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payroll?’
    ‘He’s certainly one of Cardinal Petroni’s boys.’ Allegra shivered. ‘The Omega Scroll is going to shake them to their foundations.’

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Venezia
    F ather Vittorio Pignedoli watched from his position in the chancel of the huge Basilica di San Marco as Cardinal Giovanni Donelli prepared to deliver his sermon to the packed congregation. This cardinal, he reflected, was like no other he had ever known and at fifty-two, one of the youngest. Thick black hair, deep blue eyes and a warm, infectious laugh, slim and fit – he even worked out in the gym. There was no hint of high office, and he was relaxed and accessible. Cardinal Donelli had only been in Venice for a short while and already everybody, both in the Church and outside it, was talking about him. There had been quite a few snide remarks from wealthy and powerful Venetians about Giovanni’s ‘lowly’ southern origins, the little town of Maratea on the west coast of Basilicata. Venetian society relished the pomp and circumstance of their ancient fiefdom and their patrician noses were put decidedly out of joint when Giovanni resisted invitations to the glittering and expensive events he was expected to attend. Giovanni’s distaste for excessive ceremony had Vittorio fielding indignant calls of complaint. The first was from an exasperated Chief of Police who had stumbled on the newly installed Patriarch of Venice out for a walk, dressed in the black soutane of a simple priest. The Polizia had found him in a trattoria near the Canal Grande happily chatting to some gondoliers and eating pizza al taglio .
    ‘What if something happens to him!’ il Capo di Polizia had complained. ‘The very least he could have done was accepted the ride home.’
    Giovanni had politely refused the offer of a police escort and had unwittingly added insult to injury by accepting a lift from the gondoliers. The gondoliers, he reasoned, were a more than adequate and less pretentious substitute. The priest with the big winning smile – it was the first thing people noticed about him. The gondoliers, the fishermen and the rest of the working class of Venice loved him.
    Vittorio glanced nervously around the congregation. His cardinal’s choice of a subject that questioned the very beginnings of life on the planet had attracted wide publicity, not all of it confined to the narrow streets and covered alleys of Venice. ‘Science and Religion’ reflected Giovanni’s educational background – a doctorate in theology and an honours degree in science majoring in biology and chemistry. Giovanni’s choice of subject had been prompted by an article in the Corriere della Sera – the respected Italian paper Courier of the Evening . Vittorio knew it was dangerous territory and that the Vatican would denounce any departure from the Church doctrine of Adam and Eve. As Giovanni climbed the marble stairs to his pulpit, a shadowy figure took a seat in the back row of the seats reserved for the clergy.
    Giovanni had insisted on using the smaller of the two ornate pulpits. He rested his hands on the marble railing and smiled warmly.
    ‘ Buongiorno. È molto buono vi vedere! Good morning. It is very good to see you! Some of you may have seen an article on bacteria last week in the Corriere della Sera. For those of you who may have missed it, don’t worry, it’s not a sin to have no interest in bacteria.’ The laughter reverberated off the gold tiled walls of San Marco and Giovanni’s fulsome smile permeated even the coldest and most sceptical of hearts.
    ‘This particular article was about a different type of bacteria known as archaebacteria, which thrive in boiling water. What, you may ask, has this to do with the Church and theology?’ Giovanni paused and looked around his congregation, drawing them to him.
    ‘I want to take you deep below the surface of the ocean. Imagine we are all inside the research submarine Alvin several kilometres below the surface. It is pitch