“What if I say no?”
“You aren’t going to say no.”
“Is that what you said to Marco?”
He shook his head. “Marco wanted to return to his parish in Monterosso; I implied that his return was contingent upon him going to Austria. You have no such dilemma.”
He pointed at the chalet above them.
“This estate belongs to the family of my Under Secretary, Cardinal Scarletti. He has made it known that you can remain here as long as you want.”
“We have no income, Eminence. How are we supposed to pay for it?”
Lucci chuckled; it was the closest attempt at a laugh Elena had ever seen him make. “Have you not heard of the Scarletti family, Elena? They are one of the richest and most powerful families in Italy. Some say as rich and as powerful as the Medici family once was; they are just a lot quieter about it.”
The bells rang in the tower of Santi Filippo e Giacomo, the eighteenth-century church in the heart of the old town. Elena had gone there several times over the past few weeks, mostly as an excuse to accompany the charismatic Cardinal Scarletti on his daily pilgrimage.
“I have two conditions.”
“What are they?”
“You say nothing to my family about it. I will tell them I am going back to Liguria to pack up.”
“And the other condition?”
“My daughter gets the money if I don’t come back.”
He produced the contract again, pointing to the last paragraph, which she read carefully; he had already made provisions for such a contingency. She took the proffered pen and signed at the bottom.
“Everything you need is in the trunk of the car, except for this.” He handed over a fabric envelope.
She undid the thread clasp and removed the contents: a silenced automatic and two spare clips. It was the same gun she had taken off Karim in the cabin of the Bel Amica—the gun she had used to kill five of the terrorists.
“You’ve had good luck with that gun, Elena. I pray that it continues.”
Thirty-Two
The food was still warm when Marco returned to the Goldener Hirsch. He deposited the crumpled white bag on the desk and walked around behind Sarah, who was examining a large paper map, which she had spread out over the king-size bed, holding down the corners with blue and white checkered pillows. He looked over the chestnut brown hair spilling over her shoulders; the object of her study was the square meter of paper. One half of the area was given to a satellite photograph of a mountainside; the other half exhibited a topographical map of the same real estate.
She smiled a hello and went back to her scrutiny of the map. The Untersberg was a huge mountain, soaring over two thousand meters into the alpine sky, which straddled the border between Austria and Germany. Marco had climbed it on several occasions as a boy and remembered it well. It was a severe mountain, with steeply angled faces and imposing cliffs, which erupted from the flat ground surrounding the western flank of Salzburg.
“I’ve climbed it before. The Gasthof on the summit serves an excellent Wienerschnitzel.”
He pointed to a high-resolution photo of a large dwelling, built in the typical alpine style, with a steep roof and long overhanging eaves. Boxes of red geraniums hung beneath the many windows, and fruit trees were trained along the white stucco walls.
“Haus Adler. It was the mountain retreat of the Habsburgs, who ruled Austria for a century. It was taken over by the federal government in 1918 and served as an Alpine hut for eighty years. One of el-Rayad’s subsidiary companies bought it from the Austrian government ten years ago. He drags his entourage here several times a year.”
They leaned in and studied the map more closely. Haus Adler was situated on a peninsula of rock that jutted out from the face of a cliff like the point of a knife. Marco suspected the building was positioned there to maximize the view, but it made for excellent defense as well. It could only be approached from one direction, a narrow strip of rock connecting to the bulk of the mountain behind.
He retreated to the desk and opened the white paper bag. Sarah sat down next to him, and they ate; the food was over-seasoned. Afterward, they sat on the balcony and watched the crowds on the Universitätsstrasse slowly ebb, washing down their dinner with a bottle of white wine Marco had procured from the bar. He decided she was the kind of person he could be friends with, despite the fact that he was a Jesuit priest, and she was an American sniper. It seemed to him, right then, that such small details didn’t matter much, with the night air cool on his neck, the Veltliner crisp on his palate, and the smell of her perfume barely detectable over the aroma of sausages wafting up from the Bosna stand in the passageway below.
His thoughts strayed, despite his efforts to keep them at home. Elena was sitting across from him, looking away. He couldn’t tell where they were, but it didn’t matter. They had been fighting, throwing around the usual jabs. She was jealous; he was just tired and desperate for sleep.
His focus returned to the moment, and he studied Sarah’s profile in the soft glow of the light emanating from the room. Her large eyes were almond-shaped, and her high facial arches hinted of Slavic blood. He imagined that her full lips could easily form a pout. He decided she didn’t really resemble any woman he knew, but a familiarity lingered like the scent of a candle after the flame had been snuffed out.
She rose and went back inside, and he watched her through a crack in the curtain, noting how she picked her way carefully through the room like a woman with a secret, afraid of jostling into something lest it spill out in the collision. Or maybe she was just a precise person; he supposed that a sniper would be.
She passed into the bathroom and reappeared a short time later dressed in the black Spandex running pants, glued onto her lower half, and a loose-fitting cotton T-shirt. It seemed to him a strange outfit for bed, but then he had never needed to run for his life upon awakening; perhaps she had. She lifted the covers and settled into bed, pulling the comforter up tight to her neck.
Marco sat back in his chair, poured the last of the wine into his glass, and took a large swallow. With any luck, she’d be sound asleep by the time he made it to bed.
Thirty-Three
Marco woke early the next day and joined Sarah for breakfast in the dining room. He filled up on thick slices of brown bread smothered with butter and a large bowl of yogurt with strawberries. Sarah picked at a slice of Swiss cheese and drank several cups of coffee. After eating, they wandered down the Getreidegasse and stopped in a sporting goods store, where they bought hiking clothes and backpacks. In the open-air market on the Universitätsplatz, they traded some of Marco’s large stack of euros for the makings of a fine picnic lunch: a French baguette, two large wedges of cheese, two half-liter bottles of Stiegl, the local beer, and a couple of Milka bars. In a hat shop on the Marktplatz, Sarah picked out a traditional Austrian felt hat for Marco.
“I look like a German tourist.”
“Yes, you do.” She handed over a two-hundred-euro note to the shopkeeper. “Although I think you’re adorable in it.”
Marco didn’t want to be adorable, but he left the hat on. They returned to the hotel and changed. Sarah put on a pair of chino hiking shorts, which she had the legs for, and a tight-fitting polypropylene top. Marco donned khaki shorts and a navy shirt. He packed the lunch in his backpack, filled their water bottles, and stowed away a pair of Gore-Tex anoraks in case the weather changed. Sarah tucked a trail map inside her pocket and looped a pair of binoculars around her neck, and they started off.
They went by foot to Ferdinand-Hanusch-Platz and waited in the morning sunshine for the 25 bus, surrounded by a company of Japanese tourists. They boarded the bus and sat behind a stocky hausfrau, arms filled with overflowing grocery baskets. The bus weaved out of the old city and took a direct course toward the Untersberg, which they could see straight ahead, rising into the sky as if it had been thrust upward from below and held there by a subterranean being of mythical proportions—which, accordin
g to local legend, it had been.
The bus deposited them at a Gasthaus at the base of the mountain, and they started up the Dopplersteig, a narrow flight of steps cut into the steep rock face. The air was light and cool, but the going was severe; they hiked in silence, saving their wind for breathing. Sarah led the way. She wasn’t long in the leg, but her gait was steady, and she was sure of foot. Marco followed, one eye on the trail and the other on the ever-enlarging view.
They made good progress despite the gradient, and by midday, a thousand meters were beneath them. After a short break, they began ascending a vertical face four hundred meters high, into which the trail was hewn. They held onto iron stanchions bolted into the rock as they climbed, lest a misstep send them plummeting into the abyss that opened up on their immediate right.
They passed by a number of markers as they went, commemorating fallen climbers. Marco crossed himself as he went by each one, mouthing a silent prayer that he wouldn’t be the next one to drop over the edge. They crested the shoulder of the mountain as the sun rose directly overhead, warming the air even at this elevation, and stopped for lunch in the shade of a rocky outcrop, enjoying the vista and the chance to rest.
Marco tore off a chunk of the bread, jammed a large piece of cheese inside, and handed it to Sarah.
“Mahlzeit.”
They ate without hurry, savoring the simple fare. Marco found himself wondering what his life might be like had he chosen a different path. A lot like this, he decided, and then tried to change the subject in his head, because it was a dangerous line of thinking for a priest.
He looked at Sarah, and his peril took shape. Her blue shirt had darkened with sweat and clung to the swell of her breasts with a tenacity that left little to the imagination. She was leaning against a rocky spur, head lifted to catch the rays of sunshine that poured over the ledge above. Her eyes were shut, and her mouth had fallen open, making Marco think she was napping. She had her legs propped up, and her shorts had slid back, exposing the toned muscles of her thighs. He tried to avert his gaze, not wanting to add voyeurism to the growing list of his sins, but his eyes refused to change direction.
After a long while, her breathing deepened, her legs relaxed, and her shorts fell—mercifully—back over her knees, allowing Marco to look away. In need of a diversion, he dug through his pack and unearthed the trail map, which he spread out on his lap. He located their position and traced a path with his finger to the target, which was at the same elevation, but three kilometers to the north as the crow flew. The problem was a ravine cutting a deep gash in their path, giving them no alternative but to go all the way to the top and descend via another trail that took a more northerly route. It would be a long hike, but they had made good time thus far, and the day was still young.
He roused Sarah from sleep with a carefully placed hand on her shoulder, and they resumed their hike. A wind sparked as they climbed, carrying in a line of high cirrus clouds. Marco didn’t think they looked too ominous, but you could never be sure, and he was glad he had brought the anoraks. It was cooler anyway, with the wind and the filtering of the sun, but Marco welcomed it; if Sarah’s shirt got any clingier, he was going to miss a step on the trail and fall a very long way.
They reached the summit early in the afternoon and joined a stream of tourists coming out of the cable car station positioned on a shelf of rock just underneath the peak. They walked past the cable car station and started down the Weitwanderweg, a less precipitous trail that meandered down and around the mountain on a northeasterly track. The trail passed the Alpenverein, the clubhouse of the Alpine Club, and they stopped to watch a hang-glider pilot assemble her craft, lug it over to the runway, and soar into the blue heavens on a thermal.
After an hour’s descent, they turned onto a spur trail that led north, skirting along a rocky ridge with excellent views to the west. They stopped in midafternoon on a knoll covered with latschen bushes, the straggly evergreens that grew at higher elevations, an area that included most of Austria. The breeze had freshened, but the thin layer of clouds had given way to an azure sky, and the combination of wind and sun had yielded a very pleasant day.
The conditions were perfect for hiking, and with most of Europe on holiday, the mountain-goers were out in full force. They spotted a group of schoolchildren from Vienna, chatted with a gaggle of spelunkers hiking up to a cathedral-sized cave cut into the slope several kilometers above, and joined an elderly couple from Glanegg, a small town at the base of the mountain, having lunch on the knoll. They ate more of the food, and drank the beer, in the warm afternoon sunshine, and listened as their new companions filled them in on the local lore.
It was the mixture of the alcohol and the sun, Marco guessed, with a measure of endorphins from the exertion, that gave him a feeling of contentedness bordering on mild euphoria. The wind slacked off, the sun burned brighter, and sluggishness gripped him. He tried to fight it—it was bad form to sleep on the job—but resistance was futile. He closed his eyes and dozed off into a restful unconsciousness.
Thirty-Four
The Roman sun burned in an azure sky; only a slight breeze made it bearable. Lucci sat down on the stone wall enclosing the Fontana dell’Aquilone in the center of the Vatican Gardens, glad that the guided tours were done for the day. He leaned forward, cupped a handful of water, and splashed it on his forehead. The water spilled down his neck and soaked into the T-shirt he wore underneath his cassock, giving him a little relief from the oppressive heat.
There was also relief from the oppressive agita that burdened him; he chewed a few more antacids, calming the sour lick at his throat. But he knew the reprieve—like that from the heat—would only be temporary.
“Only a Sicilian like you would want to meet outside in the middle of the afternoon in August.”
Lucci turned to see Cardinal Scarletti, who had taken a seat next to him on the wall.
“I’m afraid forty degrees is too hot even for me. But at least we have the place to ourselves.” He looked around to confirm his supposition: the normally crowded Eagle Fountain was deserted other than the two cardinals.
“I can’t tell if you are enlightened or just paranoid.”
“I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive, do you, Giuseppe?”
They laughed quietly and lapsed into silence, listening to the splash of the water as it cascaded down the falls.
“Thanks for coming, Giuseppe.”
Scarletti smiled, which had the effect of softening his patrician features. “As I serve at your discretion, Vincenzo, it would have been foolish of me to do otherwise.”
“At my discretion?” Lucci raised a very well-groomed eyebrow. “I don’t think so. We both serve at the pope’s discretion. For better, or for worse …”
He stopped for a moment, and both men looked over their shoulders. Still there was no one in sight; even the birds had the good sense to roost in the dense shade of the cedars that had been imported centuries ago from Lebanon.
“Everything is okay in Cortina?”
“It was, until Elena left to … er … pack her belongings.”
Lucci hadn’t said anything to Scarletti about the reason for her abrupt departure. “I’m sure she won’t be gone long. You’ll make sure her family is comfortable while she is away?”
Scarletti nodded, taking the time to adjust his scarlet zucchetto, the same shade that Lucci wore. The two men were about the same age and height, and had the same color hair—black streaked with gray—making them virtually indistinguishable from behind. The similarity had spawned the moniker “the twins,” a nickname in which the other cardinals took great delight but never used in their presence.
“So, Giuseppe, the pontiff called last night …”
“Oh? What about?”
“Giampaolo Benedetto.”
“And?”
“The pope thinks he had help from inside the Vatican.”
Scarletti nodded. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“I’m gla
d to hear you say that, because I want you to be in charge of finding out who.”
If Scarletti was happy to hear about his assignment, it didn’t show on his narrow countenance.
“Me? Why not someone from the Security Office?”
“They are already looking into it, not that I expect them to get very far. But I am referring to help from within the ecclesiastical body. You are better positioned than anyone else to look inside the Curia.”
Scarletti removed his rectangular glasses and rubbed his forehead with his well-manicured fingers. The Under Secretary of State always had the newest spectacles, courtesy of his brother, who controlled a large Italian eyewear conglomerate.
“What do you want me to find?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Of course. This whole mess is bad enough if it is just Benedetto; it becomes ten times worse if someone in the Curia is involved. The pope wants us to beat the bushes until we find someone, but I don’t think that’s a wise idea.”
“But if we don’t find the responsible party, aren’t we inviting another attack?”
“I’m not saying not to poke around, but it’s a matter of how you do it. A careful enquiry is one thing, but we don’t need another Spanish Inquisition. Understand?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“I know many clerics who don’t like Il Riformatore, but that doesn’t mean they want to see him killed. No one disagrees with the pontiff more than that bastard Garcia, but he doesn’t have the balls to do something like this. Frankly, I don’t think any of them do.”
Cardinal Garcia was the executive of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, which residents of Vatican City referred to as the Holy Office, and had been appointed by the previous pope to a five-year term. A theological conservative, he was frequently at odds with Pope John Paul III, who was not.
“Does that mean you don’t agree with the pope’s contention?”
The Vatican Conspiracy: A completely gripping action thriller (A Marco Venetti Thriller Book 1) Page 19
