A Season for the Dead

by David Hewson

  Now they would all wait, hoping he would die of boredom perhaps, or take a gun and put it to his temple, solving the problem for everybody. It was a poor reward for a lifetime’s service. Nevertheless, Denney was a practical man. He could appreciate their reasoning. Trying to rebuild a new Banca Lombardia from the ashes was a desperate venture and one which, in all honesty, was designed more to elicit his own freedom than enrich anyone he could persuade to come along for the ride.

  Denney had known the risks and the costs all along. Thirty years ago he had changed from being a loyal and caring servant of the Church to an agent of the Vatican state, part diplomat, part financier. The red, three-cornered biretta of his position soon began to gather dust in the closet. Someone had to do this, he reasoned. The Church was a family, but the Vatican was a nation. He knew from the start that it needed to be defended. Over the years, as he became more worldly, he came to appreciate, too, that it needed to safeguard its interests, to earn money, and, in the final analysis, to deal with the Devil when it suited him. He had come to believe that there was no room for sentiment or misplaced ethics. He never once asked himself whether the young Michael Denney would have thought otherwise. Secular matters made him a secular man. He was not unwise. When he guided Banca Lombardia by pulling Crespi’s strings, he had never directed money straight into the coffers of crooks. There would always be a circuitous route, one which would allow him to feign ignorance of the ultimate destination. That, at least, was the idea. Now he knew better.

  He had become a material man. He had taken up the reins of commerce and come to understand that there were, on occasion, grey lines between what was legitimate and what was not. He had discovered, too, another side to himself, that his spare, ascetic looks turned the heads of women who, from time to time, offered relief from the stresses of his chosen career.

  If, in the end, the venture was a success any peccadilloes would soon be forgotten. When the numbers turned wrong, when scapegoats were sought, it was different. Had three key investments, two in Latin America and one with Russian partners in Spain, delivered the profits he expected, Cardinal Michael Denney knew he would now be a fêted member of the Vatican hierarchy, perhaps expecting further promotion. But the numbers were already looking sour on the day he watched, shell-shocked, as those two planes plummeted into the World Trade Center. The risks were cruelly balanced in the worst possible directions: technology, which was already suffering; some emerging East European economies; and the supposed safe haven of reinsurance. The markets and the staggering global economy cheated him of his prize. The small fish down the food chain began to complain. Lombardia was forced to suspend trading. Then the police and, eventually, the FBI began to take an interest, started to peer through the complex entanglement of financial records – shell companies, obscure trust funds, phoney bank accounts – that stretched around the world.

  There were rumours about his personal life. No one regarded him as a priest any more, but the office of cardinal still belonged to the Church. The hint of affairs and the certain knowledge that he loved wine and fine restaurants were matters which bore little weight in the good times. When excuses were sought, they became ammunition in his downfall. Once, he received invitations to some of the most elite dining rooms in Rome where he was a welcome guest who would not always return to his own bed at the end of the evening. Once he was on first-name terms with the finance ministers of several Western nations. A nod from Denney, an expression of interest, could breathe life into a venture struggling to raise capital. He had power and influence and reputation. Then, in a short year, it was gone, accompanied by a whirlwind of vile rumour. Now he was a friendless prisoner trapped inside the tiny, close community of the Vatican, knowing his life would be in jeopardy if he stepped beyond its walls. From this point on it would be a struggle to get even the smallest favour – a meal sent in from a restaurant, a few cleaning trucks to sweep away the media mob from outside a friend’s door.

  The apartment had a single bedroom, a tiny living room, and a bathroom with a rusty cubicle shower. An ancient gas hob stood in the corner of the main room, perched above a miniature fridge. The place overlooked a dead, grey courtyard full of trash bins. The air-conditioning rattled and wheezed in the cruel August heat and still did little to ameliorate the temperature. Without asking, they had moved in some of his possessions: clothes, books, a handful of paintings. Perhaps Hanrahan hoped it would deaden the blow. The canvases seemed out of place inside these meagre quarters. Denney, who had once loved art, thought he might never look at them again. He was sixty-two and in reasonable health, though mentally he increasingly found himself prone to fits of doubt and depression. He should have known what was coming. No one, that week, had addressed him as ‘Your Eminence’, an honour to which he was still entitled. No one but Brendan Hanrahan and he found little comfort in that.

  Denney knew the stocky Irishman only too well. Hanrahan belonged in the dock as much as any of them. Somehow he possessed the skill and foresight to see the storm clouds gathering long before Denny had – and failed to pass the message on. Hanrahan was a survivor and, in a way, still loyal to an extent, perhaps for the most basic, selfish reasons. It was in his interests to see that Michael Denney remained out of the hands of the police. That doubtless explained the private request for a meeting. Denney looked at his watch. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door.

  On time, as ever, Hanrahan let himself in and bowed. ‘Your Eminence.’

  ‘I don’t know why you bother with that, Brendan. No one else does any more.’

  ‘That says more about them than it does about you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Denney was a slender, fit man with not an ounce of flab. Now his once handsome face was lined by worry and age. He wore a grey suit with no ecclesiastical trappings. He had long ago given up hope of resuming a role in the Church in Italy. He would never wear the cloth again until he was free of Europe, anonymous, with a new name, somewhere near home in Boston perhaps, where a man might disappear for a while and learn how to make others forgive. There was no redemption for him in the Vatican. If he were to recover himself that would have to occur elsewhere, in the close Catholic neighbourhoods of his youth.

  ‘Well, Brendan. These are interesting times. Is there news?’

  The visitor sat down in the chair opposite the sofa. From outside the window came the noise of drilling. One of the workmen had told him why. They were improving these modest apartments, one by one. The work, and the racket, would go on for months.

  ‘The woman politician. Vaccarini. The one who voted for you on the committee. She’s been murdered.’

  Denney’s face fell. He looked grief-stricken. ‘Good God, man. What are the police doing?’

  ‘Looking for him. He tried to murder one of theirs. After that he killed her. At his home. The house we gave him, if you recall.’

  The cardinal was aghast. ‘Who?’

  ‘Please,’ Hanrahan said harshly. ‘If I’m to help we must be frank with each other. There can be no mistake any more. I warned you. I said …’

  ‘I know what you said!’

  Hanrahan waited for him to recover his composure.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Denney groaned after a while. ‘You’re absolutely sure of this?’

  ‘It has to be. The police are in the place. Fosse is gone. They’ve no idea where. Neither have I. Do you?’

  Denney leaned forward and folded his hands on his lap, rocking slowly on his chair – a habit he had more and more these days and one which emphasized his age. ‘Of course not. Where can he be, for God’s sake? He’s not a man of the world, is he?’

  Hanrahan considered his answer. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I took a very good look at Fosse’s file. He did many interesting things before he worked here. He was attached to the Italian Olympic squad for a while and seems to have been a proficient athlete. He was chaplain to the National Theatre in Palermo and even persuaded them to let him appear in a Pirandello play while he was there. Not bad for
a farm boy from Sicily.’

  ‘So what?’ Denney grumbled.

  ‘So he sounds pretty resourceful to me. Educated beyond his standing too. And he seems to have a very clear idea of what he wants, what his plan is.’

  Denney knew where this was leading. ‘Which winds up with me? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Hanrahan frowned and looked around the apartment, as if he were noting how humble, how undesirable it was. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

  ‘Why would he want to kill me, Brendan? Aren’t there enough people with that in mind already? Do you have any reason for Fosse’s interest in the matter?’

  Hanrahan took a pack of cigars out of his pocket and lit one, letting the stink waft over into Denney’s face. ‘Something to do with the Farnese woman, perhaps? I don’t expect you to give me details of your own personal life but I see the logs. I know who comes and goes in this building. Fosse has a grudge. He is, I think, a little like a tinder box. It takes very little to spark the flames and when they’re alight, well …’

  The Irishman waited for a response. None came.

  ‘This is not, Your Eminence, a complete surprise now, is it? There was plenty of trouble before. He’s quite a history. That matter here which necessitated his removal from your staff. What was it exactly? I was away at the time and the records are unclear.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘He was overfond of the wrong kind of women, Brendan. He was warned many times. He ignored those warnings. It’s not an uncommon fault.’

  Hanrahan frowned. ‘So we rewarded him with a rather fine home and a new job. Even though he did, I believe, threaten you publicly then. Your dismissal of him was, I hear, rather fierce.’

  Denney’s head rocked from side to side. ‘I lost my temper. I’d put my trust in the young fool. He betrayed it. So he was upset at losing his post? He never mentioned Sara Farnese to me. Fosse was a troubled priest deserving of sympathy. I’ve no idea why he’s behaving like this now.’

  Hanrahan stared at his fingernails in silence.

  ‘Do you think he could get in here?’ Denney asked. ‘Don’t we pay you people for protection to save us from that kind of trouble?’

  ‘Of course you do. And you get it. But Fosse is … different somehow. He’s not an ordinary priest. He’s not an ordinary murderer either. He has reasons, motivations, I can’t begin to understand. Or rather ones which I lack the information to clarify.’

  Hanrahan paused to give his revelation some weight. He had only just come off the phone with Falcone and even he was shocked by some of the detail. ‘He beheaded Alicia Vaccarini. Quite extraordinary. I know for a fact he’s seen files on everyone connected with your … ventures too. Names, addresses. Details of meetings. There were photographs in that place of his. Extraordinary photographs. You wonder about their purpose.’

  Denney’s sallow face turned the colour of granite. ‘Why are you telling me this? Do you think I scare that easily?’

  ‘No. But I think you need to know what kind of game we’re in now. What we’re up against. You’ve fallen from grace, Michael, and what’s done is done. You can never go back. That charade you played this afternoon can never be repeated.’

  Denney cast him an accusing glare. ‘And you knew it wouldn’t work all along?’

  ‘I hoped against hope. One does in these circumstances. I try to help, Michael.’

  ‘Then get me safe passage out of here. Fix it and I’ll go.’

  ‘To America? You think it’s safe there? The FBI would meet you off the plane.’

  ‘I’ve friends,’ Denney grunted. ‘People in Washington who can keep those hoods in their place. The FBI won’t even call. Don’t forget who I am, Brendan.’

  ‘Who you were, Michael. These are changing times. I wish I could help. I’ve tried. Believe me.’

  ‘Try harder.’

  The Irishman held his big hands open. ‘With what?’

  Denney recognized the move. ‘What are you asking for?’

  ‘Leverage. Something I can bargain with.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘The file on Fosse. Some information on his background. People he might turn to in Rome. I have most of that already though I’m sure there are some details you can add. He worked for you after all. They will want to know why you fired him. What happened after that.’

  Denney grimaced. ‘You think that’s going to work? I’ve paid close to two million bucks out of my own pocket in bribes these last six months. I’ve sweetened politicians. I’ve done things I never thought I’d even consider to try to get my way out of here. Some of them make my skin crawl. None of it worked. You think they’ll do this for a file?’

  Hanrahan’s blue eyes flashed in anger. ‘Do you have a better idea? I’m looking for solutions. No one else is.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Denney grunted, trying to calm himself down. He didn’t have many friends left. He needed this unfeeling, slippery Irishman.

  ‘The truth is,’ Hanrahan continued, ‘I don’t know of any other options right now. Let me make it clear, too, that even if this succeeds I doubt you’ll get this open one-way ticket you fancy. The best we can hope for is that they’ll turn aside just long enough to get you out to the airport. That’s all I need.’

  Denney stared at him, astonished. ‘Are you serious? You think I can just hop into the nearest cab? You heard Neri. That psychopath would probably do the job himself. You know the kind of people out there. They make Gino Fosse look like an amateur. It’s impossible. Get me some quiet escort all the way to the States. I don’t intend to walk naked beyond those walls.’

  Hanrahan acted offended. ‘We’d have people to look after you to the airport. We’re not complete incompetents.’

  ‘I never suggested you were.’

  ‘No? Well anyway. If you want the police to be your bodyguards then think again.’ Hanrahan cast his eyes around the apartment again, pausing at the paintings, which seemed to amuse him. ‘Consider your position, Michael. Think about what you’ve become. For that kind of treatment you need friends. You’ve none. Except me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the cardinal said with bitterness.

  ‘I was trying to put this into some perspective. Nothing more.’

  ‘No friends? We’ll see about that. Get Falcone in. He’ll still talk to me.’

  Hanrahan scowled. ‘No. I’ve already spoken to Falcone. He won’t deal any more, not in person. He won’t come anywhere near you unless he has a set of handcuffs ready. All the favours have been called in. All the phone calls go unreturned. Everyone can smell failure on you, Michael. Maybe they can smell death. No one wants to be touched by that stink.’

  Denney pointed a finger across the room. ‘Don’t try to make me the scapegoat here, Brendan. Don’t let your masters try that trick either. I wasn’t in this alone. I wouldn’t be the only one to suffer if they throw me to the wolves.’

  Hanrahan took a deep breath then issued a disappointed sigh. ‘Now that, Your Eminence, is the kind of stupid talk I don’t ever want to hear. That is the kind of talk that makes me think I’m wasting my time with you, Michael. That perhaps I’d be better off leaving you to rot in this dump, just waiting for the day you can’t stand it any longer. Then what do you do? Put on an “I Love Rome” T-shirt and hope you can mingle with the tourists until you get to Fiumicino? Is that really what you think? Because if it is I have news. You’d be dead before you even got on the bus. Maybe it would be some of those people who think you owe them good money. Maybe it would be Gino Fosse for whatever reasons he feels he has. Personally I’d prefer the former. It’s just a gun, that’s all. Gino … well, he’s skinned a man, he’s drowned a man, he’s beheaded this woman you thought was in your pocket. What’s he got saved for you, Michael? Is he going to nail you to a cross? Or has he been in that church just down the road from his apartment? You know, the round one with all those wonderful martyrdoms on the wall? He must have been there. Where else would
he get these ideas?’

  ‘From living,’ he grumbled. ‘From being a part of this nightmare.’

  ‘Now that I don’t believe,’ Hanrahan said quietly. ‘Or perhaps …’ He considered the question carefully. ‘Perhaps that’s what Gino Fosse is trying to tell us. That by appreciating our mortality we inform these brief lives with a little perspective. It’s an interesting intellectual point, I agree, but I’d rather avoid a direct involvement in the rhetoric. Fosse makes his case in a such a forceful way. Besides …’ Hanrahan paused over his words, determined to express himself precisely. ‘Rain or shine, it’s always a season for the dead, isn’t it? Only a fool forgets that. I’ve no time for fools, Michael. Nor have you.’

  Denney shivered in the stifling air of the tiny apartment. He was scared, Hanrahan could see that. But what the Irishman didn’t know was that there were much bigger things to be frightened of. Denney was still a Catholic at heart. The faith had never deserted him entirely. There was a judgement coming, one in which his transgressions would no longer be hidden. He had to escape. In America it was possible he could find the courage to open his heart fully in the confessional. In America he could become another person.