It was certainly not a five-star hotel, but it provided all the necessary comfort for anyone whose only requirement was a good night’s sleep.
Hans Schmidt rested a little, not as much as his body would have liked, since he was no longer at an age when he could stay up all night and part of the following day without rest and food. He remembered he hadn’t had a decent meal since arriving the previous night. He’d had coffee, some water, eaten half a sandwich, but nothing nutritious.
He opened his eyes. The room was dark, but the afternoon was only half over. He turned on the light over the bed and looked at his watch. It was four fifteen. He’d slept only an hour. He’d give himself fifteen minutes more of rest before going to see Tarcisio and the final developments in his case.
He turned off the light and shut his eyes again. He shut off his mind, refusing to think about anything. During the hour of rest one shouldn’t think. Besides, any thought that had no practical effect was an excuse not to do what should be done when reality required it. People revived too many scenes from the past that they later embellished in the way they wished things had happened or anticipated events that had not yet come. Most people lived in expectations and illusions. Hans didn’t. He knew perfectly well that expectations grew to the extent they were imagined, and developed according to one’s own wishes. Illusion, or delusion, was also a hope, just different, since one hoped that something one didn’t really possess would bear marvelous fruit. Both attitudes were mistakes.
So when his cell phone began to ring in the room, interrupting his expected rest, it left him irritated, but he answered the phone with a smile.
‘Good afternoon.’ Even if it was dark as night.
Whatever the call was about, whoever was calling, didn’t give Schmidt a chance to reply to anything that was said, not even an interjection or expression of surprise. The flush on his face indicated that the subject was uncomfortable to him in some way. Expectations and illusions could be controlled in theory, but not in real life.
‘Okay, I’ll find a way,’ he said. Just as he was hanging up the phone, someone knocked timidly on his door. ‘Who is it?’ he called out loudly.
‘Trevor,’ he heard from the other side.
Schmidt got up from the bed, still in his clothes, and went to open the door.
‘Good afternoon, Reverend Father.’
‘Good afternoon, Trevor. Come in, please. I was just getting up to go see the secretary,’ he explained.
The secretary’s assistant came in with a certain shyness appropriate to his position.
Schmidt sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes.
‘His Eminence asked that you come to see him. He has news,’ Trevor informed him.
‘Oh, yes? What news?’ he asked, tightening the laces on his shoes.
‘The parchments are in the possession of the church,’ Trevor said, uncertain if he should reveal anything, but prompted by the obvious affection between Schmidt and Tarcisio.
‘Yes, I was informed.’
Trevor looked at him in amazement. ‘May I ask by whom?’
‘By Cardinal William. He called to say the congregation was meeting to decide my future,’ Schmidt replied.
‘I see,’ Trevor replied, a little confused by the explanation. Cardinal William had been with the secretary when he was asked to go look for the Austrian priest. There was no meeting of the congregation.
One of the two was lying, either William to Schmidt or …
There was no more time to devise plausible or credible explanations. A belt tightened around his neck with suffocating intensity. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to resist, but Schmidt twisted harder from behind, applying more pressure. The fight for life under these unequal circumstances couldn’t last long, not two minutes, and Trevor’s life left him.
Schmidt removed the belt from around the corpse’s neck, and slipped it through the loops of his pants.
Finally he took the phone and dialed three numbers, sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at Trevor’s body with a serious expression. When the call was answered, he assumed a stricken tone.
‘Tarcisio, please, come here, for the love of God. Come quickly. The murderer. The murderer is still in the Vatican.’
59
When a routine is broken, altering the natural predisposition of events that, normally, are governed by a well-outlined chronology, it is God’s way of showing believers and heretics that everything obeys His will. At least that’s what he believed as he returned down the Via degli Astalli, for the second time looking for suspicious eyes. No one was following him.
He’d received the message on his cell phone at his personal number and not on the other card, the black one, where he communicated when he needed information, locations he couldn’t find on his own, or some request that required special authorization. This time, against all rules, they demanded his presence, overriding all the standards of security, a sign of urgency. Although the message included a security sign that only his mentor used in the name of God, he couldn’t be too careful.
He looked at his watch and decided to take a third turn around the neighborhood to remove all doubt. Ten minutes later he came out on the Piazza di Gesù. He glanced at the passersby, few at that hour, perhaps because it had rained hard earlier in the afternoon. A smattering of tourists were admiring the facade of the Church of the Gesù, designed by Giacomo della Porta, and taking pictures; others walked by in a hurry, paying no attention to what was around them. The traffic was heavy, since the plaza was a central location of the Eternal City with access to the heart of Rome and a transfer point for many other locations.
At first glance all the doors were closed, but he knew that was not so. Not for him.
He walked to the door on the far left, opened a glass-paned door and another wooden one painted green. The creaking hinges announced his presence.
The interior was grandiose. Ten side chapels dedicated to various religious subjects from the Passion to the Sacred Heart, and to the mortal remains of Saint Ignatius, the helmsman for eternity for the society.
At the back, next to the high altar, a man in black was kneeling, hands joined, head bowed. With his back turned he couldn’t see who it was.
‘Come nearer,’ the man in black said.
He came forward slowly, checking each niche and exit where he might hide in case of an attack. His senses were fully alert.
‘Come, my son. Don’t be afraid,’ the other said. ‘Ad maiorem Dei gloriam. We don’t attack our own. Perinde ac cadaver. Deus vocat. You have been a faithful servant,’ he said irritably.
He walked more quickly. He remembered the verse that came to him in the street and smiled. Have no fear, for the Lord, your God, will fight for you. He was welcome. He knew it. He felt it.
When he came to the transept, he stopped at a respectful distance from the man who was praying to the Almighty.
‘Come closer,’ the other ordered. ‘Kneel beside me.’
He obeyed hesitantly. Terrified would more accurately characterize his feelings, but he knelt down, blessed himself, joined his hands, and shut his eyes.
He didn’t even try to look at the other man out of the corner of his eye. All he could see was the stems of his glasses.
‘The enemy deceived us,’ said the man in black.
What? He hadn’t expected this revelation. He had to say something or look like an idiot.
‘How did that happen, sir?’
‘I lack men like you, my son. Dedicated, competent, believers. We are living in difficult times.’
‘You can count on me, sir. My purpose is to serve God, and God only.’ This escaped him before he could control his tongue.
‘You’re my best servant, my son,’ the other repeated sorrowfully. ‘Two names are left on your list.’
He confirmed that with a nod, though he knew it wasn’t a question.
‘You’re going to have an opportunity to fulfill the will of God tonight. I’m going to give y
ou all the necessary information.’
‘I’ll do it with dedication, sir,’ he asserted.
‘I know, Nicolas. I know,’ the other said, calling him by his name in a clear demonstration of confidence. He took a paper from his pocket and gave it to the servant. ‘This is all the information you’ll need.’
Nicolas took the paper and put it away. It was not appropriate to read it at the moment.
‘Your help has been invaluable,’ the man in black praised him. ‘What was the code for Ursino?’
‘KS,’ he said.
‘We have an RO for the Spaniard, HT for the Turk, IS for the German, and KS for Ursino. What will Ratzinger’s be?’
Nicholas was like a timid child who thought he knew the answer, but was uncertain and afraid to reply.
‘Say it, man,’ the other ordered, not missing anything.
‘If you will permit me to suggest, sir, I think that Ratzinger and Wojtyla have no code. It seems to me the code should be KHRISTOS.’
The other reflected on this a few moments and then raised his hand to his forehead. ‘Of course. We’re blind to the obvious, Nicolas.’
‘And now, sir?’
‘Now follow the instructions I gave you. Our enemy is now no longer Ben Isaac. We were deceived, but there is time to correct the error,’ he proclaimed vehemently. ‘The dice have been rolled.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Nicolas replied, getting up. There was work to do.
‘Wait. Kneel down with me. We’re going to pray the Our Father together. He’ll give us strength to finish this business.’
Nicolas kneeled down promptly, hands joined, head bowed, eyes closed, and repeated the Lord’s Prayer.
60
No matter how many turns the earth makes around the sun, it always ends up in the same place, as if it were a faithful servant of an unknown order, and although the orbit is always the same, day after day, night after night, year after year, the blue firmament is always different.
Life imitates this rotation, turning on itself and around others, passing the same places but in constant evolution, mobile, changing.
Sarah saw him and blushed immediately as soon as he entered the plane cabin behind Gavache. She had seen him a little more than six months before in this same city, and despite not being the same person herself, it was as if she had just seen him yesterday.
She hated blushing, but fortunately Gavache made sure all the attention was on him.
‘Commander, get us on our way. First stop Paris, and then wherever you want. It doesn’t matter to me,’ he said while he took off his overcoat and sat down heavily in a seat.
‘We’re going to Paris?’ Jacopo protested. ‘What great service.’
‘How many times do we save lives every day, Jean-Paul?’ Gavache asked as he looked out the window.
‘Once, Inspector,’ Jean-Paul promptly answered, seated next to Sarah.
Gavache looked back at Jacopo and frowned. ‘My work is done for the day.’
Rafael and Sarah exchanged looks quickly, then the priest sat down next to Gavache.
An attendant came out of the cockpit and entered the passenger cabin with a cell phone in her hand. ‘Captain Frank Terry has ordered electronic devices turned off. We’ll be taking off in twenty minutes. We’ll make a brief stop in Paris and continue on to Rome, our final destination. Estimated time of flight is four hours. I wish you a pleasant flight, and I look forward to serving you.’ She immediately went to Sarah with the phone. ‘You have a call, miss.’
Sarah lifted the phone to her ear and blushed again on hearing, ‘Good afternoon, my dear.’ It was JC. ‘I hope this hasn’t been a boring day.’ Always cynical. He never changed.
‘On the contrary,’ she replied sarcastically. ‘The part when you suggested that Ben Isaac kill me was a brilliant touch.’
‘I couldn’t resist, Sarah,’ JC confessed. ‘And it worked, as you see.’ He changed the subject. ‘I just left your beloved at the airport. Tonight he’ll be back in the hotel where you’re staying. You should be proud of him. He played his part perfectly.’
‘I heard.’ Sarah suddenly felt guilt for not thinking about Francesco. ‘How is he?’
‘I gave him five-star treatment, Sarah.’
I imagine so, she thought. But she also knew that Francesco wouldn’t appreciate it for a moment. She would have a lot to explain.
‘Do you want to give me a message for Cardinal William?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks. I’ll get in touch with him personally. But give my thanks to Inspector Gavache. I’ll arrange for his daughter to get into the Sorbonne, but don’t tell him that. I’m only bragging. I have to ask you another favor, Sarah. Nothing too difficult.’
Sarah closed her eyes. She remembered William in the Palazzo Madama, saying the same thing. JC told us that Sarah was the right person for the job and no one else. He kidnapped the son of a famous Jewish banker. We’re going to put you in contact with him to get back the parchments I spoke about.
‘How will I do that?’ Sarah had asked incredulously in the middle of the gallery displaying the faces of Christ.
Just follow the instructions he’ll send you during the operation. He gave her a cell phone. You can’t imagine how grateful the church will be for all you are doing.
Everything had gone well. He’d sent her a message to say that he’d asked Ben Isaac to get rid of her, which made her apprehensive, but then he told her that Gavache and Garvis were on the way. Everything happened according to JC’s plan.
Now he was asking her for something else. This man never stopped.
‘Tell me,’ she forced herself to ask. She couldn’t avoid it.
‘Under the seat you’ll find a package. Just follow the instructions. My regards to our favorite priest, also. He must not be very happy to have been left on the sidelines all this time. Until the next time, Sarah,’ he concluded with a chuckle before hanging up.
Sarah put the phone down on the arm of the seat and reached under. There it was. A white plastic bag. Marks & Spencer. She took out the contents, and her initial suspicion gave way to a suppressed laugh. On a Post-it stuck to the package was written, Follow the instructions on the back. JC was priceless. Always a step ahead. She read the text and remembered they were taking off in twenty minutes. There was time. She stuck the pregnancy test kit back in the sack, got up, and went to the lavatory.
In the front seats Jacopo sat next to a window with no one at his side, and on the other side, Gavache by the window, with Rafael next to him. Passing them, Sarah bent down to the inspector. ‘JC is extremely grateful.’ She stepped back to look at the priest. ‘He sends his greetings.’
‘What does JC have to do with this?’ Rafael asked heatedly.
‘So you can talk after all!’ Sarah exclaimed sarcastically, leaving the men and going to the toilet.
‘Are you relaxed enough to tell me what the hell’s going on?’ Rafael asked irritably.
‘The deceived husband is always the last to know,’ Jacopo spoke from his seat with a smile.
‘I’ll take care of you later,’ Rafael warned him.
‘Well, well, well,’ Barry’s voice was heard. He’d come up from a compartment in the back of the plane to talk to Rafael, who was surprised but didn’t want to show it. ‘Look who’s here.’ He approached Rafael.
‘You’re here?’ Rafael welcomed him. He had no idea what was going on but didn’t want the American to know. ‘I thought we were going to have dinner tonight. Couldn’t you wait? You missed me so much?’
Barry gave him a victory smile. ‘That trick with the taxi was very good.’ He shook his hand in greeting.
‘It was one of my best moments,’ Rafael returned. ‘I see you’re in JC’s service also.’
‘Always in the service of the American people,’ Barry corrected him. ‘JC left us out of this, but he offered us this small participation as a reward for being so diligent in pursuing the truth.’
‘He has a special knack for getti
ng people to do things for him without having to ask.’
‘I thought to myself, why not give him a little hand? What could it be that the church wants back so badly that they have to ask a living legend like JC to do it?’
‘I understand you,’ Rafael said ironically. ‘They have to be pretty desperate to ask the pope’s assassin to do something like this.’
‘The alleged assassin,’ Barry corrected.
‘The assassin of who?’ Aris asked curiously, joining the group.
‘I’d like to introduce my operative, Aris,’ Barry said. ‘This is the famous Jack Payne.’ He looked at Gavache. ‘And you are?’
‘The no-less-famous Inspector Gavache of the French police.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Barry offered his hand.
Aris greeted the two men also, looking at Rafael more closely than good manners might dictate. ‘The assassin of who?’ he asked again.
‘Rafael was talking about JC, the alleged assassin of Pope John Paul the First.’
‘This is getting more interesting by the moment,’ Aris said.
‘So you decided to give us a ride,’ Rafael concluded.
‘Exactly. For old times’ sake.’
For a moment there was a feeling of tension in the air. When Rafael was a double agent under the name Jack Payne, he collaborated with the CIA as part of P2, a Masonic lodge controlled by JC. In truth it was a triple situation, since Rafael didn’t loyally serve the CIA or JC, but the Holy Church. He was still not looked at kindly by the Agency, but he had earned the respect of the old man. Very few managed to deceive JC and survive.
‘I imagine he’s somewhere in Jerusalem,’ Rafael suggested to break the ice.
Papal Decree Page 27
