Chapter IV

It was a comfortable 72° inside the private Vatican Jet as the plane cut through the sky like a guided missile.

LITTLE MORE THAN A HUM could be heard inside the passenger section of the plane. The carpet was dark grey, the walls an off-white. Large leather chairs replaced the less comfortable seats that most airlines passengers are accustomed to. Detective Shane Abbot leaned back, reclining his chair with his left forefinger on a small, round toggle switch.

The Papal Nuncio, Belsito Pasquale, was sitting near the front of the plane. The Commandant of the Swiss Guard, Giovanni Ritti, was seated one row back, and to the left of Abbot. He had been making calls-almost non-stop since takeoff. Apparently that ’no cell phone usage Policy didn’t extend to him.

Abbot looked back at Ritti, and between calls said, “Aren’t your worried about your phone bringing the plane down?”

Ritti smiled politely, brushing off the comment. “As much money as they make on my for roaming fees . . . they’ll certainly excuse my impertinence. I think I pay Vodafone’s rent by now.”

Abbot chuckled. He knew, as did everyone else in the free world, that the airlines’ policies for not using cell phones have nothing to do with the airplanes technology, and everything to do with the airline companies lobbying. A call at high altitudes takes a more direct route to a tower or satellite, thereby dropping hundreds of other calls that are furiously bouncing around as they hunt for a connection.

Ritti sat forward a bit, setting his phone down on the small wooden tray that unfolded from the side of his chair. The plane smelled new. Like a never lived in house that has just been built, with all the perfect furniture and accessories. The Vatican didn’t fly their ambassadors around cheaply.

“You guys really travel in style,” Abbot said as he glanced around the interior. Red Oak and gold trim adorned most of the surfaces, giving it a forced level of class. It was like a flying boardroom .•• but without all the coffee and stuffy, suited men.

“Mr. Abbot,” Ritti said, “your job in America lets you travel around the world without any accountability?”

Abbot shrugged, “I’m taking vacation time.”

“To try and solve a bunch of strange killings?” Ritti questioned skeptically.

“I’m a bit of a mystery buff,” Abbot said, offering his best explanation.

Ritti took a deep breath, not quite convinced. “You Americans do things very loose at the toes, no?”

“Yeah . . .” Abbot answered, “but tight around the ankle. At the end of the day we get results. What else can we do? There are too many bad guys with too much time on their hands. They’ll always be one step ahead of us if we stop to smell the roses.” Abbot turned a bit more toward Ritti, with a can of V-8 tomato juice in his left hand. He took a sip and then continued.

“And what about you guys?”

“How do you mean?”

“Is it tight around the Vatican, or do they let you make some noise?”

“We’re under tremendous pressure, you know, to have a good image,” Ritti said. “It’s not easy keeping the crazies at bay. I spend several hours a day just keeping our own Guard satiated, and with all the tourists at the Vatican . . .” Ritti audibly sighed. “It can be very demanding.”

Abbot placed the empty juice can in the seat next to his, not able to locate a trash receptacle. He turned back to the Italian. “You command a hundred men?”

“That’s right,” Ritti answered. “The Swiss Guard is a force of one- hundred men, and myself. We guard the Pope and the Vatican, as well as any dignitaries or religious figures that are associated with the papacy.”

Abbot nodded. Yeah, he’d read the press packet too. “Is everything that your men do legislated by you, or . . .” Abbot turned his head and motioned down the walkway towards the Papal Nuncio, who had faded off into a siesta.

“. . . Or do you get directives?”

Ritti nodded slowly, not so much in agreement, but acknowledging the question. “You have bosses, I have bosses. This is the way of the world.”

Fair enough. Abbot then considered something as he tapped his fingers on the rubberized plastic armrest. He asked, “But you do know what goes on in your house? You’re in the trenches so you probably see more blood and guts that the public ever hears about.”

Ritti realized where Abbot was going. He wanted to know who had the ultimate power and control inside the Vatican. “Mr. Abbot, if you have a question . . . just ask it. I won’t be offended by your abrasive American tenacity.”

Abbot chuckled. “Ok, is it possible, I mean . . . in any way, that the old man . . .” Abbot motioned towards the front of the plane, near the cabin, where Pasquale was snoring. “Could he have been in on all of this?”

“This . . . meaning?”

“Well, this mystery archbishop that is sitting at zero degrees Celsius, beneath our feet. Is it even in the realm of plausibility that he had this guy sorted out?”

Ritti considered his words, “That kind of talk is for conspiracy buffs and Protestants. I couldn’t even venture to guess what that man might or might not be capable of.”

Abbot cocked his head, “But you didn’t say no, now did you?”

Ritti leaned back and slowly closed his eyes. “What is it you Americans always say in the movies . . . Don’t shit at the same place where you eat?’“

“Something like that,” Abbot returned, studying Ritti’s posture.

“Yes . . . well, it is like that,” Ritti said, and then he reclined the chair further back. Conversation finished.

Abbot turned back around and turned to the window on his right.

There was a tiny ring of crystallized frost that outlined the hard Plexiglas window. As the plane cut through layer upon layer of pillowy, whitish-grey clouds, the sun cut blinding jagged tears and beams that created a surreal image.

It was almost like a painter had dated Mother nature for a time, and this was their illegitimate offspring. Why, Abbot wondered, would it be so cold and strange up here . . . so close to God?”

Abbot had been gazing numbly out into the blue and sliver atmosphere for fifteen or twenty minutes when he heard Ritti’s voice, just above a whisper. “I was part of the investigation into Alois Estermann and his wife’s death. The investigation that your partner asked me about.”

Abbot turned in his seat. He was in one of those life is bigger and more mysterious than we’ll ever understand moods, and he decided to just listen.

Ritti continued, “We weren’t left much to work with, by the time that Peter and I got to the scene. It had been expertly cleaned before we got there.” Ritti looked up, recalling the details. “They had tossed the place. I figure that they wanted it to look like a burglary that fell apart when Estermann or his wife, Gladys, walked in. The time line is a bit sketchy. Nevertheless, I knew that it wasn’t a bunch of idiot thieves.”

“How so?”

“Dresser drawers were all open. Everyone of them. They tossed the entire apartment, but with a very dedicated manner.”

“Yeah . . . they were no amateurs,” Abbot replied.

Your average thief will search from top to bottom, leaving the drawers closed because they have to in order to open and search the next lowest drawer. A pro will start at the bottom and not even bother with closing them. He will work his way upwards and be done with his search in the shortest amount of time.

“Other Swiss Guards?” Abbot offered.

“I wouldn’t normally think so, but what other logical choice is there?”

Ritti returned.

Abbot got up and walked to the seat next to Ritti. He lowered his large frame gently. At a near whisper he said, “I checked out the Vatican’s layout on the internet last night . . . and I had some thoughts.”

Ritti nodded, “I’m all ears.”

“Who else can get inside the Swiss Guard’s barracks, to the floor where the murders took place?”

Ritti took a deep breath through his nose, thinking back to the investigation in 1998. “There were cleaning crews, although they hadn’t yet made their rounds. We checked all of the guards on duty. None had left their posts. The two roving guards saw nothing.” Ritti turned his head negatively, “It was business as usual.”

“Polygraphs?” Abbot asked.

“We did polygraphs, oxygen saturation through pulsox, skin fleshing, GSR . . . they passed them all with flying colors.”

“You handled the examinations in house?”

Ritti nodded.

Abbot’s eyebrows scrunched curiously.

Ritti rubbed his temples and said, “I always had this feeling that we weren’t supposed to see everything. Peter—my partner at the time—and I had put in requests for all kinds of forensic analysis . . . bureaucratic red tape at every corner.”

“You have some theories?” Abbot asked.

Ritti continued as if he hadn’t heard Abbot’s question, “I watched over thirty hours of video from sixteen different closed circuit cameras-inside, outside, and on the adjacent buildings to the barracks.” Ritti reached for a glass of melted ice and took a cool sip. It was starting to get stuffy and uncomfortable.

He let the cold liquid slowly dribble down his throat. “Nothing,” Ritti paused, “I even offered to bring in outside consulting firms to help us investigate. But, of course, all of it fell on deaf ears. You know the system.”

Boy did Abbot know that was the truth. Any large organization, no matter how unique and out-of-the-box they start out as, they always grow to the maximum level of incompetence and non-disclosure. For Abbot, it had been the FBI.

For Giovanni Ritti, it was the Vatican. Different language, different country . . . same silly results. The masses will pull defeat from the jaws of victory.

“Give me your best guess,” Abbot gently pressed. “Ustachi,” Ritti said without missing a beat.

“Ustachi?” Abbot said slowly, almost watching the word leave his mouth.

Ritti went on to explain the group of covert personnel who worked indirectly for the Vatican. They had been alleged to be the Vatican’s Assassins. They are Jesuit priests who had been specially trained to commit all manner of nefarious deeds—all for the greater good of the Vatican. They are the Society of Jesus. The Alumbrados, otherwise known as Illuminati. Ritti did the best he could to explain these rumors, and separate the myth from the truth. But the truth was an illusive creature. Hard to find, difficult to observe, impossible to capture. All you ever saw of her were the faint footprints she would leave behind. Whispers and echoes of what might have been.

“You believe this group exists?” Abbot asked, not sure if perhaps Ritti was leading him on. The gullible American gets hooked by the big whooper . . . film at eleven.

“Back then I was just a bodyguard. Barely a lieutenant in the Guard,” Ritti explained.

“But that’s your gut feeling?”

Ritti nodded. “They must exist.”

“Why must they?” Abbot questioned skeptically.

“Because I know we weren’t responsible.”

Abbot narrowed his eyes, “How can you know for sure? A hundred men create many avenues for deceit.”

“I just know,” Ritti said, very confident in what he was saying. “I just know.”

Now it was Abbot who sat back, pondering what he’d heard. He had read the conspiracy theories off of the Internet. Had even been given a couple books and magazines to read, by Detective Inspector Singleton. But this wasn’t the Internet, nor a montage of magazine articles and speculations. Ritti was the commander of the Swiss Guard . . . and it was startling that he felt like there may be some truth to the conspiracy talk.

Abbot wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into. But then, what the Hell? He was on vacation.

The captain came over the intercom and spoke, “Saremo toccare terra in meno di un ora signori. Spero che il viaggio non era troppo accidentato per te.”

We’ll be touching down in less than an hour, gentlemen. I hope the ride wasn’t too bumpy for you.

Of course, he said it all in Italian, so Abbot didn’t understand every word.

His Spanish was rusty, at best.

Abbot considered his game plan. Listen, listen, look, and then listen some more. And maybe do a bit of trespassing if it was possible . . . and it always was.

Ritti was lost and frustrated in his thoughts.

Belsito Pasquale was starting to bend and turn, waking from his slumber.

Who knew what was going on in his mind.

Abbot knew this for sure: One of the three of them knew what was really going on . . . and it wasn’t Abbot.

Below their feet, in a cold-storage box, was the body of Archbishop Arnaldi Bernini. His skin was blue, with pockets of darker, bruised skin where the blood had settled. The flesh hadn’t started to decompose because the temperature had been kept so low. Just to the point where the water in the blood wouldn’t freeze, but wouldn’t run either. The moisture had left the body, so the archbishop weighed a couple of pounds less than he normally would have. Strangely, his hair continued to grow, as did his finger and toenails. If you listened closely, at a frequency that humans can’t possibly hear . . . you might have heard his faint pleas for help.

If only the dead could speak.

Often . . . they do.