The Seventh Commandment

by Tom Fox

  Something he would rip away from them.

  25

  Emil’s home office

  The only way Emil’s plan would succeed would be through intense preparation. Success or failure would reside entirely in the work done beforehand. The actual act – reaching out and taking what he wanted most of all – was the easy part. It was getting the whole world’s attention, manipulating it, directing it, that required artistry.

  Artistry, and assistance. Though the thought of the renegade masked man going it alone held a certain appeal to Emil Durré, he recognised from the outset it wasn’t a realistic possibility. Men who tried those sorts of feats always ended up caught, and they were rarely after as big a prize as Emil intended to claim. No, for his plan to work, he would need a team, perhaps several. He would need men with skills he did not possess, ready to work for a fragmentary share in what they would claim together. For even the smallest portion of it was worth whatever risk they would be taking on.

  So he had begun to formulate his designs, from their broad scope down to their most minute details. Four months had already been spent dedicated to the task, and with each passing day Emil was more convinced of his ultimate success. If he found the right people to help him make it a reality.

  Last week, the interviews had begun.

  That he would need technology specialists was a given from the outset. Emil knew little to nothing about computers and technology, though he wasn’t inept with the basic devices of modern day life. He would need men who were far more capable – the kind of men who knew the ins and outs of online data, of telecommunications, of industrial grids. Things Emil understood only as concepts. So he had found a trio, a group that, he was assured, was able to do just about anything – certainly anything he would need.

  The leader of the small group, Vico Esposito, had been discovered through a series of excursions into Net cafés known to be frequented by hackers, in whose community he was apparently regarded as something of a legend. It had taken some time for Emil to figure out how to approach the man, but when he’d finally arranged an interview, Vico had proven himself precisely the kind of talent Emil needed: stellar skills, coupled with a moral flexibility that led him to see criminal activity more as a decent challenge than an affront to right behaviour or order. But Vico had one non-negotiable condition to his coming on board the project: he was part of a trio, and the three men always worked together. Emil hadn’t been sure whether such an expansive team was really necessary, but if it was what Vico wanted, Lord knew paying them wouldn’t be a problem.

  Beyond the technological, the project would require substantial interaction with civic enterprises – industrial teams, survey units, power systems, sewer infrastructures. It was another realm about which Emil knew nothing and had no personal ins, but it had been Vico himself who had recommended Bartolomeo Scarsi, ‘Someone we worked with on another project a few months back. A good sort. Got things done.’

  Bartolomeo’s interview with Emil a few days later had gone just as well. The man was gruff, impolite, but exactly the right sort for the work Emil had in mind for him. He had a powerful build that could easily pass for that of a construction worker or dig crew member, and he knew his way around the civic circuit, having been gainfully employed as a roads engineer before a night of far too much booze and blow had ended his life of legitimate employment. He’d been scouring out a living in the greyer edges of the black market ever since.

  ‘You’ll find yourself a partner, someone you can work with,’ Emil had instructed him. ‘And someone you can trust. Take two weeks, find the right man, then bring him to meet me.’ He’d come through on the responsibility, as Emil had expected he would.

  The most troubling need was the requirement for a wet team. It was difficult for Emil even to imagine using that phrase. ‘Wet team.’ It felt like jargon out of a CIA action movie, utterly foreign to his former life in academia and scholarship. But there was the very real risk that, once his plan was set into action, problems could arise that required . . . adequate response. He couldn’t permit his goal to slip away from him just because one or another obstacle got in his way.

  So a wet team it would have to be. For this he would want the people closest to him – those he trusted most completely, and over whom he could exert the most absolute authority. Emil already had an idea who would constitute this team, though it was going to take some time to convince himself that his son was really up to the task. André had followed his father to Italy a few years ago, though he could hardly be said to have made his mark here in any significant sense. But if he could be paired with Ridolfo, one of the few close friends with whom André had ever managed to form a real bond, then the strategy could work.

  But today Emil needed to keep his focus on what his calendar held for the present. The interview he’d arranged for this afternoon was, he knew, one of the most critical of them all.

  The success of the entire plan resided in its religious element. It was, after all, the power of God that he aspired to call to his advantage, and while Emil felt himself perfectly capable of dealing with the historical dimensions of the religious aspect – its calling upon the past, its comparability to ancient examples – he himself wasn’t a believer and understood little of what motivated the actual emotions of faithful devotees in the world around him.

  Which meant he needed someone who did.

  The thought was still circulating in his mind as a soft knocking sounded from his office door.

  ‘Come in,’ he announced, voice strong and firm. Slowly the door swept open. The man behind it had a wrinkled face and stood slightly hunched, bending with a surfeit of years. It was the first time Emil had ever laid eyes on him, and the man’s flannel shirt and wrinkled jeans came as a surprise. He’d expected robes, or a black shirt with the traditional dog collar.

  ‘Please,’ he said, concealing his thoughts, ‘take a seat.’ He motioned towards one of the chairs opposite him and the man entered, closed the door behind him and sat.

  ‘I’m Emil,’ he said plainly. It was enough of a greeting for the circumstances.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ the man answered. ‘My name is Laurence de Luca.’

  26

  Emil’s home office

  The old man sat quietly, motionless, as Emil looked him over intently from the opposite side of the desk. This was, potentially, the individual in whom he was going to place an immense amount of trust. On whom much would rely, including Emil’s own future and freedom.

  And he wore such tattered clothes.

  ‘You don’t look like I expected,’ Emil finally announced.

  The man gazed back through expressionless eyes. ‘I suppose I could say I am sorry,’ he said, ‘though I have no idea what you were expecting, so I’m not sure whether I in fact am.’

  Emil felt the urge to smile, and did. The shrewd remark from the older man pleased him. Laurence de Luca was at least twenty years Emil’s senior, if not thirty, with weathered skin that was kept close shaved, though today there was an emerging white stubble across his chin. His eyes were blue, sunk into sockets that seemed a size too large for them. His nose was hawk-like, a claw arcing down towards thin lips. But the man spoke articulately. Short breaths and raspy tones couldn’t mask either his erudition or his wit.

  ‘I take it I don’t address you as Father?’ Emil continued.

  ‘Not any more.’ The man answered without emotion.

  ‘You left the priesthood, what, a couple of years ago?’

  ‘A year and a half, if you’re looking for precision.’

  Emil nodded. That timeline would work well for his purposes.

  ‘I’m interested in your reasons,’ he said, shifting slightly in his seat, ‘for that departure. You were a priest a long time.’

  ‘Almost thirty-five years.’

  ‘Though, I’ve been told, during that time, you weren’t exactly a seminary instructor’s vision of an ideal cleric.’

  Finally, a change came
over the hardened face of the old man now called simply Laurence. A grey eyebrow slowly rose. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m told,’ Emil continued, ‘that you were that unique blend of a devoutly religious man who was wholly committed to the religious life, without being burdened by . . . what shall we call it . . . the shackles of actual belief.’

  The man merely blinked, but Emil could see thoughts moving across his eyes. Laurence’s elevated eyebrow slowly descended.

  ‘I’d hardly call that a rarity in the clergy,’ he finally said.

  ‘The lack of belief?’

  ‘The ability to fulfil a calling without being overly concerned about that particular dimension of it,’ Laurence countered. ‘If the only priests out there were those that had unyielding faith in everything they taught, well, let’s just say the current clerical shortage wouldn’t seem so dire by comparison.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Emil replied, leaning fully back in his chair, permitting another smile to wend its way on to his lips. He folded his hands across his lap. The older man appeared unsure how to interpret Emil’s change in demeanour.

  ‘This is something laughable to you?’ he asked, a hint of defensiveness charring his words. ‘Is this why you’ve called me in here, to mock me about a lack of faith? I’m sorry if I’m not impressed. I’ve had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the scorn of others.’

  Emil forced the smile from his face and sat forward.

  ‘You misunderstand,’ he said with genuine warmth. ‘I am not in the slightest bit perturbed by your lack of faith. You can be a rock-solid atheist or a devotee of the Faery Queen for all I care.’

  Laurence’s expression slid towards real confusion.

  ‘Besides,’ Emil added before he could interject, ‘I’m hardly in a position to judge you on these matters. Personally, I find your position . . .’ He struggled for the right word. ‘Enlightened.’

  The other man stared at him a few moments. It was clear this meeting was not what he had expected. Emil appreciated that.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘it’s what interests me in you the most. The fact that you didn’t believe, perhaps never really believed, yet worked for years among people who did.’

  Laurence nodded, a simple affirmation.

  ‘Even helping them build up their belief,’ Emil continued, ‘fostering it. Speaking to it.’

  ‘I don’t see what this could possibly have to do with anything,’ Laurence finally answered. ‘I coped, did what I had to do to get by. And I left the priesthood when I couldn’t get by any more. I could make people believe I was pious. I could say the words they wanted to hear, go through the motions they expected. But at some point, a man has to ask himself how long he wants his life to be nothing more than an elaborate charade. I’d become a good actor, that was all.’

  ‘You were far more than that. I’m told you were extremely popular before you walked away from it all. Beloved in your parishes.’

  The man sat silently. The comment made him uncomfortable, but he was still waiting to see where all this was going.

  ‘My question for you,’ Emil said, sensing his opportunity, ‘is whether you would be able to do it again.’

  From that moment, the conversation between Emil and Laurence took on an entirely different tone. The older man’s stoic quietude gave way to a curiosity that grew by the minute as Emil spoke. The blue eyes buried in his face seemed to catch light, glowing ever brighter as the details of Emil’s plan were drawn out of secrecy and shared.

  ‘It would be hard to pull off convincingly,’ Laurence said, as Emil talked through the specific role he wanted the older ex-priest to play. ‘Groups like the one you’re considering are close-knit and generally suspicious of outsiders. They’re used to being looked down on and have grown protective and defensive to compensate.’

  ‘That’s precisely why you’d be a perfect fit,’ Emil countered. He leaned forward on his desk, resting on the fronts of his arms. ‘An outcast, joining the outcasts.’

  Laurence pondered the idea, shaking his head mildly. ‘The analogy doesn’t fit. I wasn’t cast out, I left.’

  ‘But they weren’t either,’ Emil answered. ‘They’ve set up their own community on the periphery of the church. They’re outcasts by choice, just like you.’

  This time Laurence didn’t answer, but simply soaked in the words.

  ‘You could easily mould your story to fit their ideology,’ Emil continued. ‘Say, I don’t know, that you left the clergy because you’d grown disillusioned with the institutionalised hierarchy of the church. The dead and soulless structuralism. You wanted something more . . . alive.’

  A nod of acknowledgement from the older man. ‘They’re nothing if not committed to that narrative. Faith versus the church. Spirituality versus religion.’

  ‘Of course, it would mean concealing your own lack of interior conviction.’ Emil gazed closely at Laurence as he spoke. ‘Charismatics are a group ruled by the idea that faith has to be a living, breathing thing inside you. “In your heart.” It’s been like that in every charismatic group in Christian history, from the Montanists in the second century up to the Pentecostals in ours. The Catholic Charismatic Movement is no different.’ History had taught Emil so many lessons.

  Laurence’s old head bobbed in affirmation, and he peered back at Emil with what looked like admiration.

  ‘Now I see why you focused on my past as we began,’ he said. ‘As you rightly noted, I’ve had a bit of experience in feigning faith to believers.’

  Emil smiled wryly back at him, the sense of conspiratorial understanding binding them together.

  Suddenly, the older man’s features darkened.

  ‘What is it?’ Emil asked, sensing the change of mood.

  ‘They won’t accept an outside priest, even a former one. Their leadership here in Rome is centred entirely around the spiritual leader of their congregation, a Father Aliegro, I think he’s called.’

  ‘Alberto,’ Emil corrected. ‘Father Alberto Alvarez.’

  ‘Yes, him. They’re totally devoted. They won’t welcome any new voice of leadership.’

  ‘Then don’t try to be a leader,’ Emil answered, his smile returning. He had anticipated this, already thought it through.

  ‘I hear they’re advertising for a more suitable job opening at the moment. Tell me, Laurence,’ he said, now grinning broadly, ‘have you ever contemplated life as a janitor?’

  27

  Emil’s home office

  A week later Emil called Ridolfo Passerini into his office, alone. In the partnership of this man and his son, it was definitely Ridolfo who was the thinker, and Emil wanted the opportunity to run his plans past him alone, to make sure the full scope of what was being asked – and expected – was fully understood.

  ‘I get it, you want me for my brawn,’ Ridolfo said after Emil had gone through as much of the plan as he felt it necessary to share with the younger man. He paused a moment, then looked into Emil’s eyes. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have expected you’d be after me for my looks.’

  Emil met his emerging grin with a smile of his own. This was the Ridolfo he knew.

  ‘It’s going to involve hard work,’ he said, bringing the tone back to reality. ‘And it may get messy. You’ll work for me, directly and exclusively, and I’ll have to be able to expect absolute loyalty. You’ll be well rewarded, of course, when we’re done.’

  ‘Are there others?’ Ridolfo asked. ‘Other people, also working on this? I can’t imagine it’s just you, me and André.’

  Emil nodded in the affirmative. ‘There are others, but you’ll only be made aware of them if needed. The less you know, the better.’

  Ridolfo rubbed a hand along the deformed skin that covered his cheek, brooding.

  ‘So, this is some sort of . . . what, a secret society? Which one am I being courted to join? Opus Dei? The Illuminati? I’ve read the books.’

  A disgusted sigh barrelled out of Emil’s chest.


  ‘Why does everything that happens in this city automatically get assigned to the work of secret societies? For God’s sake, you’d think every bloody man, woman and child in Italy belonged to P2, or the Masons, or some underground collective keen on taking down the Church.’ Annoyance bled from his vowels.

  ‘To be fair,’ Ridolfo countered, ‘you are talking about working in pretty deep fucking secrecy. And the Church is a target.’

  ‘Taking down the Church is of absolutely no concern to me. The institution is irrelevant. Let it thrive or let it die, I simply don’t care.’ Emil pressed forward towards Ridolfo. ‘Must everything in Rome be a religious vendetta? Can’t it be enough just to be human, and to crave what every human craves, without religion entering into the discussion at all?’

  Ridolfo eyed him. ‘If not a move against the Church, then what? What, precisely, are you after here?’

  Emil sank back into the welcoming leather behind him. Silence preceded his answer, his fingers tapping over firm armrests.

  ‘Perhaps I spoke incorrectly,’ he finally said. ‘Religion isn’t wholly outside my interests, I’m simply not motivated by religious ideals. I’m far more interested in claiming what I want, out from under the grip of religious ideologies.’

  If Ridolfo understood Emil’s words, his face didn’t show it.

  ‘Christianity has so many rules,’ Emil continued. ‘Do this, don’t do that. And it’s not enough just to call them rules – they become commands, commandments, uttered from a mountaintop to tell us, you and me, what we can and cannot do.’ Redness flushed his cheeks, but a series of slow, deep breaths allowed him to regain composure.

  ‘I’ve never been a fan of the ten commandments, Ridolfo. The first has always seemed implausible, and the rest are just too . . . binding.’

  ‘Mr Durré,’ Ridolfo interrupted, ‘I don’t see where this is leading—’