The Bible of Clay

Chapter One RAIN WAS FALLING ALL OVER ROME WHEN THE TAXI STOPPED at St. Peter's Square. It was ten o'clock in the morning. The passenger paid the fare, told the driver to keep the change, and tucked a newspaper under his arm. He was lean and well tailored in an obviously expensive suit, his white hair combed carefully back, his resolute demeanor that of a person accustomed to giving orders. He headed straight for the first entry point, where visitors were inspected to make sure they entered the basilica properly dressedno shorts, no miniskirts, no cleavage. Inside the cathedral, the man rushed past Michelangelo's "Pieta"the only work of art among the vast Vatican treasures that had ever moved himwithout a glance. He paused for a second, orienting himself, then walked toward the confessionals, where priests from an array of countries listened in their native languages to the faithful who came from around the world to visit the Holy See. He approached a confessional whose sign indicated that the priest heard confessions in Italian, and he stood, leaning against a column, waiting impatiently for the communicant already inside to finish. As soon as he saw the velvet curtain open and a man step out, he moved purposefully toward the confessional. The priest coughed quietly, ready for the new communicant to begin confession. "Mi benedica, Padre, perchz ho peccato." "What is it you wish to confess, my son?" "Not a past sin, Father, but a sin I am about to commit." He leaned toward the priest and smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket. "I intend to kill a man," he said. "May God forgive me." With that the man stood, rushed from the confessional, and disappeared among the hordes of tourists crowding the basilica. It took the priest a few moments to recover from his shock. The stunned cleric stepped out of the confessional and picked up a crumpled newspaper lying on the floor. He glanced at the headlinesrostropovich concert in milan; dinosaur movie a blockbuster hit; archaeological conference in romeand scanned the text below the last, where something had been marked: . . . with world-renowned professors and archaeologists in attendance: Clonay, Miller, Schmidt, Arzaba, Polonoski, Tannenberg. The final name was circled in red: Tannenberg. Another man had approached the confessional and was asking insistently, "Father, Fatherare you all right?" "Yes, yes . . . no, I'm sorry, I'm notexcuse me . . ." The priest folded the newspaper and, his gaze abstracted, walked away, leaving his latest supplicant openmouthed and unshriven. *** "I'd like to speak with Signora Barreda, please." "May I say who's calling?" "Dottore Cipriani." "One moment, Dottore." The old man ran his hand over his hair and was suddenly seized with claustrophobia; the room was too small. He forced himself to take a deep breath while his eyes ran over the objects that had surrounded him for these last forty years. On his desk sat a picture frame with two photographs: one, now sepia-colored with age, of his parents, and the other of his three children. On the mantel was a photo of his grandchildren. Across the room a couch and a pair of wing chairs were softly illuminated by a floor lamp with a cream-colored shade. The room's walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves containing hundreds of books; Persian rugs covered the floor; the entire room smelled of pipe tobacco. . . . This was his office, he was at home: He had to get control of himself. "Carlo!" "Mercedes, we've found him!" "Oh, Carlo . . . My God! What are you saying?" The woman's voice was filled with dreadandNavarro, Julia is the author of 'The Bible of Clay', published 2008 under ISBN 9780385339636 and ISBN 0385339631.