“You’re just biased,” Marion said absently. The forensic pathology section of the hospital was a shadowy, grim place. The gray-green walls and the dead-brown tiled floors imparted a dungeon-like atmosphere to the hallway. The air carried an insistent chemical smell—a mask of disinfectant and the sting of formaldehyde.
“Is this visit for business or pleasure, my dear?” Fritz Huber asked as they entered his office.
“A little of both,” said Marion, “but I have to admit I’m working on a story and I need your help.”
“Sure…sure!” said Fritz. He moved behind his desk, then leaned back and cracked the window, despite the air conditioning. When he pulled a fat short cigar from his center desk drawer, she understood the action.
“So,” said Fritz, snipping off the end of the stogie with a pair of scissors designed for that singular job. “Do you have a good boyfriend yet?”
She shrugged. “I have a boyfriend, but I don’t know how good he is. We have our ups and downs, I guess.”
“Yes, yes. We all do.” He fired up the cigar with an old Zippo, clanked out the lighter’s flame, and looked at her through the billowing cloud of smoke. “Now tell me, Marion…what brings you here, eh?”
“I’m investigating that struck-by-lightning incident—the night before last in Bay Ridge.”
Fritz nodded, puffed again.
“Did you work on it?”
He shrugged. “Nah. Not at first, anyway. Dr. Holstein was assigned to the job, but he called me in during the autopsy.”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about, if you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.” Puff. Puff. Blow.
Marion cleared her throat, thankful he’d opened the window to increase the circulation. She’d never understand why anyone would want to put something as foul as a cigar into his mouth.
“The cause of death wasn’t lightning, was it?”
Fritz did not try to conceal his surprise. “How did you know that?”
“Call it a hunch.” Marion shrugged. “What did you find out?”
Fritz leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair. “Well, Dr. Holstein got suspicious when he began cutting. You see, a person struck by lightning or by a high-voltage line gets burned. Badly burned. But the cauterization is limited to the integument, the skin. When Dr. Holstein opened up the victim, he found the guy’s organs were all cooked from the inside out like he’d been in a microwave oven.”
“And that’s not the usual pattern for lightning?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen. Of course lightning’s real funny. There’s lots of crazy stories about it.”
“What did you put down as the official cause of death?”
Fritz grinned around his cigar. “Lightning.”
“Why? If you don’t think that’s what happened?”
“Because I haven’t the foggiest idea what else it could be!”
Marion leaned forward, stared at him. “Fritz, aren’t you at all curious?”
“Of course I am, but my God, Marion, do you have any idea how many cases I’ve been curious about in thirty-five years in this business?” He puffed erratically at the cigar. “Hell, I’ve seen the results of death from everything from machine guns to toothbrushes and everything in between. There’ve been more than a few that made me wonder what was really going on.”
“But…?”
He shrugged. “But you can’t follow up on all of them, especially one like this punk. He had a rap sheet you wouldn’t believe. Whatever cooked him, I say they picked the right guy!”
“Venus Tyson. I heard he was wanted for murder and armed robbery,” said Marion.
“…and I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Fritz continued, hardly hearing her. “When you get to be my age, you start thinking more about retirement and pensions than you do about your job. You might not like hearing that, but it’s true.”
Marion nodded, trying to mask her disappointment. She’d thought Fritz would have been more help.
“Hey, what’s the matter? I say something wrong?”
“No, not really. It’s just that I have a feeling that this case is more than meets the eye.”
“Why’s that? He was just a punk.”
“No, not the victim,” she said quickly. She briefed him on what she’d learned from the young eyewitness and the tape of the priests.
After listening without interruption, Fritz Huber chuckled softly. “Well, you’ve got a point there. It’s not a story you hear every day.”
“You think it’s silly, don’t you?”
“Marion, when you work as a coroner in New York City, you see some pretty ‘silly’ things.” He smiled his most fatherly smile. “If you have any brains, you learn one thing: nothing’s really ‘silly.’”
“Then you think I should follow it up?”
“Why not? At least you’ll get to meet your handsome priest.” Fritz chuckled, took another puff on his cigar. “And by the way, if you’re talking about Bay Ridge, you might want to start with Saint Sebastian’s on Fourth Avenue. My oldest son used to live right near there.”
Marion stood up, walked around the desk and hugged Huber before he could move from his chair. “Fritz, you’re one of a kind, you know that? Thanks for everything.”
“Hey, besides blow a little smoke in your face, what did I do?”
“You gave me what I needed to keep going on this story,” she said.
“What’s a little information? I just wish I saw more of you than the evening news. When’re you going to come over and have dinner with me and Alice?”
“Give me a date and I’ll be there. Otherwise we’ll never do it, you know that.”
“Next Tuesday. Seven o’clock. How’s that?”
Marion pulled out her notebook and wrote it down. “All right, it’s official. Thank you, again, Fritz.”
“Do good work, Marion.”
She smiled and kissed him good-bye on the cheek. “I will.”
It was him.
He stood at the door of Saint Sebastian’s rectory staring at her. In an instant of time Marion was able to mentally photograph him. He had the longest lashes, the darkest eyes…his features were Mediterranean, yet almost delicate. His thick brown hair was stylishly cut. His shoulders were broad. Handsome was the only word to describe him, although hunk would do in a pinch.
Get a hold on yourself, girl…This is a priest, we’re talking about here.
“Can I help you?” he asked, as time speeded back up to normal. He wore a pair of casual slacks and an NYU sweatshirt.
“Yes. My name is Marion Windsor,” she said. “I’m a journalist for WPIX. I videotaped you at the scene of the lightning accident last evening, and I was wondering if I might talk to you for a few minutes.”
She wasn’t sure, but he seemed to tense up for a moment before turning on a smile.
“Why, certainly, Ms. Windsor. Please, come in. My name is Father Carenza.”
Italian, she thought. Of course. He could be another young Pacino or De Niro with those looks.
He led her down a short hall to a room with a desk and bookcases. She took the opportunity to glance into some of the other rooms on the first floor, noting the tastefully contemporary furnishings, the de rigueur crucifixes, portraits of Mary, and pieces of statuary.
Father Carenza seated himself behind the small desk, folded his hands neatly on the blotter, and tried to look relaxed. He failed miserably, and Marion started wondering anew if she was really onto something. She sat down and stared at him. Your move. Father.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Windsor?”
“Father, I saw you administering the last rites to the victim. I was wondering if perhaps you might have known the boy, if there’s anything you could tell me about him?”
“—No, I didn’t know him. Not at all.”
“Then what were you doing at the scene, if I might ask?”
He shifted in his chair, his dark eyes looking at a point on the wall pas
t her head—as though avoiding her.
“I, uh…I was out taking a walk with my pastor when we heard about the accident.” He looked at her, then quickly away. Father Carenza was not accustomed to telling such boldfaced lies.
She nodded. “I see.” Marion paused, produced her mini-camcorder from her bag. “Do you mind if we record this conversation?”
“Actually I’m not sure what Archdiocese policy is on that sort of thing, and Father Sobieski’s not here right now…”
Marion smiled, folding up the electronic gear. “No problem, Father. But tell me this. A small boy said he saw you getting mugged by the victim earlier in the evening. In that alley. Is that true?”
She watched as he opened his mouth to respond and found that the words would not come. He had seized up for a second, obviously unsure what to say or do. He looked helpless and Marion felt sorry for him. She didn’t like harpooning him like this, but she’d learned that direct confrontation was always the best way to get to the heart of a story.
Coughing nervously, Father Carenza suddenly focused a most penetrating gaze full bore upon her. “Yes, it’s true. I’d been there earlier. I escaped…and I ran away.”
Marion nodded. She was surprised that he admitted it so readily. She wasn’t accustomed to city inhabitants being so open, so honest. Perhaps naïveté, or his religious training, made him so different.
“The boy said he saw something else,” she said softly. Better to handle this delicately.
The trapped-scared expression returned to his face. “Did he?”
“He said there was a flash of light and the mugger was killed. He said you caused it.”
“That’s pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?” Father Carenza tried to smile.
“I don’t know, Father. I’ve seen so many strange things in my business…”
The young priest looked at his watch and stood. “I’m afraid I’m running out of time, Ms. Windsor. I’ve got to go to a school meeting right after dinner.”
“I see.”
“I hope I’ve been some help,” he said lamely as he escorted her toward the door.
“Well, yes, you have, Father. I hope my questions didn’t disturb you.”
“Have you ever been mugged, Ms. Windsor?” He paused by the open front door; their gazes locked for an instant. Marion felt the impact of his look clear down to her toes.
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s not something you want to remember with much fondness, believe me.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” she said, sensing his embarrassment. All right. Enough was enough. They shook hands. “Thank you, Father. Thank you very much.”
“Good night, Ms. Windsor.”
She descended the porch steps to the sidewalk, glancing back at him as he watched her depart. She had a feeling they would be talking again.
EIGHT
Vatican City—Francesco
* * *
August 17, 1998
The telephone rang and Father Giovanni Francesco moved to his desk to pick it up.
“Hello…” he said in a whisper-quiet voice. “Francesco speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Father, it’s Victorianna…”
Francesco reacted instantly. “Why do you call me here!? I don’t want there to be any record of contact between any of us.”
The woman cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, ’Vanni, but we have a bit of an emergency.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“It’s Etienne,” said his colleague of more than thirty years.
Giovanni gritted his teeth. Damn this woman! Getting information out of her was like pulling teeth! “What about Etienne?”
“Well,” said the Abbess, “she’s…she’s had a vision.”
The words struck a resonant chord in him. From his earliest years in the Catholic Church he’d heard the stories about select people, usually very pious individuals, “having a vision.” In layman’s terms, it meant receiving a special message from God—actually seeing something grand and beatific unfold before your eyes. The Fatima incident was perhaps the most famous, but Giovanni had heard hundreds of others during his seventy-one years.
He reached for a cigarette in his cassock pocket, found only an empty pack. Damn. “What kind of vision? What did she see?”
“We don’t know,” said Abbess Victorianna. “We found her in the garden. We thought at first that she was having some kind of seizure. She’s in the convent infirmary, but she may have to be moved to a hospital.”
“Is she conscious?”
“Just barely. She keeps saying she’s seen God and the end of the world.”
Giovanni smirked. “Yes, of course. She and a thousand others…”
“’Vanni, you forget who we’re talking about here.” The nun’s voice was stern, penetrating.
He sighed audibly. “Very well, I’ll come see her. Perhaps she’ll tell me something she won’t tell anyone else.”
“You flatter yourself, Father.”
“If not I, then who better?” He smiled into the receiver. “I will also speak to Paolo.”
“All right. I will await word from you.”
“Within the hour, Sister. Good-bye.”
He hung up the phone as an arthritic pain misfired the synapses of his right arm. One of the prices paid for not dying young.
On hearing the word “vision,” a knot had formed in the base of Giovanni Francesco’s stomach. That knot seemed to be swelling, growing hot. These days, whenever anything out of the ordinary occurred, his ulcer immediately started sending out warning signals. He winced at the incipient pain. Damn, he was finally starting to fall apart.
Giovanni reached for a Turkish cigarette from the gold filigreed box on the desktop, lighted it from a Zippo he’d had since World War II.
It might be a good idea to have Targeno involved in this. He could be trusted. Perhaps he should secretly investigate the nun’s story.
Giovanni called his secretary and had him contact Targeno, requesting that the man come to the Jesuit’s office as soon as possible.
Slowly drawing on his cigarette, savoring the taste of the special tobaccos, Francesco walked slowly to the window and looked out upon a westering afternoon sun. A warm glow danced upon the red-tiled rooftop of the Ethiopian College beyond the Viale Dell Osservatorio. His office in the Governorate was on the west side of the massive building which afforded him a view of the Grotto of Lourdes, the heliport, and part of the Wall of Leo IV. It was the view commonly called the “Vatican’s back yard,” the part of the city less-known to the tourists and the photographers of postcards.
Giovanni preferred it that way. He exhaled a thin, blue plume against the windowpane as he considered the implications of the latest news.
So the woman had had a vision. He had made light of it to the nun—no sense getting her disturbed. But was it, in fact, a Sign? There had been nothing up to now, even though the three of them had been watching carefully. But now, coupled with the stunning news from Sobieski…Giovanni smiled, drew in another lungful.
Yes, this was it.
He turned from the window, heading for his desk. He was a tall, thin man. His cheeks were sallow, gaunt, and his face had a wolfish aspect. Although past seventy, he still looked vigorous and alert. Many of his colleagues had told him he was too tough to die.
And perhaps they were right.
Officially, he was not a member of the Curia; his title in the catalog of various Vatican commissions was Prefect of Public Welfare, which meant he was employed by the Curia to oversee the day-to-day activities of government agencies ranging from the Bureau for Tourist Information and Safety to the Vatican Fire Department. For the majority of curial staffers, civil servants, and even many of the other cardinals themselves, Giovanni was just another cog on the great Vatican wheel of bureaucracy. He also served as special Papal Liaison to the Society of Jesus.
This meant he was in touch with the inner circle of Vatican power brokers capped by the
Pope himself. Over the years Giovanni had cultivated connections in all the organizations that might someday be of use to him, most notably the Servizio Segreto Vaticano, the Vatican Secret Service.
He smiled to himself as he butted out his cigarette in a gold and sterling silver ashtray. The average Catholic on the street, in any city in the world, would probably laugh at the idea of their Church employing an underground police force, much less an espionage unit. But it was true. The SSV trained its members at a six-hundred-year-old Corsican monastery whose monks were experts in the most deadly arts and whose methods of training were more rigorous than the CIA, KGB, M15, or even the Israeli Mossad.
Formed immediately after World War II by Pius XII, the SSV had grown to be an incredibly influential power in world politics. Giovanni had been asked to join back in 1946 because of his extensive experience as a liaison to America’s OSS after the Anzio invasion. He smiled as he remembered those heady, adventurous days. The world would blanch if they ever discovered some of the SSV’s global maneuverings.
The assassinations of Franco and Brezhnev were two of his personal favorites. Neither the Spaniards, nor the Russians had ever suspected a thing. Timing, in Francesco’s business, was crucial, and the timing in both instances had been exquisite.
The phone shrilled and he picked it up, automatically reaching for a cigarette, lighting it with the American Zippo that would surely outlast him.
“Yes?”
“I have contacted Targeno, sir.”
Giovanni exhaled. “And…”
“By chance, he was in the building,” said the receptionist, his voice flat and full of discipline.
“Very good.” Another pull on the Turkish blend.
“He should be here at any moment.”
“Thank you, Spinelli. That will be all. Just send him in when he arrives.”
The receptionist hung up, leaving Giovanni to his thoughts once again.
Targeno.
Giovanni was completely ambivalent about the man, feeling toward him both love and hate, admiration and fear. Over the years, Targeno had acquired a reputation of being fiercely dedicated to completing every SSV assignment. Failure had become anathema to him. He succeeded every time out, and he did so with a merciless determination that had become legendary among the ranks of the field agents. Many thought he was insane, but all respected him. Most feared him, but loved to work with him because he was so efficient, so dependable, so clean. He had a nickname which had sprung from these attributes: II Chirurgo—The Surgeon. That Targeno carried a six-inch stiletto, and could use it with the slick speed and confidence of a surgeon, enhanced the image.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 6
