Papal Decree

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  ‘The Septuagint?’

  ‘Yes. The Bible was translated from Hebrew into Greek for the Jews living outside of Palestine who no longer spoke those languages. Greek became the second language of Palestine. Even Jesus spoke it, according to the evangelists. The Septuagint was translated by seventy erudite Jews from Alexandria, from which they call it the Bible of the Seventy, or Septuagint. It’s curious that the four evangelists of the New Testament quote biblical texts from this Greek translation rather than the original. Saint Jerome translated the Greek into Latin and called it the Vulgate. Every day in all the Catholic liturgical celebrations, one passage from the Old Testament and another from the New are read.’

  Gavache listened attentively to the history lesson. Any detail might be important, but he was under no illusion that these people were here to help find the murderer, but rather to help their church, including Jacopo.

  ‘And what does this have to do with Ben Isaac?’

  Jacopo took up the thread of the discourse again, now that he’d launched into historical considerations of the Bible. ‘Well, according to what’s said in these restricted circles, Ben Isaac discovered some important documents that relate to what’s said about the Bible.’

  ‘This is what we call a motive,’ Gavache declared.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Jacopo didn’t follow. Gunter didn’t seem to understand, either.

  ‘That’s a reason to kill,’ Gavache explained. ‘What did Zafer have to do with Ben Isaac? The murderer who asked about him, certainly, was aware that they knew each other.’

  No one said anything for a few moments. Only the rain filled the silence with constant pings.

  ‘Suggestions? Speculations?’ Gavache demanded.

  No one answered.

  ‘Mr. Jacopo. Any idea?’ Gavache insisted.

  ‘Maybe …’ Jacopo began timidly. ‘Maybe the Turk was one of the Five Gentlemen. Hammal, too,’ he suggested.

  ‘Absurd,’ Gunter interjected. ‘A historian’s fiction. This never existed.’

  Gavache was interested in knowing more about these Five Gentlemen. The story was getting more complicated and more elements were appearing all the time; more questions and few answers. Was he going to have to investigate the background of Christ’s family and His disciples? He smiled at the idea.

  ‘The Five Gentlemen were the people who made up Ben Isaac’s team. They were sworn to silence about the discoveries, according to what’s said.’

  ‘According to what’s said means a lot of things …’ Gavache added. ‘More all the time.’

  Gunter got up. ‘I can see this is going to be a long night. Would you like some coffee, tea, or some refreshment?’ the Jesuit father offered.

  Gavache asked for coffee, Jean-Paul also. Jacopo and Rafael accepted some tea.

  ‘Maurice,’ Gunter called out. The acolyte who’d brought them to the nave appeared at once and took the order. ‘Take it to the sacristy. Then tell us as soon as it is ready.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Maurice answered subserviently, and left to prepare the hot drinks.

  ‘The Five Gentlemen. What do you think of this, Jean-Paul?’ Gavache asked. His expression revealed he was about to tie together everything Jacopo had said.

  ‘A mess, Inspector.’

  ‘A mess,’ his superior concurred. He looked at Gunter. ‘I see you contradicted everything the prestigious historian said, but you recognized the name Ben Isaac when I mentioned it.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  Gunter swallowed dryly. Nothing escaped the inspector.

  ‘Who is Ben Isaac, Father Gunter?’ Gavache insisted with an unfriendly look.

  Gunter adopted an arrogant attitude and got up from the chair where he was resting. ‘I’m not on French territory. I don’t have to answer your questions.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Jean-Paul?’

  ‘He’s shameless, Inspector.’

  Rafael approached the German Jesuit. ‘Cooperate, Gunter. Tell him whatever you know. You can help catch the murderer.’

  Gunter refused to back down. Rights had to be exercised. Gavache went up to him and stopped so close he could smell him.

  ‘Silence is your right, Father. It’s true we’re not on French territory.’

  ‘This church belongs to the Society of Jesus, to the Roman Apostolic Catholic Church, to the pope,’ Gunter argued coldly. He couldn’t tell what he knew … Never.

  Gavache drew even closer, if that was possible. ‘Listen to me well, Father’ – his tone was menacing – ‘you can hide behind the Concord to keep a criminal free. Your conscience is your conscience. But eventually you’re going to have to step outside this church to go shopping, administer last rites, get into some whore’s bed … whatever it is. I guarantee you that when you do, I’m going to be waiting for you, and you won’t have the church or any saint to help you. Not even your friend Loyola.’ Gavache’s breath struck Gunter’s face with the revolting stench of cigarettes. But even more repugnant than the odor were the words. ‘But if you make trouble for me I’ll have a warrant made out for Mr. Gunter, not Father Gunter, and give you a load of shit before I ask the first question. And just so you know, sometimes I forget to ask the first question for a month or two while you wait in the slammer for my signature to be sent back to Germany because, no matter how much the little priests love you here, the French, believe me, are not going to let you return here.’ He was silent for a while to let his point sink in. He turned his back. ‘Think hard.’

  Rafael tried to advise his friend. He knew the situation wasn’t easy. The secular nature of the state complicated things. No one respected the confidentiality of the church. The state superseded everything, the church, faith, and salvation. The state was the religion of the new times. So the church always had to act indirectly, not always truthfully, manipulating public and private opinion, creating diversions to distract those watching from its true interests. Rafael knew all this. He was an agent in the service of these very diversions and manipulations. He preferred to wait and conceal, reveal little, always be in control, one step ahead of the others … But this wasn’t an ordinary case.

  ‘Say what you can, Gunter. Who’s Ben Isaac?’ he pressured him. ‘What are the documents?’ He lowered his voice. ‘You don’t need to be specific or get into details. Speak in generalities.’

  Gunter maintained a thoughtful expression, and his foolish arrogance softened the lines of his face. He’d follow the advice of his Italian friend. A soft reply placates fury, as the wise Solomon said.

  ‘Inspector Gavache,’ the Jesuit called.

  The inspector was smoking another cigarette while looking at the Delacroix. He didn’t shift his attention, and it wasn’t clear whether or not he admired the work.

  ‘Have you decided to follow the path of goodness and love proclaimed by the first superior general of the Society?’ he said ironically. He wanted to show that every detail was important to him.

  ‘I’m going to tell you everything I know about Ben Isaac,’ Gunter declared, ignoring Gavache’s sarcasm. His initial arrogance probably deserved it.

  Gavache sat down near Gunter and invited him to do the same. The German did so carelessly. He was nervous. The inspector read his reaction as that of someone about to tell something he shouldn’t.

  ‘Ben Isaac’s story is real …’

  At first, the reason for the interruption went unnoticed. Only when Gunter got a glassy look and started drooling blood before falling heavily on the floor of the Church of Saint-Paul–Saint-Louis did those present realize that someone had shot the Jesuit. There was a bullet hole in the back of his cassock. The rest happened much faster. Jacopo, Rafael, and Gavache were still looking incredulously at Gunter when they heard Jean-Paul, gun in hand, shout, ‘Drop it, guy.’

  Trembling, the acolyte Maurice tried to steady a gun with a silencer in his hand.

  ‘Drop the gun, kid. You’re not going to shoot anyone else,’ Jean-Paul repeated.

  Gavache
joined him, aiming his gun at Maurice, who was beside himself, tears running down his face, panting.

  Rafael bent over Gunter, who was suffocating.

  ‘Gunter,’ he cried out as if it would help. ‘Call an ambulance,’ he shouted.

  The Jesuit bled fast and groaned. Jean-Paul took one hand from his gun and grabbed the cell phone to make the call.

  ‘I … I’m … I’m sorry,’ Maurice stammered.

  ‘Calm down, kid,’ Gavache said while moving closer with short steps. He spoke in a whisper. ‘Everything can be resolved. Drop the gun. Let’s talk.’

  Maurice looked at him with eyes filled with rage. He still pointed the gun at everyone and no one. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. Shut up. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.’ Fury mixed with disgust was upsetting the young man.

  ‘Calm down. You don’t want to make the situation worse.’

  Jean-Paul ended the call and put the phone back in his jacket pocket. ‘The ambulance is on the way.’

  Rafael stayed with Gunter, who was fading fast. ‘Rafael,’ he murmured.

  ‘Don’t talk, Gunter. Don’t try. The ambulance is coming.’

  With a last effort Gunter raised his hand to Rafael’s head and pulled him down lower. ‘Plaza … plaza,’ he whispered.

  Rafael listened to his words fading away. With each second Gun-ter’s life was draining away.

  ‘Saint Ignatius.’ He sighed before giving himself up to God. The pain was over. He was at peace. Rafael closed his dead friend’s eyes and blessed him. He folded his hands and prayed for God to receive his soul. ‘Peace be with you.’

  Gavache continued to try to calm the acolyte, who trembled more and more. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

  Rafael got up and fixed the acolyte with a hard stare. ‘You killed a good man.’

  Those words stirred him up even more. ‘I had to. It had to be. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell.’

  The siren grew louder as the ambulance got closer to the church. It would be transporting a dead man, not a wounded one.

  ‘Drop the gun,’ Gavache ordered. ‘I’m not going to warn you again,’ and he cocked the Glock. Jean-Paul did the same.

  Maurice raised his hand to his head and shut his eyes. He made the sign of the cross and kissed the crucifix hanging on his chest.

  ‘Ad maiorem Dei gloriam,’ the acolyte muttered before placing the mouth of the barrel under his chin.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Gavache shouted.

  The bullet made more noise exiting from his head than it did from the gun. Maurice fell helplessly, without life.

  For a few moments nothing but the siren was heard. Not rain, or breathing, or heartbeats. Nothing. It wasn’t the usual scene inside a church. Corpses were common, but during funeral rituals, not from some priests killing others on holy grounds.

  The doors opened and the paramedics entered.

  Rafael and Jacopo watched silently. Gavache came over and looked at them coldly.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  25

  The secretary dragged his left leg as he walked as fast as he could. The light was dim at that hour of night, and he’d asked that no lights be lit at all. There was no need to raise trouble among the staff of the apostolic palace. The intrigues of the day were enough. Trevor followed at his side in silence, submissive, respectful. Tarcisio knew it was more fear than respect.

  His leg pained him, but that was nothing compared with the reason Trevor had awakened him. That indeed was eating at him.

  ‘Did you alert William?’ he asked with effort.

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

  It was important that Cardinal William know about this. There still weren’t a lot of facts, but Ursino had been blunt. They were in open war with an unknown enemy who had an advantage over them. They possessed confidential information that indicated that someone in the bosom of his church was the source. Christ had to separate the wheat from the chaff more than two thousand years ago. Saint Peter and he also had to do it, as did all those who succeeded them. The struggle never ended, it was a permanent war; the battles only changed generals from time to time.

  With a commanding air, befitting a general, a brilliant strategist, Tarcisio entered the Relic Room, where he found Ursino and Hans Schmidt.

  Ursino asked for his blessing, knelt, and kissed Tarcisio’s ruby ring. ‘Pardon me for disturbing your sleep, Your Eminence.’

  Tarcisio helped him up quickly. ‘Tell me everything, Ursino. Who are they?’

  Ursino explained. The voice that had spoken to him on the phone was male. He called during the afternoon office hours and said he would call back later, after midnight, and it would be in his interest to be there. He used a friendly tone, conciliatory. Ursino wondered why he had to wait for a telephone call so late in the night. He was used to going to bed right after sunset. The speaker said it was about Yaman Zafer and important.

  ‘Zafer?’ Tarcisio interrupted. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am, Your Eminence. These ears God gave me work perfectly. He said Zafer.’

  ‘Did he sound like a young man or older?’ Schmidt asked.

  ‘Middle-aged, but I can’t really say. You know how it is. Voices are confusing.’

  ‘Of course. Continue,’ Tarcisio asked, raising his finger to his lips. He was all attention. He wanted to know everything.

  ‘I confess curiosity got the best of me,’ Ursino continued, trying to be as precise as possible. The past mixes up thoughts and desires, dreams, all in the same stream of consciousness, and it is necessary to separate what happened from what was wished for, what was real from fiction.

  After midnight he returned to the Relic Room and waited for the call. Father Schmidt appeared unexpectedly to keep him company. Just then the call came. Same voice, another tone. Arrogant, sarcastic, cruel, vengeful. He said Zafer was dead and very soon the world would know about Christ’s bones.

  ‘Holy God,’ Tarcisio exclaimed, raising his hand to his sweaty face. ‘Christ’s bones.’

  ‘It could be a bluff,’ Schmidt warned with a calm voice that settled the atmosphere as much as possible.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Ursino said. ‘He mentioned Ben Isaac.’

  Tarcisio stretched out in Ursino’s chair, exhausted. He’d heard that name too many times already in the last several hours. It was never a good sign to hear Ben Isaac’s name.

  ‘The agreement expired,’ the secretary said at last. ‘Any connection between the Holy Faith and Ben Isaac is over.’ Again he had mentioned the name.

  ‘The question is whether Ben Isaac will have any conditions for protecting the documents, now that the contract has ended,’ William commented as he entered the room. ‘And they’ve kidnapped his son.’

  ‘I should leave.’ Schmidt started to go.

  ‘Please, Father Schmidt, if it’s for my sake, stay,’ William said, walking over to the desk next to the portrait of Benedict XVI.

  ‘I don’t think its proper for us to meet before the hearing of the congregation …’ said Schmidt, excusing himself.

  ‘Nonsense,’ William blurted out. ‘We’re not going to talk about that, are we? This has to do with the church and defending her, and we’re all together on that. Please stay.’

  Thinking quickly, Schmidt agreed to stay. His case had nothing to do with this situation, which at the moment demanded more attention.

  ‘I am very worried about this, too,’ Tarcisio declared. ‘On the one hand he guarded the documents competently for more than fifty years. But a son is a son. That changes everything.’

  ‘Zafer, Hammal, Aragones.’ Schmidt counted them off. ‘Ben Isaac Jr. Apparently they know more, and we know less. We don’t even know who they are.’

  William paced from one side to another, thinking. ‘I don’t think we should trust Ben Isaac. Not for his honesty and competence, but because of the delicacy of the situation. I think we should get possession of the documents as quickly as possible.’

  Tar
cisio shook his head no. ‘It’s not going to be easy. Pope Roncalli was forced to enter into the agreement with him because he couldn’t get his hands on the documents. I don’t think he’s going to give them up for free.’

  ‘Let’s pay,’ William cut in.

  ‘Do you think we haven’t offered money? Ben Isaac is a multimillionaire. Any offer is small change for him, and he’ll laugh in our face. He would pay us instead to keep them. The second agreement was so difficult that Pope Wojtyla limited himself to extending the term without discussing other deal points at all.’

  ‘Why does he want to hold on to the documents so much? He can’t use them. He gains nothing with them. As far as we know he’s never mentioned their existence to anyone. On the contrary, he’s kept them under enormous secrecy, which, fortunately, is in our own interests. No one can come near two hundred yards from the papyrus without swearing an airtight oath of complete silence. I don’t understand his fixation on them,’ William declared.

  No one did. Maybe only Ben Isaac could explain, if there was an explanation. Sometimes there are no reasons for human obsessions. They just are.

  No one said anything in the minutes that followed. Enemies should be kept in sight, under vigilance. The worst enemy was the one you didn’t know, whose movements could not be predicted because you didn’t know who he was.

  Tarcisio got up painfully. The night was already late. The following day would be a series of important meetings with foreign dignitaries, and he couldn’t appear as if he needed rest. Certainly, makeup could turn a frog into a prince, but that was only a facade. The secretary of state’s meetings required intelligence and preparation, not a pretty face.

  ‘Well, tomorrow we have a full day, right, Trevor?’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency. In the morning the ambassadors of Pakistan and Brazil.’

  ‘The afternoon with Adolph, right?’

  ‘Correct, Your Eminence.’

  ‘Damn, this is going to delay everything,’ William grumbled.

  Tarcisio turned to William. ‘Any news from our agents?’