The black monk, p.10
The Black Monk, page 10
Jonah tilted his head, a sliver of his face illuminated by the dancing flames. His eyes, cold and calculating, glinted with a predatory hunger. "Excellent. We need time to ensure that the chaos we've ignited engulfs Europe before we move on. That's all we need, Demerol . . . Time."
Turning, Jonah moved into the darkest shadows of the room, a place where not even the glow of the flames could reach or penetrate, leaving Demerol to feel as if he were alone in the chamber.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Central Command Center of Vatican Intelligence
The Vatican, Vatican City
The lights of the Vatican Intelligence Command Center hummed with a constant, low drone, a stark contrast to the flurry of activity at the consoles. Brother Matteo, sitting at the main console, scanned the ever-shifting streams of data flowing across his screen. Lines of code scrolled by, punctuated by the occasional blip of an intercepted message. Here, in the heart of the Catholic Church's hidden nerve center, Brother Matteo’s keen eyes analyzed the digital shadows for anything out of the ordinary.
Just yesterday, an encoded message that originated from a secure line within Vatican City, had been relayed to a remote region deep within the Făgăraș Mountains of Transylvania. The message itself was brief, a cryptic string of numbers that defied immediate decoding. It had been a one-off, an anomaly in the usually predictable flow of Vatican communications. Yet, here he was again, a mere twenty-four hours later, staring at another transmission following the same path.
This time, the message wasn't as terse. A voice, strained and hushed, crackled through the speakers. The words, in heavily accented Italian, were barely audible over the static. “. . . I-I-I don't . . . knows something . . . sure . . . neutralize Father . . . Preferiti . . ." Then the transmission cut out abruptly, leaving Brother Matteo troubled.
The process of intercepting the signal wasn't as straightforward as flipping a switch. It involved a complex dance between technology and human ingenuity. Hidden within the walls of the Command Center, a sophisticated array of dishes pointed toward the heavens, their parabolic surfaces constantly seeking whispers in the electromagnetic spectrum. These dishes were tuned to intercept specific frequencies used by Vatican-issued satellite phones. When a call was initiated, the signal bounced off a Vatican satellite in geosynchronous orbit, and then back down to Earth, where it would be picked up by one of the receiving dishes. However, due to the curvature of the Earth, the signal was faint at best by the time it reached the receiving station.
Intercepting the message itself was only half the battle. Deciphering the content required a different set of skills. Brother Matteo, however, who was a whiz with cryptography, quickly went to work on the encoded message. He fed the string of numbers into a decryption program, its whirring fans a low hum mixed in the sounds of the room. The program itself employed a combination of algorithms and code-breaking techniques to crack the message's encryption. And though it would take time, perhaps hours, Brother Matteo was confident he would eventually pry open the message's secrets.
Armed with this data of a second transmission from Vatican City to the mountains of Transylvania, Brother Matteo insistent on the presence of Father Auciello.
* * *
"You're certain, Brother Matteo?" Father Auciello was standing over Brother Matteo on the lower tier of the command center. "A second transmission originating from within the Vatican, routed to a remote location in the Făgăraș Mountains?"
Brother Matteo nodded. "Absolutely, Father. It's the second one in as many days. Both originated from a secure line within Vatican City. And then there’s this." Brother Matteo reached out and tapped a few keys on his console. A faint hiss of white noise served as a preamble to a recording that crackled to life. The voice was distorted by static and a heavy Italian accent, was barely discernible. "...I-I-I don't...knows something...sure...neutralize Father...Preferiti..." The recording sputtered and died, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.
Father Auciello closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in deep thought. When he opened them, a steely glint flickered within. "Neutralize Father . . . Preferiti?" he murmured; his voice tight with unease. "Can you clean that up so that we can identify the voice?"
“I’m afraid not.”
"Neutralize Father . . . Preferiti." Father Auciello repeated to himself. Then he steepled his fingers and bounced their tips against his chin in thought.. "Let's dissect this,” he said evenly. “'Neutralize Father' It certainly doesn't imply arrest or interrogation but speaks of something far more permanent."
Brother Matteo nodded. "I thought the same thing. An assassination attempt, perhaps?"
"That’s my thinking. But which Father and why? That's the most alarming aspect. The message uses the term generically. It could be any priest, anywhere in the world." Father Auciello turned back to the recording playing in a loop in the background, the distorted voice a constant reminder of the urgency of the situation. ‘. . . neutralize Father . . . Preferiti.’ "And then there's the mention of 'Preferiti,'" Father Auciello continued. "That word alone signifies the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, those preferred by the College of the Cardinals to be the next pontiff in line for the papacy." Then Father Auciello nodded as though he came to a self-conclusion. "Cardinal Russo!" he simply stated, his voice barely a whisper. "He's a member of the Preferiti, isn't he?"
The staticky recording continued to play over and over in a loop.
. . . neutralize Father . . . Preferiti . . . neutralize Father . . . Preferiti . . . neutralize Father . . . Preferiti . . .
“Turn it off,” Father Auciello told Brother Matteo.
Father Auciello considered the implications that hung heavy in the air. "The Black Monk, possibly seeing a threat, wouldn't hesitate to eliminate a priest to push his agenda, one would wonder if he would involve the Preferiti directly to see this done. Perhaps if the member of the Preferiti is eyeing the papacy. This message suggests a collaboration between the two, a joint effort to silence a priest for reasons they don't want the Holy Office officially involved in." Father Auciello winced, knowing questions persisted. "The question remains – which priest are they talking about? And what information does this priest possess that poses such a threat that they resort to such measures?" And then: “Is it something we already—” As he was about to say the word ‘know,’ he realized that the possible motive behind the directive to eliminate a priest could be that Vatican Intelligence suspected a conspirator within the ranks of Vatican hierarchy, and that the action was sanctioned to address the growing threat of the Preferiti’s anonymity. If this was the case, it meant that he, or Father Essex, were the ones within the crosshairs since they were the only priests within Vatican Intelligence.
And then: “Father Essex, where is he?”
Brother Matteo looked up at Father Auciello from his seated position. “He’s returned to his apartment. His shift is over.”
In a whisper, Father Auciello said, “Oh no.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Shadowed Vault
The Vatican, Vatican City
In the suffocating embrace of a subterranean chamber beneath the Old Gardens, a single torch cast flickering shadows on the crimson-draped walls. Here, four Cardinals sat at an ancient conference table as Cardinal Russo, wearing his black hooded robe, appraised his colleagues – Cardinals Esposito, Leone, and Moretti –who wore red. His voice, as he spoke, echoed through the cavernous space, the acoustics terrible.
“There is a suspicion,” he began, “that we may have been compromised by Vatican Intelligence.” He paused, letting the pronouncement settle. “I believe . . . they believe . . . that Jonah is receiving aid from within the church. And that the aid may be coming from me.”
The cardinals appeared dumbfounded.
Then from Cardinal Esposito. “Are you sure?”
“No. Not entirely. It was just a feeling I got after a discussion with Father Essex, who was rather evasive.”
“That’s the nature of Vatican Intelligence,” said Cardinal Leone. “They only answer to the pope.”
“True. But I am also a man who reads people well, yes? And my instincts tell me that Father Essex knows more than what he told me . . . with a look as though I was within the crosshairs of the Vatican’s investigation.”
“Perhaps a sense of paranoia is triggering your imagination,” said Cardinal Moretti.
“I am not paranoid, Good Cardinal. I’m rather astute and take little for granted.”
“If this is true,” said Cardinal Esposito, “if we’re within the sites of the Vatican, this could expel us all. What we do are grounds for ex-communication.”
The table went silent, though all eyes remained focused on Cardinal Russo.
Then Cardinal Russo, raising his hand, said, “I have contacted Jonah—asked him what we should do.”
“And?” asked Cardinal Esposito
“Father Essex is the threat here. I believe he knows more than he’s saying, Jonah believes he knows more than what he’s saying, and if he suspects something, then most assuredly . . . everyone else inside Vatican Intelligence knows, or at least suspects, that Jonah has an alliance working for his cause instead of against it. How they know—” Cardinal Russo shrugged, the gesture saying he didn’t know. “If this is the case, and if Father Essex does expect something, anything, Jonah believes this is ground enough to take action.”
“What kind of action?” asked Cardinal Moretti.
“In the name of God, in the name of Heaven . . . we take it upon ourselves and commit a spiritual sacrifice for the good of the church.”
“So, what are you saying, Good Cardinal?”
After a pause, Cardinal Russo admitted, “Father Essex needs to be struck down, and a card is to be laid by his body suggesting that the priest’s death was a result of Jonah himself, and that his reach is far.”
Cardinal Esposito shook his head. “Murder? Is that what you’re implying? To commit murder?”
“Jonah will take full—”
“He’s not the one here doing the deed, is he?” asked Cardinal Leone. “Look, I’m all for the amendment of the church by bringing back the old ways, but I never imagined that AI would have this kind of effect. Europe is on fire with violence with riots getting out of control. It’s bad enough to see this happen. But I did not sign up to murder a man, let alone a priest.”
“Don’t forget your allegiance to Jonah.”
“Don’t forget your allegiance to God!” Cardinal Leone retorted sharply. Then the cardinal stood up, peeled back his hood to fully expose his face, the flames of the torch causing shadow lines to dance macabrely over his features. “I’m out,” he said. “As God as my witness, I’m out. I was foolish to think that such a transition to the old ways came with little cost.”
“There’s always a cost,” Cardinal Russo reminded him. “There’s always a sacrifice in a just cause.”
“Then let the sacrifice be yours and yours alone.” Then the cardinal left the table, the man shuffling toward the corridor.
Cardinals Moretti and Esposito looked at each other, though their faces were hidden beneath their hoods. Then in unison, both men got to their feet, and flipped back their hoods.
“If God will forgive us,” said Cardinal Esposito, “then I will assuredly pray that He does so until the moment of my final breath. Even then, I’m not sure if He’ll forgive us for our trespasses.”
“You can’t leave me alone in this. It’s too late.”
“Perhaps,” said Cardinal Moretti. “But walking away now knowing that we have foolishly sinned a great sin, we all have a long road of redemption to walk ahead of us. From here, I will take that first step hoping that God sees that I’m trying to do right after I agreed to do a terrible wrong.” With that, Cardinal Moretti took his first step toward salvation, and then another, and then a third, until he left the room. Not too far behind him, and following, was Cardinal Esposito, also on the path to redemption.
When the room was silent, Cardinal Russo, finding himself alone, peeled back his hood, his face taking on the fiery hue of the torch’s flame, and sighed.
In the name of God, he told himself, he would move forward with Jonah’s wishes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
St. Michael’s Cathedral
Roman Catholic Archdiocese
Alba Iulia, Romania
Inside a dimly-lit room of St. Michael’s Cathedral, Isaiah, Job, Jeremiah, Samuel, and Nehemiah were assembled and seated at a round table.
"All right," Isaiah began cordially. "As usual, time is of the essence." He clicked a remote to reveal a detailed map projected onto the large screen behind him. "I’ve received reliable intel regarding the exact location of the Black Monk's stronghold." He pointed to a spot on the map. "Here,” he said, “is our starting point. And here," he moved his finger eastwardly toward a red dot that pulsated over a canopy of trees, "is the Black Monk’s fortress."
"Are we certain this information is accurate? Seeing that I see nothing but trees and lots of them," Jeremiah asked.
"The source has been verified through satellite pinging of an in-going message from Vatican City to the coordinate you see on the map. The position was triangulated and rechecked for accuracy," Isaiah told them. “What you don’t see on top is most likely below, a subterranean bunker of some kind. And this area over here,” he traced his finger west along the map to a point seven clicks from the Black Monk’s stronghold, “is our landing zone. We’ll be parachuting in. And as you’ve already seen,” he moved his finger eastward to a stretch of road winding around the mountainside, where it disappeared beneath the trees, “is the only accessible means by vehicle—one way in, one way out—the road obviously leading to somewhere, though we cannot see its final point beneath the canopy. The road is a lethal avenue that would leave us exposed with no place to take cover in case of engagement.” Moving his finger back to the landing zone in the west, he began to outline the risks they faced to the Black Monk's stronghold, such as the sheer wall of the mountain that required careful navigation over a gorge. Once they reached the summit, then they would need to cross over a deep gorge that cut through the terrain, a deep abyss, and crossing it would not be easy since a misstep could lead to a perilous fall to the bottom.
After the briefing, the Vatican Knights went to perform their final prep for the mission except for Jeremiah, who sensed an apartness in Isaiah.
“You did well, mate,” he said. “Kimball would be proud of you.”
“For what? Briefing my team.”
“No . . . For doing a good job by carrying on his legacy.” Landing a few light pats on Isaiah’s shoulder, Jeremiah went to prep for the operation against the Black Monk’s stronghold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Father Essex Apartment
Rome, Italy
Unlike the grand residences favored by some high-ranking clergy, Father Essex's apartment in Rome struck a humbler note. Two flights up a narrow staircase opened into a spartan yet comfortable space. Books lined the walls, their spines a testament to countless hours spent in scholarly pursuits.
As Father Essex sat in his favorite armchair, a well-worn copy of The City of God by Saint Augustine rested in his lap while a steaming mug of tea perched on the end table, its aroma blending with the faint scent of leather and aged paper. He turned a page, the man concentrating as he plunged himself deeper into the text.
And then a noise from the front door, the slow rotation of the doorknob. Father Essex cocked his head to listen.
Silence.
Just as he was about to return to his book—the noise, again, the rattling of the doorknob.
Quietly setting his book aside, the priest slowly got to his feet and listened.
Nothing but silence except for the quick bleating of a car horn outside his window.
Father Essex moved through the apartment and into the hallway.
At the end was the door.
Slowly, Father Essex crept down the hallway, each step muffled by the worn carpeting. The overhead light cast flickering shadows that danced across the worn wallpaper, making the silence feel even more oppressive. When he reached the door, his hand hovered over the knob for a heartbeat too long.
Hesitantly, he pressed his eye to the peephole. The corridor stretched before him, empty and illuminated only by the dim glow of an emergency exit sign. Yet, a prickling sensation danced on his skin, a primal awareness of unseen eyes watching him.
He twisted the knob slowly, pulled, and the door creaked open, revealing the empty hallway bathed in the same eerie half-light. Father Essex stepped out, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. He scanned both ends of the corridor.
Nothing. Not a single soul in sight.
Then a cold draft brushed past his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. It wasn't a natural breeze; it felt deliberate, a chilling whisper against his skin. He spun around, his gaze darting from corner to corner, searching for the source.
But the hallway remained empty. The feeling of being watched, however, intensified. It was like a predator lurking just beyond his field of vision, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Father Essex knew, with a chilling certainty, that he was not alone.
* * *
The air hung cloyingly thick and stagnant in the hallway, clinging to Cardinal Russo like a shroud. From his shadowed haven behind the towering ferns, he peered through the veil of darkness, a predator watching its prey emerge. The creak of Father Essex's apartment door was a jarring sound that, though slight, still sent a sharp jolt through Cardinal Russo's already taut nerves.
As a sliver of light pierced the quasi-darkness of the hallway, it briefly illuminated Father Essex's tall, square figure. Slowly, the priest emerged with his movements deliberate and measured, which was in stark contrast to the frantic drumbeat of Cardinal Russo's heart.
