by Glenn Cooper
Krek looked at Elisabetta over the top of his wire-framed glasses and smiled. But there was no hint of humor in his expression. It was the smile of a predator closing in on its prey. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’
She trembled inwardly but said nothing more, causing him to stare at her fiercely.
‘Please understand this: I’ll do whatever I please.’
Three luxury coaches, each with a capacity of forty-two passengers, idled at the Domus Sanctae Marthae, waiting for the Cardinal Electors and the conclavists to file out for the one-minute ride to the courtyard behind the Basilica. True, all the electors were under eighty years of age, their older brethren banned from the task, and all possessed enough mobility to walk the short distance. But security concerns dictated this part of the ritual.
Cardinals Diaz and Aspromonte boarded the first coach and took adjoining seats. ‘Did you hear about Giaccone?’ Diaz asked.
‘No, what?’
‘He’s still in his room. He can’t come.’
‘What happened?’
‘He called the doctor. It seems that he has the runs. Too much food, I suspect.’
‘Will he join us later?’
‘The rules permit him to do so but he can also cast ballots from the Domus. I’ve assigned a monsignor to bring him a ballot if necessary.’
‘A disaster,’ Aspromonte whispered. ‘He’s the popular choice. But who knows how easy it will be to get votes in absentia. People like to see the face of the new man.’
‘Well, God willing, he’ll recover quickly.’
On the television there was a bird’s-eye view of the coaches crawling away from the guest house and their brief journey to the rear of the Basilica. One by one the Cardinals filed out of the coaches and disappeared inside a door manned by Swiss Guards in full ancient regalia.
‘It’s a colorful spectacle,’ Krek said. ‘Full of tradition. That much I respect.’
From their sofas, both he and Elisabetta had a good view of the TV and with every passing second Elisabetta’s anxiety ratcheted upward. Out of desperation to do something, anything, she decided to engage him.
‘And what part of it don’t you respect?’ she asked, her voice tremulous.
He seemed delighted to have her come alive. ‘Well, the belief in God, of course, is a fundamental weakness. A crutch as ancient as man himself. I believe the more you rely on a god to govern your life, the less you govern it yourself. But besides that, the Catholic Church has always been the most smug, most repugnant, most hypocritical of all the religions. A billion people slavishly following some old man tarted up in robes and a hat! We’ve been fighting it since its earliest days.’
‘You say you believe that men should rely on themselves, not on God. What else do you believe in?’ Elisabetta asked.
‘Me? I very much believe in myself. I believe in the heavens, too. The stars and planets clearly influence human events. That much is factual but I confess I haven’t a clue how it works. So that, I suppose, is my suspension of rationality in favor of a belief system.’
‘You believe in astrology,’ she said, bemused.
‘Our kind have respected astrology for many centuries,’ Krek sniffed.
‘I found astrological symbols at St Callixtus.’
‘Yes, I know. If there had been a way to quickly remove the wall intact I would have been very happy to have the fresco in my home. My men said they tried, but it crumbled. They were hardly conservationists and they had a more important task.’
‘The skeletons.’
‘Yes. Again, a crude job – but speed was necessary.’
‘What will you do with them?’
‘I intend to give them the respect they deserve. The bones are in a jumble. I need them to be properly assembled, every man, woman and child. Somewhere within that confusion is our greatest astrologer – Balbilus, and I would like his remains to be identified and given pride of place in my family crypt. He was Emperor Nero’s personal astrologer, imagine that! Nero was one of us, you know. Tradition tells us that the burial chamber belonged to Balbilus and that he and his followers perished during the Great Fire of Rome. It can’t be verified but Peter the Apostle was said to have been involved in their demise.’
‘There were signs of a fire.’
‘You see. Science! That’s why I need you.’
‘To do what?’
‘You’re going to handle the bones for me. You’re an archeologist and a woman who respects the past and the sanctity of the dead. I think you’ll do a marvelous job.’
Elisabetta shook her head. ‘You think I’d do this voluntarily?’
Krek shrugged. ‘I really hadn’t thought about that. I simply decided you were going to do it.’ Before she could express outrage he added, ‘What did you make of the star signs at St Callixtus?’
‘I hadn’t fully worked them out.’
‘You took note of the particular order of the planets, didn’t you?’
She nodded.
‘That was the alignment at the moment Balbilus was born in 4 AD. Check the charts if you don’t believe me. I think it was a personal homage to his greatness. It became a symbol for us – of his power, of our power.’
‘Marlowe used it in Faustus.’
‘Yes! Bravo! You noticed the illustration. I told you that you were the one for this job. We’ve had many powerful astrologers through the ages. Bruno Ottinger was my personal astrologer. I believe you know certain things about Bruno.’
‘I have the book that you gave him.’
‘I want it back,’ Krek said icily. ‘Maybe you’ll give it to me as a present.’ He checked the TV and turned up the volume. ‘So, there they are, all of them in the Pauline Chapel. We should watch.’
Hackel stood immobile inside the Pauline Chapel of the Palace of the Vatican. He was in front of the Pauline Door which led to the Sala Regia, a frescoed hall which connected the Palace to the Sistine Chapel. The Cardinal Electors stood in rows facing Cardinal Diaz who was about to address them. There were two videographers who’d been cleared to broadcast the brief ceremony, the last that the public would see of the Cardinals before the Conclave began.
Hackel heard chatter in his earpiece. Minor things: a tourist had been removed from the Square for public drinking. There were pickpockets about. He controlled his breathing, slow and smooth. It would be over soon. Perhaps his role would come out in the investigation, perhaps not. One could never underestimate incompetency. Regardless, he’d know what he’d done. And, more importantly, K would, too. If it looked as though the authorities were on to him, he would disappear into the Lemures network. There would be choices. He fancied South America. There were beautiful women there.
The Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations, Cardinal Franconi, held a microphone up to Diaz’s mouth. He made a short speech in Latin, reminding the Electors of their responsibilities to the Church for the solemn task they were about to undertake and led them in a brief prayer to give them the strength and wisdom to choose a new Holy Father.
It was Hackel himself who opened the Pauline Door to let the procession begin.
TWENTY-NINE
ZAZO WATCHED THE Cardinals in rows of two walk slowly through the Sala Regia flanked by an honor detail of Swiss Guards. He swallowed hard. It was other-worldly to be seeing this play out on TV. He should have been there. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Lorenzo in the background and wondered how he was holding up.
Zazo’s father was puttering about the apartment in an agitated state, unable to go to the university, unable to pick up his Goldbach notebook. By turns he stared out the windows and at the phone as if he could will his daughters to materialize. Zazo tried to get him to eat but he wouldn’t.
Both of them jumped when Zazo’s mobile rang. He answered immediately and shook his head quickly to signal that it wasn’t Micaela or Elisabetta.
He listened and said, ‘Omar, you’re the best. I swear to you that you won’t get in trouble for this.’ Then he clicked
off and sat down at his father’s computer.
‘Who was that?’ his father asked.
‘One of my friends in IT at the Vatican. He’s emailing me a file of phone records.’
‘Whose records?’
‘This morning I found out that in 2005 Bruno Ottinger placed a call to a private residence in the Vatican. Matthias Hackel, the man who’s currently second in command of the Swiss Guards, used to live there. I asked for Hackel’s phone logs.’
‘What does this have to do with Micaela and Elisabetta?’ Carlo asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But it’s curious, isn’t it? Why is a man like Ottinger communicating with a Swiss Guard? Anyway, I’d rather follow my nose than sit like a lump. I don’t trust the Polizia to be doing anything productive.’
His father agreed and hovered over his shoulder while Zazo opened Omar’s email and sent the attachment to the printer.
The printer was still churning out fifty pages. Zazo grabbed a sheaf and groaned, ‘This guy made a lot of calls.’
‘What are we looking for?’ Carlo asked.
‘I’m not sure. Patterns. Frequently dialed numbers.’ He pulled out the Ottinger logs and unfolded them. ‘Maybe any calls to third parties common to the two sets of logs.’
At the sight of dense rows of phone numbers, Carlo perked up. He pulled the pages from his son’s hand. ‘You go make me some toast and leave the numbers to me.’
*
The somber procession of Cardinals in scarlet and white seemed to fascinate Krek.
They were chanting the hymn Veni Creator Spiritus.
Veni, creator Spiritus
mentes tuorum visita,
imple superna gratia,
quae tu creasti pectora.
Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blest,
And in our hearts take up Thy rest;
Come with Thy grace and heavenly aid,
To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.
‘Please tell me why you’re doing this!’ Elisabetta asked Krak desperately.
He looked heavenward in a wry sign of cooperation, then muted the TV’s volume so he wouldn’t have to compete with it.
‘Nine hundred years ago, one of us, a great astrologer and visionary, made a prophecy.’
‘Malachy,’ she said.
‘Yes! Malachy. More cleverness from my nun. For us, this prophecy has been like a beacon and as one of the proud leaders of my people it has been my personal responsibility to use my resources to make sure it is fulfilled.’
‘To destroy the Church,’ she said sadly.
‘Yes, of course. This has always been our strongest desire.’
‘Malachy said the world would end. You want that too?’
‘Look,’ Krek said. ‘I enjoy my life. I’m very comfortable as you can see. But this is something that has been anticipated for a very long time. I say, destroy the Church. That much I can help to accomplish. Whether the world ends too because of my actions, well, we’ll just have to see.’
Elisabetta shook her head. ‘It’s despicable.’
Krek stood and liberally stoked his fire as if he wanted a backdrop of leaping flames. If that was his intention, then it achieved its dramatic effect. As he stood in front of the fireplace it appeared to Elisabetta as if he were emerging from an inferno.
‘Despicable?’ His voice rose, ‘How is your Catholic dogma so different? You speak of a Final Judgment Day. The day the world as we know it ends, no? Your version has Christ returning, mine does not. That’s the principal difference.’
‘In the Last Judgment there will be different fates for the good and evil. That’s what the Church teaches,’ Elisabetta said, fighting to match his anger with gentleness.
‘Believe me,’ Krek said, settling back down, ‘I have no interest in debating your theology. I welcome the perceived differences. Religious discord has always been a source of bounty for us.’
She felt sick. ‘You say you want to destroy the Church. Toward what end? What do you want?’
‘Our credo?’ he ejaculated contemptuously. ‘Our raison d’être? We’re interested in the dark beauty of power, wealth, domination. Fighting the Church has always enriched us. Every conflict brings opportunities. Wars make us rich – and, besides, they’re quite enjoyable.’
‘You get pleasure from human suffering?’
Krek set his jaw. ‘Personally, yes, especially the suffering of sanctimonious religious zealots, but maybe I’m a little extreme in this regard. Most of my brethren are more businesslike in their attitudes.’
‘You’re psychopaths.’
He laughed. ‘Labels again. You know, I’m an educated man. I’ve read and studied all my life. I understand the meaning of this term. Look, we are what we are just as you are what you are. I like to think we’re more evolved, more specialized, more efficient. We’re not hindered by emotionality and I believe that’s a strength. If you want to use the term “psychopath”, then go ahead. How should I label you?’
She was wrong-footed by the way he’d turned the tables. It took several moments for her to compose her thoughts. ‘I’m a woman of faith. I believe in God. I always believed in Him, from my earliest childhood memories. I believe in goodness and the power of redemption. When people suffer, I suffer. I am a servant of God. I suppose that’s my label. It defines me and it makes me happy.’
Krek glanced at the television to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, then replied, ‘Yes, but becoming a nun is a big step, no? No more parties. No more sex, I suppose. No more freedom to do whatever the hell you want to do when you want to do it. Why did you do it?’
He knows why, she thought. She wasn’t going to give him the sadistic satisfaction of spelling it out for him. She wasn’t going to say, you did it, you bastard! Your thugs put a knife in my chest. They snuffed out the life of the man I loved. You made me suffer as much as a person can suffer. My only salvation lay in a total commitment to Christ.
Instead, she said, ‘I can thank you for it. I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude.’
Krek found this amusing and clapped like a seal. Then he pointed at the TV. ‘Look!’ he said like an excited child. ‘They’re closing the door!’
Hackel and his underling Gerhardt Glauser were among the plain-clothes Swiss Guards trailing the procession, mostly men who had provided close security for the deceased Pope. When the last of the conclavists had passed through the great portal of the Sala Regia into the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Franconi, the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations, was the one to close the heavy door. Hackel knew there was a ritual to be performed before the door was locked from the inside but as far as he was concerned the game was almost done.
A contingent of Guards in ceremonial costume took their place in front of the closed door. Hackel and Glauser saluted them, then Glauser said, ‘Can I talk to you?’
The two men walked away from the prying lenses of the videographers and stood beside Agresti’s fresco of Peter of Aragon offering his kingdom to Pope Innocent III. The vaulted ceiling of the Sala Regia amplified sounds so Glauser bent to whisper into Hackel’s ear. ‘One of them, Giaccone, is sick. He’s still in the Domus.’
Hackel looked alarmed. ‘Why wasn’t I told of this?’ he whispered back angrily.
‘I’m telling you now,’ Glauser replied. ‘We’ve got it covered. I put two men on him. The Gendarmes are there as well. When they send a messenger for his ballot, we’ll shadow him too.’
‘Does Oberst Sonnenberg know?
‘I’m not sure. Not from me, anyway. I follow the chain of command.’
Hackel shot back, ‘You stay here.’
‘Where are you going?’ Glauser asked.
‘To the Domus to check personally on Giaccone’s security.’
‘I apologize for the delay in informing you, Oberstleutnant. I didn’t think it was such a big deal.’
Hackel stomped off in a huff. One stray lamb. He’d pay a visit to Cardinal Giaccone and take care of him properly.
/>
Carlo Celestino was hunched over the dining-room table, his reading glasses low on his nose. He was circling phone numbers with his pencil and grumbling. ‘I wish you hadn’t marked up Ottinger’s records. It’s interfering with the system I’m using.’
‘There’s nothing I can do about it,’ Zazo said wearily. ‘Find anything?’
Carlo flipped through Hackel’s log and muttered, ‘This is the kind of thing a computer could do in a nanosecond. Maybe it’s not surprising that most of the out-of-country calls of a Swiss Guard are to Switzerland. Probably family, but that’s for you to figure out. Ottinger may have called Hackel’s number but Hackel doesn’t seem to have called Ottinger. Wait a second, here’s a funny one. Hackel made a few calls to a 386 number. Didn’t I see that exchange in Ottinger’s records?’ He checked the Ottinger files. ‘I knew it! 929295. Hackel and Ottinger both called this number.’
‘Let me see,’ Zazo said, reaching for the Ottinger pages. ‘Christ, I called it this morning!’
‘Who was it?’
‘They said it was a private line and hung up.’
‘Where is it?’
Zazo was already on the computer, looking up the code. ‘It’s in Slovenia, the Bled region. It’s not far from the Italian border. I’m going to call the Slovenian National Police in Ljubljana and ask them to do a reverse look-up. We’ve got to find out who lives there.’
THIRTY
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS and away from the prying eyes of the media the Cardinal Electors found their assigned places and stood somberly at their tables, hands folded. Three items were laid out before them: The Gospels, a simple plastic pen and a ballot slip.
Cardinal Diaz strode to the podium, surveyed his colleagues and looked upwards to Michelangelo’s magnificent ceiling. He focused on his favorite panel, The First Day of Creation, where God divides light from darkness, filled his chest and read out an oath in Latin. All those present would observe the procedures set down by the apostolic constitutions. If elected, they would defend the liberty of the Holy See. They would maintain secrecy and disregard any secular interests in voting.
When he was done, each Cardinal, one by one, touched the Gospels and simply stated, ‘I do so promise, pledge and swear.’
