Papal Decree

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Aris raised his thumb to show he understood.

  ‘It seems there were some very important documents in these discoveries,’ Sam continued. Her nervousness disappeared as she got used to the male eyes focused on her. ‘Some of them were never made public, since they were covered by an agreement between the Israeli and the Vatican. That agreement was called the Status Quo.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Barry said. ‘Okay, let’s throw some light on the reason Rafael was in Paris.’

  ‘And in London,’ Sam added.

  Barry looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘Ben Isaac has lived in London for more than fifty years,’ Sam explained confidently. ‘But there’s more … much more.’

  ‘Put Ben Isaac under surveillance as soon as possible.’

  ‘Already done,’ Sam replied.

  ‘Don’t keep us waiting, then, Sam,’ Barry said with a smile. ‘Go on, please.’

  Sam continued. Ben Isaac and the agreement with John XXIII, John Paul II, the Three Gentlemen, the Five Gentlemen, Magda, Myriam, Ben Isaac Jr … Jesus Christ.

  All the participants were silent. No one knew what to say. They considered the information silently.

  ‘Wow,’ Barry finally said. ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘Why did those four people die?’ Aris threw in.

  There was so much to know. Doubts, questions, misunderstandings, all the reasons for anger, wars and tortures. Jesus Christ? It wasn’t every day that a case like this came up. Nothing like this had ever appeared in the history of the CIA, a short history compared to that of the church.

  ‘There weren’t four. There were six,’ said a voice that had just entered the room.

  ‘Thompson. Welcome,’ Barry greeted him. ‘Have a seat.’

  Thompson pulled out the chair across from Barry and sat down.

  ‘Six dead? What are you telling me?’ Barry asked.

  Thompson threw a bunch of papers on the table. Transcripts, texts, and photos covered the surface.

  ‘Ernesto Aragones, Spanish priest, assassinated with a shot to the back of the head on Sunday in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem.’

  The others began to look at the papers.

  ‘This morning they killed a priest inside the Vatican.’

  ‘A what?’ Barry was scandalized. ‘What the hell is going on? Who was he?’

  ‘The curator of the Relics Room. Don’t ask me what it means.’

  ‘What’s the connection between all these people?’ Aris asked again.

  ‘Yaman Zafer, Sigfried Hammal, Aragones, and the priest today, Ursino, were part of what was called the Five Gentlemen,’ Thompson replied.

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘The others were Jesuits. According to what I was able to squeeze out of the Italian. The acolyte killed the priest to silence him, then committed suicide.’

  Barry shook his head. ‘Who are we fighting with, folks?’

  ‘They don’t know themselves, from what I could find out,’ Thompson suggested.

  ‘Okay,’ Barry said thoughtfully. ‘Now we have something to work with. This Ben Isaac. Could he be Rafael’s target?’

  ‘He could be,’ Aris commented.

  ‘We need to find out what that agreement covers, and what Jesus has to do with all this.’ Barry thought rapidly, trying to sketch out a preliminary strategy.

  ‘I can try to pry out a little more, but I don’t think the Italian knew much to begin with,’ Thompson suggested, always practical.

  ‘Sam, did you book a flight to Rome?’

  ‘Of course. It leaves at five in the afternoon from Gatwick and arrives in time for supper.’

  Barry was pleased. As director of the Agency for the European theater, he had a fleet of vehicles at his disposal. A Learjet 85, two Bell helicopters, several cars. He usually chose to fly commercial when his schedule permitted. His rule was not to waste taxpayer dollars, long before any president recommended the cost cutting.

  ‘Something is bothering me,’ Barry added.

  Everyone looked at him, waiting for him to finish.

  ‘You mentioned Five Gentlemen, right?’ he asked Sam.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Four have died. There’s a pattern. Someone is out to kill these Gentlemen.’

  He let the implication sink in.

  ‘There’s one left,’ Aris said. ‘Could it be Ben Isaac?’

  ‘We’ll have to set up a security perimeter in that case,’ Barry ordered.

  ‘No, Ben Isaac is very well protected. He doesn’t need our protection. They have a good security system, some former and current Mossad agents,’ Sam explained. ‘He’s not the fifth Gentleman.’

  ‘Who is, then? And why do they call them “Gentlemen”?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Because they had a gentlemen’s agreement of silence among them,’ Thompson explained.

  ‘The question is this,’ Barry advised, getting up. ‘They’ve assassinated four of the five, so someone is in danger. Find out who the fifth Gentleman is.’

  ‘Uh … we know,’ Sam said timidly.

  ‘Then spit it out, Sam. That person’s life is in danger.’

  ‘The fifth Gentleman is Joseph Ratzinger … the pope himself.’

  40

  Ben Isaac had a maxim he’d used for a long time in life, especially in business: everything has a price. An object, a jewel, a house, a business, a man, everything could be bought and sold. All you needed was capital, and Ben Isaac had more than enough money. But tonight the Israeli banker would learn a lesson that would strike down that maxim. There are people no amount of money can buy, even if all the coffers in the world are emptied. Ben Isaac had dealt with such a person only once before in his life, and it had not gone well. He felt lost, disoriented, and could think of nothing but his son, tied to a chair, mistreated, bloody, and beaten. Just the idea made him shiver, heartsick, and panic flooded his veins. He remembered Magda, his daughter, dead in the womb, and how he had not been there when she died. Some deal or some excavation, something more important, had required his attention at the time.

  Myriam, alone in London so often, watching the rain fall or freeze, or the weak sun rising, without her husband. A day or two, a week. A phone call from Tel Aviv, another from Amman, an unexpected negotiation in Turin, a meeting in Bern, a meeting with the excavation team, who knows when and where, another with the team in a university in the States, to deepen his knowledge of something excavated, no big deal, he’d be back as soon as possible, a kiss.

  Myriam never lacked money, not a penny to buy anything she wanted. Ben made sure of that. Myriam sometimes thought that for him money was a more sacred bond than the one by which God united them. On bad days she wished Ben weren’t so successful, that he’d fail, and on the worst days, that he’d go bankrupt.

  Their daughter, Magda, died on November 8, 1960. His hands were trembling when he called the house from hundreds of miles away to say he’d be home that night. He finally had an agreement in his pocket that Myriam never suspected or would suspect.

  Myriam didn’t answer that phone call or the others that followed insistently. Ben would find her in a hospital bed at St. Bart’s, sound asleep from the strong sedatives prescribed by the staff doctors. She remained that way for several days and nights, without regaining consciousness, breathing quietly, her face as white as a corpse. The doctor on call explained nothing to Ben Isaac, deferring to his superiors. It was not his place to say what was happening to the patient; her own doctor had left this instruction.

  The young, prestigious banker, used to doing and undoing, ordering and contradicting both his subordinates and heads of state who clamored for the money he had and they didn’t, waited by the bed for her personal physician to deign to appear.

  ‘Myriam tried to commit suicide,’ was the doctor’s greeting. ‘I can’t stay. I’m getting married,’ he explained.

  Ben Isaac was unable to say anything. He couldn’t even make a gesture. He stared silently at the doctor, subdued, disgu
sted, with a three days’ growth of beard.

  ‘She didn’t eat for days and filled her stomach with barbiturates. She repented and called an ambulance. While she was waiting for the paramedics, she was probably anxious and inattentive, and she tripped on the stairs and fell. When she arrived here, she was crying out … for Magda.’

  Tears ran down the face of young Ben Isaac, the multimillionaire whose wife was so unhappy to want to kill herself and the daughter she carried in her womb.

  ‘I’m very sorry, but we weren’t able to save Magda.’

  Ben Isaac covered his face in his hands and trembled with a smothered wail. Sorrow exploded in his chest and punished him with blows of agony and disgust.

  ‘When are you going to stop sedating her?’ he managed to ask.

  ‘Myriam isn’t under sedation now,’ the doctor informed him.

  ‘But she’s still sleeping!’

  The doctor sighed and leaned toward Ben Isaac. ‘Myriam will wake up when she understands … when she feels ready. Help her. She’s going to need it.’

  The doctor murmured ‘Good luck’ before leaving the couple in the cold hospital room, on his way to church to a ceremony that would seal a sacred compact, not necessarily infallible, even if marriage were not a human invention.

  It took seven days for Myriam to wake up, and when she did, it was as if he were not there at all. She didn’t say a word, didn’t respond to his encouragement or questions, excuses or promises, or love. Ben Isaac would not hear her voice for the next nine years. The absences that he’d curtailed resumed, but it didn’t bother Myriam, who was involved with her garden, her friends, her book club, exhibits, tea parties, the theater, the culture that London offered, faithfully, without fail. She didn’t share any of this with Ben. It was as if she were living two lives and were two women, Ben’s wife when he was home and Ben’s wife when he was absent.

  One Saturday lunch Myriam said to Ben Isaac, ‘I’d like to get to know Israel, Ben.’ It was as if they’d been talking about it just yesterday, seconds ago, forever, without the hiatus of almost a decade in which Ben had not heard a syllable, an interjection, a complaint, or even a sob.

  Ben Isaac took her to Israel, Cyprus, Italy, Brazil, and Argentina, and they talked all day about the things normal couples who have a lot of money, and normal couples who don’t, talk about. They smiled, laughed, made love again, kissed, felt their bodies breathing, felt the other’s sweat – everything a couple feels or ought to feel, except Magda. They never once talked about her. She was a sealed subject, forbidden, taboo.

  Ben Isaac lived with silent bitterness, tied up with the strong cords of guilt, resigned to getting through the day, losing himself in his work, filling the hours, attending to Myriam. He didn’t return to excavations. Magda served as warning, a punishment from the Almighty, a closed door he could not open again.

  All this went through his mind as he read the message he’d received on the cell phone. If you want to see your son alive again, get rid of the journalist. Sarah and Myriam continued to look over the ancient documents, neglecting the papal agreements that held no interest for them, despite the fact that they were the only documents whose language they could understand. The rest exercised a hypnotic fascination on them. Ben Isaac had felt it several times. The characters, ornate, stylized, but without pretensions or arrogance, unlike the papal blazons, which in those days didn’t yet exist.

  He couldn’t lose little Ben. He couldn’t lose another child. Where was divine justice? Would he always be punished for sticking his nose into something he shouldn’t have? No. He had paid an enormous price. Magda, Myriam, and nine years of sepulchral silence.

  How could they possibly know about the journalist? The leak had not come from his side. He was absolutely certain. He remembered when Cardinal William had introduced him to Sarah. The leak came from the Vatican at the highest level, and that was serious. He had to get Myriam to safety and put an end to the situation.

  ‘Myriam,’ Ben called. ‘A moment, please.’

  Myriam returned to her husband, who showed her the phone screen. She read the message and raised her hand to her mouth in shock. Sarah noticed.

  ‘No, Ben. We can’t,’ stammered Myriam shakily, her legs weak. ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘We have to do it, Myr. Ben’s life is at stake.’ Ben put both his hands on Myriam’s shoulders. ‘We have to do it.’

  Both of them looked apprehensively at Sarah. She realized something had happened that had to do with her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked timidly.

  Ever since she’d entered the underground storage vault, her heart had been beating nervously. She knew what she had to do. William had been completely explicit in the Palazzo Madama. A sacrifice that would make all the difference for millions of the faithful.

  Myriam collapsed on the floor, sobbing. ‘No, Ben.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ Ben said, approaching her slowly. ‘I have no alternative.’

  Sarah backed up until she bumped against a showcase. It was now or never. Ben’s threatening attitude helped her make up her mind. Ben clicked a number on the phone and said something in Hebrew. He was calling security.

  Sarah put her hand in her jacket pocket and took out the small, six-shot revolver that William had given her. She aimed at Ben.

  ‘Not one more step.’

  Ben looked at her, surprised. How was it possib … Cardinal William. Who would have suspected the cardinal?

  Myriam raised her head, analyzing the situation.

  ‘Give me the documents,’ Sarah ordered, her voice stronger than she felt.

  ‘Put away the gun, Sarah. You won’t get out of here alive. Besides, you’re not a killer,’ Ben warned. ‘You don’t have what it takes to kill.’

  ‘Myriam, get up and come over here.’ Another order.

  Myriam got up with difficulty and approached Sarah suspiciously. As soon as she was within reach, Sarah grabbed hold of her, turned her around, and pushed the barrel of the gun into her right temple. Myriam closed her eyes.

  ‘Still don’t think I have what it takes?’ Sarah asked. She hated herself at this moment. ‘Now, give me the documents so Myriam and I can take a walk.’

  ‘Do you really want to do this?’ Ben asked very calmly.

  Sarah trembled with the gun at Myriam’s head. She tried not to press too hard, to avoid hurting her. Myriam was actually calmer than she was.

  ‘Don’t do something you’ll regret,’ Ben pleaded in a low voice.

  ‘Give me the documents,’ Sarah insisted.

  ‘That’s not going to happen, Sarah. Understand this very well. It’s the life of my son at risk.’

  Sarah was losing her options. She’d never pull the trigger. Her bluff was about to be called.

  ‘Lower the gun, Sarah. My men are almost here. They’re pros and –’

  ‘Good evening,’ a male voice said in perfect English.

  ‘Hadrian,’ Ben called without looking for him. ‘Do me the favor of disarming the lady, who’s beginning to annoy me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but Hadrian couldn’t come,’ the voice returned.

  Ben Isaac looked at the man perplexedly. What was going on here? Who was he? One of the kidnappers? ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You can call me Garvis. I’m an inspector for the Metropolitan Police, and I’m here to help.’

  ‘To … help with what?’ Ben asked.

  Sarah and Myriam were just as perplexed. Sarah kept the gun resting lightly at Myriam’s head.

  Two men came in the vault. No one recognized them.

  ‘Lower the gun, ma’am. I’m sick of killings,’ he said in heavily accented English.

  ‘Who are you? How dare you invade my property?’ Ben Isaac was indignant and nervous.

  ‘Who am I?’ The man was scandalized. ‘Who am I?’ Then he looked at the second man. ‘Who am I, Jean-Paul?’

  ‘Inspector Gavache of the Police Nationale,’ Jean-Paul proclaimed like a herald.
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  ‘And you can call this a surprise visit,’ Gavache added, taking a drag on his cigarette.

  41

  Everything that exists is perfect and sacred because it was created by God in His great glory for the use of those who believe in Him, amen.

  He believed this blindly, so he needed nothing more than he already had. He met her at the same time for lunch, grilled dorado with sautéed vegetables and an original touch of two tiger shrimps, also grilled.

  She asked him about the verse of the day, which she almost chanted with respect and explained its meaning as he had done when he left the verses each week on her bedside table. It was the LORD who made this, and it is marvelous in our eyes. Everyone should be required to read the Bible, but that reading should never be done in private or independently. It should be done with the aid of a priest or theologian to understand what is not clear and to avoid bringing mistaken ideas to the Holy Scriptures. The unguided reading of the Word of the Lord was an evil that the church had always combated, not as severely as it should, in his opinion, and spread erroneous opinions about what God really had proclaimed. God wanted everyone to read the holy text without misunderstanding or difficulty.

  He savored the dorado, vegetables, and shrimp frugally, along with a glass of white Frascati ’98, with a slightly sweet aftertaste that went down well. She drank water, since the blood of Christ was exclusively for men and denied to women, whose obligation was to subordinate themselves to a man and do what he ordered, or so taught the great Saint Paul, the father of the church, on a par with Peter.

  After lunch she took the dishes from the table to the kitchen to wash them, as was her duty. He wasn’t long in joining her and putting his arms around her as she ran the dishes through soapy water. He whispered in her ear, ordering her to go to the bedroom. She put down the plates, turned off the faucet, and went.

  The syringe expelled the sedative drug into her veins, and two minutes later she lost consciousness. He positioned himself over her inanimate body and enjoyed his carnal pleasure. It didn’t take long, two or three minutes, to empty himself in a quick climax that left him feeling disgusted with himself and her. He bathed, scrubbed himself well to wash the stains from his body, the weakness of the flesh. He felt nausea. When he was finished, she was still sleeping. It was time to go back to work.