by Alex Thomas
She glanced at the laptop. For a moment she thought she might check her emails to distract herself. Perhaps she should simply surf the Internet for a little while to calm her nerves? A walk would have been better. But a walk alone at night as a woman in Rome? She had better not.
A stroll through St. Peter’s Basilica would have been lovely with a quick jaunt to the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican’s gardens. That would have refreshed her mind and calmed her nerves in order to think clearly again.
Could she tell Ben about her dream? Hardly. On the other hand, whom else could she confront with it, if not him? Darius was dead. And Ciban? She didn’t want to think about him. Ben and she had confided in one another about everything as children at the Institute.
The world outside her hotel room gradually started to fill with the typical early morning sounds. The first people to walk about, the first cars to start, most likely deliverymen slowly and almost thoughtfully drove through the streets.
Catherine decided to find out more about Cardinal Benelli. She sat at her laptop, opened the Internet programme and visited the Holy See website and its alphabetical list of cardinal lecturers.
Benelli’s resume didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary. Born in Todi, Umbria, first school, then his priestly ordination, studies, PhD, episcopal consecration and finally his appointment as cardinal…But what else should Catherine have expected? The official short biographies of the living cardinals in the Catholic Church wouldn’t contain any inconsistencies.
She decided to take a different approach. This time she tried to find information about Darius’, Sylvester’s and Isabella’s murders. No dice. No accident report. Nothing aside from the obituary from the corresponding orders.
For a moment she entertained the thought of logging into the Lux Domini website, but then she remembered that after her resignation her password was no longer valid and she was certainly not a hacker. She would have to ask Ben. If at all.
She turned off the computer, lied back down in bed and tried to run everything through her mind one more time. Before she knew it, she succumbed to her exhaustion and fell back asleep.
28
Rom, Vatican, Apostolic Palace
Envelope in hand, Monsignor Rinaldo was still waiting with the Pope’s private secretary for Cardinal Ciban to end his meeting with His Holiness and leave the private chambers. As he waited, Rinaldo attempted to start a conversation with Massini, but the secretary was rather mum and seemed even a bit glum.
The young priest gave an inward sigh. Perhaps he should have rather waited for the prefect at the Inquisitor’s Palace rather than sitting here waiting all dressed up with nowhere to go. On the other hand the envelope’s contents were of an extremely explosive nature.
Rinaldo had worked at the Inquisitor’s Palace for five years, two for Ciban. Not a day went by without something unpleasant arising. The Palace oversaw not only the Vatican City State, but for the past five centuries the entire Roman Catholic world as well. Up to the 1960s a marble plate with an inscription had hung over the gates, which read:
This house was built to fight against heresy
and to support the Catholic religion.
In the same decade the plate was removed, never to be seen again, in the name of a more popular approach to publicity. It disappeared into one of the countless cellar vaults beneath the Vatican’s surface that served as the City State’s junk rooms. The effect the building had on people remained even in times when the faith’s protection was no longer assured through interrogation and torture.
Since the twentieth century, the members of the Congregation of the Doctrine of Faith, the name the Roman Inquisition gave itself in 1965, has had to deal with a daily onslaught of suspicious reading material. It was mostly those young priests temporarily deputised by the various diocese and religious orders who sorted the incoming mail according to the gravity of the accusation, sending it up the chain of command depending on rank.
Even Rinaldo, who had gotten his PhD in ecclesiastical law, had started out as a young priest working for the Congregation of the Doctrine of Faith based on such a job assignment in the Vatican. He had studied the works of suspicious theologians on behalf of the Congregation, put together the most important documents and given his assessment of the works in light of Catholic doctrine.
In the interim, he had moved up the ranks to become Cardinal Ciban’s undersecretary and had taken over a great deal of the tasks assigned to the ageing secretary His Excellence Archbishop Tardini. There was no reason that Rinaldo himself wouldn’t have an impressive career inside the Vatican. There was just one catch: he wasn’t interested in advancing his career, a fact that Ciban, the exigent Grand Inquisitor commented about once with surprisingly gentle irony: "You know, Rinaldo, this noble characteristic didn’t help priests such as Angelo Roncalli, Albino Luciani or our acting pontiff. We serve the Church where it needs us and it is seldom where we wish to be."
Shortly thereafter, the head of the department for Catholic doctrine promoted Rinaldo to be the Congregation’s undersecretary. He could have cursed Ciban with all his might if the time spent repenting wouldn’t have been so lengthy. Over time, however, he had grown to appreciate his superior as well as the responsibility of the new position and its accompanying tasks. Even in moments such as these in which he had the feeling he had to wait an eternity for His Eminence, costing him his very last nerve.
Rinaldo was about to give up any hope that his superior would end the meeting with His Holiness tonight and nearly placed the envelope with the Lux incident in his cassock’s interior pocket when the door to the papal private chambers literally flew open. Ciban swept out of the room with his mobile phone to his ear as if the devil himself were chasing him.
Without paying any mind at all to Rinaldo – Ciban had nearly run over Massini – the cardinal hastened toward the corridor and the lift and left both baffled Monsignori alone in the antechamber.
Rinaldo was able to just make it to the lift in time before the doors closed. Ciban still had his mobile phone to his ear and seemed to be in the darkest of moods.
"I’m not interested in that. If your club can’t keep a handle on its people, then I suggest you shut down shop entirely."
There was something threatening in his voice and his icy-grey eyes that made Rinaldo retreat to the farthest corner of the lift possible. He realised that the envelope in his cassock’s interior pocket played a subordinate role at the moment, even if the incident was questionable.
"Listen up. If he dies, I’ll follow you. Have I made myself clear?"
With those words Ciban hung up and switched off the phone. He had glanced briefly at Rinaldo, but he was uncertain as to whether he had even registered his presence. They had barely made it to the ground floor when the doors opened just enough before Ciban shot out into the corridor. Both Swiss guards holding watch looked at him aghast.
When both guards were out of earshot and Rinaldo had nearly caught up to Ciban, the cardinal turned around so abruptly that the young priest nearly ran into him. Rinaldo wanted to apologise, but the prefect raised his hand and the priest fell silent.
"I could use your help, Monsignor. And your silence."
"What is it about, Eminence?"
"Monsignor Hawlett’s investigations have gotten him into a tangle with one of Cardinal Gasperetti’s men."
Gasperetti? It could mean a most dangerous confrontation with Lux Domini and that wasn’t exactly the work he felt called to do. But it was just as unacceptable to leave Ciban in a lurch. He took a deep breath and nodded. "What can I do?"
"I’ll tell you on the way. We have no time to spare. It’s urgent."
It truly was urgent. They ran onto the Damasus Courtyard where Ciban’s car stood. Rinaldo had barely sat down in the passenger seat of the heavy limousine when the prefect stomped on the gas pedal. Every now and again Rinaldo had asked himself why the cardinal, unlike his colleagues, never took advantage of having a chauffeur. Now he knew why. I
t wasn’t only because he had more freedom of movement, but he also seemed to be a passionate and fast driver.
When the car took on its highest speed around the bend, Rinaldo gave the Cardinal a brief side glance. His superior’s dark facial expression bode no good. In moments such as these Ciban reminded him more of the prince of darkness than the prince of light.
When they left Rome on the Via Flaminia Nuova due north, the young priest finally realised where they were headed: They were going back to Benelli’s villa.
29
When Massini returned to the papal sleeping chambers, Leo looked at him with reddened eyes. He looked both exhausted and astonished. Obviously, Ciban’s sudden departure came to him as much of a surprise as it had to him and Rinaldo.
"How are you, Holiness?"
"I am somewhat tired, but other than that I am doing well under the circumstances. Did His Eminence say anything else?"
"No. At least not to me. I have never seen him in such a hurry before. What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?"
"An unexpected phone call. I don’t know more than that." Leo leaned back into his pillows.
"Do you need anything else, Holiness?"
"No, thank you, Corrado. You may retire. Try to get some sleep."
Massini nodded. "Yes, Holiness."
He looked down at the little nightstand next to the bed. At Leo’s journal. So close and yet so far. It lay open, showing a blank page. Even in his weakened condition, the Pope recorded his every thought. Massini asked himself where Leo kept his journal when he wasn’t writing in it. Certainly not in the nightstand drawer.
"Shall I put away the book?" he asked completely innocently.
Leo shook his head. "Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I want to write something in it. Not much. But at least I will have gotten it out of my head and I can sleep better."
"Well then, good night, Holiness. Sleep well."
"Good night, Corrado. Thanks again for all your help."
Massini nodded with a smile. Then he left the room and quietly closed the door behind him.
On the other side of the door, he took a deep breath and leaned against it, trying to quiet his nerves.
He had tried to get in touch with Aurelio to find out who his blackmailer was. But his friend – if he could ever be considered that – had vanished from the face of the Earth. The boy hadn’t answered any of his calls and the small flat in Monti, the Roman merchants’ quarter, appeared to be vacant. Aurelio hadn’t responded to Massini’s knocking and banging at the door. The neighbour on the same floor, a massive bleach-blond Roman with a serious up-do had finally just given him a complacent smile and said the guy he was searching for would be gone for a while. Up north. Wherever that was.
Had Aurelio betrayed him?
Massini left the area of the papal private chambers and went to his living quarters in the Apostolic Palace. Fully clothed he plopped down onto his bed and asked himself how much time he had left before the blackmailer would contact him again. Despite the odd inferences from the massive Roman woman, he was worried about Aurelio.
He finally fell into a fitful sleep. A part of him still thought it would be a damn short, damn awful night. Another part of him saw the tiny wooden nightstand with the journal on it. And yet another part of him asked himself what had distraught Cardinal Ciban at this very late hour.
30
"Ben…?"
The young investigator could feel his eyelids being gently opened. He knew the voice. Oh yes, he knew that voice. It wasn’t the stranger’s. The direct, brightness of the room made his eyes tear up and blinded him. He had lost all sense of time. The darkness, the torture and the drug had swept him away. Then he had lost consciousness. He had tried to stay conscious, but his body shut down.
"Water." By God, the only thing he could think about was water. He was incredibly thirsty.
As if the familiar person had read his mind, he carefully lifted his head and gave him a sip of water. "Not too fast and not too much," he heard the voice say. His head was then gently placed back down.
Ben blinked at the ceiling light that continued to blind him and realised that he was no longer shackled, but he was still lying on the hard surface of the torture table. He felt out of it, strangely sleepy, but not as foggy-brained as he had felt after being given the luminous infernal liquid. Nevertheless, everything seemed to be fuzzy and distorted as if he were looking at the lively colour photography made of steel and acrylics by Katharina Sieverding.
At that moment he noticed the syringe in the man’s hand; that is he saw the glistening needle. No, not another injection! In an act of desperation, he sat up, but was gently pushed back down. He thought maybe the syringe’s plunger was already empty.
"Ben! Can you hear me?"
His muscles burned like fire. He carefully wiped his cheeks. They were wet. He must have cried very recently. "I…yes," he said with heavy breath.
The hand that had been holding the syringe now felt his forehead. In that moment Ben felt as if a surge of energy flowed through his brain down to his entire body. He began to shake slightly and momentarily had the sense that he was unified with his entire surroundings, including the stony vault, the hard wood of the torture table and the hand on his forehead. The drug still worked. It was immensely powerful.
"Can you see me?" asked the voice calmly.
Ben blinked. He could see the outline of a face, fuzzy, indeterminate. "No…not really."
"We have to bring him to the hospital, Eminence," said another, younger voice. Ben knew that one too. But it was hazy.
"That won’t be necessary. We made it just in time."
Ben tried to get up once again, but someone gave him a patience nudge to lie back down. "Easy. Don’t move around too much, otherwise it will make you dizzy and you’ll have to vomit again."
Vomit again?
The younger voice said lightly: "You would just spit up bile."
As if on cue, the feeling overcame him. He couldn’t hold back the nausea any longer, vomiting directly in front of the men. He felt a momentary sense of relief.
The man with the lower voice dabbed at his mouth with a fresh tissue. "Feel any better?"
Ben nodded carefully. He didn’t want to spit up bile again. Certainly not in front of both of them. He touched his sweltering forehead, leaning himself back down. His eyes and ears weren’t functioning properly, at least not the way they should. "Can I have the tissue please?"
"Most certainly." As he was handed the tissue, he touched the fingertips of the older man. It was like an electric shock.
It took half an hour – or at least the voice claimed half an hour had transpired – for Ben’s condition to normalise. First his hearing became less hypersensitive, then his eyes. In that moment, he realised who his rescuers were.
"How – did you find me, Eminence?"
"Later. Let’s get you out of here first. Here’s a fresh cassock."
"But it is one of yours." Ben knew that Ciban always carried a small packaged bag in his car in case of emergency. Sometimes the cardinal would disappear for a few days and no one knew where he went.
"Yes. I expect to get it back by tomorrow at the latest." Did he detect a tad of humour in the prefect’s voice?
Ben took the cassock from the cardinal. And there it was again, an unusual sensation of crackling energy around the fingers of his right hand even though their hands only touched one another through the material. He met Ciban’s eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice the sensation at all. That damn drug. Ben wondered when the effects of the infernal liquid would finally ease.
With Rinaldo’s help he changed clothes and drank a sip of water. Later he barely remembered how he had gotten back to his tiny flat in Trastevere. Most likely, they carried him a great part of the way to the car before driving him back home. At any rate, when he awoke in the late afternoon, Monsignor Rinaldo was sitting on a chair next to his bed, reading one of his books, The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Jos
eph Campbell.
"I am sorry," apologised Rinaldo with a crooked smile, "but I had to promise His Eminence not to let you out of my sight until you came to." He handed Ben a glass of water. "How are you feeling?"
Ben emptied the glass in one draft. "Sh…aky." His head pounded as if a beating heart lived inside it. "What time is it?"
"It is after five o’clock. You had lively dreams."
"Oh. Should I be ashamed?"
Rinaldo blushed slightly. It had been a while since Ben had last seen a grown man blush. "No, no," the young priest was quick to assure him. "A couple of times I had to prevent you from falling out of bed."
"Oh, thanks. I probably would have broken a few bones. Did His Eminence say anything?"
"Not exactly. But my guess is he will wish to speak to you when you are feeling better."
I bet, thought Ben. No matter how thoughtful Ciban was to him in the dungeon, he knew the conversation with him would be a hard one. The cardinal had taken him off the case for the time being, but he had continued to investigate. He had directly defied his command. His behaviour had bordered on high treason.
"Are you ready?" Rinaldo asked.
Ben cleared his throat. "To be honest, no. On the other hand, this chalice won’t pass me by, right?"
"I’m afraid not, no. What were you doing in Cardinal Benelli’s villa anyway?"
Ben sighed. "Further investigations." The pain from his overstretched muscles and torn ligaments made his entire body throb. He clumsily fought his way out of bed, feeling like an old man with rheumatoid arthritis. "I’m going to take a shower now and put on some clean clothes. Let’s see how I feel after that, okay?" For a moment he stood unsteadily on both legs, then fell back onto the bed. "Or maybe not. I’m afraid His Eminence will have to make his way here if he wants to interrogate me."
"No problem," said Rinaldo dryly and pulled out his mobile phone. "One call is all it takes."
