Prologue: The Medici Code

The Cult of TINA 

(in association with Holier than Thou Publications)

Presents:

 

"It may be lawful and fitting to use falsehood as a medicine, and for the benefit of those who want to be deceived."

Eusebius ("The Father of Church History")

  "He wanted little more than a simple life, sitting back with his tea and biscuits"

Prologue:

The Medici Code

A Pilgrim's Prologue

(February 2013)

'Jesus, Joe, there are enough whispers in the chapels to drown out the organs,' the Cardinal announced as he strode into the Papal chambers. 'And you know priests with their organs. Look, I gotta tell you, you are no longer the trusted voice of infallible judgement you once were. You know what they're calling you out there in the markets? The Rat. I mean, okay, they were calling you that anyway, I know, but this time it's with real venom. As far as they can see you're not just leaving the ship, you're sinking it.'

The Cardinal paused, awaiting a reaction. None was forthcoming.

No-one actually knew his name, and those with any instinct for self-preservation never asked. He was simply the Cardinal, the ephemeral head of the Vatican Secret Service, known to those in the higher echelons as the Holy Ghost or simply the Spook. No-one even knew who he reported to, although it was widely accepted he represented the interests of the "Omerta Dei". At least that was what his otherwise completely blank business cards revealed. Rumour had it that the Omerta Dei were originally founded by one Don Giametti, head of the most successful secret crime syndicate in modern memory. So secret that none of its members ever knew the name or saw the face of their boss. Communication was conducted largely by telephone - his voice electronically disguised - or very occasionally in darkened rooms with faces obscured by shadow, anyone not averting their eyes in his presence having them promptly plucked out. Giametti was obsessed with retaining his anonymity, allowing no-one, not even his bodyguards a proximity from which they might recognise him by sight. He ruled his criminal family with a grip of steel, simply saying a name in order that its bearer vanish as effectively as himself. Giametti was ruthless. Rumour had it even his wife had to be masked before entering their bedroom at night, although some questioned whether this was anything to do with secrecy at all. For her own part she never said, largely due to the unfortunate loss of her tongue following the third line of an ill-considered rendition of "Happy Birthday to You".

Unfortunately, his identity was so completely protected that when finally arrested for a minor and entirely unrelated driving misdemeanour, he was instantly butchered by one of his own "captains" as a random warning to prison newcomers. So effective was his invisibility that no-one even realised he was missing for the next ten years, and business continued under the general assumption that he was just getting better at remaining unseen. Indeed, five years after his death he was celebrated at the Annual Cosa Nostra Capo di Tutti Capo Awards as the most influential figure in organised crime, and given the honorary title of "The Chameleon" for his remarkable ability to remain unseen. His non-attendance to collect the award was met with a standing ovation and exactly the kind of notoriety he had spent his lifetime avoiding. The truth was only finally discovered when the coach station locker into which his share of all proceeds were deposited each month  exploded under the pressure of his uncollected posthumous earnings showering thousands of marked notes over a delighted peak-time crowd, thereby simultaneously identifying the delivery boy and exposing the entire syndicate, whilst also briefly revitalising the local economy and making him a posthumous folk hero. Such was his post-mortem popularity that he proved far more successful as a corpse than he ever had as a killer. The proceeds of this success proved as intangible as their recipient, however, when the myriad businesses that had been operating under his name suddenly vanished without trace. All accounts were completely cleaned out, and the Omerta Dei coincidentally commenced trading in Vatican City the very next day.

For a time Don Giametti was an underworld legend, his masterful anonymity so impressive that, ironically, for a time it seemed almost everyone knew his name. Many organised crime afficionados claimed that the whole prison killing was, in fact, simply an elaborate set-up allowing him to disappear entirely and that the true Chameleon was still alive and now operating overseas. Some even believed it was the Cardinal himself, a theory simultaneously supported and suppressed by the sudden and disproportionately violent death of anyone who dared mention it. Whatever the truth behind their origin, the Omerta Dei swiftly became key players in the international banking community, with highly dubious and carefully concealed links to the Società Generale Immobiliare and Banco Ambrosiano. They coasted through all controversies untouched, and remained carefully concealed within the shadows.

The Cardinal was normally a picture of stoic reserve. Or sometimes a different picture entirely,  or sometimes he was a chair, or even a doorway should the occasion fit. His mastery of disguise certainly fit the Chameleon's bill. Luckily, and as a direct result, most did not notice. Had those who were aware of his presence been asked for a word to describe him, the common consensus would have been that "unflappable" sounded about right, though as he confronted Ratzinger his trademark composure and cold emotionless calm was noticeably absent. He was, it could reasonably claimed, decidedly flapped. Indeed, he was so thoroughly flapped it was a wonder he was not already in flight. It seemed even the Holy Ghost was unprepared for the sudden and impromptu resignation of a Pope. He had always kept a close eye on all Vatican events, and was aware Joseph Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI, had already been looking at other jobs. Unsuccessfully though, it seemed, as a furtive search through his desk had revealed, with a single crumpled rejection letter, stating "we are not sure that your last employer even exists." As a result he had assumed it simply a phase.

'You got to pull yourself together,' he told him. ' Jesus, you're meant to be setting an example. You know what they say, "Holy See, Holy do". If you fall apart, it all comes tumbling down. People see you floundering, and they start to lose trust in the whole underlying scheme of things. You need to get a grip. I mean, whatever happened to Ratzinger the Rationalist? You were destined to be up there with the greats.'

It was true. The current Pope had always prided himself on his pragmatism. It was a quality vital for the role and he monitored his subconscious night and day for cracks in its regularly oiled, polished and seemingly impenetrable armour. Should he ever encounter doubt and find himself questioning his chosen path, he could always fall back on the wisdom of the Madonna. He was, after all, a material pope and he was living in a material world.

'You've let these investigations get to you,' the Cardinal told him. 'You need to relax. As long as there's no prosecutions, it's all going to blow over like it always does. Just kick back for a while, have a little fun. Fuggedaboutit'

'Wheeling about on that board all day? You call that fun?' Ratzinger replied bitterly. 'And what about dignity? You realise if we go ahead with this next tour, I’m going to be eternally remembered as Joseph the Skateboarding Pope?'

'Look, I got them to drop that stuff about jumping buses, didn't I? And the ring of fire?' the Cardinal implored. 'Come on, Joe, whatever happened to the old "Rat Pack" spirit? "All in One and One for All". Just because you're on that board doesn't mean you don't have to pull your weight once in a while. It's just something for the kids. Marketing insists we need to appeal to the youth demographic.'

'Yeah, and how's that working out for you?' Ratzinger sniped, adding, 'I'm sick of it. All I ever get these days is "think about the kids". To be honest, if there's one thing everyone could do with forgetting around here right now, it's kids. You'd think we'd done enough damage to the poor little bastards already, without some of this crap we're promoting? It takes child abuse to a whole new level.'

By way of demonstration, he picked up one of the small plastic toys, sitting on a nearby table awaiting his approval in order to commence the latest of the Vatican's merchandising campaigns. The recession had hit the Church hard, and collections were depressingly low, leaving the poor with no money left to take. The latest of the increasingly gimmicky ideas he was meant to sign off on was a plastic replica of himself,  perched on  replica of the wheeled  platform that allowed him to tour. He visibly cringed at the thought of toddlers unceremoniously dragging him behind them. In the light of current affairs, it was not simply the lack of dignity that appalled him, but thoughts of the awkward conversations should one of these self same children ever claim that they had fun playing with the Pope. '"Mobile hope with your Pope on a rope",' he mimicked the instantly infuriating jingle that went with the item, before turning it over and reading the disclaimer stamped on its base. ' "Contains small parts that may damage young children"? For fucks sake, that sounds like a description of half of the bishopric.'

The Cardinal had been pacing back and forth in agitation. Realising this was getting him nowhere, he decided that maybe a more intimate approach was needed. He needed to make a statement to the shareholders soon. Stocks had plummeted since Ratzinger had decided to announce his retirement that morning. He adopted a more conciliatory posture, sitting on the arm of the throne in silence for a while, before finally addressing the Pope in a softer tone. 'It's not really about the skateboards is it?' he asked gently. 'There's something else...'

Ratzinger closed his eyes for a time before opening them to gaze imploringly into those of the Cardinal. Maybe if he talked about it it would help. Maybe it was time for Confession. Not that he expected anyone would understand, and absolution seemed in scant supply of late. His expression was pained but firm, and he asked the myterious figure before him, "Do you ever wonder if this is all there is?"

'You hang around these crosses all day, it starts to get to you,” the Cardinal responded. 'I mean, I get it...really, I do. The sanctimonious fucker creeps the hell out of me too, looking down like its my fault or something. But come on, is it really that bad?' The worship of adoring fans, the restful environment...all the choirboys you can eat,' he grinned, trying to lighten the mood. It failed, and the soon-to-be-previous pope glared at him with cold disapproval. He already knew that people would assume he was leaving because of the sex scandals that had come to dominate his reign, but if the truth was told he no longer cared. As it turned out much of the outside world was now pretty much off limits to him, so it was not like he would be going anywhere. He was just tired of all the criticism. 'It's over,' he said with firm finality. 'I quit.'

'And what do I tell the Committee? You remember what happened to Calvi? You don't just get to quit. It doesn't work that way. You can't just throw in the towel because you've had a crisis of faith.'

'Oh it's not a crisis of faith,' Ratzinger assured him. 'In fact, quite the opposite...'

Ten minutes later, the Cardinal left the chambers and made his way to the inner sanctum of the Holy See. At least he now had something to report. According to what Ratzinger had just revealed there was no question about it, he had completely lost the plot. It was an indisputable conflict of interests and. in good conscience, it would be impractical for Benedict XVI continue with the job. They could put it down to the onset of dementia. He was clearly unfit for office.

'I mean, for Christ's sake,' he told himself, 'he thinks he's been talking God'.

A Broom With a View

(More Recently)

The sun beat down on Mussolini’s gift of gratitude to the Catholic Church with all the energy of a geriatric priest on a post-pubescent choirboy, whatever heat it generated being more the result of habit rather than any true fervour. Pope Francis II gazed out onto the rooftops as it mustered the energy to somehow make a half-hearted attempt to get through another day. It knew the ritual, and went through the motions but with none of the passion. Much like the religion itself, Francis told himself, as he smiled serenely at the gathering below.

Vatican City was a minuscule metropolis with delusions of grandeur, he thought as he gazed down at the ecstatic crowds below. The city that fancied itself a State. Although presented to the Catholic Church as reward for its courteous compliance with the founding father of Fascism, they chose not to look at it as a blatant bribe and more of a philanthropic donation. “Charity begins in Rome,” the cardinals intoned chirpily and thanked the Lord that amidst so much suffering He had chosen to show them to exploit it. Mussolini, in turn, thanked them for calling him Lord, but insisted that "Il Duce" would do just fine. It was an attitude that Francis had vowed to change. He was the proverbial new broom and fully intended to sweep clean.

The bargain had reaped rich rewards, and the Vatican was soon well on its way to becoming the biggest landlord on the planet. Centuries of trying to convert the world had been met with only limited success, so after due consideration it was decided it would probably be far more cost effective to simply buy it outright. Their own gospels declared it to be the rightful property of the meek, of course, but they were never going to be bold enough to object and so it fell to the church to secure their interests for them. The Bible had promised they would inherit the earth, and the Church duly allocated it to them. One at a time. In six foot plots. Until then, though, it was keeping firm hold of the deeds. God, as is so often the case in such circumstances, was silent. It was generally accepted that, in lieu of any sudden and inexplicable plagues, floods or slaughter of firstborn children, this could be taken as a sign of consent. He is particularly non-communicative on the subjects of corporate takeover protocols, banking deregulation and long term business development strategies. Indeed, God was fairly quiet on a surprising number of matters regarding all manner of land transactions and real estate affairs. This was generally acknowledged as probably being a sensible position after the mess He had caused by double booking Palestine.

The Word of the Lord - when it was given - had proven less than reliable when it came to business matters generally, and was certainly not something that their more secular associates were willing to take on faith. Promissory notes regarding payment in the afterlife held little sway in negotiations, and getting the deity's signature on even the most basic of settlements proved an ongoing cause of contractual frustration. Such matters were inevitably left to the mundane counsel of the Holy See. If Jesus saved, they decided, it was up to them to ensure it was at interest rates appropriate to his heavenly status. Thus, with both the meek and Jesus taken care of, they were free to concentrate on turning a nice little profit  themselves. Technically, of course, property had always been rejected by Christ. God's church was everywhere, Jesus had claimed, and had no need for the trappings of the material realm. The church was not a physical structure, and therefore bricks and mortar were irrelevant, let alone planning permission, land tax and reasonably affordable mortgage rates. Had Christ been in a country with somewhat less clement weather than ancient Judea, they argued, he might well have acknowledged that something with a roof could occasionally come in useful as well. As a result, it was from one of the most ostentatious and lavishly expensive buildings on the entire planet that Francis proffered an unassuming wave to the throng below before stepping back from the balcony into the cool shade of the ceremonial throne room. The smile was genuine. It smacked of humility, sincerity and even had a disarmingly serene sense of the beatific to it; it was the smile of a man who was utterly at peace with himself; a man who seemed truly content.

It was a smile that made the cardinals deeply uneasy.

Life had been good under Benedict XVI. Business prospered. They had recently secured a portfolio of comfortable properties from which to operate in London and were expanding their empire at a speed that made the crusades look positively slack. The conclave had been caught completely off guard by this managerial makeover. The abruptness of Benedict’s abdication had changed everything. The plans they had devised in confidence with the old pontiff vanished faster than a stage-struck Holy Ghost at a sceptic’s convention. Francis was still young for a Pope and showed none of the frailty so clearly apparent in his recent predecessors. It might be years, decades even, until the inevitable decline in his faculties meant they could rule in his name and finally got to take the God for a walk again. Suddenly the Almighty's plan was not as neatly mapped out as their high yield long term investment schemes and venture capital bonus plans had assumed. Not only were all bets off but it appeared the entire casino had promptly thrown in its chips and abandoned the tables entirely.

Francis, as God's representative on Earth, was proving somewhat less reticent regarding his feelings on the church's position. He had crossed the line. He had spoken out on behalf of the people declaring capitalism  wrong, and it seemed the head of the greatest banking cartel in history had turned on his own. The Cardinals increasingly kept their distance and huddled in small groups peeking from the robes as they whispered uncertainly amongst the alcoves. Given the opportunity they would have whispered more widely, but Cardinals are a secretive bunch on the whole and find it prudent to keep their business to themselves. Had such whispers ever escaped the confines of the conclave they would no doubt have surreptitiously told of the suspicion, fear and paranoia that were growing with every day. They might even have hinted at a fatalistic sense of impending doom prevalent amongst the priestly classes. As well as secretive, they were a superstitious lot at heart. It came with the territory, and the cocktail of exotic imaginings they mixed was generally laced with more than a trace of foreboding or woe. Specifically those regarding to the prophecies of Malachy. Even more specifically concerning those that claimed Francis was the "Last Pope", and from the effect his condemnation of capitalism had on their current stocks and shares, it seemed the market shared their misgivings. They watched him suspiciously from the side-lines, maintaining a cautious distance as they contemplated his every move with increasing concern.

This suited Francis perfectly. He was more than happy to be left to himself as he wandered the grounds of his new home. A man who had realised his destiny and was content to enjoy the moment and lead a peaceful existence dedicated to making the world a holier place. He wanted little more than a simple life, sitting back with his tea and biscuits. That, and to avenge his family's honour waging a bloody vendetta against those who had forced his family to flee in exile from their homeland, of course.

No Place Like Rome

The media made a big deal of his being the first Argentinian Pope. It also happily informed any audience with a passing interest in papal pedigrees that he was also the first Jesuit and the first non-European Pontiff in over a thousand years. Whilst all of these claims may have been technically true, in his heart he was of Roman descent. The child of Italian immigrants, he was only a generation removed from the traditional lines of ascent and his true heritage was the bloodline of Caesars.

Mussolini had driven his parents from Italy in the nineteen twenties. As a child, the young Jorge Mario Bergoglio had listened to tales of the homeland at his father's knee. His juvenile brow furrowed prematurely with indignation at hearing of how they had been forced to leave to escape the rising dictatorship over a decade before his birth.  Kneeling before the statue of Our Lady of Lujan in his father's study, he swore he would reclaim the homeland and bring an end to his family's exile. It was his birthright, and in his anger he vowed a glorious return in a manner that befitted his ancestry.  No-one fucked with his family and got away with it.

In these childhood dreams he was Jorge Caesar

Immersed in Hollywood epics, his youthful imagination was a widescreen montage of sword and sandal spectaculars, as revolutionary crowds of true believers marched onwards across the whole of Europe taking city after city until finally Rome itself fell at their feet.  In these dreams he was Jorge Caesar, marching triumphant under an SPQR banner as he reclaimed the capital and resurrected the Republic in the name of his family line. Wreaking vengeance on corrupt, decadent pretenders to the throne of God as he finally and heroically restored his family to their rightful place. They were grandiose, epic dreams. Elaborate technicolour fantasies of a rebel from the provinces, an outcast returning to reclaim his birthright, that generally ended with him throwing adversaries to the lions or forcing them to fight to the death for the adulation of adoring crowds below. Either worked for him, if he was honest.

Unfortunately, they were ambitions dashed by the dictator's typically inconsiderate death at the hands of communist partisans by the time of his tenth birthday, and slowly the dream faded. With no particular need of battle hardened legions when a passport and plane ticket would do, the dream lost much of its original blood-crazed allure. Anyway, the Empire was still thriving from what he could see, but the opportunity to feed enemies to imported wildlife was now long gone, which had been a regular, and generally quite prolonged feature of his fantasies. Instead they tended to focus on forcing their captives to sit through interminable bouts of Latin recitation and a lifelong propensity for guilt driven sexual dysfunction. Early experiences in chapel evoked a sense of admiration for the despicable effectiveness of this new approach, but one thing he felt it definitely lacked was a sense of adventure. From what he had gathered in history lessons, the years had taught the Holy Roman Empire many lessons and strategically deployed armies waging wars across the known world were relegated to wistful nostalgia and a romantic yearning for the past. Times had changed radically since the days of the Crusades, let alone the Republic, and in its accumulated wisdom the Church had come to the practical conclusion that it was far more convenient, not to mention far  safer in the long run, to simply focus on killing the defenceless instead. They chose to continue their brutal slaughter of millions by simply banning contraception instead. Somehow though, Jorge felt, it lacked the same sense of romantic elan. As is so often the case, his adolescent fantasies faded, and slowly the senatorial ambitions of the young Jorge Caesar were relegated as much to the past as the institution to which they applied, and by his mid-teens he had even stopped wearing the toga and sandals to school.

With dreams of empire effectively vanquished, he settled into the everyday bustle of Buenos Aires and, playing in the streets of Peron's Argentina, he soon became aware of a different class of immigrant arriving in the country. Mysterious, secretive figures with huge amounts of money and a pronounced  penchant for the sartorial sadism of Hugo Boss. There was something about their demeanour and arrogance that made him think once more of Mussolini and his interest was piqued. The clipped and precise manner, authoritarian gait and palpable contempt for anything existing beyond the limits of their own epidermis certainly fit the image he had of his family’s persecutor, but they were clearly not of Roman descent. On the whole they took great care to keep themselves very much top themselves. Every so often, though, they would venture out of their respective retreats to meet up in the San Fernando district at a house on Garibaldi Street. Peering through the windows from the distance of nearby undergrowth he could not hear their voices, but some deep-seated instinct, along with the portraits of Hitler and the copious swastikas covering the walls, told him they were they were members of the former Third Reich.

He watched as they gathered there once a week, dimmed the lights and sat around what appeared to be a crystal ball. He had heard of Hitler's interest in astrology and, considering how this had worked out for the Fuhrer in the end, was somewhat surprised by the enthusiasm with which they approached it. What surprised him even more was the custodian with whom the globe arrived and departed. A particularly shifty looking Catholic Priest. Not just any priest either, he noted, but a full blown bishop. His childhood illusions were shattered completely. The Rome that he had spent so much of his life idolising was corrupt, he realised. In his mind he had excused its collaboration with Mussolini as a ploy by which to survive. There was no way that this was the result of duress however. They had taken their thirty pieces of silver in the form of reichsmarks and were cheerfully aiding the forces of evil of their own avaricious accord.

He had tracked his quarry from a distance in the beginning. All the way to the Casa Rosada and the President himself. The priest was easily identified as Archbishop Antonio Caggiano and he realised he had stumbled onto a network that reached to the top,  not just of  his own country, but his parental homeland and the church into which he was baptised. He had briefly toyed with approaching the local authorities, but with revolution always bubbling below the surface in Argentina, all uniforms were seen as the dress code of oppressors and the police were just more of the same. His enemy's friend was his enemy and those who aided such inhuman criminals were different heads of the same tyrannical beast, and so he continued his surveillance alone. He saw the same church complicity with political dictatorships that had gained them favour with Mussolini, and although a different cultural heritage, recognised exactly the same fight. Renewing his earlier vow, he swore he would somehow bring this injustice to an end.

It required minimal research to identify the gathering at Garibaldi Street not just as any old refugees, but some of the highest profile figures of the Reich. Amongst the faces he recognised Josef Mengele, Adolf Eichmann and Klaus Barbie. It was not just retired S.S. that were gathered together at these curious meetings, though. Others, he discovered, were Croatian. Members of the Ustaše, it transpired, who had decided it might be somewhat felicitous to relocate as the Allied forces closed in. It seemed Peron's tourist board offered group discounts to all manner of absconding military dictatorships. What surprised him most however was that still others gathered in the room in Garibaldi Street were high ranking members of the United States Secret Service.

Although as a child he was able to get closer than any adult on the trail - indeed, the bishop seemed strangely elated, even eager for his attentions, often leaving a trail of candy in his wake -  the snippets of information he picked up along with it were considerably less salacious than he had hoped. Primarily, it seemed, this budding Fourth Reich had a particularly urgent problem with paperclips. It had never occurred to him that office supplies and stationery were of such pressing concern in the battle for world domination, but it was an insight that would come to serve him well.

He came to recognise corruption as endemic. It seemed to be everywhere he looked. Admittedly he was constantly looking at those he was tracking, so it was hardly a cause for surprise all things considered, but it left him jaded and cynical, unsure of who he could trust. He had stumbled on a conspiracy the scale of which his childish imagination could scarcely conceive. At first, he had assumed when the time came that it was to the Allies to whom he would pass his accumulated files. The fact that the Allies themselves seemed to be covering the majority of travel expenses, however, suggested this might not be so clear cut a choice. He felt isolated and alone, keeping his plans to himself as he expanded his extensively detailed and painstakingly annotated collection of files. He tracked down every lead, compiling intensive dossiers and folders as he collected detailed documentation charting every passport provided and visa vouchsafed. The paper trail was immense, and he realised there was much he could learn from his quarry. Particularly with regard to the importance of a systematic deployment of brightly coloured and clearly marked index cards. Not for the first time did he thank them for his extensive investment in an eclectic range of office equipment, not simply paperclips but folders, ring binders and assorted thicknesses of card stock.

Render Unto Caesar...

Taking on a variety of menial jobs such as nightclub bouncer he was able to keep his ear to the ground and an eye out for what was happening on the streets.  It wasn't a difficult task to keep track of them. His quarry seemed to be everywhere he looked, and he realised that he had to simply focus on apprehending the key figures - that, or take on a secretarial department and risk his operations becoming exposed and subject to expensively intensive, not to mention highly revealing, revenue investigations. His wages scarcely covered the current lamination budget, and additional costs such as business cards and designer letterheads were but a distant and unachievable dream.

His main priority, he realised, was to find a means by which to get close enough to hear more detailed accounts of their plans. Perhaps even uncover a more economically priced purveyor of hole punches and staplers at the same time.  His current wholesaler, making it increasingly difficult to keep up with his surprisingly extensive bureaucratic overheads. What little he had left over, he used to fund a degree in chemical engineering in the hope of getting a job with one of the research companies to which they all seemed affiliated.

There were plenty of others tracking the escapees, however, and he recognised that Mossad were showing a justified tenacity that he could not hope to match. From what he could pick up their stationery supplies were second to none, facilitating a speedy and efficient flow of information with a quality and strength he could not hope to match. This, and access to watermarking technology beyond the reach of his limited budget meant that he felt his own resources best utilised pursuing the facilitators. He was more interested in their allies in the Church, anyway, which was where he saw his true purpose. Eventually he concluded there was only one way to further his investigations, to get infilitrate and track his quarry from within. There was nothing else for it - he needed to get ordained. Suddenly, his purpose was clearer than it had ever been as his focus sharpened. The Empire was rotten, and it was his destiny to clean it up and once again he found the compass of fate pointed firmly in the direction of Rome.

It was a journey that would take a long, meandering route however. Entrance into the priesthood allowed him to follow leads more widely, and between 1958 and 1960 he chose to study in for the priesthood in Chile, enabling simultaneous exploration of a variety of different theories associated with Walter Rauff whilst at the same time diligently working his way up the ecclesiastical ladder. As part of the institution he was investigating, he could access the files he needed and gain a clearer picture of just how widespread the rot had become. By 1998 he was archbishop of Buenos Aires, and finally had access to all of the most privileged information the Argentinian Church could provide, along with unlimited stocks of the finest fibre linen and bond sheets along with the kind of previously unimaginable  envelope selections only available to a top drawer religious ideology. Finally he was able to put all the pieces together, and create a paper trail that was not just detailed and extensive, but also aesthetically pleasing with a quality weave that could not fail to impress. His dreams had all come true overnight. Years of work, his entire life's mission was complete at last. He had all he needed to conclude a complete, exhaustive investigation and finally bring justice to bear on those who had betrayed the integrity of the Church to the casual whims of passing dictators.

The only question now remaining was who exactly he should report it to. If the corruption was as widespread as it appeared, then it could very well reach right to the top. Well not quite the top, and since there was no evidence that the deity in residence even checked his prayers let alone the corporate spreadsheets, he was content to give Jehova the benefit of the doubt. He couldn't even trust the Pope, he realised. Unfortunately, when it became time to reveal the full extent of his investigations, however sure he was of putting the information in the safest of hands, this was the direction it would take. Any internal report, whoever he approached, meant the pontiff would have the final say. It was vital he knew if Ratzinger was implicated before he came forward, and so he turned his attentions to the head of the Church. If Ratzinger was innocent then he would hand in his findings and petition for the Church to clean  house and finally complete his mission. The quest that had led him to the heart of his beloved empire was suddenly nearing an end. He had travelled to the Vatican in order to observe for a time. Then, suddenly, with no real warning, he woke up to find himself Pope.

Unfortunately, he had been as surprised as everybody else by his sudden ascension to the post and hadn’t really given much thought to exactly what he should do next. Whilst his sudden and unexpected promotion had conveniently cleared up the issue of quite who he should hand his report to, it suddenly struck him he had no particular plans beyond that point. He had always imagined from then it would be out of his hands, and judging by the way they threw themselves into other areas of investigation he would spend the remainder of his life struggling to get the slightest action taken by the Holy See. Now he had to decide what exactly he was going to do about it. The rapidly dwindling list of survivors meant that those not already brought to trial for their crimes were unlikely to live long enough for sentence to be passed. He did however have full unrestricted access to the archives and, deciding he might as well distract himself with work, visited them as often as he could. It had occurred to him on accepting the job that now he was head of the church, he should probably read up on the whole religion side of things a bit more. Even finally get around to actually reading the Bible itself, perhaps. It had been on his to do list since before his ordination, but he had generally been too busy tracking his prey. Most of what he actually knew about the whole God side of things was picked up at chapel as a youth, and his taste for Hollywood blockbusters informed the rest to a point he could generally bluff his way with confidence through the basics. It turned out that most of the other Cardinals he encountered seemed even hazier on the specific details than himself. For his own part, Jorge was most definitely a believer. The problem was there was so much to believe and much of it was so contradictory, that he was not entirely sure in what. Since it was fairly central to his new job, it seemed something he should probably take a look at. 

Another reason he had started frequenting the library was it allowed him to keep an eye on Ratzinger. The ex pontiff was largely shunned and kept to himself, much like Jorge, spending much of his time there. He had already been pursuing the previous pontiff for decades to help with his enquiries, long before his rise to Popedom, but his prey had always seemed to stay just one step ahead of him. Even now, when he arrived at the Vatican, it was just after his impromptu and conveniently timed exit. Admittedly he hadn't got very far, and was housed in the Mater Ecclesaie, in its gardens just across from the Vatican. An octogenarian who was pulled about on a board with wheels tended to have major strategic difficulties when it came to going on the lam. Besides, there was nowhere for him to go. He was trapped in the Vatican as effectively as any whistleblower in an ambassadorial retreat. He always sat at a table just before the entrance to the Medici section. Most of the time he just dozed away, or lost himself in a novel. There was nothing that seemed suspicious in the old man’s behaviour. Jorge never approached his predecessor directly, of course. He had no need to, and preferred to retain a professional distance. Occasionally they would exchange a nod of recognition though, and he sensed a great weariness in the old man. In the end, he even felt sorry for him. He had always imagined finally catching his prey and a monastic melee on the rooftops of the Sistine Chapel, or even a shootout, but now he had finally ousted him he was surprised to find his desire for justice satiated in turn. In reality it turned out more a case of passing nods of acknowledgement in the polite silence of the Vatican Library. It would be insane to lose his post for the assassination of his predecessor, he realised. Even the Holy See might regard papicide as a crime worthy of genuine investigation. Instead, he decided simply to observe for a time and not show his hand. This was Ratzinger's prison, whatever his crimes might be, and he seemed resigned to it, even content, as is some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders granting redemption

By "year two" in office, Jorge was quickly working his way through a correspondence course in New Testament Studies (using a false name and email address lest his results prove less than infallible) and showing a natural affinity. It was all just basic empathy, he realised, in fact he could not see why it needed a book at all. The constant references to forgiveness seemed to be insisting on how he should proceed. Almost as if God was telling him something, he thought, then dismissed the thought as ridiculous. All that he had managed to find regarding his own enquiries was circumstantial at best, and he saw no point. With the old man effectively a captive already, it seemed an increasingly pointless pursuit. He decided to adopt his new role to the full and forgave him. His studies were currently examining the ideas of Thomas a Kempis and the Imitation of Christ. The whole "walk the walk" attitude to Christianity. Curious more people did not give it a try, he thought, but it all seemed straightforward enough. Slowly it dawned on him his journey had come to an end, and like all good mystical allegories at the end of the quest he found himself and his was only judgement that. He had triumphed and now would be magnanimous in victory. For a moment he could imagine the laurels crowning his head as he gazed out over the gladiatorial arena and slowly, generously showed mercy and elevating himself to a level of morality well beyond those he despised as a new journey began. In the end, he even felt sorry for him, and finally came to abandon any the recurrent fantasies of catching the Pope Emeritus in a quiet corner of the Medieval section before garroting him in the secluded gloom at the back of the Borgia sections.

It was over. It was time to move on.

Past the Mission

According to papers found amongst the notes of Alois Hudal and reports he had acquired on the Argentinian black market, when the fugitives fled along their ecclesiastic escape route, they stored records of their activities here in the safe seclusion of the most secure and carefully guarded library on the planet.

When Jorge first joined the Church to access these records, it had seemed such a huge undertaking he had never seriously imagined success. Now he was at something of a loss as to how he should proceed. He had followed the ratlines back to their lair. It had been his only genuine motivation, and without it he had suddenly lost direction. The documents had spoken of numerous Passettos - networks of secret tunnels connecting to the Vatican libraries and creating a maze of arcanery reaching back through the shadows of time. With the documents were maps, and complete compiled accounts of the new identities given to each of the fugitives. As a result, when not fulfilling his  daily quota of ceremonial waves he spent much of his time  in the library. After all, there was little else of any real interest to do around there now he had completed his quest.The licensing hours were prohibitive here at the heart of the church, and his chances of going out on the pull minimal.

In his new position, with his "access all areas" badge worn proudly, it was a relatively easy task to find them, put together the pieces and finally complete his files, and soon his attention turned to other matters. His research told of other documents, hidden amongst the 52 miles of shelving that made up the Secret Archives, the pages of specifically coded books that revealed the true extent of the Vatican's collaboration, and he spend much of his first year putting the final pieces in place to reveal a full and comprehensive picture of the true extent of the Vatican's collaboration. Over the first few months he found, unlocked and explored all of the tunnels looking for any additional clues or details he might have missed. All except one. In a hidden alcove lost in the deepest recesses of the Vatican Secret archive was a single passageway that he could not access. It had been bricked up decades, perhaps even centuries ago. 

Prior to his Papal ascendancy, he found the Bible itself was far too dry a read and generally he had found to educate himself on topical matters of faith through the books of Dan Brown and  Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh.  He was familiar with Allegro, since his psychedelic days and knew the implications of the Dead Sea Scrolls. It was the work of Francesco Carotta and Joseph Atwill that most effectively caught his imagination, however. The idea that Jesus Christ was simply a code for Julius Caesar, converting opposing divinities and bringing unity to a collapsing Empire. It was a perspective that appealed to his childhood fantasies and he embraced it cheerfully feeling it added a sense of destiny to his pursuits. The more obscure texts in the darker recesses of the Vatican archive related all that he had hoped and more. Most were simply kept from the public due to the needs of preservation. Others however provided answers to questions he had never dared think would gain an answer. With his newly available resources he could explore that theory more extensively, and pausing only to fill his  filing cabinets with his highest quality folders, ring binders and selected reams of monogrammed writing paper available, he commenced his research. Having plenty of time on his hands suddenly, he joined the many other clerics, each selectively reading through the various texts that seemed to confirm his personal viewpoint. Francis had found his way home, and was content to simply pursue his studies and adapt to this new life.

Rome's initial merger with Christianity had been a triumph in rebranding, it seemed. The story ran that Constantine had converted to Christianity in order to win a war. And as all believers do, he promptly set about rewriting the word of the God that he had chosen to follow. Of course, no-one seemed to see a problem in this for centuries, primarily because the Church had ensured that no-one besides its own initiates actually allowed to read the texts and check. What history referred to as its fall, he simply viewed as tactical relocation. For him Rome was not some city, it was a direct lineage, whether centred in Rome where it began, in Byzantium where it strategically relocated or the Vatican and its ultimate home. The Dead Sea Scrolls seemed to suggest had all been Saul’s idea. Saul who became Paul. One minute he was a hired assassin, the next he was God's representative on earth. With the simple switch of a syllable, he had suddenly completely reinvented himself. Her got the idea from Simon's name becoming Peter. Something about replacing a "P" with an "S" seemed to confuse the hell out of the locals.  It was a revelation. The assassin sent in to help quell a growing rebellion in the Judean provinces had suddenly transformed into the voice of his victims' religion by changing a single letter. It seemed that the early Christians were remarkably easy to fool, as he realised there was a much more efficient and less strenuous way to gain victory. The whole name change thing had been a revelation and he suddenly understood how to clean up the whole Holy Land issue once and for all. His epiphany on the road to Damascus had been profound – take all of the different religions of the world and bring them together as a single unified corporate vision. Instead, simply take all the beliefs of those who opposed Rome and unify them under a single banner., Having compiled a composite religion from all of those preceding it, a touch of Mithraism, some Bacchanalian tradition, a spot of Isis mixed together to create a tableaux of beliefs by which to entrance the masses. By taking the Sun God myths and applying them to the character Jesus, they could unify all the warring sects resisting them, transforming them into an individual force united under a common belief. Somewhat surprised by the success of what seemed a remarkably obvious tactic, the Empire once more began to thrive.

According to all that he read, Eusebius had really perfected the whole Public Relations side of things, but when Jorge went to look for his writings he was puzzled to find them missing. Checking the records, he found that Ratzinger had taken them out just days before his resignation along with a whole host of other ancient books and scrolls, such as The Nicean Minutes or the Pamphilus Pamphlets Key - texts that provided detailed accounts of the true origin of the religion and its primary aims and ambitions. Although he had by now abandoned all thoughts of eliminating his predecessor, he had continued with the surveillance. From what he could tell, Ratzinger had no idea that he was being stalked. It had just been coincidence that he had abandoned his post. As he watched the old man he became increasingly curious about quite why he had resigned. The surveillance cameras showed that whatever it was that Ratzinger was looking for, he was taking a huge journal in with him and leaving with it again. The more he had investigated his quarry the more insight he had into what the old man was really up to. You didn't resign the papacy over nothing. There was a reason and Jorge was determined to know what it was. The withdrawals showed that Benedict had been exploring the mysteries popularised by the Da Vinci code. The books he checked out revealed his particular area of interest was in the politics of the Church. The former Pontiff  had systematically purloined the secret diary of Eusebius, the minutes of the Council of Nicea, and the bulk of the Constantine catalogue and certain books from this formative era of the church had never made their way back to the shelves.

Even a Pope had to sign the visitor’s book though, and careful records were kept of every book removed from the shelves. The meticulousness of Ratzinger's own entries, even down to shelf numbers struck Jorge as if it seemed to be a deliberate trail. and as he dipped the ceremonial quill in the ink, he noted that Benedict had been there again and again during his last days. Flicking through the preceding pages it transpired that Ratzinger had spent more and more time in the archives, researching the hidden history of the Church. It seemed that it was not only Jorge that had an addiction to alternative histories. 

Suddenly he had another mystery with which  to occupy his mind. By reading everything his forerunner had taken out, he managed to get a clear impression of where exactly Ratzinger's interests lay. He read through all of the books  in the precise order his predecessor had signed them out  in an attempt to try to follow his line of enquiry and ascertain what it was that had so captured his interest. The most recent files were simply labelled Sauniere, and detailed the Rennes-le-Chateau conspiracy. He was already familiar enough with many of the theories, courtesy of the popular success of the Da Vinci Code. The Holy Grail was a metaphor for the genetic continuity of Christ's bloodline. Jesus had a child by Mary Magdalene, and their offspring's identity along with their offspring's offspring and any offspring following was secretly guarded by the most powerful secret societies of the world. As he expected, the Sauniere files revealed this to be nonsense. Not the existence of a bloodline particularly, but the identity of the bride. According to what the texts revealed in relation to the wedding, it was not Mary Magdalene that Jesus had married at Canaan, but Mary of Bethany. Dan Brown had entirely missed out the third Mary and in turn completely failed to recognise the true mystery at the heart of the legend. The female trinity. The Three Marys. Mother Mary, Mary of Bethany and Mary Magdalene. St. Augustine's Mother, wife and temptress. The target of the patriarchal misogyny of the Church in one proto-Freudian package. Stolen from other religions, they were part of an abandoned subtext relating the Mystery of the Divine feminine. They appeared to be another of the compendium of stolen archetypes from an older original tradition. Clearly an adaptation of from the Norns and the Morai (from the latter of which Jorge suspected could be traced the true origin of their name), and traditionally representing the three stages of womanhood: Maiden, Mother and Hag, they represented a clue to a hidden subtext at the very core of the religion. His researches took him into and he came to see the three Marys as the hidden mystery at the heart of the religion represented the Triple Goddess.

From what the various files relating to the subject revealed, it was all an attempt by Church authorities to obscure the true nature of the divine feminine.  Further investigation suggested that the earthy female trinity themselves were simply allegorical figures. According to the gospels, all three Marys would have been together only once, when Jesus appeared from the tomb to reveal this knowledge to the world. This had clearly been included in the original draft version and then cut out for some reason along with the ending it clearly led up to. The original conclusion to the Bible was contained within the Pistis Sophia. It had been the Divine Feminine that Jesus had returned from the Grave to tell Mankind about. A message so important that he had overcome death to deliver it. It seemed that the Church seemed to skip over many of what would seem to be key plot details. Which was unfortunate, because the book didn't make all that much sense without them. It seemed to him surely the whole point was what Jesus had to say when he returned from the dead, but it had been decided this section was unimportant compared to all that stuff about seafood. It was not just anything positive about women that was snipped out, but key plot devices such as why he was actually crucified after making the highly dubious decision to perform as his own defence. It has often been argued that Jesus himself was not a Christian. It was not his belief in Jehova that finally pushed Pilate over the edge. It was his final statement, and the message he was clearly so eager to deliver he chose to die as a result of saying it. Jesus had pushed and pushed until finally quoting Psalm 82, "Is it not written in your law I said ye are gods?" was the final straw and sentence was passed.   Jorge couldn't help feeling that such a vital plot point got skipped over a bit lightly in the teachings that followed. As far as he could see this meant Jesus was some kind of pantheist, or at least, a very egalitarian polytheist.

Considering these were the sacred words of God and it was the most blasphemous of acts to alter a single word, Constantine and his cohorts had been remarkably liberal with their selective editing. For some reason the compilers of the modern Bible had completely changed the ending - and, ultimately the entire point of the Bible - hastily replace it with a random prophecy about the Apocalypse. Studying the various manuscripts in the library, he began to see just what it was that Ratzinger appeared to have stumbled onto. Further reading dropped additional, tantalising clues. The Marys themselves seemed the earthly representations of an alternative spiritual trinity. Occasionally he would catch a brief reference, or passing mention of one of their names, all similarly united by if not a single name then a single initial. The letter S. From what he could gather they were named the Shekhina, Sophia and a third, to whom he could only find veiled references to, but no sign of a name.

His reading had led him to explore the esoteric side of the concept of God, and whilst examining the Kabballah he had had read Papus and learnt that the name Jehova is not a masculine figure as he had been led to believe, but comprised of both genders. The Tetragrammaton, the most sacred name of God, was originally represented by four Hebrew letters which translated into the Roman alphabet as IHVH or alternatively, YHWH or variations on the theme. Pronounced "Yod He Vau He" each of the Hebrew letters was also a word, and had a masculine or a feminine gender associated. In addition, their sequential placement imbued a specific level of maturity on  them. consequently the I or Yod meant Mature Male, and the first H or He represented Mature Female, whilst the Vau or V represented immature male and the second H (He) this time represented immature female. Combined they made up the concept of the nuclear family. Father Mother, Son and Daughter and were represented within the tarot by the court cards, King, Queen, Prince and Princess. The tetragrammaton is meant to constantly repeat those four letters over and over again in an ongoing pattern that ultimately represented the recurrent continuity of genetic replication with each progressive generation. Jehova, it seemed, was essentially a linguistic mnemonic representing the principle of acquired hereditary characteristics. He wondered briefly whether anyone had ever mentioned this to Richard Dawkins.    

The fact that both of these female aspects shared an identical letter made him wonder if there was some connection to the Mary's all sharing the same name. It occurred to him, it might mean that they were all separate and yet one in the same way claimed of the masculine trinity. The gnostics who continued to include Sophia within their religion had rejected the patriarchal imbalance, seeing an exclusively male representation of God as the Demiurge. A false and incomplete pretender to the role. Pronounced   Removing the male factor, he was left with a single unified female aspect. And this She was a He, just to add to the general confusion.

Although replacing Sol Invictus with Christ had transformed the Sun at the centre of Roman worship into a son, it had not managed to remove all traces of the other traditional Roman Religions.that acknowledged a daughter. The worship of Diana had gone underground, but still thrived. In an ongoing hidden war, the Church had defined all the Goddess' adherents as Strega, or witches, and attempted to eradicate them as effectively as they had the Cathars only centuries earlier. This, in turn gave rise to the most influential secret society in history. The Rosicrucians, who recognised these women as midwives and herbalists, keeping alive the traditions of medicine in a world which prescribed a donation to the chapel roof as a cure for the plague. With the rose a symbol of the feminine and the cross a masculine emblem, their sigil represented woman crucified by a patriarchal dictatorship and hinted at the true esoteric meaning of the Bible, a meaning that had been systematically removed from all but the most concealed of ancient texts. The original Rose Cross, he came to realise, had been the symbol of the first human rights protesters to challenge the Will of the Church. All that now remained of their teachings was a handful of pamphlets and a cryptic allegory about a "Chymical Wedding" which returned him, full circle to thoughts of the Da Vinci Code. There was something he was missing, though. If only he could find some mention of the third S. He was sure the answer must be contained in either the books Ratzinger had taken or recorded in the pages of his book. 

The Bunker

Joseph Ratzinger had always been a Pope noted for his opulence. A Pontiff with a penchant for bling. In a time of international recession it smacked of decadence. He represented everything that Francis had come to despise about the church and all that he wished to reform. He was a hoarder. The Papal quarters had been so full of ornamental clutter that  Forgiveness was one thing, but as far as Jorge was concerned if Ratzinger wanted his stuff back it was his responsibility to collect it himself.

Jorge had chosen to make his home in the Domus Sanctae Marthae instead. For his own part, he had simple tastes, and had become used to living out of a backpack as he tracked his prey. As a result, he had barely glanced at the room since his arrival. A cursory inspection of the bookshelves revealed that he too had been caught up in the recent conspiracies that had allowed the Church fresh attention from Hollywood. The Dead Sea Scrolls and particularly the leaked interpretations of Allegro or the theorising of Baigent and Leigh and their ilk made up much of his reading, along with the standard texts on the Holy Grail. He could see no sign of the missing library books however. It seems Ratzinger had decided to keep them safely from prying eyes.

During his former mission, as his original investigations  brought him closer to the Vatican he had heard whispers amongst the cardinals of "Benedict's Bunker" or the "Rat Hole" as it had come to be known.  Stories that the old Pope had commissioned the building of what was assumed to be a panic room onto the entrance to an abandoned Passetto. All sources seemed to be in agreement. The accepted consensus was  this entrance was located somewhere in the main Papal chambers. A secret doorway constructed by the Medici dynasty on the offchance they needed a swift exit or somewhere to run in case of an  unexpected Armageddon or  impromptu Apocalypse. It only took the most basic of searches to reveal it, hidden behind the red velvet curtains decorating the walls behind the throne. Pulling them back triumphantly, he was faced with a relatively fresh coat of plaster, which he dutifully shattered with a nearby sceptre to reveal a doorway carved into the stonework they obscured. The door was sealed tightly shut with only a tiny golden glyph to distinguish it from the rest of the wall . If it hadn't been for the plaster covering it, he might never have even noticed. Swift examination revealed that the glyph had a small indentation. It was the shape of a Papal ring, and he quickly tried his own to no avail. Ratzingers ring was required to open its ornate yet sophisticated locking system. In keeping with tradition, the ring had been destroyed when the old pope resigned, or died as was more often the case. Then its remains was placed in storage along with the rings of all previous heads of the church. For a moment he thought all was lost. Then he remembered he was Pope and had it brought to the chambers immediately. A touch of superglue might be all that stood between Francis and his quest.

It turned out "breaking the ring" was something of an exaggeration (unless it referred to some of the more ungodly practices inflicted on the choir), and it had simply been stamped with cross to invalidate the seal. The delicate application of some solder and a quick rub-down with sandpaper was all that was required to restore its original form. Placing the ring in a matching socket at the centre of a gold engraving in the centre of the door. There was a satisfying click, and a stone panel concealing the tunnel behind slid smoothly aside.

He had found the Bunker.

Ratzinger’s panic room, unknown by all but the most elite of ecclesiastic executive and rumoured to be stocked with all the luxuries a Pope might wish for as he hid himself away come an impromptu Apocalypse. The rumours were not wrong. He gazed at the treasures in awe. He was a simple man and had lived a simple life, the sight of such riches struck him with awe. The wealth that was tucked away here made the treasure of the Templar’s look like the leftover stock from a car boot sale. The bunker was filled with lost treasures he recognised at once from the various volumes and files that Ratzinger had compiled. Much of it was in the form of artwork, gathered as the Church sacked the cities in their march across Europe. His studies allowed him to recognise some objects that stood out as having a far greater worth. The Spear of Destiny, the Ark of the Covenant. It was not just gold that was gathered here, however, but a collection of antiquated paperwork that stretched back over the centuries. He read the inventory with increasing wonderment. It contained the original design schematics for Foucault's Pendulum, a secret collection of scrolls from caves not only in the Qumran and Nag Hammadi regions but as far afield as Tibet, referring to the true origins of the church and Christianity itself and what appeared to be original Da Vinci designs for a personal laptop computer. And a remarkable number of skateboards. Boxes of them, stretching back into the distant darkness of the sealed up Passetto. Finally, Jorge understood why there was no library exit any more. Ratzinger had transformed the entire passage into a huge warehouse for his own private collection. Despite what seemed mile upon mile of ancient wonders stretching back further than he could see, it was the desk in the corner of the room that drew his attention On it was Ratzinger's journal. He noted the paper quality with an approving rub of the thumb and made a mental note to ask the old man who his supplier was. Then he sat down and began to read.

The Benedict Manuscripts

 Being Pope was not all Joseph had hoped it would be

Being Pope was clearly not all Joseph had hoped it would be. "The last guy had a Pope mobile, all I get is this fucking skateboard," the journal began.

What started off as a diary it soon became a detailed record of Ratzinger's intensive and detailed investigations. A compilation of specific key events in the religion's history that related an entirely different history to any he had encountered previously. Apart from regular disillusioned rants about the journal was an account into his own investigations into the Church and its hidden history. It was, Jorge realised, one that began far earlier than his own.

Initially he had been motivated by power. Ratzinger had a different view of the church to Jorge's romanticised Imperialism. He was a pope for a capitalist age and embraced his position in history. It would be ungrateful not to make the most of his position and the luxury it afforded, but ultimately the glitz and the glamour had proven empty once acquired, and left him empty inside. There was no higher position to aspire to other than that of God, and apparently the position was permanently taken. For someone driven by relentless ambition the post had proven a cul-de-sac, and with no greater heights to reach this side of the grave. There was an eternal glass ceiling between him and the top position. This was as high as he could go.

As he read onwards, it became clear that Ratzinger had no interest in the secret spiritual meaning of his religion. His motivation was clear from the outset.  He was there seeking treasure. He had been seeking out and bringing together all the fabled riches of the church with a systematic precision of purpose that had allowed him to amass a collection only rivalled in legend. According to the inventory, the various material assets of the church ranged from objects purloined by the Templars to those of the Nazis, from the Celts to the Cathars, he saw items listed he had always thought myth. Like Jorge's own, it had been a journey that began in his youth and had remained constant throughout the rest of Ratzinger's life. Fantasies forged during his days with the Hitler Youth had seduced him with romantic fantasies about adventures in the Thule Society. Secret treasures and magickal items. Fairytale treasures and mythic quests for power that would make the possessor one with the Gods. Although he had long ago dispensed with magic and superstition, at least when not on the job, he still sought the power and wealth imbued in folklore of his childhood. Climbing through the ranks of the Vatican until he had access to the innermost secrets of the Church,  he had scoured the lost documents he came across mysterious references that led him to each of the secret stashes of Gold the Church had accumulated over the years.  Mention of the slightest trinket had been painstakingly followed up as he tracked down every ancient relic from every collection that had ever been owned by a preceding pope. He had read as much as he could find about the politics of his religion from an early age. It allowed him a familiarity with the system which aided a rapid progression through the ranks. Once he had all the power granted this side of divinity, he turned his mind to other things and turned his mind to the wealth.

The journal detailed his research as he compiled the most complete and extensive account of the various and varied  business interests following the movement of key relics and artifacts as they passed through the hands of the clergy and into the coffers of the Church. Razinger's particular interests were the business affairs of the Church, which inevitably meant that his reading list focused on the material politic of the Church. He immersed himself in a world of black economies and cunning subterfuge. The journal documented his investigations into the financial accounts and banking details that stretched all the way back to Constantine and the original formation of the Holy Roman Church.

Examining the text dejectedly, he noted from his own evidence concerning endemic corruption was not the aberrant phase he had hoped, but simply a continuation of the norm. The journal corresponded with his theory the  Empire had never fallen, it had simply changed its name in order to assimilate the opposition. The perception of what it represented was entirely at odds with his own. There was no honour that he could see in the dealings it explored. Just duplicity and guile as the whole institution seemed .It documented the most intricate and intimate machinations of the Medicis and the Borgias and told of the most successful corporate rebranding in recorded history. It was a marketing triumph. Even these were not where his research began, however.  An analysis of the  minutes from the original Nicean Council meetings related the precise details. It was not just a record of financial corruption, but revealed a far greater secret than either of them had ever imagined. A secret that would ultimately lead to Ratzinger's resignation.

As he followed the various references and slowly digested the content divulged, Jorge reeled in shock. They told a tale that related not just to the creation of the modern church but of Christianity itself and a conspiracy dating back beyond the church more destructive and damaging to the religion than any that Dan Brown had lifted from the various researchers in the field. Ratzinger had stumbled onto an early draft of the Bible. With working notes. It was all there, Written in conjunction with Eseubius, it were a contrivance to give earlier authenticity to their policies. It seemed that the Council of Nicea had not merely edited down and refined the original texts, they had made the whole thing up on the spot.
 
They had written the entire history of Christianity into existence themselves, faking early references and archaeological details across the Empire, and then bringing on the Dark Ages in an attempt to destroying all traces of what preceded them. It was a complete and systematic reinvention of history. Eusebius was picked as script editor having originally pitched the idea to Constantine in the hope of gaining a review of his new book, the Chronicon.  With the Emperor's blessing, he had systematically forged entries in the works of Josephus and the other early scholars, even going so far as to create entire fake histories. Even Origen, the key source of these histories himself was entirely made up - simply a hastily invented combination of Origin and Genesis to signify to those included into the secret that this was the start. He kicked himself that he had never spotted it before. It all suddenly seemed so obvious as he read the continuing revelations behind his beliefs. The gospels were not to be taken as gospel, it seemed,  even after Constantine, Eusebius and Pamphilus had finally decided upon which edition they were finally going with.

Amongst his other duties, it seemed that Eusebius was a member of a secret group known only to a select few at the very top of the planetary pecking order as the Cult of TINA. They tendered a contract for the job and, after the inevitable exchange of brown papyrus envelopes, the Nicean Minutes reveal they had written the entire history of Christianity over a few drunken weeks in AD 325.

Centuries of Imperial rule had done serious damage to their reputation in the business world. Its name stamped on the map of the world due to a marked tendency to invade every country they set foot in tended to make. They needed to re-invent their company image. Adapting the competing traditions of the day, they combined them into a single homogeneous vision.  Initially, creating the bodies of work that would come to be known as the gnostic texts, or the apocrypha, they edited and re-edited the often conflicting drafts. Working through them, they manufactured a main character and written all of the main qualities of the local gods into it and perpetrated the most audacious Public Relations exercise in the history of corporate rebranding. A designer deity, a composite of all of the key gods across the breadth of the known world in a single unifying   Taking the Messiah on tour.

Further investigations had revealed that the true author of the Chronicon and the religion it foreshadowed, but had been dictated by the prophet Lactantius. It seemed Lactantius in turn consulted what appeared to be a same crystal ball. From it he reported which books should remain and which should be cut. A faint memory of the room in Garibaldi street sprang in and out of his mind for a moment, but he was too engrossed to pay it any attention. As a result of his prophetic pursuits he had discovered many strange secrets from the future. He spoke in terms that confused his peers. Mumbling strange unfamiliar words such as "interdimensional" and "social networking" or occasionally clutching his ear and shouting out random comments such as, "Look, I can't speak to you right now there are people here" had caused him to be viewed with suspicion by his peers. There was no disputing he could knock out a mean gospel though, and that was what it was decided was needed.

His sources also stated that he gained his knowledge of how to use the crystal ball from a scared book, the most powerful book  and that this book was stored alongside the crystal ball somewhere in the grounds of the Vatican. Curiously enough, Ratzinger had not retrieved the book or the crystal ball, choosing to leave them up where they were found. In fact, locating them seemed to signify both the end of Ratzinger's collection and his position as Pope.

This was the one book missing from the collection his personal library. One book he had been seeking more desperately than any other. It had been an obsession. Details regarding the precise nature of the  book were as obscure as those regarding its location. It was simply referred to as "the Book M" or "Liber M"and  had been listed amongst the Medici collection. According to the myths that Ratzinger had been exploring, it was only spoken of enigmatically and fleetingly. It popped up time and again in a variety of the most arcane texts of the most esoteric sections of the archives.

The original references referred to it as a code book of some kind. Some kind of rosetta stone with which the true secrets of Creation can be understood. Others refer to it as a magical grimoire and speak of communion with the devil. Most agree that it contained the secrets of the Medici's power and was considered their most precious possession. According to his journal, Ratzinger had originally joined the Church in the hope of finding this one specific item. Finally, after following leads from one book to another for almost the entire tenure of his Popeship, he had managed to track it down. It was listed as one the relics of Lactantius in the Medici Section. The final journal entry revealed its location. It appeared there was a further secret passageway secretly secreted in one of the secret passageways hidden in the Medici section. The entry was dated a day before the resignation. After that there was nothing. Whatever Ratzinger had found in that secret passageway put an end to any further activity and it appeared he had immediately and completely abandoned his quest. As far as Jorge could see, the ex-Pope had not set foot in the bunker since. 

Whatever Ratzinger had found there, it had made him abandon not just his life's work but his position as head of the Church. Grabbing a skateboard from one of the crates he raced to the archives as fast as his wheels would carry him. His heart was racing as he sailed towards the library, the board leaping entire flights of stairs as he raced to ground level and into the corridors of St. Peters. Taking the corner into the main corridor to the library, and sped along the miles of bookshelves leading to the Medici section. He was elated. No sooner had he finished one quest than another had simply sprung up to take his place. A spiritual mission.

The Pope sailed past the queues of cardinals outside the expansive porn section of the Vatican library, as they burnt the books. He has always found the concept of a children's lending library a peculiar addition to the building, and was glad to see it finally go. The chief librarian tossed the "All children must be returned by six o'clock" sign on the flames and and threw the travelling pontiff a resentful scowl as he swept by. He felt sympathy for those around him who were blind to the truth that they served. He saw sad, desperate lives reliant on cynicism rather than faith as they went about their business, praying and frantically wiping harddrives. Still, there were some true believers left, he thought, as he skated around Cardinal Vermicelli preparing the "Jesus" traps. "One day, the hippy bastard is coming back," Vermicelli murmured to himself as he rigged the spikes, "and he's going to want all of this back. But we'll be ready..." 

Arriving in the Medici section, he dismounted from the board and followed the directions in the journal. Pushing a coded sequence of books, the bookcase slid aside to reveal the Passetto. Inside, he found a switch, hidden behind a loose brick near the entrance. There was a grating of stone against stone as a a door sized section of the wall slowly pulled back and a shower of dust steamed down before him. He had found it. The torch he carried in his robes for just such occasions revealed a stairway carved into into the rock floor leading down to the catacombs over which the building was constructed. Following them down he found himself in a huge round chamber. There were candles placed at strategic intervals, and lighting the nearest provided illumination enough to reveal an ornately decorated room. The floor was covered with marble tiling, which made up the shape of a huge hexagaram. Paintings of various nefarious looking Medieval Popes punctuated the wallspace, separated by six craved pillars each aligned at the tips of the star. In the very centre was a table covered with a burgundy velvet cloth. On the cloth was a stand. On the stand a black crystal ball. 

Lighting all of the candles in turn, he then made his way to it, jittery shadows flitting across the walls as if eager to observe, then shocked by their own boldness, jumping back in search of a corner to hide. There seemed to be a vibration emanating from the ball. Almost a warmth, he thought as he got close and peered into it. Initially there was nothing, then beyond the reflection he seemed to make out a tiny spot of light. Slowly it grew a swirl of colours spiralling outwards in a uniform circle that slowly coalesced into a recognisable and stable form.

It seemed to be the letter S within a hexagram, surrounded by a circle. He recognised it from the various texts he had read about the female trinity. As it appeared there was the sound of a lone choirboy's voice, singing softly but clearly at the centre of everything.

The voice filled him with a sense of wonderment so profound that tears welled in his eyes and, hands clasped, he fell to his knees, utterly overwhelmed by the sheer beauty. All doubt was instantly banished by the immanent presence of the Divine. Ratzinger had not just been seeking another holy relic, Jorge realised. He had been trying to find God itself. Taking the black smoked glass globe from its stand and was surprised to feel it hum with energy at the touch.

Both circle and hexagram faded, replaced by a grid of light that now occupied a central position in the globe. It was another image he recognised from his recent religious studies. Metatron's Cube. The relevance of the name struck him immediately. Metatron. The voice of God. He stared into the shape, instantly hypnotised as his peripheral vision dimmed down and it was all he could see.

After a few seconds the image faded and was replaced by simple white lettering that stated: “Scrype temporal communications”. Seconds later, this in turn was replaced by an additional notification, which read "Incoming Message"

'Hello Jorge,' a female voice filled both the room and his head, creating the impression only it and the symbol existed, simultaneously there in his presence and alone in an empty void. 'My name is Synthea.'

All original material both written and illustrative, excluding links and creative commons licence photographs, are the property of the author unless otherwise stated ©2015 Richard Bradbury. All Rights Reserved.