Pascona watched and listened in the course of the day. Ballot succeeded ballot, with nothing so democratic as a declaration of the result. But the word went around: the vote for Fosca was inching up, that for Pascona slowly ebbing away. The Cardinal went around, talking to all and sundry with imperturbable urbanity – amiable to all, forswearing all controversy. He was among the first to collect his frugal evening meal. By then his mood was contemplative. He gazed benignly at the monks serving the stufato, then looked down in the direction of the Cardinal from Palermo.
As he helped himself to the rough bread there was the tiniest of nods from one of the cowled heads.
“Dear Michaelangelo, help one of your greatest admirers and followers,” he prayed that night on his narrow bed. “Let the vote go to a follower of yourself, as well as a devout servant of Christ.”
Before he slept his mind went not to the ignudi, nor to the awakening Adam in the great central panel, but away from the altar to the expelled Adam as, with Eve, and newly conscious of sin, he began the journey out of Paradise.
He smiled, as thoughts of Sandro and their forthcoming pleasures when they were united again warmed his aging body.
The morning was not a repeat of the day before.
Over breakfast there was talk, and before long it was time to take the first test of opinion, to find out whether straw should be added to the burning voting slips to make black smoke, or whether it should be omitted, to the great joy of the crowds in St. Peter’s Square as the white smoke emerged. One cardinal had not risen from his bed, and he was the most important of all. Cardinal da Ponti went to shake him awake, then let out a half-suppressed gasp of dismay. The cardinals, oppressed by fear and horror, went over to the bed.
Cardinal Fosca lay, a scrap of humanity, dead as dead. He looked as if he could be bundled up, wrapped in a newsheet, and put out with the rubbish from the Conclave’s meals.
“Dio mio!”
The reactions were various, but more than one started to say what was on everybody’s minds.
“But he too was the—”
This time they hesitated to use the term from horse-racing. But one by one, being accustomed to bow to authority, they looked towards the man who, only yesterday, had set the tone and solved the problem of what should be done. Somehow Pascona, with his long experience of curias and conclaves, knew they would do that, and was ready. He cleared his throat.
“Fellow cardinals. Friends,” he began. “Let us pray for our friend whom God has called to himself. And let us at the same time pray for guidance.” There was a murmur of agreement, along with one or two murmurs of something else. After a minute’s silence Cardinal Pascona resumed, adopting his pulpit voice.
“I believe we all know what must be done. I think God has spoken to us, each and every one, at this crisis moment – spoken as God always does speak, through the silent voice of our innermost thoughts.” The cardinals muttered agreement, though most of them had had nothing in the interval for silent prayer that could honestly be called a thought. “He has told us that what must be thought of first at this most difficult moment is the Church: its good name, its primacy and power, and its mission to bring to God all waverers, all wrong-doers, all schismatics. It is the Church and its God-given mission that must be in the forefront of all our minds.”
There was a more confident buzz of agreement.
“We are in a crisis, as I say, in the history of ours, the one true Church. In the world at large doubt, distrust and rebellion seethe, distracting the minds of the unlettered, provoking the discontent of the educated. Ridicule, distrust of long-held beliefs, rebellion against the position of the natural leaders of society – all these evils flourish today, as never before. At such a point any event – even an innocent and natural occurrence such as we witness here” – he gestured towards the human scrap on the bed – “will be taken up, seized upon as a cause of scandal and concern, distorted and blackened with the ingenuity of the Devil himself, who foments and then leads all such discontents and rebellions. Let us make our minds up, let us make our choice quickly, let us conceal what has happened until such a time as it can be announced and accepted as the natural event which in truth it was.”
This time there was a positively enthusiastic reception for his words. “Come, my friends,” resumed Pascona, delighted at the effect of his words, “let us get down to business. Let us vote, and let us vote to make a decision, and to present to the world a front of unity and amity. And let us treat our friend here with the respect that a lifetime of faithful service demands. Put a blanket over him.”
It worked like a charm. A blanket was thrown over the body of the dead Cardinal Fosca, leaving his head showing. Not dead, only resting, seemed to be the message. The living cardinals proceeded to a vote, and even before the last vote was in and counted it was clear that the straw would no longer be required: the smoke would be pure white.
The excitement was palpable. While they remained cloistered in the Chapel the other cardinals thumped Pascona on the shoulder and indulged in such bouts of kiddishness as were possible for a collection of men dominated by the dotards. After five minutes of this, and as the Chapel was penetrated by sounds of cheering from crowds in the Square, the new Pope proceeded to the passageway from the Chapel to St. Peter’s, pausing at the door to look towards the altar and the massive depiction of the Last Judgement behind it. Magnificent, but quite wrong, he thought. And perhaps a silly superstition at that.
Then he proceeded into the upper level of the great Church, then along towards the door leading on to the balcony. He stopped before the throne, raised on poles like a sedan chair. He let the leading cardinals, led by the Cardinal Chamberlain and helped by the monks who had serviced the Conclave, robe him and bestow on him all the insignia of his new office. He behaved with impeccable graciousness.
“What name has Your Holiness decided to be known by?” asked the Chamberlain. Pascona paused before replying.
“I am conscious of the links of my mother’s family to this great, this the greatest office. The fame of Alexander VI will live forever, but the name is too precious for me, and for the Church, for me to assume it. In truth it would be a burden. I shall leave that sacred name to my ancestor, and I shall take the name of the other Pope from her family. I shall be known as Calixtus IV.”
The Chamberlain nodded.
From the Square there came sounds. Someone, perched somewhere, with good eyesight, must have been able to see through the open door of the balcony. A whisper, then a shout, had gone round.
“It’s the Borgia. The Borgia!”
The fame of his mother’s family easily eclipsed that of his father’s. The tone of the shouts had fear in it, but also admiration, anticipation. What a time Alexander VI’s had been! Bread and circuses, and lots of sex. Calixtus IV smiled to himself, then ascended the throne. As he was about to nod to the four carriers to proceed through the door and on to the balcony, one of the monks came forward with a bag of small coins, to scatter to the crowd below. As he handed the bag to the Pope, he raised his head and the cowl slipped back an inch or two. There was the loved face: the languid eyes of Michaelangelo’s Adam, the expression of newly awakened sensuality, and underneath the coarse robe the body, every inch of which Calixtus knew so well. He took the bag, and returned his gaze.
“Grazie, Ales-Sandro,” he said.
All She Wrote
Mick Herron
The Head of Section had Daisy’s report right there on the desk. Marked Eyes Only, it began without preamble:
The General is uglier than he appears in photographs. His face is pockmarked and cratered; ruined by an adolescent inflammation, I suppose, and up close presents a palette of angry purple outbursts. He has thick black curly hair – too black to be natural. Vanity is not the prerogative of the attractive. His teeth are yellowing, and his eyes, too, have that same unhealthy light, as if he were a carri
er of something we don’t yet have a name for. When he speaks, it is in a voice used to command but of a slightly higher pitch than might be expected. When he walks, it is with neither grace nor lightness. His reputation as a man of subtle moves could hardly be less deserved.
The Imperiale, on the other hand, is everything its brochure promises. Its rooms are large and cool, with overhead fans that beat like a metronome, so that you fall asleep in the comfortable knowledge that the building’s heartbeat never falters. The lifts are splendid, and in constant working order, and the lobby is a marketplace for information; I never crossed its tiled floor without registering at least three furtive conversations in corners. As for the bar – which occupies a patio overlooking the bay, and is lined by friendly palm trees – this is where the foreign correspondents gather, pretending they’re relaxing. All wear sunglasses, even in the shade, and an air of expectation hangs heavily over the tables, as assorted possible headlines compose themselves in journalists’ heads. Last year, both Greene and Hemingway stayed here. I expect it will turn up in a novel before long.
On my first afternoon, the General walked through the lobby while I was reading an English paper. His gaze rested on me for a long while. I kept my expression blank, I trust, though his inspection was unpleasant.
It might seem odd that Rubello keeps a suite at the Imperiale, but it is somewhere he feels secure: far enough from the President’s palace for him not to feel overshadowed; close enough that his driver can deliver him there in ten minutes. When on the premises, he keeps only a brace of guards with him. The Imperiale is regarded as neutral territory by all, as any horror taking place within its walls would harm the island’s tourist trade. Besides, the General has little to fear from the correspondents. Most of them only leave the bar to waddle as far as the casino. They tend to be on their next-to-last legs, their stomachs as padded as their expense accounts.
The General was my first assignment since recruitment. He will also be my last.
I have been told that a report should cover the background – that was the phrase. Cover the background. So. The General is General Marc Rubello, fifty-two years old: much loved by the army he commands; much feared by the people. Feared, too, I think by our own dear Majesty’s Government – or at least, feared by our American cousins, and therefore held to be fearsome by us. It’s no secret that Rubello’s rival for the Presidency, Chief of Police Andrea Nabar, is the horse Whitehall and Washington back. As far as the islanders are concerned, the race lacks a favourite. Nabar is much loved by the police force he commands; much feared by the people. But less likely to steer east were he to take up the reins of power.
There is a saying I’ve heard: better the bastard on your side than the bastard on the other. I won’t ask you to forgive the vocabulary. There is worse to come.
As for the President himself – the former President, I should call him now – he was the weakling son of a stern leader, with rarely a thought to call his own. Presidents’ sons should never be Presidents themselves. They either splash about helplessly – so shallow, they’re constantly out of their depth – or indulge in wars to exorcise their fathers’ ghosts. There was never any doubt that the Presidential Palace had a temporary resident. It was simply a question of which bastard would replace him.
The assignment was straightforward: I was to pose as a guest at the Imperiale, and “gather information”. When would Rubello make his move? Would he aim for a bloodless coup, or take the opportunity to exterminate opposition? Given that this included the police force, civil war would result if he took that route, and Her Majesty’s intelligence services like to know in advance about such events. I assumed similar information was being gathered regarding Nabar’s intentions. As it turned out, I underestimated the degree of interest being shown in the General’s rival.
It’s a peculiar affectation – to pose as something you truly are. For whatever my motive for being there, there’s no doubt I was a guest at the Imperiale. I had a room on the third floor, and a balcony overlooking the square. There was nothing unusual in being a tourist there at any time of year, and political unrest was never spoken of in front of visitors. There were always groups of soldiers and policemen on street corners, but they were largely keeping an eye on each other, and taking turns beating up beggars and thieves. Tourists were off limits; rarely, if ever, arrested.
And as far as my actual task went, I was not without resources. The service has long had an asset in place at the Imperiale. Maria is a maid. She has heavy eyebrows, and for some reason this lends a certain foreboding to many of her utterances. The first time we talked she launched, without invitation, into a discussion of Rubello’s vices.
“The General is a man of fearsome appetites.” She was looking at me directly when she said this. “When he takes a lover, this requires his full attention. The same when he takes a prisoner.”
“Is there a difference between the two?”
“You might say not. Sometimes I see them leaving in the morning. They look as if daylight will strike them dead.”
“You have no sympathy for them.”
“They come asking favours. They leave having suffered more for those favours than they expected.” She shrugged. “Life is hard.”
“I imagine he does not have to look far for his conquests.”
“He is a powerful man,” Maria said. “And many people require favours.”
“And you?” I asked. “You have not…attracted his attentions?”
She laughed. “I am not his type.” She was still looking at me. “You are the type he enjoys.”
I remembered the gaze he’d bestowed on me the previous afternoon, and suppressed a shiver.
“And you have fair skin,” she said. “He likes fair skin.”
I did not want to pursue this topic.
“Daisy,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It is pretty name.”
I smiled uneasily. “Thank you, Maria.”
She became businesslike. “Anyway. You have device, I understand, yes?”
The sudden change of subject threw me, and for a moment I had no idea what she meant.
“Listening device? To hear the General’s conversations?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, I do.”
“I tell you when is safe to put in room.”
“I thought—”
She waited me out.
“I thought perhaps you would put the device in place.”
But she was shaking her head before I finished speaking. “No. That I cannot do.”
“But you would have a reason for being in his suite. If I were caught—”
“If you are caught, you are lost tourist. If I am caught, I am dead maid.”
It seemed unarguable. My only rejoinder – that I would have to be a very lost tourist indeed to end up in the General’s suite – failed to reach my lips. There was a limit to what Maria was prepared to do for her stipend, and this exceeded it.
I said, “I have never done this before.”
I’m not sure why I told her this.
She said, “No. But do not worry. I tell you when is safe.”
She tell me when is safe. That should have been a comfort, but over the next days, I felt anything but secure. The game of being a tourist – of taking the dangerously overloaded bus into the hills to the famous caves; of wandering the market, buying coins from “centuries-old pirate hauls” – felt like its rules had changed. Those soldiers: were they eyeing their police counterparts, or watching my every move? That pair of policemen, pacing behind me – was that coincidence? The second evening I dared not venture out of my room, which was very un-tourist-like behaviour. Not appearing at the bar without a doctor’s certificate was unheard of.
That night I slept badly. It seemed I heard noises in the hillsides; beasts engaged in combat over the same dry bones.
But in
the morning, Maria was waiting when I went for breakfast. “Tonight,” she said.
I looked around. There was no one in sight. Nobody cared I was talking to a maid. “Is it safe?”
“He go to casino. Every week, this day. He leave at nine. He not return before two, three. You have all evening.”
“It won’t take ten minutes.”
I was fairly certain of this. I had been shown many times how to plant a bug.
She said, “You are not scared.”
It didn’t appear to be a question. I answered, anyway: “A little scared, yes. I’ve never done this before.”
The eyes beneath those heavy brows glanced briefly towards heaven. “You go in at ten, yes? I wait on stairs. I keep you guard.”
“What about his soldiers? Don’t they watch his room?”
“They watch his back. They go to casino also.”
She bustled off, on maidly tasks. I had no appetite for breakfast, and returned to my room.
I don’t remember much about that day. I examined the eavesdropping device I had been equipped with, I’m sure of that – it was smaller than a watchface – and practised attaching it to the mouthpiece of my telephone. After a few dry runs, this took no more than a minute. I would also have to search the General’s suite. There might be documents or photographs that I, in turn, should photograph. The camera I had used as a tourist was of the normal size, but the one I had been supplied with for this purpose fitted in a pocket. This, too, I practised with. The rest of the day is a blur.
The balcony. I expect I sat on the balcony, looking down on the square below. All those people milling about. One way or the other, my mission would affect their lives – did that responsibility weigh on me? I don’t think so. I think it just added to my nervousness.
At 9.55, Maria knocked softly on my door.
“It’s time?” I asked her stupidly.
Vintage Crime Page 34
