Rafael took the Glock out from the back of his slacks, put it on the floor, and gave it a kick away from him. ‘Let her go now.’
The mother and little girl were terrified. A priest aiming a gun at her head. Two armed acolytes. What a horrible scene. The beggar in the back had disappeared. Life, even without shelter, is priceless.
‘Shut up,’ Robin ordered, visibly angry. ‘I’m going to deal with you, you son of a bitch.’ He looked at the woman and turned the gun away from her head. ‘Get out of here fast. Forget what you saw here, or I won’t forget you.’
It took less than five seconds for the woman and child to cross the nave and leave the church, completely traumatized.
‘You’re real brave, Robin,’ Rafael sneered.
‘Put a bullet in this guy’s head,’ Robin shouted at the acolyte aiming at Rafael.
The young man cocked the gun without hesitating, but before he could squeeze the trigger, he was hurled against the confessional, breaking one of the doors and falling inside. A bullet in the head had taken his life.
Instinctively, Robin fired at the column from which the shot came. Nobody had counted on that.
‘Only a bastard like you could drag me to this den of fags,’ someone was heard to grumble. The ragged beggar strode pungently into the center of the nave.
‘I’m glad to see you, Donald,’ Rafael greeted him sincerely.
‘Fuck you, Santini. You’re as much of a fag as they are,’ Donald insulted him in his usual affectionate way. Then he dropped the gun and sat down on the floor in pain. Robin’s random shot had hit him in the stomach.
Rafael smiled sadly. Donald was always bad tempered, but always there at the right time. Long ago, he’d been an agent like Rafael. His aim was still perfect.
‘What do you want, you smelly bum?’ Robin said.
‘Don’t talk, asshole.’
The other young acolyte looked at Robin in confusion, as if asking for instructions.
‘Kill him,’ Robin said without a trace of feeling.
‘I’d think twice before you do that, cocksuckers,’ Donald warned. He pointed at the dead acolyte. ‘Your friend is now sucking cocks in hell.’
‘You’re going to die slowly, Donald,’ Robin said disdainfully. He aimed his own gun at Donald’s head.
‘Cut the shit, Robin.’ Rafael came forward, leaving the altar and approaching him. ‘No one else but me has to die.’ He struck his chest. ‘This is my fault. Do what you need to do, you bastard. Aim at me and get it over with.’ He came on with firm, quick steps. ‘Shoot me and let him go. He doesn’t know what I do.’
Robin watched Rafael come nearer. ‘Stop, Santini. That’s enough.’
Rafael obeyed. ‘Do what you have to do. Shoot. Get it over with.’
Robin observed the scene as if he were hovering over it.
Rafael continued to stare hard at Robin. ‘Shoot.’
Robin smiled disdainfully. ‘As you wish.’
A sharp, echoing shot followed. ‘Amen.’
Rafael’s head should have exploded, but instead it was Robin who spit mouthfuls of blood before falling on the cold floor of the sacred temple that had seen so many sins over the last few minutes.
‘It seems like today’s the day for priests to die in church,’ Gavache spoke out, gun in hand, his shot taken. Amen.
‘Police. Drop the gun,’ he ordered the acolyte, who immediately threw it down, as if it were red-hot. ‘Get on the floor. Hands behind your back.’
Gavache looked at the corpse of the acolyte in the confessional and shook his head. ‘This world is going to hell.’
‘Is everything okay, Inspector?’ Paul came into the church to see what was going on, gun ready, and kneeled over the other acolyte to handcuff him.
‘Look at this, Paul. Does it look like everything is okay?’
‘This is my last hour,’ Donald said to Rafael, trying to grab the pew to get up. ‘Give my regards to William and tell him to fuck himself. All he ever does is put me in tight spots. He never gives me a break.’
Rafael ran to help him. ‘Don’t try to get up, Don.’ He looked at Gavache. ‘Can you call an ambulance?’
Gavache bent over Robin to take his pulse. ‘Call an ambulance for this one, too,’ he told Paul.
‘How did you know I was here?’ Rafael asked Gavache.
‘Reinforcements are on the way,’ Paul informed them.
‘Okay, let them clean up this shit.’ Gavache straightened up and walked toward the door. ‘Come along, Rafael.’
Rafael looked around the church one last time. His head was filled with confusion. Much needed to be explained. He bent down over Donald.
‘Thanks, Don.’
‘This shit didn’t come out so well,’ Donald excused himself.
‘It could have been worse.’
Gavache interrupted them. ‘Boys, leave your conversation for later.’ He looked at Rafael. ‘Let’s go. It’s time.’
‘An ambulance is on the way. I’ll see you later,’ Rafael said to Donald.
‘Fuck you. Who said I want to see you? Get out of my sight.’
Rafael smiled and followed in Gavache’s footsteps. ‘Where are we going?’
‘We have a plane waiting for us.’
‘Why do I feel like I don’t know what’s going on?’
‘Because you don’t.’
56
No office in the world could compare in size and sumptuousness to Tarcisio’s, with the exception of the pontifical apartments. Not even the Oval Office was in the same league.
Tarcisio occupied a chair that resembled a throne behind his solid, antique desk.
Adolph sat down on the other side in a smaller, less luxurious, but equally comfortable chair. The difference in size was not accidental. It served to show whoever sat in it the superiority in rank and power of the person on the other side of the desk. The secretary of state was the most powerful man in the world, except for the pope. He was responsible for an empire of incalculable value, influential throughout the civilized world and in parts less civilized according to the standards set by the civilized. All his power was exercised without weapons or an army, and this was extraordinary in a world in which order was imposed by military might. Tarcisio never tired of telling how Pope Pacelli, during World War II, ordered his Swiss Guard to go unarmed, so that no accidental shot would create an international crisis with the Germans. History testifies that Hitler in all his power, capable of the most execrable massacres, master of the world, or at least pretending to be, with all his military might, never permitted a single German soldier to cross the defenseless Vatican border into Saint Peter’s Square. It wouldn’t have taken half an hour to capture the Supreme Pontiff and to occupy the Vatican state, but as Pius XII said, My army is not of this world. Hitler never had the courage to test this assertion.
Adolph smiled cynically. He adjusted his glasses and waited for Tarcisio to begin their meeting as usual. Outside, rain continued to fall in a constant torrent, the sky blackened with heavy clouds, and the wind keened in the windows. Adolph and his cynical smile.
‘I wonder if you have anything to say to me before we begin,’ Tarcisio began in a serious tone, his duty in the best interests of the church.
Adolph felt superior to Tarcisio, as if the secretary of state did not deserve the distinctions he received. ‘Not that I know of.’
Tarcisio took off his glasses and began to clean the lenses with a velvet cloth. ‘Cut the bullshit. We know everything.’
‘About what, Your Eminence?’ Adolph said, showing no surprise.
‘Ernesto Aragones, Yaman Zafer, Sigfried Hamal, Ursino. Who’s next? Joseph Ratzinger?’ The secretary showed his anger.
‘Should I know those names, Your Eminence?’ Adolph asked with the same smile on his lips.
‘If you want to continue lying, that’s up to you, Adolph. I’ll only say the following, we know everything.’
Tarcisio finished cleaning his glasses and put them back o
n.
Neither one said anything for a few moments. Seconds, minutes, a tense silence.
‘We were always the right arm of the church,’ the superior general finally said bitterly. ‘Our methods were never questioned.’
‘Well, when you interfere in matters of the church and kill innocent people and dedicated servants within our own walls, we have to begin to question, don’t you think?’ Tarcisio argued.
‘Not when we’re dealing with traitors.’ He raised his voice and dropped his cool attitude, revealing the true Adolph under the cynicism.
‘I’m ordering you to stop what you’re doing immediately,’ Tarcisio demanded. He received a harsh laugh in reply.
‘We’re the guardians of the church,’ Adolph asserted, half laughing. ‘Don’t give us orders.’
Tarcisio got up suddenly, leaning on the desk. ‘Don’t defy me, Adolph. Guardians of what? Of some bones that could belong to anyone and some documents that, with all due respect, could have been forged by Loyola?’
‘I disagree,’ Adolph warned. ‘Everything was analyzed scientifically. Everything is proved.’
‘It that right? Then you have until tomorrow to show me those results.’
‘I told you not to give me orders,’ Adolph repeated.
‘Do you want to know what I think?’ Tarcisio didn’t wait for his reply. ‘I think everything was a fraud. I don’t believe that Loyola brought back the bones of Christ.’
‘But you believe in the Gospel of Jesus,’ Adolph argued.
‘Because it in fact exists and was proved genuine. Scientifically dated, and I can show you the results. Whether it is the Gospel of Jesus or not, we’ll never know. As far as I’m concerned, He died on the cross, and everything else is fiction.’
‘In any case, there’s nothing you can do. This operation can’t be stopped. Tonight the gospel will be in our power,’ Adolph informed him again, cynically.
‘You’re deceived.’
‘You might be in the larger chair, but that doesn’t give you superior insight. Tonight the documents will be in the possession of the Society of Jesus, and then I shall communicate our demands to you,’ Adolph said sarcastically.
‘Why later and not now?’ the secretary asked.
‘Haven’t you understood me?’ Adolph was angry.
‘On the contrary. I understand you. But we’re going to do things differently.’
He pressed the button of the telephone on top of his desk, and in less time than it takes to say God, the doors of the office opened to admit Cardinal William, talking on a phone with two Swiss Guards at the ready.
‘What does this mean?’ Adolph asked in astonishment.
‘Yes, yes,’ William responded to the person on the other end of the line. ‘Just a minute. I’m going to transfer you.’
The prefect pressed a button on the phone and handed it to Tarcisio.
‘Is it on speakerphone?’ the secretary asked.
William nodded yes.
‘Good afternoon,’ Tarcisio said.
‘Good afternoon, Your Eminence,’ Jacopo’s voice replied.
‘Do you have any news for me?’
‘Everything went as planned. The church is in possession of Ben Isaac’s documents.’
‘Would you mind repeating that? I have someone here who didn’t quite hear,’ Tarcisio said, looking an incredulous Adolph in the eye.
‘The church is in possession of Ben Isaac’s documents,’ Jacopo repeated.
‘Thank you. We’ll talk later.’ He hung up without taking his eyes off the superior general of the Society of Jesus.
He wanted to laugh in Adolph’s face, but the moment demanded seriousness. For the first time in a long time, Tarcisio felt good. ‘You’re too late, Adolph. Later I’ll communicate my demands. Now get out of my presence.’
57
The temperature rose that afternoon, and the day was sunny and pleasant. Jerusalem was a city that permanently swarmed with building cultural, artistic, and intellectual activity, the capital of eclecticism, with a people who adapted rapidly to the modern world and what it had to offer.
The Holy City knew how to prepare for the future. Every year it received millions of tourists eager to visit the places where Jesus walked. It was the most important city for two religions of the book, and the second most important for the followers of an equally important book. It was those books that gave meaning to all this history. Without them the world would be different.
The car was parked in the middle of a residential street. Francesco and JC were sharing the backseat. There was no sign of the cripple in the Armani suit. Francesco was afraid of JC. There was something about him, an invisible power, extrasensory almost – as ridiculous as it was to think – that radiated omnipotence more than any other person Francesco had known.
‘Now what?’ he asked suspiciously.
JC took something out of his jacket pocket – an airline ticket, a passport, some shekels – and handed them to Francesco.
‘Your participation has come to an end,’ JC declared firmly. ‘I don’t have to tell you that none of this ever happened.’
Francesco was puzzled. What kind of random plan was this?
‘Is that it? Call someone to instruct them to give some documents to Sarah to take to the Gare du Nord? Couldn’t you have done that?’ He wanted to understand, no matter what happened. ‘Why did you kidnap me in Rome and bring me here?’
JC looked at Francesco with a sardonic smile and raised two fingers. ‘Two reasons. The first, so Sarah would know everything was going as planned. Hearing your voice meant everything was under control. And there’s a second reason.’ But he said nothing.
Francesco waited for clarification, but he had to ask for it. ‘What is it?’
JC looked out at the street, calm in the midst of Jerusalem frenzy. ‘What are your intentions toward Sarah?’
‘What?’ What kind of question was that?
JC didn’t repeat himself. Francesco had heard him.
‘Are you her father?’ Francesco asked, irritated by the invasion of privacy. Although he did not personally know Raul Brandao Monteiro, retired from the Portuguese army, he knew who Sarah’s father was.
JC didn’t react, but only waited for an answer.
‘Sarah is an astonishing woman; discreet, professional, very responsible, and until recently I thought we might have a future together. But now, the truth is, I don’t know,’ Francesco confessed. It was not worth the trouble to make up a reason for the old man; besides, Francesco was afraid JC would have sensed the lie.
JC thought about Francesco’s words briefly. He was a practical man.
‘I’d like to give you a glimpse of what Sarah’s life is like. It’s not always luncheons at embassies and ministries, nights at the paper, a movie at the Odeon in Leicester Square or the Empire, a play at the Adelphi, lunches at Indigo or home to fuck all night.’
Francesco felt totally naked after that list of very specific, very real, intimate nights that he thought belonged to his private life.
‘Part of her life has no schedule or plan,’ JC continued. ‘Don’t expect that she’ll fulfill all your expectations, because she won’t. Or that she’ll come home after work every night, because there’ll be days she won’t. Or answer all your phone calls; some she’ll hang up on.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Francesco wanted to know, his heart full of foreboding.
‘So you’ll know how your future with her will be. I know about her morning sickness.’
This old man knows everything, Francesco thought.
‘If you’re thinking of continuing your relationship with her, you need to know these things. Marrying Sarah implies bringing me along. That’s why we’re having this conversation.’
‘You’re trying to dissuade me from having a relationship with her.’
‘Of course not.’ JC smiled and coughed. ‘I’m showing you the whole picture. I know it’s not common to do so in relationships. Only mu
ch later do you see the dark side of the one you marry. Consider this conversation a bonus. You can make a concrete decision about your future. Risk it or not, knowing all this implies.’
It was too much to digest at one time, and this wasn’t the place to do it.
He saw the cripple leave one of the houses on the other side of the street and come over to the car. He had a young man with him.
‘We’re going to take you to the airport. Don’t forget: you saw and know nothing. Only that will guarantee I forget about you,’ JC warned.
The cripple put the boy in the backseat with those already sitting there. He had dark bruises on his face and traces of dry blood in his nose and mouth. The rest were covered up by clothes.
‘Who are you?’ he asked fearfully.
‘Your father sent us. Don’t worry. Everything is fine,’ JC reassured him.
‘Where’s my father?’ he asked, looking around uneasily.
JC took his cell phone and dialed a number. A little later someone answered and spoke in French.
‘How did everything go?’ JC asked.
‘Just fine. The woman has the documents and is on the plane,’ someone responded.
‘Perfect. Can you get little Ben’s father on the line? His son wants to talk to him. Good work, Gavache.’ He handed the phone to the young man. ‘Talk to your parents. They’re very worried.’
While little Ben calmed parental anxieties, JC lowered the window of the door. The cripple bent down to listen.
‘Our work is almost concluded,’ JC whispered.
‘What about Jerome and Simon?’ the cripple asked, without looking at JC.
‘Thank them for taking care of the kid, and tell them to put in a good word for me when they meet their Creator.’
The cripple took a gun out of his holster, checked the chamber, and put it away again. ‘It’ll be done. I’ll be back in five minutes.’
Little Ben said good-bye to his father and gave the phone back to JC. ‘Thank you so much. That was terrible. I can’t thank you enough,’ he said breathlessly.
The old man smiled with satisfaction.
‘You’re going home now.’
‘What is your name, sir?’
‘You can call me JC.’
58
The Domus Sanctae Marthae was a five-story building ordered built by John Paul II in the 1990s to give some comfort to those visiting the Holy See on business or for devotion. Cardinals, bishops, or priests, some emissary from another country, it was for anyone who came under the good graces of the Holy Mother Church. It was best known for lodging the College of Cardinals in 2005. It was built on the site of the former Saint Martha Hospice, which Leo XIII constructed during a cholera epidemic, and served as a refuge for Jews and others with troubled relations with the Italian government during World War II.
Papal Decree Page 26
