by Neil Howarth
Walter’s grin froze on his face.
Fagan shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a long story.”
Walter was still holding on to Frankie’s hand. “Perhaps we could sit down, and you can tell me all about it. It’s alright, I’m a priest.”
“Walter,” Fagan cut in. “You were about to tell me what you found out.”
Walter reluctantly let go of her hand and sat down. “Not a lot. I listened in on the police network. A man found in the church with gunshot wounds. Dead at the scene. And you had something to do with that?”
“He didn’t give me any choice. He was coming at me with a knife.”
Walter glanced nervously at Frankie.
She gave a shrug. “First I’ve heard of it. I arrived as two very alive men were trying to put holes in him.”
“Of course they were. Just another day in the life of a Catholic priest.” He glared across at Fagan.
“Calm down Walter. I’ll tell you everything.”
Walter sat with his arms folded while Fagan quickly recounted what had happened since he entered the church.
“So, a professional gunman takes your confession, doesn’t like what you say, and decides to give you the ultimate penance.”
“No, there were two of them. The man who attacked me and someone else.” He looked across at Frankie. “You were following me. Did you see anyone else go in or out?”
“Someone came out, shortly before you did.”
“Did you see who it was?”
Frankie shook her head. “Not someone I recognized. He disappeared down one of the alleys.”
“You didn’t follow him?”
“I was following you.”
“So you have no idea who it was.”
“I know one thing.”
“What?”
“Whoever he was, he was a priest.”
Walter blanched and shook his head in disbelief. “A priest and an assassin. Just another day in the eternal city.” He fixed his look on Fagan. “What’s going on Joseph? You said you had things to tell me. Now this. I think it’s time you started talking, and fast.” He slammed a fat hand onto the table top.
“I will, but there’s something I want to know first. How did they know I would be there? It was as if they were expecting me.” He looked at Frankie. “Another bug?”
Frankie shook her head and tapped her cellphone. “According to this, you’re clean.”
“That looks interesting,” Walter said. “Tell me again, just who are you?”
“Walter,” Fagan barked at him. “Concentrate. How did they know I would be in that church. Only you and I knew I was going.”
Walter’s face took on a guilty look. “Well, that’s not technically true.”
“Technically?”
“Well, Julius Mengen came looking for you. I told him you had gone to confession at Father Luca’s church.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He said he wanted to speak with you before you left. We know him to be a slimy toad, but that? Would he? He may have told someone else who . . .”
Fagan shook his head. “Who knows? We can’t prove anything, anyway. Did you find out about Father Luigi? Is he all right?”
“I didn’t hear anything about him, just the one who’d been shot.”
“By the time the ambulance arrived, maybe he had recovered,” Frankie said.
“I have a friend,” Walter said. “I’ll call him and get him to check out the hospitals. Don’t worry, he’ll track him down.”
Walter patted his generous stomach. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I haven’t had dinner.” He flashed Frankie a grin and pointed across the square. “Over there is one of the finest delis in the whole of Rome. I always say you should never think on an empty stomach.”
“Walter is an expert on anything you can eat or drink within a twenty mile radius of the Vatican,” Fagan said.
“Now then children, if you want Uncle Walter to buy you dinner, you have to be nice to him.”
Frankie gave him a flirting smile. “Thank you, Walter. I’m starving.”
Walter skipped off across the square and returned ten minutes later, his arms full. He laid out the fare on the wooden table. There were cold meats, bread, a bottle of wine, and plastic cups. Walter said a simple grace, then handed out the cups and proceeded to pour the wine.
“Is that pork?” Frankie pointed at one particular pile of sliced meat.”
“The finest, money can buy.”
Fagan regarded Frankie. “Are you?”
“My father was a Jew. My mother was a Muslim. I guess in my heart I’m Jewish, but it gives me a unique perspective. Is it a problem?”
“Why would it be a problem?”
“Many Catholics believe the Jews murdered Jesus.”
“Pope John Paul publicly forgave the Jewish people for that,” Walter interjected, cramming a large piece of roast ham into his mouth.
“That doesn’t mean we didn’t do it.” Frankie looked at Fagan “What do you think,” she paused, “Father?”
Fagan could see what she was doing. “I’m a today priest. I look at the world today, and I try to do what I can to help people. I leave all that historical bullshit to the politicians.”
“The roast chicken is very good,” Walter said.
Frankie nodded and helped herself to a chicken leg. Fagan wasn’t hungry, so he sipped on the wine.
“You were going to tell me what’s going on,” Walter said taking a large bite out of a focassia sandwich crammed with roast pork.
Fagan glanced across at Frankie.
“Don’t look at me,” she said looking right back at him. “You owe me, so listen to your friend and talk.”
Fagan peered into his wine cup, then told them as much of the story as he could, about his little chat with Fredo back at Enzo’s bar. He left out the part about Maria and Blanchet. He would deal with that in own his way. He also told them about Luca’s apartment.
“And what did the Holy Father say when you had your little chat with him?” Walter asked.
Frankie’s face broke into a grin. “Friends in high places?”
Fagan ignored her. “He’s under pressure. This Reach-Out program of his has brought him lots of enemies, both inside and outside the Vatican. My gut is telling me that what is going on is tied up with that.”
“We have to help him,” Walter said. “It’s something he believes in. But what do we do?”
Fagan drained his cup. “Walter, your head’s a trashcan of junk and trivia. What do you know about The Keeper, or more specifically - The Sacred Secret of the Keeper.”
Walter’s cheeks bulged with honey roast ham and focaccia bread. “Where did that come from?”
“The Holy Father told me that Brother Thomas had been pursuing this Sacred Secret of the Keeper for the past twenty years, but recently, in fact, two days before he died, he sent a letter to the Holy Father, saying he had found it.”
“Did he say what he had found?”
Fagan shook his head. “The Holy Father seemed to think it was some myth.”
Walter took a gulp of his wine. “The keeper, let me see. Well, keepers and guardians have been scattered through myth and legend almost since stories first began. The secret scroll, manuscript, icon, or whispered riddle, passed down hand to hand, ear to ear, generation to generation. The list is endless. Do you have any more specific clues?”
“Maybe we should concentrate on the where rather than the what.” Frankie chipped in.
They both looked at her.
“Brother Thomas was a research professor.” She looked at Fagan. “I do my research too. We should ask where was he researching, was he back at the Abbey, or was he on a field trip?”
Fagan turned back to Walter. “I’m sure a man with your infinite capabilities and access to limitless resources, could work that out.”
Walter sucked his fingers and wiped them on his coat. “Given time, I can find out.”
He
brushed the generous trail of crumbs from his chest and drained his wine cup. His cellphone on the table top chirped the first few bars of Onward Christian Soldiers. He picked it up and read the caller ID.
“Good, my friend Bobby, he might have some news.” He answered the phone. “Bobby, my man, what have you got for me?” Walter’s face went serious as he listened. “Thanks,” he said eventually and hung up the phone. He looked across at Fagan. All the humor was gone. “The dead man at the church with the gunshot wounds, he’s been identified.
“It was the priest, Father Luigi.”
27
Church of San Cecile della Scala, Trastevere, Rome.
Commissario Di Mateo showed his badge to the policeman on the door. He knew the man recognized him but there were certain niceties to be observed. Even though San Cecile della Scala was a Roman Catholic church under the diocese of the Bishop of Rome, the Pontiff himself, this was not De Mateo’s turf. He was responsible for policing inside the Vatican state, out here in the city of Rome he had no jurisdiction at all.
The place was a hive of activity, bright spotlights lit up the whole interior and at least a dozen people in white overalls were moving around, taking photographs, gathering samples, and writing notes.
“Julio.” A large slob of a man in a crumpled suit and a waistline revealing a taste for a little too much pasta shuffled over to him. He had tousled, curly hair that reflected his general state of chaos. “We must stop meeting like this, that’s twice in less than a week. I’m shoving them in the morgue faster than you can turn them out of the seminary.”
He let out a cackle that seemed to ripple throughout his generous body. Captain Luciano Pulvo of the Rome Police, Homicide Division, was not known for his subtlety.
De Mateo gave him a tight smile. “I will let the Holy Father know of your concern.”
Pulvo gave him a nervous glance as if not sure if he was serious or not. Pulvo's wife had set her heart on an audience with the Pope, a fact that De Mateo was well aware of, and which Pulvo was depending on him to arrange.
“So, Luciano, would you mind giving me a rundown on what you have.” De Mateo intended to make him pay for his wife’s fervent wish - slowly. “As a favor to me, and the Holy Father.”
Pulvo flashed his teeth, which remained tight together. He was famously reticent about giving out any information until he had it finally tied up. It allowed him to fill in the gaps. “Julio, I’ll gladly send you a copy of the police report.”
De Mateo wasn’t budging.
“No matter,” Pulvo continued. “It all seems pretty clear. Someone inside the confessional box shoots the priest through the partition. The priest staggers out and collapses on the floor over there.” Pulvo pointed over to where a spotlight lit up the area behind the confessional. The body was gone, but a white chalk outline showed where it had been. “We have the murder weapon. The shooter must have panicked and dropped it. Carlo,” he said indicating a tall young man in white overalls, “tells me he has a perfect set of prints on the weapon. We are already running them through the Milan database. If we get a hit, I expect to make an arrest by tomorrow afternoon, latest.”
“Do you mind if I look around?”
De Mateo could see that Pulvo wanted to say no, but the policeman eventually gave a reluctant shrug. "Be my guest. But Julio, please, do not touch anything."
De Mateo gave him a humorless smile.
It was a widely acknowledged fact in policing circles that Captain Luciano Pulvo was an idiot. But De Mateo knew that not to be true. He was just a lazy slob who could make two plus two equal seventy-five if that was the fastest and easiest way to the result he wanted. His superiors tolerated him because he got results. He closed cases. How he got there, and whether any kind of justice was served was a different matter. His daily working mantra was, let the evidence fit the crime. And he was willing to bend and twist it to do precisely that.
De Mateo wandered over to the priest’s side of the confessional. He had spent ten years in homicide in Milan before he had moved to the Vatican. These days his job was more about security than solving crimes, but he still knew his way around a crime scene.
He knelt and studied the bullet holes in the partition, then moved round to the sinner’s side. It was evident, even to a blind man that the shots had been fired from the other side, the Priest’s side. His mind was already constructing the scene in his head. He checked the door. It was unscathed so it must have been open. He followed the trajectory of the bullets, then walked across to the other side of the passageway. The church nave was festooned with powerful floodlights that lit up the whole area, making it easy to find the two bullet holes in the wooden back of the pew. Mateo ran his finger over the rough edge of one of the holes. He would have liked to dig out the bullet, but there was only so much cooperation between the Vatican Gendarmerie and the Rome Police. He could, of course, point them out to Pulvo and let him deal with them, but they would only confirm what he already suspected, and besides, that would just piss the Captain off.
He let his eyes wander slowly across the marble floor. Something caught his eye. He knelt down on one knee to get a closer look. There was something in the crack between the tiles, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was. He glanced over towards Pulvo who was in deep conversation with one of the white overalled forensic team. He felt in his pocket and removed a white handkerchief. He rubbed it gently in the space between the tiles then examined the result. It was smeared pink. That would make a nice blood sample. He glanced across at Pulvo then put the handkerchief carefully in his pocket.
He stood up and walked over to where the Captain was speaking to one of his team. Pulvo looked up as he approached.
“Julio, is there anything more I can help you with?”
“No, thank you, Luciano, you have been most gracious. I will not forget it.” He said it, making sure that Pulvo understood. “I would appreciate a copy of the report when it’s ready.”
“Of course, no problem. Please pass on my best wishes and my condolences to the Holy Father.”
28
Church of Santa Clara.
Walter led them across the square and meandered his way through the back streets until they came to a small church, clinging to the cliff edge. The priest was a friend of Walter. His name was Roberto. He was a smaller but equally round version of Walter, with a thick dark beard and a completely bald head
“Father Roberto will take care of you,” Walter said as they stood outside the church door. “I’ll be back in the morning.” He looked at Fagan who had not spoken since they had left the square. He gathered him in a huge bearhug.
“Hang in there buddy. We’ll sort this out.”
Fagan was not in a hugging mood. “You do realize, whoever removed the man I shot, probably also killed Father Luigi, maybe using the same gun. Maybe it was to shut him up, but it also puts me in the frame. There’s a gun back there with my prints all over it. Someone’s backing me into a corner. Maybe it’s time I turned myself in.”
“Maybe it’s time you listened to your Uncle Walter. People are trying to kill you. What you need at the moment is some breathing space, some time to just let the smoke clear.”
“And how do I do that?”
“It’s obvious. You’ve got the answer in your pocket.”
“Walter, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You have a plane ticket to Africa, and tomorrow you need to get on that plane.”
Fagan shook his head. “No way, I have to stay here. And besides, I tore the ticket up and burned it.”
“Joseph, ever the impetuous.” Walter put his hand on Fagan’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Trust me. You’re getting on that plane. Leave the ticket to me.” He turned to Frankie. “Good night Frankie, it’s been a great pleasure to meet you. Maybe next time you can tell me what you’re doing here.”
“You mean she’s not going with you?” Fagan barged in.
“These people have tried
to kill me too,” Frankie shouted back.
“Children please.” Walter waved his hands in a calming movement, then held a finger to his lips as he glanced over to where Father Roberto stood in the shadows, smoking a cigarette.
“How do you know they’re the same people,” Fagan spoke in an exaggerated whisper.
“I’d be happy to tell you,” Frankie hissed back at him. “If you have a spare couple of hours.”
“I’m intrigued already,” Walter said. “Unfortunately I have to go.” He gave Fagan a hard stare. “I’ll look forward to you enlightening me in the morning.”
They watched him waddle off into the darkness.
Father Roberto led them to a small cottage at the back of the church. “I have one spare room and the sofa.”
“I’ll take the sofa,” Fagan said.
“I don’t mind,” Frankie chirped in. “I can sleep on the sofa.”
Fagan had had enough of this woman barging into his life. “Take the spare room.”
Frankie shrugged and disappeared into the back of the house.
Fagan looked across at Father Roberto. “Thanks for your hospitality.”
“Glad to be of help.” Father Roberto handed him a pillow and a blanket and disappeared. A few minutes later he reappeared holding a bottle and a glass.
“Thought you might want a nightcap.”
“Thanks, are you going to join me?”
“Sorry, I don’t - anymore. I keep that bottle to remind me I no longer need it. And for guests who stop by. I keep thinking I should get rid of it, but every time it is empty someone buys me another one.”
The priest bid him goodnight and disappeared into the back of the cottage.
Fagan sat down and poured himself a generous shot from the bottle. He tasted it - Scotch, single malt, not bad.
“Can you spare some of that for me?”
Fagan looked up.
Frankie stood there, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a glass in her hand. “Move over.”
Fagan hustled to one side, and Frankie sat down beside him. He poured a measure of Scotch into her glass.
