God's Lions - House of Acerbi (20 page)

“We would be happy to have dinner with you, Javier. Lead the way.”

With that, the two groups piled into several waiting cars and made their way down the twisting mountain road into the village of Setcases. Alongside the main street, a clear mountain stream had been channeled right through the middle of the village, providing a gurgling backdrop to the sights and sounds of the main square as they entered a quaint-looking inn.

Inside, beneath a ceiling lined with carved wooden beams, a long table bathed in candlelight and draped with fine Spanish linen sat in front of a massive stone fireplace that crackled with the drippings from various meats on a spit being roasted over an open fire.

Once seated, the owner and his staff rushed forward with bottles of Spanish wine and an assortment of
tapas
that included local sausages, olives, sardines, and steaming earthenware bowls full of
Trinxat
, a traditional Catalan dish made with potatoes and cabbage.

Leo took a large green olive and popped it in his mouth.

“They serve the best Spanish olives in the country here, Cardinal,” Mendoza said, beaming like a proud father.

“I’m relieved to hear there’s been no report of illness in this area, Javier. We were worried when we didn’t see any people in the streets when we flew over earlier.”

“The military told them to remain in their homes until we were sure there was no longer any danger from the pathogen. They were more than happy to oblige.”

Mendoza sat back and surveyed the scene, happy that he had been able to persuade this world-famous group to dine with him and his friends. “I’m still curious, Cardinal. What did you hope to find back at the crash site?”

“To be perfectly honest, Javier, we have no idea. We made this trip at the request of the Holy Father.”

A murmur went up from the Spanish scientists, along with a few gasps from nearby patrons who were listening in on the conversation.

“No idea whatsoever?”

“No. I believe our mission was a matter of faith ... faith in ourselves and faith in God to lead us in the right direction.”

“Surely you must have been looking for something connected to the pathogen, yet there is no evidence of it here.”

“True,” Leo said. “But I believe His Holiness had hoped that we would find something here that would help us in the battle against this new kind of plague. He sent us here for a reason, and he’s never let us down yet.”

Eavesdroppers at the surrounding tables nodded their approval as waiters flowed from the kitchen with steaming bowls of
Civet De Senglar
, wild boar in a stew, along with heaping platters of
Carn A La Brasa
, a mixture of lamb, quail, sausage, chicken, and artichoke, all grilled on an open fire.

Mendoza leaned across the table and spoke quietly to prevent those nearby from hearing. “I’d like to go back to something I mentioned earlier, Cardinal. Was the pathogen artificially engineered, as we have heard?”

With a spoonful of hot stew halfway to his mouth, Leo looked up from his food and fixed Mendoza with a look that backed him away. “I’m afraid that is something I am not at liberty to discuss at the moment, Doctor.”

“My apologies, Your Eminence. I see that I have offended you. I only ask out of scientific curiosity.”

“You haven’t offended me in the least, Javier. I wish I could be of more help to you, but we have to be careful not to spread panic based on unsubstantiated rumors.”

A barely perceptible smile crossed Mendoza’s lips, a sign that he understood the cardinal’s dilemma.

Leo was beginning to like this man ... a fellow academic like himself, but no matter how much he wanted to help the Spanish scientists in their quest for the truth, he was bound for the moment by secrecy born of necessity.

“This food is delicious,” Alon said, coming to Leo’s rescue. “We should come back here someday.” Nava nudged Lev and winked.

As the evening wore on and the remaining guests filtered out into the crisp night air, the group of scientists saw that they were the only patrons remaining in the restaurant, and as the wine continued to flow, they found their discussions were taking on a decidedly more philosophic tone.

Mendoza picked at the last of his dessert, a delicious Flam Blanc made from milk and berries. “You know, Cardinal, I have to say, I find it very interesting that the College of Cardinals picked a Norwegian for your current pope. Of course, although I am not a Catholic myself, I believe it would be safe to say that the people of Spain would like to see a Spanish pope again one day.” The twinkle in Mendoza’s eyes betrayed a slight mischievousness. “However, after the behavior of the last one, I can understand the hesitancy.”

Leo nodded his head at the obvious reference to the last Spanish pope, a man who had the distinction of being the most notoriously corrupt leader in Catholic Church history.

“Well, times have changed, Javier. The Church, not to mention civilization itself, has come a long way since 1492, when the pope you’re referring to, Rodrigo Borgia, became Pope Alexander VI. Personally, I believe the Church is long overdue for a pope with Spanish blood, especially if he brings food like this to the Vatican.”

Mendoza and the others laughed as they raised their glasses in Leo’s direction. Once again, the unconventional cardinal had proven his ability to win the hearts and minds of everyone around him.

“Pope Michael is very popular here in Spain,” Mendoza continued. “But we find it strange that he comes from a country that is made up of mostly Protestant Evangelical Lutherans.”

“Yes, that’s true. That demographic makes up almost eighty-five percent of Norway’s population. Do you know what the second largest religion in Norway is?”

Mendoza’s good-natured but self-assured demeanor began to collapse. “Catholic?”

“I wish. No, actually it’s Islam ... at 1.9 percent. We Catholics come in third at only 1.1 percent.”

“Surely you jest, Cardinal. Islam ... in a country like Norway?”

“I found it a little surprising myself.”

Those at the table could see a slight change of color in Alon’s face. “Surprising is not the word I would use.”

“Nor would I,” Mendoza said. “I lost two close friends to a group of radical Islamic terrorists who blew up that train in Madrid a few years back. You have to wonder, when did blowing people up become a way to convince people to join your religion? You know, Cardinal, if this pathogen was engineered, I would have to put Islamic terrorists right up there at the top of the list of suspects. Have you ever heard of Institute 398?”

“I have,” Lev said, surprised that someone outside the intelligence community had heard of the facility. Since this Spanish “anthropologist” obviously knew something about the institute, Lev decided to open up a little to see just how much Mendoza knew.

“Institute 398 is located in North Korea at a place called Sogram-ri. It’s a huge complex surrounded by three battalions of troops. That should give you some indication of how important it is to them. The North Koreans have over 250 geneticists working there, along with ten who just arrived from Iran. They’re all working on just one project.”

“And I can tell by the look on your face that you know what that project is, Professor,” Mendoza said.

“I’m afraid I do, Doctor. Institute 398 has been tasked with creating a genetically engineered virus to strike the white, Anglo Saxon populations of the earth.”

The members of the Bible Code Team exchanged quick, furtive glances with one another. In view of his line of questioning, it was becoming increasingly evident that Mendoza knew more about the pathogen than he was letting on.

“Why are we allowing this?” Alon said. “Are we so afraid of world opinion that we’re just going to sit back and allow ourselves to be wiped off the face of the earth? A few years ago, Israel had three nuclear subs sitting on the floor of the Arabian Sea waiting for orders to take out Iran’s nuclear program. That is until some politicians in Washington talked us into calling it off. We’re going to
politically correct
ourselves right out of existence.”

Leo set his glass on the table and folded his hands. “I’m reminded of the old proverb.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend
. Interestingly, the proverb is both Arabic and Chinese. I think this fact is quite fitting, actually, because what we’re fighting here, Gentlemen, is not an ideology, or a religion, or any ethnic group for that matter. What we’re fighting ... what mankind has always been fighting ... is evil. Evil will always use the most expedient route to achieve its goal of destroying humanity. It doesn’t matter what the battle is about. From the recent bloodletting over religious ideology to the hatred of another man just because of the color of his skin, evil will use whatever triggers the urge within us to hate.”

Mendoza smiled as he raised his glass in Leo’s direction. “Now I know why Pope Michael made you a Prince of the Church, my friend.”

“A mistake that I’m sure he regrets every waking moment, Javier.”

The others laughed nervously, but Mendoza had one final point to make. “You know, Cardinal, as an anthropologist, I’m well aware that we are all descended from a species of hunter-killer apes, so it’s not much of a stretch to see how the human race has evolved into a species where one tribe constantly provokes war with another. On the one hand, you have the brilliant and artistic minds that have created all that is good in a civilization, while on the other hand you have those who just want to tear civilization down. It’s almost as if the earth were inhabited by two completely different types of humans.”

“Three types,” Leo said. “We haven’t quite figured out what Alon is yet.”

Alon almost choked on his wine, while Nava practically fell from her chair laughing.

Mendoza couldn’t help but smile at Leo’s humorous attempt to prevent him from delving further into another philosophical discussion that might drag well into the early hours of the morning. It was the Spanish way, of course, and according to their timetable, the night had just begun. The Spanish had invented the institution of the afternoon siesta just so they could stay up into the wee hours of the morning, drinking their excellent wine and enjoying good conversation.

“Well,” Lev said, standing, “I’m sure I can speak for all of us when I say that we’ve thoroughly enjoyed your hospitality this evening, but I’m afraid we really must be getting back to the yacht. The next time we come to Spain, you’re all invited onboard for dinner.”

“Maybe you should think about starting a Spanish chapter of the Bible Code Team,” Mendoza said.

“That’s not such a bad idea, Javier, considering the fact that we’re going to need all the help we can get in the days ahead, especially from scientists such as yourselves. We’ll stay in touch.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Mendoza pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Lev. “It’s probably nothing, Professor, but Alon asked earlier if we had found any papers at the crash site. This is all there was ... a few napkins we found blowing around in the field.”

Lev gingerly pulled a white paper napkin from the bag and turned it over in his hand. There, right in front of his widening eyes, he saw the words
Acerbi Corporation
-
Agricultural Division
spelled out in red script. Above that was the company’s logo—a golden stalk of wheat.

It was shortly after nine o’clock at night when the helicopter touched down on the rear deck of the Carmela. Climbing from the tight confines of the small chopper, the group that had gone ashore immediately headed for the yacht’s communications room.

Ariella was the first to greet them when they walked into the room.

“What did you find, Father?”

Lev held up the plastic bag in his hand for all to see.

“What is it?”

“Napkins.”

“Napkins?”

“Yes. Napkins with a specific company logo printed on them. They were found at the crash site. Evidently, the cardinal was flying back to Rome onboard a jet owned by the Acerbi Corporation.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure yet. Normally, I would brush it off with the fact that a corporation was trying to gain favor with the Church by allowing the cardinal to use one of their private jets. At least that would have been my first instinct until I saw this.”

Lev pointed to the company logo on the napkin.

“It’s just a stalk of wheat,” Ariella said. “What’s so special about that? I mean, it says
Acerbi Agricultural Division
on it.”

“Yes, but the logo is an exact match in every detail with the ancient painting we found on the chapel wall.”

Ariella looked closer. “How is this possible?”

“Right now I have no idea, but I’m going to scan this napkin into an onboard computer and send it to Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. Like everyone else, the only thing I know about this Acerbi Corporation is that it’s big and headed by a very wealthy family, but this is definitely a lead we need to follow up on.”

Lev handed one of the napkins to the communications officer. “We need to make a copy of that and send it to Tel Aviv. Also, send a copy to Bishop Morelli at the Vatican and one to Daniel at the villa.”

Five minutes later, Morelli’s face filled their computer screens. “A golden stalk of wheat! Are you kidding me? Where did you find those napkins?”

“Evidently, our Spanish friends found them in the field where Orsini’s plane crashed. In one of those strange little twists of fate, these little paper cocktail napkins survived the crash when they drifted out over the field after the impact. We also found this.” Lev held the cardinal’s ring in front of the computer’s camera. “This belonged to Cardinal Orsini.”

Everyone could see Morelli’s eyebrows arch. “Are you sure it’s his?”

“No question about it,” Leo said, crowding in next to the console. “It’s his.”

“I guess there’s no doubt then. That pretty much confirms the fact that the cardinal is no longer with us.”

“I think we need to focus our attention on the Acerbi Agricultural Corporation now,” Lev said. “Have you ever heard Orsini talk about them, Anthony?”