The Apostolic Palace: 5:03 p.m.
Christoph Raber pulled closed the door behind him as he entered the pontiff’s private study. At his request, the stranger had been led into a separate area, leaving the commandant of the Swiss Guard free to speak privately to the man he had pledged before God to protect.
“Your Holiness, I am duty-bound to inform you that we believe your life to be in immediate danger.”
Gregory’s brows rose slowly. The spoon with which he’d been stirring his tea came to a stop.
“Danger?” He was calm, but looked surprised.
“Yes, Holiness. We have reason to believe you and your office are currently under attack.”
“Who’s the ‘we?’” The Pope’s expression widened.
“Me, together with the full resources of the Guard. There is . . . evidence, Your Holiness.”
Gregory set down his teaspoon and waved Raber closer. His previous surprise gave way to his more usual demeanor.
“Let’s do away with formalities, Christoph. Speak frankly. What are you talking about? As you can see, my office is perfectly secure. I trust your men are outside the door, as they always are.”
Raber nodded. “Of course. I’m referring to the office of the pontiff. We now have information that makes absolutely clear that the miracles of the past twenty-four hours are the result of manipulation.”
“How do you manipulate a healing, Christoph?”
“By staging a scientific treatment in the guise of a religious event.” Raber stepped forward, pulled out a chair and sat opposite the pontiff. “By funding a medical firm, for example, that deals in genetic blindness and has been working on a cure for that condition for decades. By paying them off to apply this cure in a way that makes it look like a spontaneous act. An act people will interpret as divine.”
The Pope looked puzzled. “That seems a bit of a stretch—”
Raber interrupted him. “Or by paying off a doctor who works at a cancer research firm, convincing him to treat his patients covertly with a new regimen developed by a multibillion-euro company. A company you also control. We know the doctor’s name. We have his account details and clear evidence of pay-offs. Everything in place so that he could announce a healing that the world would interpret as a miracle.”
“Why would anyone want to do this?” the Pope asked. “Medical firms aren’t known for keeping their discoveries secret. If they could cure this cancer, surely they’d announce that fact, not hide it.”
“Why indeed, Your Holiness? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since yesterday.” Raber hesitated, but he knew he had to be direct. “I wouldn’t have an answer if it weren’t for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, Gregory.” For one of the few times in his life, Raber spoke with personal informality to a pontiff of the Church. “I have before me a clear set of data. We have fraudulent miracles taking place within hours of your recovery. We have the arrival of a man in the Vatican who many people are considering a divine agent, if not Christ himself. We have no reason to presume his innocence, given these circumstances. There’s only one conclusion I can draw. Someone is out to discredit you. To destroy you.”
Slowly the pontiff’s color began to match the white of his garments. “This is a very serious charge, Christoph.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t certain. We’ve identified the companies involved. We’ve tracked money changing hands. It’s not a theory, Your Holiness. This is a fact.”
“Who would do such a thing? Manipulating the faith and belief of millions . . . just to get to me?”
Raber gazed firmly into the Pope’s eyes. “You know full well that you have enemies, Gregory.”
The Pope nodded, but it was an affirmation of the obvious. “Every pontiff has them. Every world leader.”
“Yours are . . . closer to home.”
Now the Pope leaned in toward the commandant. “You’re suggesting this deception is being wielded from inside the Vatican?”
“I know it as a fact,” Raber answered. “Some of the funds we’ve tracked have come from our own Istituto per le Opere di Religione. It would appear that the Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris is no longer a myth with a whiff of substance behind it. They are real, active, and they’re at work.”
The Pope sat back, dumbstruck. “Our own people?”
“With outside help,” Raber added. He extracted a photograph from his valise and set it on the pontiff’s desk. “This is Caterina Amato. She’s the CEO of Global Capital Italia, a financial firm you have no reason to know anything about. But she’s been at odds with us before. The more I’ve looked into these interactions, the more I’ve see a pattern of consistent aggression toward the Church, though I’ve yet to determine its origins.”
Gregory paused, contemplating the details. “What’s her connection to all this?”
“Her company is linked to payments to the same medical firms, Your Holiness. She’s working together with whoever’s betrayed you here within the Vatican. And . . .” Raber’s voice faltered.
“Spit it out,” the Pope demanded.
“This woman is deadly. Men who go up against her wind up one of two ways: either obliterated in the public sphere, ruined and defamed . . .”
“Or?”
“Or deceased, Your Holiness. A surprising number of her former opponents have had conspicuously short lives.”
Gregory pondered the details. Then, finally, “I must speak to this woman. Get her on the phone, bring her over. I’m sure I can come to some sort of peace with her.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Raber answered.
“Why not?”
“Because the threats we’ve assessed are simply too great to allow for any outside interactions. From this moment, Your Holiness, I’m placing the Guard’s highest security protocols into effect. I’m going to have to insist that you remain in this room until we’ve apprehended the people who are threatening your life, and that you speak to no one while you’re here.”
“You would make me a prisoner in my own office, Christoph?”
Raber tried to convey a polite regret, but his features were firm. “I do apologize, Holiness. It’s for your own protection.”