The Omega Factor(30)
Whatever that meant.
No matter.
He’d earned his doctorate in theology through study and hard work. He carried the additional label of archbishop because his diocese had existed for so long. It traced back to St. Saturnin, sent by Pope Fabian to Christianize Gaul in the third century, who became the first bishop of Toulouse. The current basilica bore both Saturnin’s name and his bones. The church stretched over a hundred meters, shaped like a cross and built to last of stone and brick. Its tower was unusual, eight-sided, five-tiered like a cake, and topped with a spire. Its ceilings were vaulted, beneath which were Romanesque sculpture, intricate capitals, and a beautiful sequence of relief panels representing Christ, the saints, and angels. A number of radiating chapels displayed important relics. An ambulatory wrapped the nave and side aisles, allowing for an uninterrupted walk while viewing the chapels, even while mass was being said.
Which had been done for a reason.
During the time of Charlemagne the church became an important stop for pilgrims on their way to Spain and the famed Santiago de Compostela. Every accommodation had been made so their visit would be memorable and their donations generous. Today, the basilica was the most complete Romanesque structure in France, the largest in Europe, perched at the northern edge of the city’s old quarter. It carried the stamp of a World Heritage Site, protected by myriad international laws and regulations.
He was here, inside the basilica, on this glorious morning to rededicate the tomb of St. Saturnin, which had just undergone an extensive renovation, paid for by visitors and patrons, like in the old days. The ceremony had been planned for some time, the renovations only completed a few days back. Many of the priests from the surrounding parishes had come, along with his six subordinate bishops. He too had once been subordinate to his predecessor, serving for nearly a decade before being elevated to archbishop, with the added designation of metropolitan to denote his dominance over the other six.
But he wanted a cardinal’s hat.
The article in yesterday’s newspaper had been flattering. He’d only cooperated with the reporter since the young lady was known to be generous to the church. The story had dealt with both himself and what was happening here today with the rededication. Hopefully, the clerks in Rome who monitored public relations from around the world had taken notice and passed the article on to their superiors. The pope had assured him privately, on more than one occasion, that he would eventually become a cardinal. His age was a factor, as he was nearing eighty, which would disqualify him from participating in any conclave. But it was not unusual for elders, like himself, to be rewarded late in life for their faithful service. In fact, it happened all the time. All he had to do was be patient and show the requisite humility expected from his position. That meant do nothing that might irritate Rome or the vicar of Christ himself. Word was the pope was considering naming a batch of new cardinals by Christmas. Equally promising was the fact that two of France’s six cardinals had reached the age of ninety, both retired, which meant new blood was needed.
He’d worn his formal liturgical vestments. Miter, chasuble, gloves, ring, and white dalmatic, along with his pallium, with two crossbars instead of one, bestowed onto him by the last pope at the time of his elevation to a metropolitan archbishop. This occasion demanded formality. He was due back in his office across town by 11:00 for the start of his daily appointments. The priests who’d arranged for the ceremony were busy herding everyone closer to the tomb. He lingered near one of the side chapels and allowed the patrons to get settled before heading over. The air was warm with that hint of incense and melted wax that seemed to linger inside old churches. This was one of the world’s great houses of worship, loaded with history and heritage, and filled with treasures that still drew people. He considered it a great honor to oversee it.
But it was time to move on to bigger things.
His phone vibrated.
He usually did not keep it with him when in church, but since this was merely a dedication ceremony, he’d switched it to vibrate and slipped it inside his pant pocket. Only a precious few possessed the number. Some family members. Half a dozen close friends. His staff. The majority of calls he received on any given day were from his private secretary. So it could be important. He had a moment, so he retreated into one of the side chapels and slipped the phone from his pocket.
A text.
He tapped the screen and read the message.
In all caps.
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. YOU, OF COURSE, WILL NOT FIND IT ENLIGHTENING. BUT OTHERS WILL.
The text came with an attachment. He debated whether to open it, but his curiosity got the better of him.
He tapped the screen.
Then watched and listened in horror.
Chapter 19
Nick had taken a room in one of Ghent’s finer hotels. He wasn’t on CLIO’s expense account, which had a rather meager per diem. Instead, this trip was all personal, the costs totally his. But he was paid a good salary. More than enough for him to comfortably live in Paris. So he could afford a couple of nights in a five-star establishment. He liked quality hotels. Something about the atmosphere, the attention to detail, the focus on service appealed to him. In another life he might have been an excellent general manager.
Instead, he’d pursued law enforcement.
A bit odd considering his roots. His parents were both Olympians, earning a gold medal in pair figure skating at the 1980 Lake Placid games. They’d been quite a team, defeating a heavily favored Soviet pair on American soil. Big news at the time, which had become more a footnote after the underdog Americans earned gold in hockey. They retired after that and married, but both remained active in the sport, still traveling the world as television commentators.