Pope John Paul II’s eyes were soft as he watched the young priest lift his head to listen. “Here in the Vatican, we possess a treasure trove of history, known as the Vatican Secret Archives. It is home to countless books and artifacts. Are you familiar with it?”
The pope paused, observing Mario’s nod of affirmation.
“We wish to modernize the preservation of this invaluable information, to safeguard it according to the standards of our digital age by . . . putting it into computerized storage. Is that the correct terminology?”
Once again, Mario nodded, a smile forming on his lips at the pope’s use of modern technical language.
“The Vatican II Council recently convened and expressed concern that we risk losing irreplaceable documents if we continue to store them in the traditional manner. A single accident could result in a loss that would be felt for generations to come.”
Mario could see the weight of this responsibility literally pressing down on the pope—the aging pontiff was slumping further into his wheelchair as he spoke.
Drawing a deep breath, the pope straightened, his gaze fixed on Mario as he broached the crux of their meeting. “We are hoping you might be able to assist us in this endeavor, by copying these volumes into a digital format. Do you feel capable of undertaking this task for the Vatican?” He paused for a moment, then added, “For me?"
With a surge of confidence, Mario sat up straight. “Your Holiness, it would be my greatest honor to help preserve these historical documents.”
An observable sense of relief seemed to wash over the pope, his eyes reflecting the lifting of a great burden. The selection of a trusted priest for this monumental undertaking had clearly eased his concerns.
“Your service to us, Father Mario Eduardo Marino”—the pope’s voice echoed throughout the room, each syllable of Mario’s full name spoken with profound respect—“is a debt we can never fully repay.”
A surge of pride swelled within Mario, making him feel like the most honored man in all of Rome.
“Would you like a personal tour of the Sisteen Chapel?”
The offer left Mario momentarily speechless. “That would be . . . an honor, Your Holiness.”
The pope, with a gentle smile, maneuvered his wheelchair forward, extending a trembling hand towards Mario. In a gesture of deep reverence, Mario pushed back his chair and knelt before the pope, taking his hand and kissing the papal ring. A wave of tranquility washed over him as the pope placed his other hand on Mario’s head. Yet despite the pope’s calming presence, a nagging unease still lurked in the depths of Mario’s mind, questioning the reasoning behind his selection for this prestigious role.
After a moment of shared silence, the pope withdrew his hand and turned his wheelchair around heading towards the doors leading out of the room. Mario, following the pope’s lead, walked ahead to open the towering oak double doors for them both to exit.
“The Sistine Chapel holds a special place in my heart,” the pope said, his wheelchair gliding smoothly over the polished marble floors. “It was within its sacred walls that I was elected pope in 1978,” he added, a hint of nostalgia in his voice as they approached the grand entrance to the Sistine Chapel. Mario clung to his every word, captivated by the pope’s personal narrative.
On their approach, they passed a tall, imposing man dressed in an ensemble of pitch-black suit, shirt, and tie. An icy shiver coursed down Mario’s spine as the man’s cold, dark eyes bore into him. A sense of familiarity stirred within him, like a half-remembered nightmare. He couldn’t shake off the feeling he had crossed paths with this man somewhere before.
Unfazed by the ominous man’s intense gaze, the pope continued to guide Mario into the Sistine Chapel—an exclusive tour for the Vatican’s newest recruit.
Chapter 3
February 10, 2000
Thursday Evening
Roberto’s Mansion
“Lasagna will be ready in forty minutes,” Roberto called out from the kitchen.
“You never make lasagna,” Father Mario Marino responded, a hint of surprise in his voice. He knew well Roberto’s usual trifecta of indulgences: wine, women, and song.
“Only for special occasions, cherished friends, or romantic conquests. You got two out of three going for ya, buddy,” Roberto retorted, his laughter filling the room. Their bond was as strong as blood brothers, having grown up together in the Santa Maria Orphanage since they were infants.
“So, what’s the latest conspiracy theory brewing in that wild imagination of yours?” Mario asked, lounging comfortably in the plush leather recliner in Roberto’s expansive living room. Mario knew Roberto always had some kind of intriguing theory up his sleeve.
“Global warming,” Roberto declared, raising his oven-mitted hand as if taking an oath.
“And what’s your take on it?” Mario probed, crossing his arms in anticipation of a fresh perspective.
“What if the scientific consensus is wrong, and it’s not cars spewing CO2 that’s the problem, but rather, we’re suffocating Mother Earth?” Roberto proposed, his voice filled with conviction.
Intrigued, Mario rose from his recliner and sauntered into the kitchen to better engage in discussion.
Seeing he had Mario’s full attention, Roberto leaned against the kitchen island pointing his finger at Mario for emphasis. “Consider this: we’ve blanketed the Earth with billions of miles of asphalt. If I wrapped you in black asphalt and left you in the sun, wouldn’t you overheat, experience severe warming?”
Mario paused, considering this unconventional perspective.
“We’re smothering the Earth with roads, highways, and parking lots. If we want to cool it down, we need to find an alternative to asphalt, something that will allow the Earth to breathe.” Roberto wrapped his arms around himself to illustrate his point. “Breathable asphalt. The Earth needs breathable asphalt.”
Roberto reveled in his ability to devise simple solutions to the complex problems plaguing the world, solutions that seemed to elude the masses. After selling his software company for a staggering two hundred million dollars three years ago, he had ample time to ponder humanity’s pressing issues, like global warming.
“Hmm, interesting. Where’d you get this one?” Mario asked, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“Last week, while I was at Esselunga for groceries. I could feel the heat radiating off the asphalt, and it hit me—the Earth is swaddled in this black, heat-absorbing blanket,” Roberto explained, his hands mimicking the act of being warmed by a fire.
“And do the ladies fall for these theories of yours?” Mario asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“Oh, God no. I learned the hard way that I can either share my theories or get lucky. Sorry, my friend, I choose sex,” Roberto replied, a smug grin playing on his lips as he reminisced about his effortless conquests. “Besides, most of the women I entertain here wouldn’t even begin to comprehend the depth of my intellectual theories.”
Back when he was a computer programmer living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment, women barely gave him a second glance. The dotcom era changed all that for him. By adding a few zeros to his bank account, suddenly Roberto found himself at the epicenter of female attention. With the steering wheel of his brand-new 2000 Lamborghini Murciélago in hand, a symbol of his triumph, he was now an irresistible woman-magnet. Near limitless time and money at his disposal, he would indulge in the company of those women who were more than willing to exchange their time for intimate moments within the confines of his bedroom.
“You and your conspiracy theories. You think everyone is hiding something, like Mother Superior back at the orphanage,” Mario retorted, raising his right hand to his mouth to mimic the act of drinking from an imaginary beer mug.
