The Devil Will Come

by Glenn Cooper

‘Who? Which cardinal?’ Elisabetta asked.

  ‘In a minute. But this is something much more important. By the time I had my answer, I saw my email inbox was full of messages. I subscribe to a service that scans newspapers and magazines for certain key words and symbols, like the Monad.’

  ‘What’s the Monad?’ Micaela asked.

  Elisabetta leaned forward and shushed her. ‘Wait!’

  Tremblay was laying pages down, one at a time. ‘Here’s a classified ad in today’s New York Times.’ Elisabetta saw a small image of the Monad with no accompanying text. ‘Here’s an ad in Pravda. Here’s Le Monde. The International Herald Tribune. Corriere della Sera. Der Spiegel. Jornal do Brasil. The Times of London. Sydney Morning Herald. There are more. They’re all the same. Just the Monad. I called a reporter I know at Le Monde. I asked him if he could find out who placed the ad. He got back to me. They received a letter with no return address with cash for the ad and instructions to run the image today.’

  ‘It’s a message,’ Elisabetta whispered, barely audibly.

  ‘Yes.’ Tremblay nodded.

  ‘A message? A message about what? What are you two talking about?’ Micaela exclaimed.

  Elisabetta rose suddenly and felt faint. She steadied herself with a hand on her chair. ‘I know what’s going to happen!’

  ‘So do I,’ Tremblay said, his slender fingers shaking.

  ‘All this urgency to keep the skeletons of Callixtus hidden,’ Elisabetta said. ‘All the attempts to silence me. It’s because of the Conclave. These Lemures. They’re communicating among themselves to be ready. They’re going to fulfill the Malachy prophecy. They’re going to strike tomorrow during the Conclave!’

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ Micaela said.

  Elisabetta ignored her. ‘I’m going to call Zazo.’

  ‘Zazo’s on suspension. What can he do?’ Micaela snapped.

  ‘He’ll think of something.’

  There was a light rapping from the hall.

  ‘Good,’ Micaela said. ‘Someone sane’s here. That’s Arturo.’

  Micaela got up and opened the door.

  There was a man filling the doorway, a man with a reddish beard holding a pistol. Two more were close behind, all of them neat, ordinary, unsmiling.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  MICAELA YELPED BUT the men pushed their way inside, closed the door and forced her to the ground. Elisabetta sprang up in panic and ran to the hall to witness a bearded man standing over her sister pointing a gun, trying to quiet her with a finger held in front of his lips. Two other clean-shaven men were aiming guns directly at her. Elisabetta froze. The man with a beard spoke in a language she didn’t recognize, then immediately switched to English when she didn’t respond.

  ‘Tell her to be quiet or I will kill her.’

  His tone was coldly matter-of-fact, his eyes dull.

  He’s one of them, Elisabetta thought.

  ‘Please, Micaela, try to stay calm,’ she said. ‘We’ll be all right. Please, let my sister up.’

  ‘You will be quiet?’ the man asked her.

  Micaela nodded and Elisabetta helped her to her feet.

  There was a small sound from the kitchen.

  One of the men ran there and in seconds was marching out Father Tremblay at gunpoint. The priest was breathing heavily.

  ‘What do you want?’ Elisabetta asked.

  ‘Go back, all of you,’ the bearded man said, pointing his gun toward the sitting room. ‘Is anyone else here?’

  ‘No.’

  The bearded man seemed to be instructing one of the others to search the flat while he forced the sisters and Tremblay onto the sitting-room sofa. The man who stayed at his side was toting a large empty duffel bag.

  Micaela’s lips were trembling. Angry tears streaked her cheeks and made her mascara run.

  ‘Are they?’ she whispered to Elisabetta.

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  Elisabetta’s eyes were dry. She fingered her crucifix and watched their every move, desperately trying to figure out a way to get Micaela out of this and fearful that her father or Arturo would stumble into their midst.

  The other man came back from his search and gave an all-clear sign.

  The bearded man took out a mobile phone, punched in a number and began speaking rapidly in a guttural dialect. When he was finished he barked some orders.

  The man with the duffel bag put it down on the carpet, unzipped it and took out two more collapsed bags from inside.

  ‘All of you are coming with us,’ the bearded man said.

  ‘Where?’ Elisabetta demanded.

  ‘If you don’t resist, you won’t be hurt. That is the important fact.’

  The other man unzipped a smaller bag and removed a metal bottle and some wads of gauze.

  Micaela sniffed and stiffened. ‘Jesus, it’s ether! There’s no fucking way I’m going to let them etherize me.’

  ‘My God,’ Tremblay croaked. ‘Please, just take me. Let the women go.’

  The bearded man addressed Elisabetta in a casual tone. ‘They want you, but they say, “Okay, take them too.” If they resist they won’t care so much if we leave them here with bullets in them.’

  ‘Listen to me, Micaela,’ Elisabetta said gravely. ‘Let them do it. Don’t put up a fight. God will protect you.’ Then she added ‘I will protect you.’

  It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, watching her sister’s wild eyes as a brute pressed a reeking cloth over her mouth and nose, watching Micaela writhe and kick. But something was keeping Elisabetta’s mind lucid and working and while the men were focused on their awful work she snatched something off the end table and hid it in a pocket within her habit.

  Micaela went limp and the gauze was removed from her face.

  Father Tremblay began to pray in rapid-fire French. He sounded very young and looked very scared as the square of gauze was pressed onto his face.

  When his body went slack Elisabetta smelled fresh ether and she too began to pray. As the fabric got closer to her nose the caustic stench made her gag.

  She tried not to struggle but her body wouldn’t let herself go down without a fight. But the struggle was brief and soon it was over.

  Zazo was trying to fulfill his promise to get good and drunk. But he was behind schedule, only a couple of beers into the scheme. He should have been on duty. It was the night before the Conclave and he knew that his men were busting their balls and that Lorenzo was running around like a madman to keep the wheels on his over-burdened cart.

  Getting plastered somehow didn’t seem right.

  The TV was on – some inane quiz show which he wasn’t watching. It was just noise.

  His mobile rang.

  ‘Where are you?’ It was his father. He sounded stressed.

  ‘I’m home. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Did Elisabetta or Micaela call you?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Arturo came over before I got home. The apartment door was unlocked. They weren’t there.’

  Zazo was already standing, putting on his jacket. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  There wasn’t enough air. Elisabetta’s mouth was uncovered but she was in some dark constricted space that didn’t allow her to shift her position. Her knees were drawn up uncomfortably to her chest. Then she realized that her wrists were bound in front of her. She lifted her hands to explore what was constraining her and felt the roughness of nylon mesh. Reaching up she felt her veil in place. It wasn’t helping her breathing.

  There were vibrations coursing through her back and the sounds of tires on a rain-soaked highway.

  She whispered ‘Micaela!’ and when there was no response she raised her voice and tried again.

  Over the road noise she heard a soft and groggy ‘Elisabetta!’

  ‘Micaela, are you okay?’

  Micaela’s voice grew a little stronger. ‘What happened to us? Where are we?’

  Elisabetta’s fear was tempered by her sister’s presence.
‘I think I’m in a carry-bag.’

  ‘Me too. I can’t move.’

  ‘I think we’re in a car or a truck.’ Then she remembered something. ‘Father Tremblay?’ she called. ‘Father, are you there?’

  There was no response.

  ‘I don’t know if they took him,’ Micaela said. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Elisabetta knew the answer but hesitated to say it for fear of completely unnerving her sister – and herself. But she couldn’t hold it in. ‘The Lemures.’

  *

  Zazo almost lost it when Inspector Leone said, ‘Look, calm down, Celestino. You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on your breath.’

  ‘I had a couple of beers. What does that have to do with the disappearance of my sisters?’

  Leone wouldn’t let go. ‘The Conclave starts tomorrow and you’re having beers? Don’t you guys have work to do?’

  Zazo took a deep, self-controlling breath. ‘I’m on leave.’

  Leone smirked. ‘Really. Why am I not shocked?’

  If Zazo threw a punch he knew he’d be in handcuffs and the Polizia’s attention would be on him, not on his sisters. His father seemed to sense the hazard and put his hand on Zazo’s shoulder.

  Zazo said slowly and carefully, ‘Let’s talk about my sisters, not me – okay, Inspector?’

  ‘Sure. Let’s talk about them. You haul me and my men out here and what do we find?’ Leone waved his arm around the sitting room. ‘Nothing! There’s no sign of forced entry, no sign of burglary, no sign of a struggle or violence. Me, I see a couple of ladies who went out for the night and forgot to lock the door behind them. And it’s still early, only 10:15. The night’s still young!’

  ‘You’re talking about a nun, for Christ’s sake!’ Zazo screamed. ‘She doesn’t go out on the town!’

  ‘I hear she’s on leave too.’

  Carlo took over for his sputtering son. ‘Inspector, please. Since the attack on her she’s been very cautious. Except for Mass she’s hardly gone out. She and Micaela would never have left here without telling us or leaving a message. And why isn’t Micaela answering her phone?’

  Leone raised his eyebrows as a signal to the two officers who were with him. ‘Look, there’s nothing we can do right now. In the morning, if they haven’t crept back into their beds, give me a call and we’ll treat them as missing persons.’

  Soon, father and son were alone.

  Zazo rubbed wearily at his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘I’ll call Arturo again to make sure they didn’t go to Micaela’s hospital or her apartment.’

  Carlo looked around the room distractedly, then banged out the pellet from his pipe bowl on an ashtray. As he was filling a fresh bowl he asked, ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then you’re going to call every hospital casualty ward in Rome while I knock on every door in the apartment building to see if any of the neighbors heard or saw anything.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Zazo had sounded like he expected they’d come up empty. ‘Then we wait. And pray.’

  Blessedly, Elisabetta fell asleep for a time. She awoke abruptly to an awareness of a lack of motion. The air inside the bag was so depleted that she thought she would lose consciousness again. There were voices in that foreign language and the sound of a door unlatching. Then she was in motion again, but this time sliding and jerking and bouncing up and down.

  ‘Micaela?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Micaela!’

  Elisabetta bounced around for a minute, maybe two, suffering breathlessness and agitation, calling her sister’s name in vain. Then the bouncing stopped and she was on a hard surface again. There was a long, slow sound of unzipping, one of the most welcome sounds she’d ever heard. She gulped at the cool air and reflexively closed her eyes against the harsh light.

  When her pupils had adjusted to the brightness, the first thing she saw was that wretched red beard. There was the click of a knife snapping open. She closed her eyes again when she saw the blade and started to pray, waiting for the agonizing sensation she’d felt once before – steel penetrating her body.

  There was a slicing sound, quick and clean, and her hands went free.

  The red-bearded man had cut the duct tape which bound her.

  Elisabetta opened her eyes and awkwardly pushed herself to her feet. She was standing unsteadily in a collapsed black holdall in the middle of a large windowless cellar. The room was loaded with pine crates, each the size of a bathtub. But she was more interested in the two unzipped duffel bags which lay beside her.

  ‘Let them out!’ she demanded.

  Another of the kidnappers unzipped the first bag. Micaela was curled in a fetal position, unmoving. Before anyone could stop her, Elisabetta ran to Micaela’s side, kneeled down and touched her cheek. Thank God it was warm.

  She looked up at the bearded man. ‘Cut her free. Please.’

  Elisabetta stroked her sister’s hair while the man obliged and sliced the tape. Then she rubbed Micaela’s wrists and hands to get the blood flowing. Micaela was breathing slowly, too slowly, but suddenly she opened her mouth and started gasping for air. Her eyes blinked open and squinted. She uttered a weak ‘Elisabetta.’

  ‘I’m here, my darling.’

  ‘Are we alive?’

  ‘Thanks to God, we are.’ She pivoted to face their captors. ‘Let the priest out!’

  They unzipped Father Tremblay’s bag.

  His long body was folded upon itself; he was motionless, his thick eyeglasses dangling from one ear. Elisabetta went to him and felt his face. It was cool as stone. ‘Micaela, can you come? He needs help!’

  As the men watched impassively, Micaela crawled over to his duffel bag and felt for Tremblay’s carotid pulse. She put her ear to his chest.

  Crestfallen, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Elisabetta. He’s gone. The ether. Marfan’s patients have bad hearts. He couldn’t take it.’

  Elisabetta stood and pointed at the bearded man. ‘Bastards! You killed him!’ she screamed with an anger she hadn’t known she was capable of mustering.

  The man shrugged and simply told his colleagues to take the body away. ‘There are beds there,’ he said, pointing at three single beds against one stone wall. They were unmade but sheets, blankets and pillows were laid out. ‘And through that green door is a lavatory. We will bring food. There is no way out so there is no reason to try to escape. You should also be quiet because there is no one to hear you. Okay. Goodbye.’

  ‘What are you going to do with us? What do you want?’ Micaela demanded.

  The bearded man backed away from them, heading toward a sturdy wooden door. ‘Me?’ he answered. ‘I want nothing. My job is done and I go home now to sleep.’

  The men left, dragging Father Tremblay’s body with them.

  There was the scraping sound of a bolt sliding into place. Elisabetta helped Micaela to one of the beds and sat her down. There were bottles of water on a table. Elisabetta twisted one open, sniffed at it and had a sip. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to her sister. ‘I think it’s all right.’

  Micaela drank half of it in one go. Only then did Elisabetta let loose and start crying. Micaela cried too and the two of them held each other.

  ‘The poor man,’ Elisabetta choked. ‘That poor, poor man. He didn’t deserve to die like that. No last rites. Nothing. I need to pray for him.’

  ‘You do that,’ Micaela said, rubbing her tearful eyes. ‘I need to pee.’ Shakily, she made for the green door.

  Elisabetta said a hasty prayer for the young priest’s soul, then decided that God would want her to concentrate on saving Micaela and herself. She rose and began to explore.

  The bolted door wouldn’t budge. It didn’t look as though there was any other way out. The walls were cool, pale limestone and the ceiling was high and vaulted. It was an old cellar, she reckoned, possibly medieval. The crates suggested it was meant for storage, not gu
ests. The metal bed frames looked out of place, brought in for the occasion.

  Micaela came back in, shaking her head.

  ‘How were the facilities?’ Elisabetta asked.

  ‘The toilet flushed.’

  ‘Any windows?’

  ‘No.’ Micaela made her own tug at the door. ‘I think we’re in big trouble.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  Micaela checked her watch. ‘Just past seven. In the morning, I suppose, but we could have missed a whole day.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Elisabetta said. ‘What language do you think they were speaking?’

  ‘It sounded Slavic.’

  ‘If we were on the road all night we could be in Germany, Austria, Switzerland or Slovenia.’

  ‘Your brain’s working better than mine,’ Micaela said. ‘You probably got less ether.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Elisabetta used the bathroom herself. It was the size of a closet, only a toilet and a sink, no windows. The walls were the same yellow limestone.

  When she came out she started making up her bed.

  ‘You’re adapting well to your captivity,’ Micaela said.

  ‘We should get some rest. Lord knows what’s ahead for us.’

  Micaela reluctantly began to lay the sheets on her thin mattress and tuck them in. ‘Why didn’t they kill us?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Elisabetta was looking around the chamber again. ‘Perhaps they need something from me.’

  Micaela finished unfolding her blanket and smoothing it into place. She punched at the lumpy pillow. ‘The beds are terrible.’ She sat back down, kicked off her shoes and rubbed her feet.

  ‘God willing, we won’t be here long.’ Elisabetta wandered over to a pile of crates stacked high against one of the walls. The boxes were unmarked. She rapped on one; the dull sound told her that it was full.

  Because the crates were arranged several boxes deep and weren’t flush with one another they formed an uneven staircase to the top.

  Elisabetta hiked up her habit and began to climb.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Micaela asked. ‘You’re going to fall!’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I want to see if I can open one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Curiosity.’