The Genesis Code Read online

  He’d find the words. The harder part would be to penetrate the Church’s bureaucracy. He tried to imagine the circumstances under which the cardinal – a Dominican – would agree to see him. Surely Orsini would recognize his name, would remember him, would know that his request for an audience was not frivolous. Or perhaps familiarity would work against him; perhaps the cardinal would think he’d come to plead his own case, seeking a return to Rome after his long exile in Umbria.

  He pressed his eyes shut. He would find a way. He would have to find a way.

  And then the ground beneath his feet began to tremble, and a tense hum rose through the soles of his shiny black shoes. Nearby, a little girl in pink plastic sandals began to jump up and down. Father Azetti stood up. The train was coming.

  3

  THE TRAIN FROM Perugia to Rome was an old locale with upholstered seats and framed pictures of Lake Como. It stank of cheap cigarettes, and stopped at what seemed like every intersection to take on new passengers. Played out by the hunger that he felt (he still hadn’t eaten) and by the tedium of the train, Father Azetti slouched in his seat, his eyes fixed on the fading afternoon. Eventually, the countryside became more crowded and less interesting, finally yielding to the bleak industrial suburbs of the Italian capital. Arriving at the Stazione Termini, the train squealed and shuddered to a halt. Its air brakes heaved a sigh of relief, the doors flew open, and passengers flooded the platform.

  Father Azetti looked for a telephone, and after some difficulty, reached Monsignor Cardone in Todi. He apologized. He was in Rome on a matter of great urgency.

  ‘Roma!?’

  He hoped to return in a day or two, but it might take longer – in which case someone else would have to carry out his duties in Montecastello. The monsignor was so shocked, he could manage no more than another outraged squawk (‘Che?!’) before Azetti apologized yet again and hung up.

  Because he had no money for hotels, the priest spent the night slumped on a bench in the train station. In the morning he washed up in the men’s lavatory and went looking for a cheap café. Finding one just outside the terminal, he sipped a double espresso and wolfed down a sugary roll that resembled but was not a croissant. His hunger blunted, he plunged back into the terminal and went in search of the big red M that indicated the subway. Azetti’s destination was a city-state nestled in the heart of Rome: the Vatican.

  This isn’t going to be easy, he thought, not easy at all.

  Like any independent state, the Vatican’s affairs are managed by a bureaucracy – in this case, the Curia, whose mission is to guide the immense entity that is still known as the Holy Roman Empire. Besides the Secretariat of State, which handles the Church’s diplomatic affairs, the Curia is composed of nine sacred ‘congregations.’ Each is comparable to a federal department or ministry – responsible for one or another aspect of the Church’s affairs.

  The most powerful of these departments is the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, which until 1965 was known as the Congregation for the Holy Inquisition of Heretical Error. More than 450 years old, ‘the Inquisition’ remains a vital part of the Church’s everyday affairs – not that anyone calls it that, not anymore.

  In addition to overseeing the curricula of Catholic schools throughout the world, ‘the CDF’ – as it is popularly known – continues to investigate heresy, judge threats to the faith, discipline priests, and excommunicate sinners. In extraordinary cases a part of the congregation may be appointed to perform exorcisms, grapple with Satan, or take action in the case of attacks upon the faith.

  It was in connection with these last responsibilities that Father Azetti had traveled to Rome.

  The head of the CDF was Stefano Orsini, Cardinal Orsini, who thirty-five years earlier had been a student with Azetti at the Vatican’s Gregorian University. Orsini was now a prince of the faith, the head of a Vatican inner sanctum that included nine lesser cardinals, twelve bishops, and thirty-five priests – each of whom was an academic of the first order.

  The cardinal’s offices were in the shadow of St. Peter’s Cathedral in the Palace of the Holy Office – a building Azetti knew well. He’d spent his first years as a priest working in a small, brightly lighted room on the second floor, surrounded by books and manuscripts. A great many days had come and gone since then, and as he mounted the stairs to the third floor, he felt his heart begin to pound.

  It wasn’t exertion, it was the steps – the way in which the marble dipped and thinned in the middle of the stairwell, worn down by centuries of feet. Seeing the depressions in the stone, and knowing that he’d last climbed these stairs nearly twenty years before, he realized that his life was wearing away, and that it had been doing so for many years. Like the steps, he, too, was beginning to disappear.

  The idea stopped him in his tracks. For a moment he hesitated on the landing, gripping the handrail until his knuckles glowed. A feeling like nostalgia moved through him, but it wasn’t nostalgia, it was something . . . heavier, a sense of loss that brought an ache to the back of his throat. Slowly, he resumed his climb, and as he did, he moved deeper and deeper into his own homesickness.

  He was an outsider now, a visitor in his Father’s mansion, and his intimacy with the building’s details – the texture of the paint, the silky brass of the banister, the way the light fell in slanted rectangles on the marble floor – was enough to break his heart.

  He had always thought that he would spend the bulk of his life inside the walls of the Vatican. In the library. Teaching in one of the Church’s universities. In this very building. He had been ambitious enough to think that one day he might even wear the red hat of a cardinal.

  Instead he’d spent the past decade ministering to the faithful in Montecastello, where his ‘flock’ consisted of shopkeepers, field hands, and small businessmen. It was uncharitable, but he couldn’t resist the thought: What was a man like himself doing in a place like that?

  He held a doctorate in canon law and knew the ways of the Vatican inside out. He’d worked for years in the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, and later in the Secretariat of State. He’d performed his duties admirably, compassionately, intelligently, efficiently – and so had come to be seen as something of a rising star. Sent abroad for the usual ‘seasoning,’ he’d received an appointment, first as subsecretary to the Apostolic Nuncio in Mexico, then in Argentina. It was obvious to everyone that someday he, too, would be a nuncio – an ambassador of the Pope’s.

  But that wasn’t to be. He ran afoul of the Curia by leading demonstrations against the brutal military regime in Buenos Aires. He’d pushed the government and police for news of citizens who’d disappeared, and given interviews to the foreign press, interviews so incendiary that diplomatic notes had been exchanged – not once, but twice.

  With the election of Pope John Paul II, it was suddenly obvious that the Vatican would no longer tolerate the political activism of priests like Azetti. The new Pope was a Dominican, a cold war Polish conservative who saw ‘social justice’ as a secular pursuit and not, properly, a religious one.

  At most times in history, the Dominicans and the Jesuits pursued quite different agendas. And so it was not surprising that the whole of the Society of Jesus came under criticism. The entire order was admonished for what the new Pope called a ‘lack of balance,’ for paying more attention to politics than to serving their Church.

  Father Azetti chafed at the admonition. Although the fourth vow of the Jesuits is obedience to the Pope, he chafed at that, too. How could he be a priest and not stand up for the poor? In an off-the-record conversation with an American reporter in Buenos Aires, Azetti made the point that it wasn’t political activism that John Paul II opposed – it was activism of a particular kind. He might have left the remark at that, and gotten away with making his point, but he’d elaborated. So that there could be no doubt about what he meant, he went on to say: specifically, anticommunist activities are encouraged – but speaking out against fascists
is not to be tolerated, never mind that thousands are being tortured and killed.

  Two days later the remarks were published, more or less verbatim, by the Christian Science Monitor, which accompanied the article with a photo of Azetti at the head of a march in the Plaza de Mayo. Beneath the picture was his name and a one-word caption: Schism?

  Under the circumstances, Azetti was lucky not to be excommunicated. Instead he was recalled to the Vatican and, in effect, stripped of rank. As an exercise in ‘humility,’ he was dispatched to a parish so small and remote that no one could tell him exactly where it was. Someone thought that it was near Orvieto. Or maybe Gubbio. Umbria, in any case, but where? Eventually, with the help of an ordnance map, he located the place: a pinprick to the north of Todi. He’d been there ever since, his career withering to the dimensions of a parish priest.

  That was then.

  Now, Father Azetti entered the spare antechamber that he remembered so well. It was a simple room, with two wooden benches, an antique desk, and a single crucifix on the wall. A ceiling fan turned slowly, stirring the heat.

  The receptionist was gone, the desk empty, but not still. A swarm of winged toasters flapped silently across the screen of a portable computer. Azetti looked for a bell to ring, but finding none, resorted to a tentative cough. That done, he muttered ‘Hello?’ Finally, he took a seat on one of the benches. Then he picked up his rosary and began to pray.

  He was on the twelfth bead when a priest in white robes emerged from the cardinal’s office and, seeing him, paused with a look of surprise. ‘May I help you, Father?’

  ‘Grazie,’ Azetti said, jumping to his feet.

  The priest extended his hand with the words, ‘Donato Maggio.’

  ‘Azetti! Giulio Azetti – from Montecastello.’

  Father Maggio wrinkled his brow.

  ‘It’s in Umbria,’ Azetti added.

  ‘Oh,’ Maggio said, ‘of course.’ The two men stood for a moment, smiling awkwardly at one another. Finally, Maggio sat down at his desk. ‘How can I help you?’

  Azetti cleared his throat. ‘You’re the cardinal’s secretary?’ he asked.

  Maggio shook his head and smiled. ‘No, I’m just sitting in for a couple of weeks. It’s busy here, you know. Lots of changes. Actually, I’m an assistant archivist.’

  Azetti nodded, twisting his hat in his hands. He might have guessed at Maggio’s true position. Twenty years and the phrase jumped instantly into his head: an archival mouse. That was the term they’d used for those toiling deep in the archives, dragging out parchments and old illuminated texts for the cardinals, the bishops, the professors at the Vatican universities. Maggio had the red drippy nose and the myopic eyes of the species. After a while – the poor lighting, the centuries of book mold, the close work – they all shared these characteristics.

  ‘So . . .’ Maggio said with a frown. ‘What can I do for you, Father?’ He was a little disappointed that the priest had not asked why it was ‘busy’ or the nature of the ‘changes’ he’d mentioned. Then Maggio might have hinted at the Pope’s condition, and watched the man’s eyes widen at the news. This priest seemed lost in his own head and Maggio had to repeat himself. ‘Once again – how can I be of assistance?’

  ‘I’m here to see the cardinal.’

  Maggio shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s urgente!’ Azetti said.

  Maggio looked doubtful.

  ‘A threat to the faith,’ Azetti explained.

  The archival mouse smiled thinly. ‘He’s very busy, Father. You must know that.’

  ‘I do! It’s just –’

  ‘Anyone can tell you: appointments have to be arranged well in advance.’ The man droned on, detailing the proper approach. Azetti should have consulted the monsignor of his diocese. But since he hadn’t . . . and since he was already in Rome – an appointment might still be made with one of the more senior staff, to whom Azetti could outline the matter. And if it was then deemed appropriate, a conversation with the cardinal might be possible – though this would certainly take weeks. Perhaps longer. Perhaps . . . a letter?

  Father Azetti drummed his fingertips on the brim of his hat. He had been accused of arrogance before, of thinking his concerns paramount when the Church had other priorities. But in this case? No. An intermediary would not do, and neither would a letter. His business was with the cardinal. This cardinal.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he said, returning to the bench and sitting down.

  ‘I am afraid you don’t understand,’ Maggio said through an anemic smile. ‘The cardinal is unable to see everyone who’d like to meet with him. It’s simply not possible.’

  ‘I understand,’ Father Azetti said. The secretary made a small, helpless gesture. ‘But I will wait.’

  And so he did.

  Each morning, Azetti arrived at St. Peter’s Cathedral at seven A.M. He said his prayers and sat on a bench near the famous statue of St. Peter, watching the devoted approach and wait to kiss the bronze foot of the great apostle. Centuries of kisses had obliterated the separation of the toes; the entire front of the foot was worn smooth. Even the sole of the sandal had melted into the bronze flesh of the foot.

  At eight o’clock Azetti climbed the steps to the third-floor antechamber, where he gave his name to the white-robed Father Maggio. Each day, Maggio nodded coldly and duly wrote Azetti’s name, with spiky and hostile precision, in a ledger. The country priest took up his position on the bench – where he remained, uncomfortably, until the end of the day. At five o’clock, when the cardinal’s chambers were closed, he retraced his steps down the stairs, walked through the Bernini Colonnade and out the Gate of St. Anna.

  While he waited he had plenty of time to reflect on the man he wanted to see. He remembered Orsini from their university days, the man’s large and clumsy body so at odds with his sharp, incisive mind. Orsini’s brilliance was cold and laserlike, devoid of compassion or even of interest in anyone else’s point of view.

  His only passion was the Church, and in the pursuit of that passion, he bulldozed all who got in his way. His ascent through the Vatican hierarchy was predictable and swift. No one was surprised by his eventual posting as the head of the CDF. It was a policeman’s job, in a way, and Orsini had a policeman’s soul. He reminded Father Azetti of the coldhearted policeman in Les Misérables – relentless, unforgiving. Virtue turned to stone.

  Of course such men are necessary, even indispensable – and Orsini was the ideal man in whom to confide Dr. Baresi’s confession. He would know what to do and he would see that it was done.

  Azetti didn’t want to think about that – about what might be done, or what might have to be done. And so he often lost himself in prayer.

  He spent the evenings at the stazione, where he discovered after the first night that if he left his round-brimmed hat on the bench next to him while he slept, he might wake to find a few thousand lire in its bowl. Though his sleep was fitful, no one bothered him. And in the morning, after he washed up in the men’s room, he went to the little café, where he spent the alms that he received on coffee, cornettos, and mineral water.

  By the fourth day Father Maggio had ceased to be polite. He ignored Father Azetti’s buongiornos and acted as if the priest were no longer there. Meanwhile, other intermediaries came and went, asking if they could help. Politely, but firmly, Azetti rejected their offers, saying that he could only discuss the matter with il cardinale.

  Occasionally someone would stick his head into the room, hoping to get a look at the very crazy priest, and just as quickly the head would disappear. There were whispers, too, and snatches of conversation in the halls. At first the remarks expressed a certain curiosity. There was an amused edge in the voices of the staff, but gradually the voices hardened into annoyance.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He wants to see the cardinal.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Well, of course!’

  Clearly, he was becoming not just an
irritation but an embarrassment. For one thing – despite his ablutions in the railroad station – he was beginning to stink. The decline in his personal hygiene embarrassed him considerably, because he was by any standard a fastidious man. He endured the decline simply because he had no choice. Despite every effort at cleanliness, grime settled into the cracks and crevices of his skin and embedded itself in his clothing. His hair was filmy with oil, and there was nothing that he could do about it.

  His attempts to wash were undertaken at night, when the men’s room had an abandoned feel. Even so, it seemed that he was always interrupted. Most seemed to find it entertaining to pause and watch a priest at his public toilette.

  Not that it did much good. The sinks were tiny and offered only cold water. The soap was a sort of latherless goo, and worse, there were no towels, just machines that blew hot air. No matter how hard Father Azetti tried, or how acrobatically he positioned himself, there were parts of him that simply could not be blown dry without creating a scene. So the grime clung to him. He understood for the first time what it was like to be homeless.

  ‘Can’t we have him removed?’ a voice asked. By the sixth day they had begun to discuss him quite freely, as if he were a foreigner or an animal who could not understand them. As if he weren’t there at all.

  ‘And how would that look? He’s a priest!’

  Never once did Azetti waver. All he had to do was recall Baresi’s words. He would not, he could not, return to Montecastello the sole repository of the doctor’s confession. Rather than that, he would wait forever.

  On the seventh day, Monsignor Cardone arrived from Todi and took up the seat beside him.

  A wizened, birdlike man, the monsignor said nothing for a full minute. He fixed his bright black eyes on the wall in front of him and held his silence, gazing out from under a thatch of gray eyebrows. Finally, he offered a sharp little smile and placed a hand on Father Azetti’s knee. ‘I was told you were here,’ he said.