His eyes, hardened by the shocking revelations gleaned the past three hours, bore into the cover of Pacelli’s journal.
With a sense of grim determination, he opened Pacelli’s journal and spread its pages out like a fan, his left hand clutching both front and back cover while his right gripped the paper. With a swift, decisive motion, he tore the pages free from the spine, then set both cover and pages back on the worktable. He repeated the process with the eighteenth-century book, his heart pounding in his chest all the while. A sudden thought struck him, and he reached into his backpack and pulled out the Bible that Roberto had gifted him on his seminary graduation. As if guided by some divine hand, his Bible turned out to be the exact same size as the two gutted books lying on the table.
Mario cradled the Bible, a cherished gift from Roberto. It was an anchor of his hope and faith in his daily life, its pages filled with highlighted passages, scribbled notes, and verses committed to memory. The Bible was more than just a book to Mario—it was a symbol of his faith and a testament to his unwavering belief in Roberto’s potential for redemption. He had seen a glimmer of hope in Roberto’s eyes when the man had presented the Bible to him, the front matter inscribed with words that tugged at his heartstrings. Mario had clung to the hope that Roberto, despite his worldly ways, might one day find solace in the teachings of Jesus Christ. He prayed that Roberto’s harsh upbringing under the nuns and the mother superior at the orphanage hadn’t completely extinguished the flame of the Holy Spirit within him. This Bible was not just a book; it was a symbol of Mario’s faith and hope for his best friend’s salvation.
With a dreadful heart, he took a deep breath and began the painful process of separating the pages from the cover of his beloved Bible. His head slumped forward and his eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to block out the reality of his actions.
What am I doing?
The realization that he was on the brink of stealing a priceless document from the Vatican Secret Archives crashed down on his conscience. This act was a stark contradiction to the vows he had taken, a betrayal of everything he held sacred. The gravity of his actions hung over him like a dark cloud, threatening to consume him in its shadow.
The question of the act’s morality gnawed at him, a relentless tormentor in the silent, oppressive gloom of the Archives. He had to remind himself that the very institution he had pledged his life to had been weaving a web of deceit around him since time immemorial. “Perhaps Roberto has been seeing things clearly all along,” Mario murmured into the suffocating silence, his voice barely a whisper.
“Did you say something?” Cardinal Borelli’s voice sliced through the stillness, his figure emerging from around the corner to find Father Marino standing before his worktable.
“I—” Mario’s words were abruptly cut off as he choked on his own spit, and a violent coughing fit seized him. The cardinal halted, maintaining a safe distance from the spluttering priest. “Are you certain you’re feeling okay, Father?” The cardinal’s voice was laced with concern.
Mario gestured to give him a moment, his hand raised as he fought to regain control over his breathing. “Swallow first, then speak,” he muttered to himself, his voice raspy.
The cardinal observed Mario’s struggle, his gaze unwavering.
“I apologize, Cardinal,” Mario managed to croak out, clearing his throat once more. “You took me by surprise.”
“I apologize for startling you, Father.”
“I’ll pay more attention next time, Cardinal,” Mario promised, his voice still hoarse.
“Did you manage to locate the book I asked you about earlier?”
“I’m finishing the scanning process as we speak,” Mario replied, subtly positioning himself to obstruct the cardinal’s view of the mutilated books on the worktable. “I’ll bring it to you in the next hour.”
“I’ll anticipate you having it in my hands by one o’clock, Father,” the cardinal replied, craning his neck in an attempt to glimpse the worktable Mario was shielding.
“Yes. One o’clock sharp,” Mario assured him.
The cardinal turned on his heel, his suspicion of Mario’s illness prompting him to make a mental note to handle the book with gloves. He didn’t want to risk contracting whatever disgusting ailment the young priest seemed to be suffering from.
Mario raced to the end of the aisle and watched the cardinal’s retreating figure disappear behind the heavy metal door of the Secret Archives. A dull thud echoed ominously throughout the vast tomb.
His gaze lingered on the sole entryway to the Archives, his mind racing. He had to complete the scanning of the entire journal and save it on a microSD chip before one o’clock. With no time to waste, he hurried back to the worktable to continue scanning the pages from Pacelli’s journal. Securing those pages inside the eighteenth-century book cover would have to wait.
Chapter 50
March 9, 2000
12:45 p.m.
Vatican Secret Archives
The scanner hummed its final note as it processed the concluding page to Pacelli’s journal. Mario’s eyes darted to his watch—the hands indicated a quarter to one. With a sense of urgency, he carefully nestled the pages from Pacelli’s journal within the cover of his favorite Bible Roberto had gifted him. The pages from the eighteenth-century book were then artfully inserted into the vibrant cover of Pacelli’s journal, creating a convincing decoy. Finally, the contents of Roberto’s Bible found a new home within the cover of the eighteenth-century book, which Mario now returned to its original place on the shelf. The intricate shell game of swapping contents and covers was now complete.
Retrieving his iPod from his backpack, he deftly ejected the microSD card from the Vatican’s scanner and inserted it into his laptop’s SD card reader. His fingers danced over the keyboard as he navigated through the files, transferring the scanned pages of the journal onto the storage card. The transfer of 16 Gb of data crawled along at a snail’s pace, but after a painstaking five minutes, he removed the microSD chip and reinserted it into his iPod. A glance at his watch revealed he had a mere four minutes to reach the cardinal’s office on time, a journey that typically took six minutes.
With the journal securely hidden in his backpack, he hoisted the pack onto one shoulder and began to jog down the aisle towards the exit. Once he emerged from the Archives, he was forced to adjust his pace to a brisk walk—the hallowed halls of the Vatican were no place for running. This was a sanctuary of worship, tranquility, and harmony. Any disruption to the serene atmosphere would be seen as a sign of disrespect.
As he turned into the corridor of offices, he checked his watch again. He had arrived at Cardinal Borelli’s office at 1:02 p.m. Two minutes late. He entered the office to find Borelli reclining in his leather chair, feet propped up on the desk, engrossed in L’Osservatore Romano, Vatican City’s official newspaper. Borelli folded the newspaper onto his lap and glanced up at Mario, then at the clock on the wall. His silence and piercing gaze conveyed his disappointment at Mario’s tardiness. This was not acceptable.
Mario lingered in the doorway, his hand gripping the doorknob, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “I’m sorry I am late, Cardinal. I have that book you requested,” he said, his voice hushed in the confines of the revered cardinal’s office.
“Thank you,” Borelli responded, his tone icy as the winter chill. He lowered his feet from the desk and placed the newspaper aside. “Bring it here. I want to look at it.”
With a sense of dread gnawing at his gut, Mario approached Borelli’s desk and placed the fabricated journal before him.
The cardinal opened the cover, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the spine separated from the rest of the book. “Is this the condition you found it in, Father?” His gaze pierced through Mario.
Mario hadn’t had the time to properly affix the eighteenth-century book’s contents to the journal’s cover. Scanning the journal and saving it to his microSD card had consumed every precious second he had. He hadn’t anticipated this level of scrutiny and was unprepared for questions. Lies didn’t come easily to Mario, and his discomfort was noticeable. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he managed to stammer out a single word: “Yes.”
Cardinal Borelli’s eyes flicked to the beads of sweat on Mario’s forehead. “Are you sure you are feeling alright, Father?” he asked, pushing his chair back to create more distance between them. “You’ve seemed unwell the past couple of days.”
Mario hastily pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather, Cardinal. Perhaps I should take the rest of the day off to avoid spreading any potential illness.”
“An excellent idea,” Borelli agreed, pulling out his own handkerchief and placing it over his mouth. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he signaled for Mario to leave immediately.
With a sense of relief washing over him, Mario turned and swiftly exited the cardinal’s office. He was eager to escape the cardinal’s scrutinizing gaze and secure the copied journal in the safety of his home where he could privately study its secrets.
With Mario’s hasty departure, Cardinal Borelli reached into the recesses of his desk drawer, his fingers closing around the familiar bulk of an oversized can of Lysol spray. With a grim determination, he aimed it at the space Mario had just vacated and unleashed a ten-second barrage of disinfectant against the unseen enemy he perceived to be lingering in the room. He was a man of faith—but he also had faith in the bold claim emblazoned on the can, “Kills 99.9% of Viruses and Bacteria”.
Rising from his seat, he embarked on a thorough sanitization mission, dousing the entire office with a generous dose of the virus-and-bacteria killer. Satisfied that he had eradicated the potential threat, he returned to his seat, tucking the Lysol back inside its drawer. Leaning forward, he reached for his phone to dial a seldom-used internal Vatican number, his heart pounding with a sense of foreboding.
“Housekeeping,” came the gruff response on the other end of the line.
“This is Cardinal Borelli from the Vatican Secret Archives,” he began, his voice steady despite the chill creeping up his spine. “We may have an issue with the new priest assigned to archiving duties. He’s acting suspiciously.”
“Consider it handled,” the voice on the other end promised, the tone as frosty and detached as the stark black attire his clandestine department was reputed to wear.
The cardinal hung up the phone, a shiver running through him. He had always found interactions with “housekeeping” unsettling, but as Cardinal of the Secret Archives, it was his duty to report any irregularities, no matter how insignificant they might seem. The Vatican was a place of strict protocol, and any deviation from the norm was treated with utmost seriousness. The recent unfortunate incident involving Father Benedetti was a stark reminder of this. Now, Cardinal Borelli found himself in a similar predicament with Father Mario Marino. The priest’s recent change in behavior had left the cardinal with no choice but to alert “housekeeping”.
Picking up the folded L’Osservatore Romano, he leaned back in his leather chair, propping his feet up on his desk with a sense of grim satisfaction. He had done his duty for the sake of the Archives and the Vatican. Now he could return to the day’s news to let his mind ease its worries.
Chapter 51
March 9, 2000
2:14 p.m.
Roberto’s Mansion
After making a couple of unusual detours, Mario finally found himself standing before the imposing double doors to Roberto’s mansion. He rapped sharply on the grand entrance before pushing it open slightly to call out, “Berto, you home?”
