I’ll get a really good look at her. And maybe someday we’ll consummate this crazy affair.

Danny? Are you there? came the brusque query, interrupting his reverie. This is Alan.

Yeah, Alan, Vella groaned as he recognized the gruff voice of his boss, Alan Sommers. I hear ya. What’s up? Glancing at the face of his digital alarm clock, Vella added, It’s 5 o’clock in the morning for Christ’s sake!

Vella knew that Sommers, managing editor of the San Francisco Chronicle, would never hesitate to call one of the newspaper’s reporters, day or night, whenever a breaking story needed coverage. But Vella was not one of that troupe of eager young wannabe journalists that jumped whenever Sommers snorted. Vella had his own regular column, Danny’s Beat, that allowed him to cover whatever he wanted in San Francisco, from the Embarcadero to the Haight to the 49ers. The focus was on personalities, but he sometimes took on the city’s thorny issues like gay marriage or Asian gangs.

What the hell’s going on? Vella wondered sourly. Today was his day off.

You gotta get yourself packed. We’re sending you to Rome.

Rome? What for?

Pope Leo just died.

What? Didn’t he just get elected last year?

Year-and-a-half to be exact.

So, what’s this got to do with me? Vella asked.

You’re gonna cover the election of a new pope.

What? Why me? I’m not on the church beat, Vella protested. And we didn’t cover the last election that closely. We just took everything off the wire.

This one’s different. Haven’t you been paying attention?

You mean Cardinal Rivera? He doesn’t have a prayer.

Doesn’t matter. Everything he does is news. Just his being in Rome, and possibly the first American pope, is a story that’s got lots of legs.

OK. Yeah, it’s a great story. But why send me? That’s not my thing, Alan.

You’re Italian. You speak the language. And you’re a damn good journalist. Not necessarily in that order, of course.

Sitting up now, realizing this would be a serious engagement with his boss, Vella said, First of all, I’m American. I don’t speak Italian. I know some Sicilian. It’s a different language.

"Bullshit! Don’t forget I knew your grandfather. I used to watch him play Boce down by the Wharf. And I heard you guys talk for hours without a word of English…and I know you weren’t speaking Russian."

It wasn’t Italian either. Not like they speak in Rome.

You’ll get along better than anyone else I could send.

Christ! I don’t know anything about what’s going on in the Church. I haven’t been to church since they stopped eating fish on Fridays.

"Quit exaggerating. That was before you were born.

Not in my family.

Did you forget you got married in a church eight years ago?

That wasn’t a Catholic church, asshole. And, thanks for bringing up what I’ve been trying to forget for the past two years.

Sorry, Danny, Sommers replied, I didn’t mean to remind you of Georgina.

After an awkward pause, Sommers continued, Look, I know this sounds like the last thing in the world the paper should want you to do. But, trust me on this, you’re the perfect choice for this assignment.

You’re gonna have to explain that to me, Alan.

I don’t want some pious church mouse covering this story, Danny. I need someone who’s a natural skeptic. Someone who will treat all the Vatican bullshit with the kind of irreverence that only someone like you can.

Jesus, I didn’t know I was that obvious.

You forget I’ve been listening to your cynical jabbering about organized religion for twenty years. You wear your fallen-away Catholic status like a badge of honor.

That’s exactly the point. I could care less whether Ramon Rivera…Cardinal Rivera…becomes pope. In fact, I don’t give a damn whether they elect a pope or not. Your readers don’t want that kind of attitude showing up in a Vatican byline.

No. And you’re professional enough to keep your personal views from interfering with your reporting. But it’s just your kind of attitude that’s going to guarantee a crisp, objective point-of-view. And you’ll be able to see all the back-stabbing, hypocritical in-fighting that all those religious reporters will miss because they’ve got blinders on.

Sounds like you want an exposé…not a report.

If it turns out that way… Sommers let the words hang.

Vella remained silent for several seconds. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this was all wrong. But, yet, he had to admit he was tempted. He had never hidden his bitter disdain for the Church in which he had been baptized, raised, and educated. He had blamed the Church for all the bad things in his life: an awkward adolescence filled with guilt and rejection; an early and miserably unhappy marriage to a Catholic schoolmate; a hurtful divorce; and a hasty re-marriage to a distinctly secular and worldly beauty. His ecstatic pleasure in marriage to the seductive Georgina had exploded rudely after six years, when Vella had discovered that only he had been practicing monogamy.

What about my regular column? Vella asked.

"That’s the best part. We use the same column, same schedule! Just a line explaining you’re in Rome. Then you put in the kind of stuff you always do…gossip, personalities, attractions. You know. Danny’s Beat transported to

Rome."

That’s a crazy fucking idea!

I knew you’d like it.

Vella reluctantly took a few seconds to consider the proposition. When he did not comment, Sommers continued, Does this mean you’ll do it?

With a deep sigh Vella pushed the negative thoughts aside, remembering that Sommers was a friend as well as his boss. I suppose I could think about it, Alan. It’s so outrageous it almost makes sense.

Great! Dig out your passport and get yourself packed. The Alitalia flight to Rome leaves from LA this afternoon.

Without another word, Sommers hung up, leaving Vella looking at the dead receiver in his hand…and wondering what had just happened.

Cardinal Rivera…Your Eminence…I’m sorry to wake you, whispered Monsignor Paul Du Monde, gently tapping the shoulder of the sleeping Cardinal Ramon Rivera. As the Cardinal stirred, the large blue eyes coming alive to convey both surprise and rebuke, the Cardinal’s most trusted aide continued, Forgive me, Your Eminence, but I have sad news. The Holy Father has passed away.

Abruptly lifting his head from the large over-sized pillow, and reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp, Rivera squinted at the ornate golden table clock on the bed stand. When? he asked.

"Wereceivedwordfromthe Cardinal Camerlengo’s Vatican office at one this morning, Your Eminence," the solemn priest replied.

It’s four o’clock! Why did you wait so long to wake me? Rivera barked, suddenly throwing off the thick comforter and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Without waiting for a response to his question, Rivera straightened his nightshirt and strode toward the bathroom.

Get my things ready, Paul. We have much to do, Rivera shouted as he closed the door and turned on the shower.

Du Monde smiled thinly as he turned and slid quietly out of the Cardinal’s chambers. The Cardinal would soon realize that his aide had used the past few hours to prepare everything for the busy day ahead. He had drafted a statement for the press, retrieved the Cardinal’s passport, packed several suitcases, and made a number of phone calls.

Rivera would soon learn that one of the phone calls had arranged for a corporate Gulfstream jets of Rio Oro Industries to transport the Cardinal to Rome with the discretion deserving of one who would soon become the most powerful religious figure in the world. The Cardinal would accept graciously this accommodation from Rio Oro’s CEO—the wealthiest Catholic in the San Antonio archdiocese.

What the Cardinal could not know, Du Monde reminded himself, was the other phone call he had made this morning. The Holy Father’s unexpected passing had given new life to ghostly demons that had long festered in the dark shadows of Rivera’s past.

But these would be eliminated…soon.

Steve Jackson cursed the fact that he was the only Gringo working for Channel 39, the Central Valley’s most-watched Latino television station. Despite the lavish salary that the station’s owner, Ricardo Valdez, had offered him five years ago to leave Sacramento’s NBC outlet, Jackson was frequently frustrated by his job as program director for KQXM.