The Apostolic Palace: 8:30 p.m.
Pope Gregory XVII sat quietly in his study. This was not the official private office of the pontiff, which ironically was only marginally less public a working space than his ceremonial cabinet. This was his true, personal sanctuary at the edge of the upper floor of the Apostolic Palace. It had formerly been a sitting room in the pontifical residence, light and airy despite being paneled in cherry and frescoed overhead by one of the great masters. Gregory had taken to it immediately. He’d had the room repurposed only a few weeks into his pontificate, and it had fast become his favored private retreat.
And the man who sat on the far side of the room, gazing serenely out over the manicured gardens beyond, had needed no invitation. The Pope was intent on making the stranger feel as at home here as he possibly could. Because his being here was a sign. And the Pope had needed a sign.
The work of Catholicism’s senior bishop was unlike any other he could have imagined in his life. Not in its scope or responsibilities, all of which he’d been aware of for years, long before he was ever handed the fisherman’s ring or invested in the pallium. These had not surprised him, though he’d dreaded them—especially the spiritual weight of the authority that came with them. Gone were the days when he had superiors who could help carry the burden of his cross. Gone, too, were the days even of having peers in any real sense. With the pontificate came a deep isolation: the sense of being profoundly, inconsolably alone.
But sorrowful as it might be, this had not been a surprise. The higher Gregory had ascended in office, the lonelier his work had become. It was the way of things. He was used to it.
What he hadn’t expected, what he could never have foreseen back in the days of his youth, as an eager seminarian or a first-year assistant priest sent out to serve the flock, was the degree of corruption that existed in what was now his institution. How could he have supposed, a man of faith and sincere belief, that there would be so much darkness in the palace of light? Or so much within the bosom of Mother Church that reminded him more of a fussy, fighting sibling than the sturdy arms of a parent?
It had been a surprise, but even this had come long before his pontificate. He had spent his ministry fighting that corruption, pouring his soul into the righteousness of the work. He’d first targeted the sex scandals exposed when he was bishop of the diocese of Novara in the far north of Italy. He’d not responded with the gentle moving-priests-around or retiring-them-into-silence tactics that had been exercised elsewhere in the Church. Those tainted with this corruption had been sacked, and Gregory had pushed for criminal convictions as well as spiritual sanctions. The sword of excommunication was meant to be wielded at times like these, and he’d wielded it aggressively.
It was then that he had begun to ascend the ranks. In a world tired of evil, his aggressive work to battle the darkness within the Church had pushed him ever more into the public eye. He had come to be known as “the purifying prelate” long before he was styled “the purifying pontiff.”
But somehow, pontiff he had become, and the only way Gregory was able to come to terms with this was to see in it God’s affirmation of this necessary work. So he’d redoubled his efforts since he’d taken the white cassock. In the past months, he’d managed to introduce wide-ranging investigations of almost every major institution of the Church in every territory around the world. He’d even managed to sack two corrupt bishops and a cardinal from their positions in the curia—no small feat, even for a pope. The curia was a force to be reckoned with, never in any pontiff’s pocket. But holy work had to be done.
All of which had made Pope Gregory enemies as well as friends. Perhaps that was as it should be. If everyone hated him, it might be a sign that he was ill suited to the Church’s highest ministry. On the other hand, if everyone loved him, he would surely fall prey to pride and arrogance. In the middle, perhaps there was the possibility of doing good, even attaining salvation himself.
And then, amongst all this, the stranger had come.
Gregory had every reason to be suspicious, he was well aware of that. He knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of this man. Advisers were whispering in his ear that “a traitor in blue jeans” had infiltrated the Vatican. Members of his security retinue were concerned the man could be a terrorist. One of the older archbishops was positively certain he was the Antichrist. And why couldn’t any one of these men—men the Pope had always trusted—be right? There could be fraud taking place right under his nose. Deception of a sort he couldn’t even imagine.
And yet, and yet . . .
Were not the events of the past twenty-four hours a sign of comfort? Was not the Lord deigning to provide solace to his weary vicar in the midst of his trials? Pope Gregory gazed across his desk at the man who sat so serenely at the far side of his office. In his presence, questions seemed to slip away, and all that was left was a profound peace, a certainty of good and holiness. It was as if the Pope’s heart, so traumatized by the sinfulness of the world and his own flock, was made whole in this man’s presence, just as miraculously as his back had been made straight.
Headquarters of Global Capital Italia: 8:32 p.m.
In her office on the top floor of the Global Capital Italia headquarters, Caterina Amato felt a tingle of anticipation shudder down her spine as she reached for the intercom button at the corner of her desk telephone.
The plan she’d concocted the moment a contact within the Vatican had live-streamed the arrival of the stranger to her across a FaceTime connection had been thrust into motion immediately. All day, her men had been putting its various elements into play. Some of those elements were long in the works—resources her firm had built up over years, secretively and with unclear intention, which would be used today in ways she’d never before conceived. One of those was already out in the open, stirring the public imagination. Yet other elements were responses, worked out on the spot as the day’s possibilities had started to unfold.
Life, healing and death, mingling together. It was almost like a symphony. A symphony of her conducting. For the spark that had started this day might not have been of Caterina Amato’s devising, but she was sure as hell going to make the flame it created her own.
She pressed the intercom button and her secretary’s voice clipped to life almost instantly.
“Yes, Ms. Amato?”
“Gather the board,” she instructed. “An emergency meeting. Tell them to be here in two hours, no exceptions.” A project as big as the deception Caterina was crafting was going to take her whole inner circle. Most of the board of directors had already been called into action individually throughout the day, but it was time to bring them all together. To circle the wagons and make sure that every element of a plan that was still taking its final shape in Caterina’s mind was worked out and timed to perfection.
“Yes, Ms. Amato. I’ll see that they’re here.”
Caterina tapped her finger on the intercom button again, ending the brief conversation. Two hours. By that time, the next piece of earth-shattering news would already be in the public domain. The whole country would be singing the song she was writing.
And the Pope would only dig himself more deeply into the pit she was preparing.