by Walter Ellis
‘It would also explain why Yilmaz Hakura is in town.’
‘Exactly. Bosani is like an army general calling in special forces.’
‘… who can be counted on to perform the actions that others would baulk at.’ Dempsey thought hard for a moment. He could feel his heart begin to pound in his chest. ‘Call Colonel Studer,’ he said. ‘He’s the only one we know with the clearance to make something of this.’
‘I’ll get onto it right away. And I’ll speak to Aprea … he’ll know who to contact to get things moving. Meanwhile, keep your eyes skinned – and get Maya the hell out of there.’
Maya had been talking to two tourists from Lyon while Demspey was on the phone. Now she looked alarmed. ‘You’ve turned pale,’ she said. ‘What did your uncle just say to you?’
‘I want you to go home,’ Demspey said. ‘Seriously. Get inside and stay there. Bosani has only one card left to play and I don’t want you around for it.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘If you see your father, tell him there could be a suicide bomber in St Peter’s Square, dressed as a priest, or a nun, or just an ordinary tourist. It could be anybody.’
Maya’s face turned pale. ‘Good God! What are you going to do?’
‘My uncle’s contacting police headquarters. In the meantime, I’m going to keep my eyes open, see if there’s anyone acting suspiciously. Other than that, I swear to God, I don’t know.’
Less than a hundred metres away, also in St Peter’s Square, Franco was engaged in his own search for the bomber. Renzo Giacconi, his Genovese capo, had been shocked to learn from him that Father Visco, far from being an opponent of Islam, was actually a Muslim himself, trying to foment a war with Christian Europe.
‘But Visco was only a puppet,’ he had said. ‘The question is, who is pulling the strings?’
Franco had thought about this. When the truth hit him, it was with a sense of shock. Yes. Bosani was the puppet master. Who else could it possibly be? The truth had been staring him in the face for years. Visco had always done the Camerlengo’s bidding. He was no more than his master’s voice, desperate to please through every word and action. The assassin had been raised in a culture of hierarchy – Church, Mafia and the army – and could not imagine how someone of Visco’s essentially empty nature could simply have drifted into such a dangerous conspiracy. His conversion could only have come about at the behest of a powerful personality, and there was no more powerful personality in Rome than Cardinal Lamberto Bosani.
The Camerlengo had always been careful to sound like he was the most Catholic of high Catholics when Franco was around. But how else could he play it? He could hardly have confessed all to a mere hitman. The justification he gave for the actions he ordered (followed invariably by five minutes in the confessional with Father Visco) was that, in setting the Church and Islam at each other’s throats, he was doing God’s work, helping prepare the way for the ultimate triumph of Christ. Though dismayed by the murder of priests, even a prince of the Church, Franco had comforted himself that Bosani knew what he was doing and that he, for his part, was only following orders. But now, after talking with his capo, he felt that he had been used and, worse than that, betrayed. And who was to say that when Bosani’s final purpose was achieved, he wouldn’t find some reason to extinguish the faithful Franco? That would be a sensible move. It would tie up a dangerous loose end and reduce the circle of those who understood his true purpose. There was also his mother to consider. Mama would be horrified to learn that her son, however unwittingly, had acted against Jesus and His Holy Mother, and Franco was not one to offend his mother, even after she was dead.
Giacconi was following the news from Rome with great care and attention and believed he had worked out Bosani’s likely strategy. Once you accepted, he said, that the cardinal was not who he said he was, but a Muslim agent set on bringing down the Church, the suicide-bomber ploy followed as night followed day. Franco had been despatched on the overnight train from Genoa, and told to keep a close watch in St Peter’s Square for any signs of trouble. He was then under orders to do whatever was necessary to stop it. From a payphone in the terminus in Rome, he had called the security services and left an anonymous warning of a threat to pilgrims, which he assumed would be ignored. Other than that, he reasoned, there was nothing more he could do.
It was therefore a fact that by 4.30 in the afternoon, both Dempsey and Franco were actively looking for a bomber. DIGOS, aware of the possible presence in Rome of Yilmaz Hakura, was aware that anything could happen and had circulated details of the Hizb ut-Tahrir operative. But the Vatican’s position was that there was no reason to fear a terrorist attack. They were on high alert because the election of the Pope was that kind of an occasion, but in their hearts they did not expect to have to deal with more than medical alerts, occasional rowdies and the inevitable upsurge of joy that would greet the first puff of white smoke.
O’Malley had tried and failed to contact Colonel Studer, who was not using his normal mobile phone. He left a message with the front desk and on his voicemail. Maya hadn’t reached her father either. Not even her mother had any hope of speaking with the colonel until the new Pope was announced and the crowds had dispersed. Frustrated, she had then called the Rome police and told a duty officer of Dempsey’s fears of a suicide bomber in St Peter’s Square. The young woman duly took a note and promised to pass it on. It later turned out that Maya’s call was the 147th that day with essentially the same message.
Equally frustrated, not knowing how best to be useful in a situation that had escalated far beyond his control, O’Malley called Chief Inspector Aprea, and agreed to meet him in the control room of the Vatican Security Corps, part of the gendarmerie, based on an upper floor of the Governate. The control room was the hub of the surveillance operation. Scores of high-resolution LCD screens were arranged in banks along one side of the room, monitored by trained officers able to zoom in on groups and individuals gathered in the square.
Aprea had already spoken to the inspector in charge, asking him to direct his officers to look out for anyone, including religious and clergy, carrying too much bulk or seeming to have another purpose in mind than celebration of a new pope.
Below, standing on the pedestal of the Egyptian obelisk in the centre of the square, Dempsey was beginning to think that he must have got it all wrong. There was no bomber and Bosani’s cause was lost. He started to think about Maya and wondered how soon they could meet up again once all this was over.
Fifty metres away, Franco was coming to the same conclusion. The Camerlengo was a ruthless man and his behaviour in recent months had been increasingly bizarre. But was it honestly possible that he could be a Muslim? It was crazy stuff. The capo was deluding himself. He was so used to people who lied to him about everything, just to save their skins, that he couldn’t recognize truth any longer. And even if he was right and the Camerlengo had switched faiths, not even he, for God’s sake, would set off a bomb among a crowded throng of pilgrims come to greet their new Pope.
Dempsey and Franco, without knowing it, were less than fifty metres apart. The Italian had dyed his newly shorn hair and was again wearing dark glasses. The last thing he wanted was to be picked up by the police. He was watching for any kind of supicious movement, especially from anyone who might be an Arab or an Iranian, or any kind of Muslim … but also for shifty-looking priests, or nuns carrying a bit too much weight.
Dempsey, having seen the results of two suicide bombs in Iraq, was equally vigilant, but here, out of the Middle-East context, was less sure what a potential bomber would look like. He was also curious to learn what was going on in the conclave, which had failed twice now to produce a result and ought to be gearing up for the final ballot of the day. Bosani was clearly a man possessed and would be working to set up someone he could control – a small-minded bigot with a martyr complex. But there were no guarantees. What if the conclave chose a technocrat like Ratzinger, who became Benedict XVI, or a saint like Roncalli – John XXI
II – or a bore like Montini, who as Paul VI presided over twenty-five years of stasis? Who among the crowd of pensioners he had watched shuffling into the Sistine Chapel, worried about their prostates, their bad hearts and their flatulence, was really capable of turning the world upside down and leading the West towards an early date with Armageddon?
The press of people around him was suffocating. He had never seen a crowd like this. Three hundred and fifty thousand – that was like the combined population of Cork, Limerick and Galway. And the temperature was a sweaty thirty-five degrees! A cold beer – that’s what he’d like right now. And a cool bath, and Maya to share it with him.
That was when the phone in his pocket rang. He didn’t hear it at first and when he snapped it open the connection was broken, leaving the message on-screen, Missed Call Jesuit 1. Uncle Declan. Seconds later, O’Malley’s voice came on the line. He sounded excited.
‘Listen to me, Liam. I’m in the Governate with Aprea. One of the surveillance cameras has picked up a monk behaving suspiciously. He’s obviously tense. He keeps looking round him, and he keeps one of his hands permanently inside the fold of his habit, as if he’s got got something hidden there. But more to the point, I think I recognize him. The other day, when I went to visit Bosani, this same fellow – a Benedictine – was talking to Visco. He’s tall – six-four at least – aged about thirty. And he’s got a tonsure. At the moment, he’s about thirty or forty feet from where you’re standing, in the direction of the Sistine Chapel. The head of the gendarmerie has ordered two of his men to make their way towards him, but they’re in uniform and Aprea is worried they may startle him.’
‘Don’t worry, Uncle. I’m on it.’
‘Please be careful,’ O’Malley said. But Dempsey had already rung off.
A tall man. Six-feet-four. Wearing a monk’s habit and with a tonsure. At least he shouldn’t be hard to spot. He fixed his eyes on the Sistine Chapel, a hundred metres or so to his right, and began to press his way through the throng.
‘Excuse me. Please let me through. This is important. Mi scusi. Excusez moi. Entschuldigung.’
His progress was plainfully slow. One person in ten in the square must have been a priest or member of a religious order. At least the priests would mostly be in their everyday suits, while most of the religious were nuns. Even so. It was like looking for your cousin in a football crowd.
He took a deep breath and pushed ahead. That was when he smelled it. Drifting into his nostrils: the sweet smell of marzipan or almonds. He sniffed again. The bomb that nearly killed him four years ago had given off an aroma of marzipan just before it went off in the sickly summer heat of that September afternoon. He remembered it like it was yesterday. He was leading his platoon on a routine patrol on high ground about ten kilometres northeast of Kirkuk. A device fashioned from decaying plastic explosive had been concealed beneath a water trough. It detonated less than four feet from one of his troopers ten paces behind, killing the young man and two comrades and, in his own case, stripping the skin off the right side of his back from his shoulder down as far as his buttocks.
That was the day his old life had ended.
He stopped. There it was again. That smell … like marzipan in a low oven.
He looked around cautiously. There were at least a dozen people within six feet of him: a middle-aged couple, Spanish by the sound of them; a group of overweight Romans; two Germans in their twenties; a pregnant woman; an elderly nun wearing a Carmelite habit; a student-type drinking from a bottle of Evian water … and a tall monk with a Benedictine tonsure. He swallowed hard. Was this the man who would start the next world war? He inched towards him, trying not to appear in any way interested. The smell grew stronger as he drew closer. The explosives must be sweating in this heat. He brushed past him, looking straight ahead, while allowing his trailing left hand to touch lightly against the man’s cassock. There was no doubt about it. He was wearing something solid around his middle.
He didn’t know what to do. There were officers on the way, but with 300,000 people in the square focused on what they regarded as a sacred event, no simple order to clear the area could be given. In any case, action by the police might very well have the effect of ensuring the disaster it was intended to prevent. The bomber could almost certainly trigger his device with one flick of his thumb – assuming, that is, that he had activated it. But maybe he hadn’t got to that point yet. As Dempsey struggled to keep up with him, the suspect edged his way through the crowd in the direction of the Sistine Chapel. Maybe he wanted to get closer to the conclave before he pressed the switch, for maximum impact. It was even possible that he planned to damage the chapel itself, thus adding to the sense of outrage that would sweep the world. Dempsey halted for a second and looked around him, hoping against hope to see a policeman or a gendarme nearby. But there was no one. What should he do? If he kept on following him, the suspect was sure to realize that he had been spotted. And then what? He swallowed hard. There was nothing for it. He would just have to tackle him and hope for the best. If he could just knock him over, then hold firm to his arms until help came …
He got ready to charge. Holy Mother of God! he said to himself. Here goes!
He leapt forward, pushing two Japanese tourists out of his path, and jumped the man from behind, encircling his waist, hoisting his arms upwards, shouting out at the same time, ‘Move away! Everybody back!’
A woman sreamed. Then everyone was screaming. The crowd shrank back like a single frightened creature. ‘It’s a bomb!’ somebody shouted. ‘He’s got a bomb!’
He could hear commands being shouted through a megaphone, too far off to be of any use. Then a police whistle. Maybe Uncle Declan had actually persuaded someone to do something. But they were too late. All the while, he and the bomber were grappling. ‘Lascilo andare! – Let go of me!’ the man shrieked. ‘I am here to do God’s work! Allah is with me!’
He wasn’t just tall, he was exceptionally strong, his power boosted by the adrenalin charge of knowing that these were his final seconds on earth. Dempsey, with his injured left arm, could barely constrain him. Amid further desperate struggle, their legs gave way together and they fell over, rolling over and over on the cobbles. During one twist, Dempsey managed to hook his feet round the man’s ankles, so that he now held him from both ends. But it was obvious he wasn’t going to give up. Once more calling on Allah, he gave a mighty heave and broke the Irishman’s grip. Wriggling to his right before he could be ensnared again, he groped with one hand around his middle until he found what he was looking for. A red light came on. Too late, too late. For Dempsey, the world now stood still. All he could focus on was the man, screaming out ‘Allahu Akbar!’ while his left thumb trembled over the simple pressure switch that would set off the bomb. Dempsey felt fear – fear and regret, and shame. He closed his eyes.
The next thing he heard was the dull thwack of a silenced automatic, then another, and another. He opened his eyes again. The smell of marzipan had been replaced by the stench of cordite. The bomber’s brains and skull were spread out over the cobbles, which were thickly stained with blood. His left foot twitched for a second, then lay still.
The screams from the crowd had reached a crescendo. Dempsey could feel the intensity of the excitement among the onlookers pressing in on him. Whoever had shot the monk had saved his life and the lives of hundreds of pilgrims. He sat up, noticing for the first time that his hands were shaking. Standing straight ahead, gripping an automatic in his right hand, was the assassin who had attacked him with a switchblade two days before. It wasn’t so much his face that he recognized. It was his bulk and the way he held himself – like a professional. The man was nodding down at him as if in acknowledgement of something. Then, twisting the silencer off the muzzle of his pistol, he turned away and disappeared into the crowd. No one tried to stop him. They were too stunned, too scared, and too grateful.
Seconds later, Sergeant Weibel of the Swiss Guard turned up, his P226 handgun out of his
holster. He looked disappointed that he had arrived too late to shoot anybody. After that, it was the turn of the paramedics. O’Malley and Aprea were not far behind. Dempsey was immediately proclaimed by the crowd as a hero – or one half of a team of heroes. So where was the second man? Sergeant Weibel wanted to know. But no one knew, and Dempsey was saying nothing.
Meanwhile, in a hotel room in Nicosia, Yilmaz Hakura switched off his television set. The news from St Peter’s Square was a setback, but not a defeat. With Bosani at the new Pope’s elbow, there would be other times and other opportunities. The crusaders had to win every time; jihadis only once. From the minaret of a nearby mosque, the voice of the muezzin could be heard calling the faithful to prayer. Hakura did not ignore the call.
It was another two hours before the white smoke rose from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. Colonel Studer, it turned out, had broken the iron rule of the conclave and entered the building to talk to the dean. To do so, he required not only his own key, but those of the prefect of the Pontifical House and of the official delegate of the Holy See. The prefect acquiesced as soon as he learned what had happened. The delegate, however, had to be pressured into giving his consent. ‘Listen to me,’ Studer said. ‘If you say no to me, first I shall take the key anyway. Second, I shall tell the world that you refused to inform Their Eminences of an unprecedented attack on the sovereignty of the universal Church.’ At this, the delegate, a retired banker, caved in completely.
Studer was not exaggerating. ‘Please forgive me, Your Eminence,’ he began. ‘I greatly regret this intrusion. But something terrible has happened.’
‘Yes,’ the dean replied. ‘Cardinal Bosani told us.’
Studer had suspected as much. That’s why he had broken a rule established centuries before. ‘But how did he know?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be incommunicado?’
