The Crimson Code

Monsignor Veltroni had virtually adopted Lorenzo, loved him as a son, and felt deep worry about whatever might happen to him. Except… Steve must be dead, or he would have gone to the bishop in Guatemala City, surely?

Veltroni’s heart ached and he wished there was something he could take back, some decision he could unmake so that Steve would return whole and unharmed. Yet he could not be sure the priest was dead, for no remains had ever been found. Perhaps he was still searching for the Codex?

If so, and if he was still with the survivors of Dos Ojos, Steve had both the Guatemalan police and army after him.

And perhaps someone else. Rumors had surfaced in Veltroni’s extremely sensitive intelligence web that someone called “The Hunter” might be pursuing the Codex, as well. If so…Steve faced more trouble than he could possibly imagine.

With a sigh, Veltroni adjusted his mufti, in this case a djellaba with a hood, so that he might blend in better. Beneath he wore his priestly black and his pectoral cross, but he knew better than to think they would save him from harm here.

The cab pulled up before an almost palatial residence. Ahmed Ahsami, a Saudi visionary, was also a member of the Saudi royal family, one of the more minor princes who could live a comfortable lifestyle but not an excessively lavish one. He was also an important official in the oil ministry. Apparently his lifestyle was comfortable enough that one of his employees stepped forward to pay the cab driver before Veltroni could fumble with the unfamiliar currency.

Then, without a word, he was led along surprisingly cool tiled hallways, past beautiful wall mosaics bright with color and into an interior courtyard, where an extravagant fountain bubbled cheerfully and a riot of green plants grew as if this were their native terrain.

The employee—servant?—motioned him to a padded bench. “Sheik Ahsami will send for you shortly.”

Shortly turned into ten minutes, but then the servant reappeared and motioned for Veltroni to follow. At once he was led into a spacious room that forsook the grandiosity of the rest of the building for a very businesslike aspect. Ahmed Ahsami, dressed casually in chinos and a blue business shirt, at once rose and came to greet him.

“Monsignor! It is good of you to come. And I can assure you that you were not followed. So we speak freely, yes?”

Veltroni’s eyes narrowed. “That is the entire reason I have made this trip, Sheik.”

“Please, call me Ahmed. I think we now have more in common than you believe.”

Before the discussion could proceed, however, in the best tradition of desert tribes a repast was laid before them on a long table. Hospitality first, then business. Veltroni chafed, but knew he would insult Ahmed if he did not partake with enjoyment and a considerable amount of inane chat.

As he sipped the powerful Turkish coffee, Veltroni studied his host. The initial smile had faded into a look of deep thoughts that did not run in pleasant waters. While he spoke the correct words as dinner was consumed, Veltroni could tell this was not a man in a state of silent celebration. When they had finished and retired to Ahmed’s drawing room, Veltroni knew it was upon him to break the ice—or shatter it.

“I needn’t tell you how I feel about the Christmas attacks,” Veltroni said. “The Vatican is justifiably and righteously angry. This was a very dangerous gambit, my friend…whoever did it.”

Ahmed studied him carefully, but Veltroni did not flinch. The accusation hung between them, and the burden lay upon Ahmed to dismiss it. Or to admit to it. Without one or the other, the Stewards could have no further dealing with Ahmed. Promises of peace could not survive acts of malicious brutality.

Finally, Ahmed spoke. “The situation is…complex, Guiseppi. There were acts on Christmas for which I and my men were responsible. There were others in which we were betrayed.”

“I know the answer, but I have to ask. You did not authorize the cathedral bombings?”

Ahmed shook his head. “No, my friend. All the attacks were to be on legitimate military, political and economic targets.”

“Like the oil platforms?” Veltroni asked.

Ahmed drew a breath. “Yes, like those. And as I’m sure you know, none of the workers there were injured. After all, why else did we choose to act on Christmas, a time when most at the intended targets would be safely at home? My teams had explicit instructions. They carried out their orders with professional discipline. Alas, my allies—” he spat out the word with anger “—had other ideas. Now we all lose.”

“Yes,” Veltroni said. “We all lose. I don’t suppose you will tell me about these…allies.”

“One betrayal does not justify another,” Ahmed said. “Even if they have no honor, I must answer to Allah for what I have done and what I will do.”

Veltroni considered that statement. Was there honor in protecting someone who has betrayed you, and who in that betrayal has committed mass murder? Once again, he found himself wishing he knew more of Ahmed’s religion. But Islam, like Christianity, suffered from sectarian schisms that rendered simple analysis impossible. Veltroni had no idea of Ahmed’s personal Islam or the tenets he held most deeply.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Ahmed was refusing to reveal his allies because he feared retribution if they were exposed. This would hardly be the first time someone had rationalized self-interest in terms of religious belief. Still, Veltroni did not think it likely that Ahmed would bend on this issue. At least not tonight.

“You understand,” Veltroni said, “that I may have trouble with my superiors over this. They will find it hard to sit back and do nothing after so many of our cathedrals have been bombed. And there is only one direction in which they will look.”

Ahmed’s handsome face creased with both anger and concern. “Of which superiors do you speak? Your superiors at the Vatican? Or your masters in your secret order?”

Veltroni froze. He never would have imagined that Ahmed could have learned anything about the Stewards of the Faith as a secret order. Especially when they appeared to stand in plain sight for all to see.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ahmed shook his head. “You don’t fool me, my friend. Your Stewards may have a public face and the pope’s blessing, but I am not stupid. What we have discussed together tells me that you have a purpose other than the simple ones of the pope.”

“The Stewards of the Faith are dedicated to preserving the Catholic Church. There is no secret in that.”

“Perhaps not.” Ahmed sighed. “Perhaps only your methods raise doubt. Somehow I do not think the Holy Father, as you call him, would approve of some of what you have agreed to.”

“The Holy Father lives in a simpler world. Reality must be dealt with.”

“Yes,” Ahmed answered. “And now you must trust me to handle reality. I will deal with these traitors because they have harmed my cause.”

For a few minutes, neither man spoke.

“Trust me,” Ahmed said again. “I am as angry as you and your Church.”

Finally Veltroni nodded. When he spoke, his tone intimated a threat that his words did not. “We are left to trust in God. God—Allah—will honor our sincere efforts toward peace, however they may go awry.”

“Yes,” Ahmed said, rising. “Thank you for coming, my friend. You are always welcome in my home. Perhaps you can…buffer…the opinions of your superiors, as they consider these horrors. I have no wish to incite another crusade.”

“Nor do we,” Veltroni said. “Nor do we.”

After Veltroni left, Ahmed Ahsami called for a glass of brandy—one of his few secret vices—and pondered the conversation. Yes, he would deal with the traitors who had blown up the cathedrals. He had already set the wheels in motion to find them and kill them.

But the Catholic Church was now a wild card on the board. The pope had spoken of forgiveness, but Veltroni’s words had carried an implicit threat. Perhaps his doubts about the Stewards of the Faith were correct.

But correct or not, at the moment they were not his greatest concern. He could deal with them later if it became necessary. For now he had to find the men behind the true horror of Black Christmas.

And kill them all.

4

Frankfurt Airport, Germany

“You know,” Assif Mondi said—in English, for the benefit of the rest of the group, who all spoke English but otherwise diverged greatly in their linguistic skills—“it would have been better if you had wanted to crack into this network a few years ago.”

Renate simply stared expressionlessly at him. All the tears she had shed in the privacy of her apartment since Black Christmas had turned into something harder than diamonds. Sometimes her nostrils flared a little, anticipating the scent of blood. The blood of the killers. No one knew it, though, and no one would, because if they learned of it, she would be removed from this case instantly. But deep inside her, the only purpose she had left, the only desire that existed, was to destroy any and all who had taken part in the killing of her family.

But Assif was on his hobbyhorse now and not likely to slow down. “A few years ago the banks were on dial-ups. Can you believe it? They used X.25 protocol, which was a good protection, but not unhackable. Now you want me to break into SWIFTNET, a dedicated hardwired network with the most powerful NetScreen encryption devices made. They have firewalls, massive encryption, and worse, they have an untrust fallback.”

“Untrust?” Lawton asked.

“If the NetScreen device senses anything unusual in the connection, it will immediately fall over to a backup connection. On a different line.”