by Glenn Cooper
He glanced at Zazo and shook his head. ‘He’s fed up to here with the Polizia. They treated him like the criminal last night. Six hours of interrogation and that’s only the beginning, apparently. It’s complicated when you shoot someone.’
‘Have you ever …?’
Lorenzo answered quickly. ‘Never. I’ve never fired my gun in anger. Zazo neither – until now – but you know that.’
‘It’s an awful thing,’ Elizabetta said sadly. ‘I wish it hadn’t been necessary. I wish Professor De Stefano hadn’t been killed. I wish evil didn’t exist.’
‘Your family church,’ Lorenzo said. ‘It’s Santa Maria in Trastevere, isn’t it?’
‘Do you know it?’
‘In passing. Zazo’s mentioned it. Maybe when the Conclave is over and the dust has settled, maybe I can come and pray there with you.’
‘I’d like that.’ Elisabetta caught herself. ‘We all need to pray for Christ’s forgiveness.’
When the police got their turn in the morgue, Zazo came over to Elisabetta and Lorenzo. ‘These idiots have nothing. They’ve got a name, Aldo Vani, and that’s about it. He doesn’t have any employment records, no records that he ever paid tax. They searched his apartment and they say they came up empty. His mobile phone didn’t have an address book and the log of recent calls was empty. According to them, he’s a ghost.’
‘I worked in Naples as a young cop,’ Lorenzo said. ‘This guy is like a Camorra hit man with a life completely off the grid. But what’s with the tail? Whoever heard of something like that?’
Zazo looked protectively at Elisabetta. ‘We don’t know if this is relevant. Maybe yes, maybe no.’
Lorenzo’s phone rang. When he stepped aside to answer it Zazo asked her, ‘How are you holding up?’
‘I’m tired but still grateful to be alive.’
‘I told you not to leave Papa’s house.’
‘The professor called. He was so insistent, the poor man. He must have been threatened by that beast. At least I left a note, thank God.’
Zazo pointed at the morgue doors. ‘Jesus, Elisabetta. If you hadn’t it would have been you in there. I want you to go back to Papa’s and stay there. Don’t go out for anything. I’m going to try to get Leone to give you some police protection but I don’t think he’ll do it. He’s more focused on De Stefano and thinks you just stumbled into something. He’s not putting the pieces together.’
‘I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with him,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Don’t. It’s not in your best interests to tell him everything. Anyway it would blow the little fuse in his brain. He won’t even consider that the bastard in there was the same guy who tried to get you before. Christ, if the Conclave weren’t the day after tomorrow, I’d take a leave and protect you full-time myself.’
She touched his cheek. ‘You’re a wonderful brother.’
Zazo laughed. ‘Yes, I am. Listen, maybe it would be better if you went to stay at Papa’s farmhouse.’
Elisabetta shook her head. ‘I feel safer here. And I can go to my church. But Zazo …?
‘What?’
‘I’m neglecting my obligations and my devotions. I just want to go back to teaching and get my life back.’
‘Soon. I’m sure you’ll get it back soon. We’ll get to the bottom of this.’
Lorenzo and Micaela finished their calls at about the same time and joined them.
‘Inspector Loreti is having a stroke,’ Lorenzo says. ‘He wants us back at the Vatican right away. The place is crawling with red-hats and the media.’
‘Will you take her home?’ Zazo asked Micaela.
‘Inspector Leone said he wanted to speak with me again,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Then right after that, okay?’
‘I’ll take her,’ Micaela agreed.
A clatter of footsteps came from the direction of the elevators. Three monsignors were fast-walking towards them, trailed by an archbishop.
‘It’s Archbishop Luongo,’ Elisabetta told them, looking up. ‘The head of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archeology.’
‘Okay, we’re out of here,’ Zazo said, putting his hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. ‘I’ll call you at Papa’s.’
Elisabetta had an inkling that Lorenzo wanted to hug her goodbye or at least shake her hand but instead he simply smiled and left.
‘There you are,’ the archbishop called out. ‘How are you, my dear?’
‘I’m unhurt, Your Excellency.’
Luongo was tall, well over six feet. Elisabetta had seen him at the Institute once without a hat; his head was completely smooth and bald and he also lacked eyebrows and a five-o’clock shadow. Alopecia totalis, Micaela had told Elisabetta when she’d inquired about the condition. A completely hairless body. He was an ambitious man – everybody at the Institute said so – and the snippets of gossip that she picked up from the lunch room revolved around whether his malady would interfere with his patent desire to be elevated to cardinal.
He towered over Elisabetta. ‘Such a tragedy about Professor De Stefano. He was a marvelous man. I personally recruited him for the job, you know.’
She nodded.
‘Who would do such a thing? What are the police saying?’
‘They’re still investigating.’
The archbishop looked at Micaela over the top of his glasses.
‘This is Doctor Celestino, my sister,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Ah, how wonderful to be involved in the healing arts.’
Micaela managed a tight smile and to Elisabetta’s relief kept a lid on any snide retort.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you personally,’ Luongo said to Elisabetta.
‘If it’s about the catacombs and the man who did this last night then you can speak in front of my sister. She’s signed a Commission confidentiality agreement. She knows everything about St Callixtus, Ulm and now this.’
‘Yes, yes, I recall – we brought you into the fold as a consultant, Doctor, did we not? Thank you for aiding the Commission and the Church. In that case, I’ll talk freely. Elisabetta, my message is short and hopefully it will be clear. We have to balance our responsibilities to the secular world and to the Church. I’m sure you will do your duty to be helpful to the police to assist them in finding out why this man …’ Luongo whispered the next few words ‘… who I understand has a tail – why this man committed these terrible acts. But at the same time, I’m sure you will be sensitive to the situation we are in. The Conclave is upon us. The entire world is focused on the somber grandeur of what we as a Church will be doing to choose our next Pope. We cannot pollute the proceedings by permitting any lurid talk of St Callixtus and men with tails. For this reason we have the complete cooperation of the secular authorities in imposing a news embargo on last night’s unfortunate events. And, I must emphasize, despite the odd coincidence of the anatomical abnormality of the man who attacked you and Professor De Stefano, there is no clear link between the two situations.’
Micaela was becoming red-faced and Elisabetta grew worried that she was going to give the Archbishop a piece of her mind. She tried to preempt her by saying, ‘I understand, Your Excellency.’
It wasn’t enough. Micaela seemed to struggle to keep her voice at a hospital-appropriate level. ‘Coincidence? No clear link? You must be joking! You find these skeletons in the catacombs, then all of them disappear, then someone breaks into my sister’s convent, then the professor is murdered and Elisabetta, only by the grace of God, not to mention my brother, is saved. And you want her to stay quiet?’
Elisabetta didn’t know Luongo well. She’d only seen him a few times. But now a terrifying change came over his face, a blowback of rage that rendered even Micaela mute. ‘Let me make myself completely understood,’ he fumed in a hot, whispered discharge like steam escaping from a boiling kettle. ‘You are both under the most strict rules of confidentiality. Our secrecy agreements are drafted by the finest law firm in Rome and I can assure you ladies
that if these agreements are breached, you will find our lawyers more fearsome than any men with tails.’
In time the hallway outside the morgue thinned out as police and clergy left the scene. The Chief Pathologist departed too and a single mortuary assistant tended to paperwork beside Aldo Vani’s draped corpse.
There was a knock at the morgue door and the assistant begrudgingly answered it.
He saw a gangly priest towering over him.
‘Yes, what is it?’ the assistant asked gruffly.
‘My name is Father Tremblay. I am here to inspect the body.’ He thrust forward a letter. ‘I have been given the highest permission.’
The Domus Sanctae Marthae hugged the lines of a gentle slope of Vatican City adjacent to the Basilica. It was a plain five-story building, modest in its ambitions, a symbol of reserve and austerity. It was no more than a dormitory providing basic accommodation for visiting clergy. Its usual occupancy rate was low but it was notably different from every other hotel in the world: it was designed for Conclaves and on the rare occasions when it was full it meant that there was a sad vacancy of the Apostolic See.
The first floor of the dormitory had a private chapel with a steeply peaked latticed ceiling and a small pipe organ donated by the Knights of Columbus. About two-thirds of the cardinals had arrived in Rome and they assembled in the chapel for a private Mass led by Cardinal Diaz, one of the countless duties during the mourning period for the Dean of the College of Cardinals.
The old boxer towered over the lectern, making it look as though it was meant for a child. The acoustics were perfect and his voice carried to the back without any need for a microphone.
‘Dear Brothers, the Basilica of St Peter’s, a witness to many meaningful and important moments in the ministry of our dearly departed Father, looks out today on those gathered in prayer who in a special way have had the responsibility and the privilege to be close to him as his direct collaborators, sharing in the pastoral care of the Universal Church.
‘In these days of mourning and sadness, the Word of God enlightens our faith and strengthens our hope, assuring us that he has entered into the Heavenly Jerusalem where, as we hear in the Book of Revelation, “God shall wipe away every tear, death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore.”
When Mass was over, Diaz strode from the Domus in the company of Cardinals Aspromonte and Giaccone. ‘Come back to my office,’ Diaz told the other two. ‘I’ve had private conversations with some of our fellow influence-makers. I’d like to share them with you.’
‘Electioneering?’ Aspromonte asked, making Giaccone snicker.
‘Don’t laugh, Luigi,’ Diaz said. ‘You’re the one everyone is talking about.’
Aspromonte looked deflated. His large bald head bobbed forward as if its weight had become too much for his neck. For his part, Giaccone closed his eyes and shook his head, setting his jowls into motion. ‘We must put a stop to this. I don’t want the job.’
The three cardinals passed through several rings of Vatican Gendarmerie charged with sealing off the guest house. Zazo and Lorenzo, on their way to inspect their men, bowed to the triumvirate and continued on to confer with a pair of corporals at the entrance of the Domus.
‘What time are the sniffer dogs coming back through?’ Zazo asked the men.
‘Six o’clock,’ one of them answered.
‘Give me a report when it’s done.’
The corporals looked as though they wanted to ask about the previous night’s shooting. Everyone was desperately curious and rumors were running rampant among the Corps. But to raise the subject would have amounted to insubordination and Zazo wasn’t about to volunteer any information.
When Zazo and Lorenzo turned to leave they found themselves face to face with one of their rank counterparts among the Swiss Guards, Major Gerhardt Glauser, a small pissant of a man who had an unsupportable air of superiority. Whenever they talked about him Zazo rose on tiptoe as testimony to his belief that Glauser must have cheated to make the Guard’s minimum height requirement.
‘What’s this I hear about an incident last night?’ Glauser asked nasally.
‘There was a little problem. Zazo took care of it,’ Lorenzo said.
‘I heard it was more than a little problem. I heard that you killed a man.’
Zazo made a button-the-lips sign. ‘Active investigation, Glauser,’ he said. ‘Need to know.’
‘If it involved the Guards, my superiors would surely place the officer on leave pending an inquiry.’
‘Well, it doesn’t involve the Guards, does it?’ Zazo said, walking around him.
He and Lorenzo made their way briskly to the Operations Center at the Tribunal Palace and settled into their shared office to review schedules before their afternoon briefing with Inspector-General Loreti. After a while Lorenzo ambled over to Zazo’s desk. ‘I’m getting a coffee. Want one?’
Zazo nodded and Lorenzo stole a look at his computer screen.
‘What are you doing on the Interpol site?’ Lorenzo asked.
‘Don’t be nosy.’
‘Come on,’ Lorenzo insisted.
‘I got the bastard’s fingerprint card from the morgue. Leone’s such a genius that he probably hasn’t run the prints through Interpol. Also, you know the weird markings around his tail? I have to tell you in confidence that Elisabetta knows about an identical tattoo from a man who died a few years ago in Germany. I want Interpol to do a check of old phone records to see whether this fellow in Germany and our guy, Vani, ever exchanged calls.’
‘Christ,’ Lorenzo said. ‘If Inspector Loreti finds out you’re doing your own investigation of a Polizia case in the middle of a Conclave – well, you know what’ll happen.’
‘So don’t tell him,’ Zazo said. ‘Three sugars.’
Krek pulled the curtains in his office closed to get the afternoon sun out of his eyes. He sat back down and scanned his calendar. There were three more meetings scheduled. Then a dinner at a hotel in the city center with a Swede anxious to unload his construction company. Krek wanted to loosen his tie. He wanted a drink. He wanted a woman. All three would have to wait. He called his secretary. ‘Get me Mulej.’
The big man lumbered in, fingering his collar. ‘Have you decided what you want to do?’
‘Aldo failed us miserably. The nun’s still alive and the police have his body. This is as bad as it gets.’
‘We should use Hackel. He’s already in Rome.’
‘Hackel has a more important job. I don’t want him losing focus. No, send some men from here. Send them now. Finish this thing.’
FIFTEEN
Rome, AD 64
IT WAS MAY, the loveliest month, when the meadow grasses were tender and spring flowers were in full color. As the daylight waned and the breezes blew, the crowd of revelers swelled and jostled at the edge of the lake. It would be a long, exotic night, one that would be talked about for generations, a night of spectacle and danger.
It was Tigellinus’s doing. Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus was rich, flamboyant and powerful beyond measure. Officially he was Prefect of the Imperial Bodyguard but in practice, he was the Emperor’s chief fixer and procurer and tonight he had organized the party of the century. They were surrounded by woodland at the Campus Martius, the splendid villa built decades earlier by Agrippa, Augustus’s son-in-law. The center-piece of the property was the great artificial lake, the Stagnum Aggripae, fed by an elaborate aqueduct, the Aqua Virgo, and drained by a long canal into the Tiber.
Along all the banks of the 200-meter lake guests entertained themselves with wild abandon. There were taverns and brothels and dining halls that had been constructed just for the day. Exotic birds and wild beasts brought from far-flung corners of the empire were everywhere, some roaming freely, others, like tigers and cheetahs, tethered by chains with enough slack to let them snare drunkards with their teeth and claws. Whenever this happened, a swollen roar of amusement would draw hundreds more spectators to wat
ch the hapless man or woman getting torn apart.
The coming darkness and flowing wine set in motion pure licentiousness. One brothel was populated with only noblewomen. In another, professional prostitutes cavorted openly and nakedly and spilled onto the grass. Promiscuous women of all sorts were available – noble and slave, matrons and virgins – and all were obliged to satisfy any request. Slaves had sex with their mistresses in front of their husbands, gladiators took daughters under the gaze of their fathers. All was allowed, nothing was forbidden. As night fell, the surrounding groves and buildings shone with lights and echoed with shouts and moans. There was pushing and shoving, brawls and stabbings. And the night was still young.
At the main pavilion a few dozen of the most important guests reclined on benches and couches. There were Senators, courtiers, diplomats, the richest merchants. Tigellinus sat in the front, the lake lapping only a meter from his sandals. For the night he had shed his heavy uniform as commander of the Imperial Guards for a toga but he’d been tempted to go even further, as some of the high-born guests had done, and wear only a belted tunic. Tigellinus was tall and stern with a heavy brow that made him look like a brawler. At his left, taciturn as always, sat the swarthy astrologer Balbilus. He was in his seventh decade of life but still looked powerful and fit, imperious and unapproachable. To his left sat another of the Emperor’s gray-haired toadies, the freedman Acinetus. He had been handpicked by the Emperor’s mother, Agrippina, to be one of her son Nero’s tutors during his nonage and later he carried out the Emperor’s ill-fated plan to drown her by sinking her royal boat. Finally Nero had to dispatch rather more overt assassins to finish the job. When confronted by sword-wielding men in her chambers, Agrippina cried for them to ‘Smite my womb’ – for bringing a son into the world who was detestable even by her own despicable standards.
Behind Nero, bored and drunk, the Emperor’s bejeweled wife Poppaea slouched low, holding her goblet out for one of her handmaidens to refill. Even though she had tired bloodshot eyes and a blotchy rash which her Greek doctor had been unable to remedy, she still had the fetching looks that had first placed her in favor.
