by Walter Ellis
‘The usual terms.’
‘Of course.’
Visco then told him about Dempsey and O’Malley and the danger they posed to the election of a new anti-Islamic, pro-Italian Pope.
‘We not not require you at this stage to deal finally with Dempsey. But there is no doubt that he is a thorn in our flesh. I need to know what he knows and what insights he may have into the nature of our campaign.’
Franco thought about this. ‘What if I find that they have discovered your plans and intend to frustrate them? Time, after all, is pressing.’
‘In that event, we leave the final decision to you. But in respect of Dempsey only. Do not approach O’Malley.’
‘Understood.’
‘You will be remembered in our prayers, my son.’
‘And in my bank account.’
‘As you say.’
‘Then please tell His Eminence that I am on the case.’
‘And may God go with you.’
A storm – rare this early in the season – was breaking over Rome. Dempsey had set out on foot to meet Maya and his uncle, expecting another balmy summer’s evening, and was wearing only light cotton trousers, open-toed sandals and a t-shirt. But dark clouds were already racing in from the northwest as he closed his apartment door, and by the time he reached the Ponte Mazzini the first drum-rolls of thunder had begun to reverberate across the roofs and towers, followed by prolonged and heavy rain. Like bloody Ireland, he thought, as he hurried along, keeping to the inside edges of the pavements, dodging in and out of colonnades.
He didn’t notice that he was being followed, at a discreet distance, by a stocky, thickset man dressed in a light-blue suit that, though crumpled and marked by sweat, looked as if it had cost its owner a small fortune. Franco Luchesse had been as good as his word. He had arrived at Dempsey’s apartment less than a minute before the Irishman set out for wherever he was going. The ex-Special Forces sergeant hadn’t been sure how things would proceed. If the Irishman had been home, he would have buzzed through on the entry phone, then, once the door was opened, shouldered his way in and ‘persuaded’ him to tell him everything that he knew – a sequence of events that could only have one outcome: the subject’s death. He would have enjoyed that. Alternatively, had the apartment been empty, he would have made himself a sandwich, maybe had a glass of wine, and waited. As it was, Dempsey had come bounding up the steps just as he was checking to see there was nobody about. This had left him with no other option than to follow him – something he had become surprisingly good at over the years.
Dempsey was now scurrying along the Via del Pellegrino, still dodging the rain. O’Malley hadn’t let him down. He had called Maya and explained to her that his nephew had been cleared by the police of the theft of Vatican documents. Afterwards, with her permission, he had spoken to her father and assured him that neither he nor Liam were engaged in activities in any way contrary to the interest of the College of Cardinals, still less the Catholic Church. Studer had rather grumpily accepted what he was told. He was, after all, a good Catholic and O’Malley was, after all, the Superior General of the Jesuits. As a result, Liam and Maya had been reconciled, which pleased everybody, except, possibly, Studer. A gathering at the Giolitti, originally intended to affect this reconciliation, was thus redefined. Now it would be a council of war.
By the time Dempsey reached the Pantheon, there was hardly anyone in the square. Everybody had crowded inside the cafés and bars, avoiding the unexpected downpour that danced off the cobbles and poured in sheets off the awnings. Running his fingers through his hair and brushing off his neck and shoulders, he walked on up the narrow Via Maddalena and turned right into the Via degli Uffici del Vicaro. The Giolitti, a favourite meeting place for Romans for more than a hundred years, was just a few metres along on the right-hand side.
He went in, past the ice-cream counter and turned left into the main salone, hung with crystal chandeliers.
‘Over here, Liam!’
He looked down the rows of tables. Uncle Declan had secured one of the favoured window seats out by the far wall, overlooking the street. Perhaps they had recognized him as the ‘Black Pope’. Being a Jesuit, even in these hard, secular times, was no disadvantage in Rome. Maya was seated next to him. She looked stunning.
He made his way through the throng of customers, dodging the waiters in their white jackets. ‘What sort of weather do you call this?’ he asked of no one in particular.
‘A good night for the ducks,’ his uncle said. ‘Sit down. We saved you a seat.’
Maya stood up and kissed him lightly on both cheeks – a habit that still entranced him. She was dressed in a short denim skirt and a white, patterned t-shirt with the legend ‘Spend an Eternity in Rome’ emblazoned in English across her chest.
‘You’ve already met my uncle, then,’ he said, stating the obvious.
‘Yes,’ she said, grinning. ‘I looked around and I saw this distinguished man dressed from head to foot in black, and I just took a chance.’
‘Maya’s been telling me all about you,’ his uncle said.
‘Oh yes.’
At this point, a young waiter approached, and Dempsey ordered a glass of Frascati.
‘Just bring the bottle,’ his uncle countered.
None of them noticed a stocky, hard-faced man with blonde hair who’d come in out of the rain a couple of minutes after Liam and occupied a nearby table, ordering a double espresso while seemingly engrossed in his copy of L’Osservatore Romano.
‘I’m serious,’ O’Malley said. ‘Maya’s been filling me in on her father’s view of things. Did you know he’s wary of you? A good judge of character obviously, the colonel.’
‘Yes,’ said Dempsey. ‘I am aware of his opinion.’
Maya broke in. ‘But if we can persuade him … that is to say, if I can persuade him that there’s something not right here, something that might actually be working against the interests of the Church …’
‘Then he might join us.’ Dempsey finished the sentence for her.
‘That would certainly be a bonus,’ O’Malley said. ‘But we must be careful. In the end, your father must reach his own conclusions.’
Dempsey pulled at the wet front of his t-shirt, which was clinging uncomfortably to his chest. ‘I don’t know if either of you has noticed, but I’m soaked.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Maya, patting his knee.
‘Water off a duck’s back,’ O’Malley said.
The waiter arrived with the Frascati. He filled Dempsey’s glass and set down a small plate of olives in the centre of the table.
As he reached for an olive, Dempsey felt a twitch of pain run down his spine. His back had been aching for the last hour. Sudden changes in the weather often affected him like this. Scar tissue had a life of its own. Right now he didn’t need to be in a chair, he needed to be in a heated pool doing forty lengths.
He looked up and realized that both of them were staring at him.
‘Are you all right?’ Maya asked, suddenly concerned.
‘It’s his back,’ O’Malley said. ‘The bomb …’
‘Yes, I know,’ she replied. ‘He got me to massage it in bed this morning.’
At this, Superior General O’Malley looked shocked, and his nephew blushed to his roots. Coughing into his hand and giving Maya a look that said, ‘Never, ever say anything about sex in front of my uncle,’ Dempsey huddled forward in his chair. The heads of the other two drew in to meet him. ‘Never mind me,’ Dempsey said, ‘Let’s talk about how we’re going to expose Bosani and get the conclave back onto a level playing field.’
The other two nodded and Dempsey continued. ‘It seems to me that the first thing we need to establish is the hardest to prove. Is the Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church – the man charged with organizing the free and fair election of Christ’s Vicar on Earth – bent on forcing a confrontation between Europe and the Islamic world?’
It was a stark analysis of their dilemma and for several seconds t
here was total silence.
But O’Malley wasn’t finished yet. ‘What – not to put too fine a point on it – if Bosani wishes to foment a new crusade? He wouldn’t be the first to call for Holy War. There are extremists on both sides who see armed conflict as a means of redeeming a world steeped in sin. Crusaders and jihadis in the end are cut from the same cloth. All the pieces are in place. The Muslim world is seething. America and Israel are nuclear states. But so these days are Iran and Pakistan. Hammas and Hezbollah are growing in strength. The Taliban control Afghanistan. In Egypt, the Muslim Brotherhood is at the heart of government. Its astrologers are scouring the heavens for the proper alignment of the stars. In Europe the influence of groups such as Hizb ut-Tahrir is increasing almost by the day.
‘The only loyalty of these groups is to the Ummah – the sovereign nation of Islam. Communities of Muslims, from England to Austria, including Italy, are turning away from the pretence of a European identity and looking for support to their fellow believers across the world.
‘At the same time, half of the earth’s remaining oil and much of its wealth is tied up in the Arabian Gulf, the spiritual home of al-Qaeda, where the governing elites have never been weaker. Seen from the ramparts of the Castel Sant’Angelo, to which the minarets of Rome’s central mosque offer a daily reproach, it might well be argued that if we don’t take Islam on today, we will have lost our last and greatest chance of victory.’
Less than a metre away, Franco had heard enough. He folded his copy of L’Osservatore Romano and placed a ten-euro note under his saucer. Then he stood up and moved away in the direction of the front door leading into the square.
Back in the bar, Maya voiced a thought that had been nagging at her all day.
‘You will probably think I’m insane for saying this,’ she began, ‘but is it possible that we’re looking at this the wrong way round?’
‘What do you mean?’ O’Malley asked.
She hesitated. ‘What if Bosani isn’t actually a Christian? He certainly doesn’t act like one. What if he is something else?
This produced a rare guffaw from O’Malley. ‘Now that really is crazy,’ he said. ‘The idea that one of the highest-ranking cardinals in the Catholic Church might actually be working against the faith is … well, it’s just beyond belief. It’s fantastic.’
But Maya stuck to her guns. ‘It was something my father said that started me thinking. He’d gone to Rüttgers’ funeral and was shocked when Bosani raced through the service like he was chairing a business meeting. There was no empathy, he said. He simply went through the motions. Papa was reminded of how angry and despondent Rüttgers was after the meeting with Bosani the previous week. He told him then that there were some in the Vatican who were hardly even Christian any more. It was as if it was being run by terrorists pursuing their own agenda.’
‘Did he really?’ O’Malley’s face, previously animated, now wore an expression of profound sadness that Maya found deeply affecting. ‘What a terrible comment on our stewardship.’
‘But that wasn’t all. Later, when he told me I was to have nothing more to do with Liam, he said something that stopped me in my tracks. He said that the logic of what we were saying about Bosani was that he was not Catholic at all, but something else.’
‘Wow!’ said Liam.
O’Malley’s face turned pale as the implications of Maya’s words struck home. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ he said. The question is, who – or what – controls Bosani? Rüttgers had known it, too. He just couldn’t prove it – and for his insight he had paid with his life. Feverishly, the Jesuit replayed in his head all that he had learned of Bosani in the last few days. Starting with the absence of crosses in his chambers, all the evidence pointed in one direction. What was it Conan Doyle wrote? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ He turned back to the young couple who were staring anxiously at him. ‘Your father was right,’ he said. ‘I’ve been blind. How could I have missed it? The lust for conflict; the obsession with Battista; the renunciation of alcohol; the meeting with Hakura … and all of that following on from his years in Egypt.’ He threw up his hands. ‘God forgive him!’ he began. ‘I don’t want to believe it. I hardly dare to believe it. And yet nothing else makes sense. Cardinal Bosani, the cardinal in charge of the conclave to elect the next pope … is a Muslim!’
For several seconds, no one spoke. Then Dempsey whistled through his teeth. ‘Jesus Christ, Uncle Declan! That has to be the weirdest thing I have ever heard. But I tell you this: it would make sense of what happened to Rüttgers. As Camerlengo, Bosani is in a perfect position to drive the Church towards its own destruction. Either there’d be the war of civilizations that you just described, which Islam seems to believe it can win, or else the papacy would end up so discredited that it would lose all authority and just vanish from history.’
‘It would make Bosani the greatest spy of the last hundred years,’ Maya said, with a hint of admiration in her voice. ‘Think of it … he’d have to have been in place for years – for decades – advising popes and formulating Church policy. It’s incredible. How could no one have noticed?’
It was Dempsey who jumped in with the answer. ‘Because no one in the Church could ever conceive of such a thing. It would have been literally unimaginable.’
‘So all this time, as he rose through the hierarchy, he would have been hiding in plain sight.’
‘Exactly.’
O’Malley closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. He looked like a man who’d just been told he had a terminal illness. The realization that Bosani had duped the Church and betrayed Christ, while acting as a spy for God knows who – or what! – was almost unbearable to him.
Maya, by contrast, was energized by her insight. ‘If we’re right,’ she said, ‘if Bosani really is a Muslim, and he thinks we’re on to him, he’s going to be on his guard. And we don’t have time to set elaborate traps. But he won’t be acting on his own. This is a conspiracy and conspiracies need conspirators. So we’ve got to find another way in – something, or somone, he can’t deny. But who do we go for? Who else is there?’
O’Malley looked up. ‘There’s his secretary, Visco, for a start. He sticks to him like glue.’
‘Okay. So what if we could prove that Visco is a Muslim?’
‘We’ve only got two days,’ Dempsey reminded them.
‘Prayer would be the obvious way in,’ O’Malley replied, talking as if in a dream. ‘It’s a daily ritual, like a combination of the Mass, the creed and the rosary.’
‘What happens exactly?’
‘Well … the muezzin starts it off, live or recorded. He calls out “Allahu Akbar” –God is great – which he repeats four times. Then he sets out the fundamental articles of faith: that there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His Prophet; that the faithful must pray and that they should show mercy; and then once again that God is great.’
‘Sounds simple enough.’
‘Not as simple as you’d think. Worshippers need to have purified themselves first by removing their shoes and washing their hands, face and feet. They start with the Rak’ah – that is, they bow. Next, they raise their hands to their ears, then fold their hands across their breasts, right over left, and bow. This is known as the Qiyam. The Ruku, which follows, requires them to bow down, hands on their knees, and then to stand again. The best-known part of the ritual – the one you tend to see in photographs – is the Sajdah, in which, as the Imam calls out that God is Great, There is no God but Allah and May Allah be Glorified, all of those taking part prostrate themselves completely, twice. Finally, as the worshippers straighten up, the blessing echoes round the mosque: “As-salaamu allayakum” – Peace be Unto You and the Mercy of Allah.’
‘It sounds exhausting,’ Maya said. ‘Like a full-time job.’
‘In some respects, it is. But no one is required to do anything they can’t manage. It’s like the Haj in that sense. All Muslims are enjoined
to visit Mecca at least once, but only if they are able. The point about Islam – the part that’s most often missed – is that it’s about mercy and doing your best. God doesn’t expect the sick and the dying, or the hopelessly indigent, to somehow crawl to Mecca. With prayers too, known as the Salaah, account is taken of circumstances and abilities.’
Dempsey seized on this. ‘That would have to apply to Visco, wouldn’t it? I mean, there’s not likely to be a muezzin in the heart of the Vatican.’
‘Not so far as I know.’
‘So it would have to be a minimalist version of prayers.’
‘I should imagine so. But if he’s fit and true to his faith, he must still do his best to pray five times a day, every day.’
Maya thought about this. ‘I doubt Visco lives in the Vatican. That’s only for the Monsignors and above. He probably rents an apartment nearby. If we could find out where he lives, maybe we could break in and …’
‘Dear God!’ said O’Malley. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’ He turned to Dempsey. ‘Are you not in enough trouble already?’
‘Double or quits,’ Dempsey said. ‘There’s a lot at stake.’
‘We wouldn’t have to take anything,’ Maya added, reassuringly. ‘Just have a look round, maybe plant an electronic bug in his briefcase. Then if he and Bosani engage in prayers – behind closed doors, no doubt – we’ll hear them.’
‘Then what?’ asked Dempsey
O’Malley tugged at his dog collar. ‘We’d hold a news conference and expose his conspiracy to the world. No matter what, there wouldn’t be a hope in hell his man would get elected.’
Dempsey’s right eyebrow rose quizzically. ‘Who is his man, anyway?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ O’Malley admitted.
‘You must have a list of possibles.’
‘I’m working on it. There’s any number of hardliners in the College of Cardinals. But this is all very new and there’s no time to pin anyone down. Besides, from what you say, we don’t know whether Bosani is pushing for the election of an anti-Muslim bigot or a genuine Islamist. My betting would be on the former.’
