Free The Chimera Sanction by André K. Baby

Hotel Dante. As he sat in the worn, uncomfortable rear seat, Dulac ran his fingers through his hair, replacing a recalcitrant lock back where it belonged. With the background noise of the traffic, Dulac could make out only bits of information over the cabbie’s radio, as the spokeswoman gave the latest news on the Pope’s kidnapping.
    ‘’orrible. ’orrible. Who would do such a thing?’ the driver said, throwing a quick glance at Dulac through his rearview mirror.
    ‘Many.’ Dulac looked distractedly out the window at the onrushing traffic.
    Suddenly, the cabbie’s dispatcher overrode the radio program with staccato burst of his loud voice interspersed with ear-shattering static.
    ‘Sì, sì,’ replied the cabbie. He eyed Dulac in the mirror. ‘Airport again. My eighth time today. Reporters and TV people. It’s worse than when John Paul II died.’
    ‘Good for business though,’ said Dulac.
    ‘I don’t need it. I have enough without it. You know what I think? It’s the Muslims.’
    ‘Why is that?’ Looking in the taxi’s rear view mirror, Dulac caught that air of undoubting authority that cabbies acquire due to their position of temporary control over their passengers.
    ‘The newspapers. They say it’s the start of the Holy War. The one before Armageddon. It’s predicted by Nostradamus. The Muslims, I’m telling you, it’s the Muslims. Nostradamus says it will start with the kidnapping of Jesus’s successor. Then the Antichrist will rise and reign for twelve years. It’s all right there. Nostradamus. He’s always right.’
    Before Dulac could reply, the cabbie turned down Via Canaletto. Dulac saw the Hotel Dante’s welcoming shape and breathed a sigh ofrelief. Dulac paid, entered the hotel lobby and walked briskly to the elevators.
    Just as he entered his room, his cellphone rang. He closed the door and flipped it open. ‘It’s me. Karen. How did it go?’
    ‘I’m wiped out.’
    ‘You sound it. Listen, I’ve got some good news. I’ve just received a mandate to oversee a master’s thesis on Roman animal mythology. I’m meeting my student Laura for lunch in Rome tomorrow. How about dinner, or … whatever?’
    ‘I’ll have the whatever.’
    That musical laughter of hers burst into full song. ‘And I thought you French had invented foreplay. I’ll meet you at six tomorrow in the lobby.’
    Dulac thought of those long, fit slender legs and suddenly felt reinvigorated . He went to the small desk, opened his laptop and scrolled down to the headlines of the world’s major newspapers. The Pope’s picture jumped out from every front page.
    ‘Kidnappers abduct Pope Clement the 21st. Their identities and motive remain unknown,’ said the
New York Times
. ‘Pope Clement 21st target of abduction,’ read the
Daily Mirror
. ‘Is he still alive?’ ‘Curia members appeal to kidnappers: give us back our beloved pontiff,’ read
The Sun
. ‘Interpol brought in to find Pope,’ said the
Herald Tribune
. ‘No leads on the kidnappers.’
    Dulac searched quickly for any encrypted e-mails from Interpol. Nothing. He went over to the minibar and poured himself a scotch. Too tired to change, he sat on the bed and leaned back against the pillows propped on the oak headboard and sipped his drink slowly. Soon, his head fell forward, the empty glass rolled from his hand onto the bed and he dozed off into a dreamless sleep.
    The following morning, the shrill pinging of the hotel’s phone snapped Dulac, still dressed, upright in the bed.
    ‘Guadagni. My forensics people were up all night. The Pope’s glasses, they’re all coated with dobutamine and arbutamine mixed with a gel and a masking agent, some hydra-di-tetra something or other. Don’t ask me to repeat the name. Very sophisticated chemistry, according to Cortese.’
    ‘Ha!’ For a brief moment, Dulac couldn’t resist enjoying that warm smug feeling of being right.
    Guadagni continued. ‘We have another problem. The busboy, the one who