Hugues de Ségur, alias Pierre de Combel, had planned to evacuate shortly after the live TV transmission. He knew that the worlds’ intelligence agencies and security forces’ super computers were already busy trying to break the firewalls, decipher the codes and hunt down the latitude-longitude coordinates of the transmission.
Amidst the flurry of preparations for departure, de Ségur was talking to the bull-necked Godefroi when suddenly Vespoli, phone in hand and looking embarrassed, entered the dining room: ‘Sir, it’s the helicopter pilot.’
‘What is it?’ said de Ségur.
‘We have a problem. The pilot had a mechanical at Saanen. He had to lease another helicopter and it has a different interior configuration.’
‘So?’
‘The stretcher doesn’t fit.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I—’
De Ségur grabbed Vespoli by the lapels of his jacket and shook him
violently. ‘It was your job to check and counter-check all of the transportation requirements, you numbskull.’
‘I know, sir, but—’
De Ségur released Vespoli’s jacket and calmed down. ‘Now what do we do with him?’
He turned away, thought for a moment, then faced Vespoli again. ‘Take him on the Bellerophon.’
Twenty minutes later, de Ségur boarded the helicopter, destination Benghazi. Before leaving, he’d confirmed his instructions to Vespoli that he and the others would leave on the Bellerophon, a charter yacht standing by in the Bay of Augusta. They were to meet him the next morning in de Ségur’s desert compound near Suluq, 10 km south of Benghazi.
Vespoli, still unnerved by the confrontation with de Ségur, walked downstairs and entered Bruscetti’s room. ‘Quick, get your things. We’re leaving.’ he ordered.
‘But I have just finished—’
‘Now.’ Vespoli handed him a one-piece dark brown fatigue. ‘Here, wear this.’
Bruscetti walked to the bathroom. Moments later, he reappeared, his round belly molded tightly by the ill-fitting one-piece suit.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he said. ‘Where is His Holiness?’
Vespoli didn’t answer. He took Bruscetti firmly by the arm, and led him up the stairs and outside to the white van, its motor running. They climbed into the van and seated themselves among the other passengers. The other van was already in motion when Vespoli signaled the driver to follow it.
Thirty minutes later, Bruscetti looked out of the van’s window and saw the outline of a yacht, anchored in the bay, surrounded by a sea of setting sunlight. The van stopped alongside the pier and disgorged its clandestine cargo, while three men, their Uzis at the ready, looked nervously about. Vespoli led Bruscetti and the other passengers down the pier towards a small launch. Reaching it, Vespoli started to usher them aboard when Bruscetti, about to board, stopped and said: ‘I demand to know. Where are you taking me?’
‘Get in,’ ordered Vespoli, shoving Bruscetti down the launch’s narrow steps.
Falling into the launch’s wooden cockpit, Bruscetti lunged for the handrail, catching it at the last moment. He sat down on the uncomfortable bench, nervously looking at the two armed men sitting across from him. The launch’s motor rumbled to life and the crew cast off the lines from the pier. Five minutes later, the launch was pulling alongside the stern platform of the yacht. Bruscetti could see, inscribed on its stern, Bellerophon, and beneath it the name of its home port, Toulon. He and the others took the boarding ladder up to the yacht’s main deck. Halfway up the stairs, Bruscetti heard the launch leave, turning to see it head back towards shore.
As he stood on the deck and waited, Bruscetti‘s attention was drawn to the man standing alone on the bridge above, giving instructions on the intercom. Must be the captain, he thought. Moments later came the distinct clanking sound of the anchor chain passing through the hawse pipe. Bruscetti looked at his watch: 7.45 p.m. He felt the yacht begin to move, slowly at first, then more rapidly. He looked astern and saw the coastline slowly disappear into the distance. Surrounded by a halo of cloud, the premature moon looked foreboding.
Bruscetti felt someone grab his arm from behind.
‘Come,’ said Vespoli, as he proceeded to lead him down the companionway. Upon reaching the level below, Vespoli turned left down the sparsely lit corridor and stopped before an open doorway.
Vespoli gestured to the empty room. ‘Your cabin. Get some rest. You’ll need it.’
Bruscetti entered and turned towards Vespoli. ‘Where are we headed? Where is His Holiness?’
Vespoli didn’t answer and closed the door in Bruscetti’s face. The doctor heard the lock click.
An hour later, Vespoli made his way up the companionway and the narrow stairs to the bridge. ‘When do we reach Benghazi?’ he asked the captain.
‘In about fourteen hours. That’s if the weather holds,’ said the short, swarthy Egyptian with the large, cocker spaniel eyes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a Force 10 Beaufort sirocco working its way up the east coast of Tunisia. It could veer west and hit us.’
‘That’s all we need,’ said Vespoli. As navigator of a Hercules C130, he’d been tossed around like a rag doll inside its cockpit, as the plane plowed through a Force 10 Beaufort storm. He’d felt first-hand the unimaginable power of gusts of over 130 km an hour. ‘Can the Bellerophon take it?’ he said.
The captain nodded, as he continued staring ahead into the unknown.
The hotel phone rang loudly, jolting Dulac out of a heavy sleep. He groped for the receiver, and the phone fell off the night table. ‘Christ!’
‘No, Guadagni.’
Dulac replaced the phone on the table. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’
‘Romer’s dead. They found him this morning in his room.’
‘Jesus.’
‘No signs of violence. We’ve ordered an autopsy.’
‘Who had access to his room?’
‘About 50 Swiss Guards. He slept near the barracks.’
‘Great. Just pissing great.’
‘Ah, and another thing. I’ve got that preliminary report on him. The one you ordered a week ago.’
‘On the pre-hiring investigation?’
‘Yes. You won’t believe this, but apparently he was a Cathar.’
‘What?’
‘Our source says he was registered in Sion, Switzerland, as a practicing Cathar.’
‘Unbelievable.’ Now sitting on the edge of the bed, Dulac absorbed the impact of the news. For the Vatican to allow the Swiss Guards, staunch Roman Catholics to a man, to be headed by a Cathar, was embarrassing, inexcusable. Someone would have to answer for the laxity. Perhaps a cardinal or two.
‘I know. As incredible as it may seem, he was in regular contact with the Cathar bishop of Switzerland, a monsignor Pierre Comtesse. Romer being head of the Swiss Guards, nobody bothered to check.’
‘Nor had anyone reason to. Up till now. Who checked his credentials when he applied for the post?’
‘That’s going to take a lot more digging.’
‘That explains why Aguar had no difficulty in getting hired, why the kidnappers knew about the ambulance being out of service, had access to the helicopter landing pad. Christ, the kidnappers had inside info on everything. Just pissing great.’
‘It all falls into place.’
‘So Aguar, dead, Romer, a Cathar, dead. De Ségur, a Cathar, very much alive. He and his bunch of hoods have killed the Pope, and we have their lat-long fix in Sicily. What the Christ are you waiting for? De Ségur’s personal invitation?’
‘Your sarcasm I don’t need, Dulac. You didn’t let me finish. Yesterday, the Palermo police raided the villa corresponding to the latitude-longitude fix.’
‘And?’
‘It’s empty.’