Dangerous. Crazy, perhaps. But the best, all the same.
As if on cue, the door to Giovanni’s office opened, revealing the stern face of the receptionist. “Excuse me, sir, but he’s here…”
Before Giovanni could say a word or make a gesture, a tall, broad-shouldered man pushed past the receptionist and into the room, slamming the door behind him. It was a typical entrance for Targeno, who always acted as though there was no time, never enough time, as though he was always on a tight schedule.
“You wanted to see me?” said the agent in a silky baritone that could have belonged to a radio announcer.
“That is correct,” said Giovanni. “Sit down, please.”
Targeno remained standing before the desk in parade rest. He wore a fashionable black suit, a white silk shirt with french cuffs and silver links, and a maroon tie. His hair was styled in the latest continental cut. Aviator glasses obscured eyes Giovanni knew to be so brown and deep they were almost black. Targeno’s face was ageless—he could have been anything from thirty-five to fifty—and he held the pure essence of experience in his eyes. When he concealed those eyes, he became a slick, unidentifiable being. He remained standing.
“I said you could sit down,” said Giovanni, taking another drag from his cigarette.
“I would prefer to stand, Father.”
Giovanni shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Exhale.
“Those things are going to kill you. You know that, don’t you?” The baritone voice was so smooth, almost seductive.
“They haven’t yet, and it’s been fifty-five years,” said Giovanni. “And at my age, what difference does it make?”
Targeno stood up straighter. “I was checking on some things down in Data Retrieval, Father. You said you wanted me.”
You bastard, thought Giovanni. He was impatient. Impertinent. One of a kind.
“I’ve often told you the day might come when I would need your skills, your loyalty…”
Targeno nodded.
“That day has at last arrived,” Giovanni said, moving away from his desk toward the window, purposely turning his back on the agent. It was a tactic he’d found effective in dealing with people from whom he required respect.
“’Vanni, I am very busy,” Targeno began.
Francesco whirled, eyes ablaze. “Do you think I don’t realize all that? You know I have some influence. Besides, Cardinal Masseria and his precious SSV owe me a few favors.”
“I see,” said Targeno calmly. “Then what is it you want?”
“There is a nun in the Poor Clares convent infirmary. She’s had a vision, and I want her under surveillance. I want her interrogated. Carefully, of course. Let her think you’re a doctor. I may see her myself, but you may fare better.”
“A nun?” Targeno smirked to himself. “And for this you need someone like me? Father—”
“Yes! I need you!” Giovanni paced back and forth. “I cannot explain everything to you—but your ‘techniques’ may be useful.”
“Is the nun in danger?” Targeno shifted his feet ever so slightly.
“No, not at all.” Francesco wondered how much to tell this most trustworthy of men.
“You say she’s had a vision?”
“Yes, and it’s your job to find out what she saw.”
Targeno shrugged. “All right, ’Vanni. I’ll finish my business downstairs and go to the convent. You’ll clear things with Masseria?”
Giovanni nodded. “Consider it done. Now, please, get going.”
Targeno nodded, quietly departed. Giovanni waited till he was alone before phoning the third member of the triumvirate.
“Office for Personal Relations…” said a voice.
“This if Father Francesco. I will speak to Cardinal Lareggia, please.”
“One moment, Father.”
There followed a series of clicks and beeps. The Vatican phone system left much to be desired. Finally another extension began ringing.
“Cardinal Lareggia’s office…” said a male voice.
He repeated his request. More infernal beeping and clicking.
Finally: “’Vanni, what can I do for you?”
“Paolo,” he said, “there is more news.”
Quickly he related the little he’d learned from Abbess Victorianna.
Cardinal Paolo Lareggia said, “Do you think this has anything to do with the Carenza incident?”
“Who knows?” said Giovanni. “I’m going right over there to speak with her myself.”
“Keep me informed.”
Giovanni smiled. “Oh, I will, don’t worry. What’s the latest from America?”
“He arrives tomorrow.”
“Is everything prepared?” Giovanni lighted another cigarette.
“Things progress.”
“You know,” he said, exhaling, “I sometimes forget exactly what it is we’re doing. And then it hits me again. And I’m stunned all over again.”
“I know,” said Paolo. “I feel like a young man again. Ready to kiss a beautiful woman. Full of excitement.”
Giovanni nodded. It had been many years since he’d felt such powerful anticipation.
“I understand,” he said softly into the receiver.
“It is a wonderful thing that has happened, yes, Father?”
“Finally,” he said. “Good-bye, Paolo. I shall speak to you when I return from the convent.”
He hung up the phone and stared absently at the burning end of his cigarette. What in God’s name had they really done?
Anticipation consumed him like an obscene tumor. After all these years, the answer was within his grasp…
NINE
Brooklyn, New York—Sobieski
* * *
August 23, 1998
“Rome? Why? What for?” asked Father Carenza. The young priest was stunned by his pastor’s announcement.
Stan Sobieski looked at Peter, who was pacing in front of Sobieski’s desk, running his hands through his dark hair. The young man’s whole bearing revealed his struggle through the emotionally devastating incident of the mugger’s death; his face reflected the effects of the stress. Lines had gathered around his usually bright eyes, his cheeks seemed a bit gaunt, his lips were cracked and chapped.
“Peter, you have to understand, there are special Papal committees that study phenomena such as yours. The Vatican has always been concerned with miracles.”
Peter barked out a nervous laugh. “Miracles! You call what I did miraculous? Stan, for God’s sake, I killed somebody!”
“It was self-defense,” said Sobieski. “You have to remember that. You have to stop punishing yourself.”
Carenza continued pacing. “The Vatican! I can’t believe they want to see me…”
“It’s true. You saw the telegram.”
“But why did you even tell them? I can’t believe this,” said Peter. “Things are getting out of hand.”
“What I did is required by the Archdiocese. The Church is always interested in any ‘supernatural’ phenomena, especially any involving the clergy. You know that, Father.”
Peter nodded, looked absently out the window. “I guess I’d better go upstairs and pack,” he said resignedly.
“I suppose you should, yes,” said Sobieski.
Carenza paused and looked back as he reached the door. “I still can’t understand what the rush is…I mean, it just happened last week.”
Sobieski cleared his throat. “Who can say what Rome’s thinking might be?”
Peter smiled, a small ironic smile, turned and headed for the stairs. Sobieski watched him go, then returned to his desk. He was thinking about Archbishop Duffy, nine years ago, telling him that a new priest was being assigned to him. Peter Carenza.
He remembered getting the letter of assignment from the Archdiocese explaining that he would be getting a boy fresh from the seminary, then the call from Duffy, and then, before Peter arrived, the surprise visit from a high-ranking Jesuit from the Vatican.
That had b
een his first meeting with Father Giovanni Francesco, a grim and determined-looking man who had been very comfortable handing out orders. His instructions had been quite clear, if somewhat mysterious. The Vatican wanted Carenza watched closely. Sobieski was to report to Francesco’s office once per year, and immediately if he observed any “noteworthy” behavior on the part of the priest. Sobieski was even given access to the Church’s security communications equipment at the headquarters of the New York Archdiocese.
Then Peter Carenza had arrived. Sobieski could still remember his incredulity—the young man seemed so ordinary, so normal.
And for nine years, things had been perfectly normal. Boringly so.
Until now.
Sobieski had always wondered at the Vatican’s special interest in Carenza, but he never questioned what was asked of him by the bigwigs. If a special Papal committee felt something was necessary, then he would do it. It had been that simple.
But now…now that he’d seen the charred body and listened to the priest’s story, and especially since he’d seen the glow of excitement behind the eyes of that fat Cardinal, Lareggia, Sobieski would give his eyeteeth to be going back to Rome with Peter.
He sighed and sat back in his desk chair. Knowing Vatican bureaucracy, it was a good bet he’d never hear another word about the whole thing.
TEN
Vatican City—Carenza
* * *
August 24, 1998
The flight from JFK was insufferably long. Peter did not like being confined in such a small space, and the conversation of his seat-mate, a sales executive for Burroughs Business Machines, had paled many hours before touchdown at Roma Internazionale. Peter simply didn’t care which company’s machines controlled the world banking market. He tried sleeping, but the seats in the 747 were just not designed for that. He had never been able to doze off in a sitting position and was therefore doomed to the full impact of a monstrous case of jet lag.
He was met at the airport by a priest named Orlando, who stood by the arrival gate holding a placard labeled CARENZA in black letters. The priest was extremely quiet and reserved, driving almost wordlessly through the streets at high speed. Though Peter’s Italian was very rusty after all his years in America, it would get him by, but all his attempts to begin conversation were blunted by Orlando’s clipped responses. Peter wondered why he was receiving such brusque treatment if he was supposed to be something of a celebrity to this special committee.
The ride from the airport was a blur of speed and color. It was the first time he’d been back to Italy since childhood, and his memories of the city were dim and episodic. Although this was the country of his birth, he did not feel the strong nationalistic surge he expected. He was probably more of an American than he’d ever stopped to consider…
Father Orlando negotiated the black Mercedes sedan through many twisting avenues, avoiding the large tourist-clogged boulevards for more expedient back-streets. Crossing the huge Via della Conciliazione, then jackknifing back through some smaller lanes, the car approached the Vatican from the southeast, skirting Saint Peter’s Square. As they neared the Square, the traffic became more congested and the sounds of passionate activity grew loud and boisterous. Thousands of people were descending upon the Vatican this clear, warm morning. Spread out before Peter was a vast, multicolored array of cardinals and bishops in their reds and purples, friars and nuns in more subdued mantles, day workers, government officials, tourists and locals. A never-ending stream of human traffic.
His driver avoided all this by ducking in between the Palace of the Holy Office and the Basilica, heading ever closer to the looming architecture of the Governorate. Orlando had told him that he would meet with Paolo Cardinal Lareggia, the Prefect of the Curial Committee on Miraculous Investigations. He wondered what kind of questions the committee would ask. Would they be hostile? Skeptical? Empathic? He hoped they would understand the trauma of his experience and the unshakable knowledge that he’d taken a human life.
After some more sharp turns, the Mercedes emerged on the Via Della Fondamenta. Father Orlando fixed his bearings upon the sprawling Government Palace to the west, homed in upon it and drove the car around the back of the building where a porte cochere and glass double doors awaited them. A valet opened the rear door and guided Peter into the building’s lobby—a cavernous room presided over by several members of the Palatine Guard. They wore standard security officer uniforms and were all business. Father Orlando spoke to them curtly; they nodded and issued Peter a pass to be clipped to his jacket lapel.
“This way, please,” said the priest, guiding him to a bank of elevators. Hundreds of Vatican employees wove their way through the open space like bees in a hive. Peter entered a car with a crowd of workers and the once-again silent Orlando. They didn’t depart until the elevator reached the top floor; then the two men walked down a long hallway to a set of double doors carved from heavy slabs of oak.
Inside, a male receptionist wearing the cassock of a monsignor rose from his desk to greet them. “Buon giorno, Father Carenza,” he said in neutral, but cordial tones. “The Cardinal has been expecting you. Please wait one moment…”
The Monsignor buzzed the inner sanctum of the Cardinal, and Peter listened to an unexpectedly high-pitched voice ask for the “the priest” to be ushered in.
Orlando nodded and pushed through another set of double doors, these decorated with a great deal of gold filigree. Peter followed, unable to ignore the bold opulence of the Vatican hierarchy. Catholic liberals were always screaming about the wealth squandered in Rome while the Latin American countries wallowed in abject poverty. Those golden doors would make a hell of an argument, thought Peter.
“Cardinal Lareggia,” said Father Orlando, “this is Father Peter Carenza, from New York.”
Peter stared at the Cardinal. The man was seated behind an ornate yet fairly ordered desk. He wore a red cassock with no frills other than a large gold crucifix on a heavy gold neck-chain. His face was very round and pale. His bald head and a spectacular set of double chins contributed to his overall moonish aspect. To say the man was fat would be gross understatement.
Cardinal Lareggia was huge. Porcine. Corpulent. Obese. Take your pick. Here, thought Peter, was a guy who clearly liked to sit down to the table.
Bracing himself on his desk, Lareggia rolled back his chair and stood up, holding out his hand. His lips were wet and dark, his smile stretched and somewhat forced. “Father Carenza, it is a pleasure to meet you!” He spoke serviceable, though accented, English.
“Thank you, Cardinal.”
“Please, have a seat,” said Lareggia. Then to Orlando, in Italian: “That will be all, Father. Thank you, and good-bye.”
Peter seated himself in the chair facing the large desk, furtively appraising the rich decor of the office. The Cardinal sat, picked up a thick folder of papers, opened it, and began scanning some of the sheets.
“I suppose you’re rather baffled by all this, hmmm?” Lareggia’s voice seemed too high for a body so large and imposing.
“Well, yes, I guess I am. I didn’t even know the Church still investigated…ah, miracles, so seriously.”
“Oh, yes. We do, Father. We certainly do.” He continued to scan through the papers in the file. “Let’s see, it says here you were born in Italy, just outside of Rome…Interesting. A wonderfully strange coincidence, yes?”
“That’s right,” said Peter. “My parents were killed in a car crash and I was raised at the Orphanage of Saint Francis of Assisi until I was around eight years old.”
Lareggia nodded. “…and then you won an Ignatius Loyola scholarship to attend a Jesuit boarding school in America. Very impressive, Father.”
“Thank you,” said Peter, eyeing the thick file on Lareggia’s desk. How had they assembled so much information on him so fast? “It looks like you already know everything about me.”
The Cardinal smiled thinly. “We are quite thorough.” He coughed gently. “Did you enjoy ups
tate New York? I hear it is very beautiful.”
“The seminary was in the Adirondacks. I loved it.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve never been to America, but I’m told it is a most diverse country.” It seemed that Lareggia was playing some oft-rehearsed part. He spoke with no real conviction, like a bad actor. What was going on here?
The phone rang and the Cardinal picked up the receiver. “I told you I wanted no calls,” he said, then after a short pause: “Oh, ’Vanni, I didn’t know it was you…I am sorry.” Another pause. “Very well. Later this afternoon will be fine.”
Hanging up the phone, Lareggia looked at him. “That was one of the other members of the committee who will be…ah, studying your case. Father Giovanni Francesco. It seems he’s being delayed this morning with another member of our committee. I’m sorry, Father, but we will have to postpone our first session until this afternoon. Four o’clock.”
“That’s okay,” said Peter, wondering what the rush was. He’d been brought here directly from the airport, and now it seemed they’d planned some kind of immediate interrogation!
Lareggia nodded and closed the folder.
“Excuse me,” said Peter, “but I’m still a little confused. Actually, I’m a lot confused.”
“What can I help you with, Father?”
“For openers, where am I going to be staying? How long will I be here?”
Lareggia smiled. “You really have become an American, haven’t you, Father? So direct. Well, we have an apartment for you at the Teutonic College, here in the Vatican. Father Orlando will take you there. You can spend some time freshening up, and perhaps do a little sightseeing.
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