CHAPTER 1
“Hello, Giuseppe.” The pope leaned back in his unyielding, straight-backed mahogany chair, his head tilted as he held the receiver against his right ear. “It’s good to hear your voice again. How’s Silvo?”
Two days had passed since the pope had conferred with his private secretary about the celebration. All morning, he had been on the phone, inviting one EU leader after the other to the event. So far, all had accepted his invitation; he would follow up the verbal invitations with written ones. Now he must invite Giuseppe, the one leader who, as Pope Benedict knew, might turn him down out of spite.
I can only hope that an appeal to his fatherly side will turn the trick, he thought, as he glanced out the window at the brilliant sunlight bathing the courtyard. He knows that his son and my nephew were friends.
“Silvo is fine.” The Italian leader’s voice was guarded. He had once been the Italian prime minister; Antonio Puccini had since appointed him as the Italian leader in the Western European Union. His son, Silva, had been a close friend of Benito’s; the two boys had attended school together. After a pause, the Italian leader spoke again, his voice dripping with suspicion. “But you are not calling just to inquire about my son.”
Pope Benedict chuckled. “No, I’m not, my friend. I’m hosting a party here in Babylon, in honor of the success of the world religion. I’m inviting you and the other leaders of the European Union.”
“And am I the first one you’ve called?” Giuseppe’s voice sounded cold.
Pope Benedict forced a smile on his face. “No, Giuseppe, you’re the last. The others have already accepted my invitation. Your son is invited to come, too. My Benito misses him greatly. He would like very much to see him again.”
Giuseppe lapsed into silence for a long moment; at last, he sighed. “My son misses Benito, too.” He cleared his throat. “For his sake, I’ll accept your invitation.”
A beaming smile spread across Pope Benedict’s face. “I’ll tell Benito. He will be so pleased.” He paused. “I’ll send you a formal invitation today. It will give the dates.”
“Very well. Good-bye.” A click, followed by a dial tone, replaced Giuseppe’s voice.
The pope laid the receiver down, then folded his arms on the desk, smiling. His fingertips rested against the smooth, polished surface. “If even Giuseppe has agreed to come, then things are going well,” he told himself, gazing at a stack of tarot cards.
He felt wonderful about this impending celebration. He had made a point of inviting only the 10 leaders of the EU—he was not going to invite Antonio Puccini or Puccini’s second-in-command, the Israeli Jew Elijah Dayan. He intended to depose those two men and ensconce himself as the world dictator; he needed the loyalty and assistance of the European Union to succeed. During the celebration, he meant to take them into his confidence and make his plans.
Good things were going to result; he could feel it. The pope winced. With one possible exception, that is—his nephew’s attitude—it had been sour ever since they’d moved to Babylon. Pope Benedict sighed; his nephew’s unhappiness and spirit of rebellion grieved him.
“I’ve just got to do something about Benito,” he told himself. “If only he could learn to love this region as I do!” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “And now he’s smoking that repulsive marijuana!” He shook his head.
For years, Pope Benedict had wanted to move his headquarters to Babylon, and over a year before, he’d done it. Over a 30-year period, he had visited the site of the old Babylon on several occasions; each time, he’d felt its spirit calling to him. He’d long wanted to live in the site where the occultic religion had been created, and where it had once been at its strongest—during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar. Now that he was finally there, he meant to try to overthrow Puccini and take his place as world leader.
“I’ve wanted to live here for so long,” he muttered. “And now I do! If only Benito liked it here, too.” He grimaced. “It was a most unpleasant day, when I told the boy we were going to live in Babylon. He’s been sullen ever since I brought him here.”
Pope Benedict sighed, as the memory of that day entered his mind’s eye...
“Say good-bye to your friends at school, Benito,” the pope ordered. “We’re moving to Babylon next week, and we’ve got to spend the rest of this week packing.”
Benito gaped at him, as shock etched his youthful face. “To Babylon? You must be joking!”
“I don’t joke about things like this, nephew,” Pope Benedict told him sternly. “And we are moving there, so you’re just going to have to accept it.”
“No! I won’t! I won’t move to Babylon—all my friends are here!” Benito stormed out of the room, slamming the door...
Pope Benedict sighed. The months since their move had not thawed his nephew in the least—Benito still hated Iraq as much as he had when they first arrived. “Maybe some visits from his friends will make it easier for him,” he told himself. “I’m pleased that Giuseppe has accepted the invitation. Benito will like that.”
A knock on the door startled him. “Come in!” he barked.
The door swung open; his secretary entered the room. “Excuse me, your Holiness, but some women are waiting in the hall to see you. They tell me you’ve hired them to help you prepare for the celebration.”
Pope Benedict rose to his feet. “Show them in.”
The secretary bowed, then left the office; three women entered. One was a heavy-set black woman, and another had a slender figure, flawless complexion, and long brown hair. The third had long reddish-brown hair and wore glasses.
“Pope Benedict?” The heavy-set woman stepped forward. “My name is Tess, and I run the catering service you hired. This is Monica, and that’s Gloria. They will be assisting me in setting up your celebration.”
Monica smiled. “Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended her hand; the pope shook it. The sweet scent of perfume wafted toward the pope’s nose.
“Hi.” Gloria raised her hand in greeting, then pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
The pope nodded. “I’m glad to have you ladies here. This is going to be a big job, preparing the celebration. I want everything to run smoothly, and I’m counting on you to make it do so.”
Monica nodded acquiescence. “We will do everything in our power to see that it does.” She spoke with an Irish accent, the pope noticed.
He nodded toward the open doorway. “Let’s go my quarters, then, and I’ll give you your instructions there. We have much to do, so let’s get started.”
END OF CHAPTER 1