Shadow of Death

by William Kienzle

  “Oh, I’m afraid you may be mistaken, Inspector.”

  “Oh, I am afraid not, your Eminence. Would you mind taking a look at this list.”

  Koznicki handed the Cardinal a small piece of paper on which were written nine names.

  Koznicki noted that while others on the plane had doffed jackets and coats to make themselves more comfortable, Boyle had retained his lightweight black suit coat and starched white linen roman collar. He never wore the voguish black shirt with the white plastic insert at the neck. Across his chest was stretched the gold chain that held his pectoral cross, now tucked into the inside pocket of his suit coat.

  “Yes?” Boyle looked up, blue eyes inquisitive.

  “That is the list the Reverend Toussaint acquired from his contacts in Rome. These are alleged to be the names of those who are intended victims of an extremist element of the Rastafarians.”

  Koznicki correctly anticipated that Boyle would be familiar with the Rastafarian movement. But the Inspector went on to explain what was now understood to be the intent and motive of this violent segment of the group.

  “And so, your Eminence,” Koznicki concluded, “I would be very much interested in your evaluation of these Cardinals.”

  “Well, of course, this list includes the names of Cardinals Claret and Gattari, both unfortunately slain.”

  “But the rest, your Eminence—would you not agree that they are—how is it you say it . . . papabili?”

  Boyle smiled and waved a hand in dismissal of the idea. “Oh, no, my dear Inspector. That is an oversimplification that has been going on for centuries and, recently, has been taken over and amplified by the media.

  “There is no such person as a papabile. Although, of course, I have not yet participated in one, I am sure the Cardinals enter a conclave as equals. Of course, since they bring with them different backgrounds, talents, ages, and philosophies, there is no way of predicting who will be elected Pope. That depends as much on the workings of the Cardinals as it does on the workings of the Holy Spirit.”

  “I understand what you are saying, your Eminence. But even if this is no more than a game people play, you must admit there are those who believe in it. There is speculation about who might become the next Pope. Books are written about it. In all due reverence, your Eminence, there are even people who bet on it. To some people, the probability is a reality. And, you must admit, if there is such a group as the Rastafarians who, since they feel they cannot reach the Pope himself, intend to eliminate those who are next in line, it would be necessary for them to have a list of all who are in the running for the Papacy.”

  “But why would they attempt such an undertaking? As long as there is one Catholic left in the world, there can be a Pope, I suppose—though I have never thought about it. In any case, with many more than a hundred Cardinals, and with the Pope’s power to name as many more Cardinals as he wishes, eliminating all possible candidates to the Papacy is a veritable impossibility.”

  “I cannot presume to interpret their drug-numbed minds, your Eminence. But I would guess they feel that if they can do away with everyone on that list, there would be no appropriate candidate left.

  “Or, perhaps, more probably they feel that as they eliminate one after another of the most prominent Cardinals, the others will become so frightened of becoming victims, they will abolish the office of the Papacy. Thus, having accomplished the destruction of the Papacy, the Rastafarians could then in an indirect way feel they had achieved their aim of ‘death to the Pope.’”

  Boyle toyed with the ring on the third finger of his right hand, as was his habit. “I suppose there is something in what you say,” he admitted.

  “Well, then, your Eminence, I would ask you once again to reflect upon the list I have given you.”

  Boyle did.

  “Now, your Eminence, granted the caveats and disclaimers we have already discussed, would you agree that this is at least a fairly comprehensive listing of those Cardinals who would be strong candidates for the Papacy? At least as appreciated by the students of this sort of thing?”

  Boyle considered for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

  “Do you know everyone on this list?”

  “I know of all of them. Some are personally known by me, yes.”

  “Then, tell me, your Eminence, if you feel we are correct in our somewhat hurried evaluations. With three exceptions, the men on this list all have bureaucratic positions in Rome.”

  Boyle again considered briefly. “Yes, I would agree.”

  “Good. Now, those in such bureaucratic positions are generally removed from everyday contact with ordinary people, and thus can be protected rather easily. The sole exception would have been poor Cardinal Gattari. Yet, if we had known of the danger to him, we could have protected him until we got this situation under control. For one thing, we would never have let him go into the Sistine Chapel unaccompanied while this threat lasted.

  “But now, we come to the other three. The three that would not be in such protected and protectable positions.”

  “Yes,” said Boyle, a new note of gravity in his voice, “That would be Cardinal Claret, Cardinal Whealan, and,” he paused, “myself.”

  “That is correct, your Eminence. Cardinal Claret is, unfortunately, already a victim. That leaves yourself and Cardinal Whealan, Archbishop of London. The two Cardinals most vulnerable . . . and you will both be in the same place for the next two days.”

  “That is correct.” He continued to finger his ring. “But of course we did not have the slightest notion of such a bizarre plot when we made our plans to meet. We are old friends, you know.”

  “Well, I do not think we should have too difficult a time providing security while both of you meet away from the public eye. Say, in Cardinal Whealan’s quarters. Is there any plan for the two of you to be together in any public place?”

  “Yes, there is.” Boyle felt somehow apologetic about something over which he had neither foreknowledge nor control. “Tomorrow evening there is to be an ecumenical service involving the Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Whealan, and myself.”

  “And where might this service be planned?” Koznicki almost hated to ask.

  “Westminster Abbey.”

  Koznicki shut his eyes and tried to conjure up the Abbey from memory. He knew it was and had been for many centuries the site for coronations of British monarchs. He assumed it would be a devil of a place to make secure. Still, they must have provided a maximum type of security for the coronations.

  Koznicki had been silent so long Boyle finally spoke up. “Is there something wrong, Inspector?”

  “We will work it out.”

  “I have one question, Inspector. You have been saying such things as, ‘until we get this situation under control’ and ‘until we can clear this matter up.’ Am I to take this to mean that you see an end to this threat at some time in the near future?”

  “Oh, yes. The danger comes from one small though aggressive segment of the Rastafarians. They are a splinter group of extremists—zealots, if you will. Just as many situations breed terrorist extremists, so their background and environment has spawned this unbalanced bunch of religious fanatics. It is merely a matter of finding them and apprehending them. And this, in time, will be done. We have contacted Interpol as well as the police forces of each city where any Cardinal on that list is located. In effect, your Eminence, in fictional parlance, we know whodunit; the question remaining is, can we stop them and catch them? I think the answer is most decidedly yes.”

  Satisfied, Boyle nodded.

  “Oh, and one last thing, your Eminence. With all due respect: not a word about that list to anyone. The news media do not have that information and we do not wish them to have it until this case is closed. We do not want the Rastafarians to know that we know who their targets are. This is the element of surprise that will be our ace of trump in foiling their plot. Only the police, the listed Cardinals, Father Koesler, and, of course, t
he Reverend Toussaint, through whose good offices we have the list, know about it. No one else is to know.” Koznicki was torn between the enormous reverence he felt for a Cardinal of the Catholic Church and the necessity of stating his admonishment as forcefully as possible.

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. If you look out the windows on the right side of the plane, you’ll get a good view of the Alps. It’s a breathtaking sight this morning with the sun glancing off the snow cover.”

  “It never fails,” said Joan Blackford Hayes to Irene Casey. “When one of those announcements is made, I am always on the wrong side of the plane.”

  Neither of them made a move to the other side of the cabin to take in the Alps.

  “Anyway, as I was saying,” Joan continued, “I just knew I shouldn’t have been in that greeting line last night at St. John’s. I mean, I looked around and saw that I was just about the only Detroiter in line and I said to myself, you shouldn’t be here. And the next thing I knew I was on the floor in a heap of people.”

  Irene Casey studied Joan Hayes. There was not a hair out of place, including the white streak that ran through her otherwise black, perfectly groomed tresses. Irene had known Joan for a considerable number of years, going back to their days at Marygrove College. She had never known Joan to be less than perfectly put together, not even, she recalled, on the basketball court. Even last night, Irene, from her perch of safety near the Cardinal, had watched Joan topple into the pile and emerge somehow unscathed.

  “Checking things over back at the hotel later,” said Joan, “I found I did have a run in my stocking.”

  Poor dear, thought Irene.

  “But it was exciting, wasn’t it?” Joan continued. “The closest I’d ever gotten to a murder was reading about it. And there I was, as close to a real murderer—uh, I guess you call them assailants if they’re unsuccessful—as I am to you.”

  “Yesterday,” Irene commented, “I didn’t even know what an eyewitness was, and today I are one.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Is that why you’re carrying your rosary?” Irene gestured at the rather ornate black rosary resting in Joan’s lap. “Did the experience frighten you into getting religion?”

  Joan glanced down at her all-but-forgotten rosary, and chuckled. “No, this was a last-minute purchase.” She laughed again. “Actually, it was and it wasn’t.”

  “Make up your mind, lady.”

  “Well, it started the first day we arrived. Remember when we were driven all over the countryside for hours because our rooms weren’t ready?”

  “I’ll never forget! Nor will I forget that yesterday they told us the water would be turned off for a few hours, and we never saw it again . . . including this morning!”

  “Yes, it was dreadful, wasn’t it,” Joan sympathized. “I do hope you had the foresight to fill your tub with water before they turned it off.”

  Ms. Perfect again, thought Irene.

  “Well, anyway, no sooner did we get to the hotel than this peddler—you know, the one with a pushcart full of religious articles—came up to me and started rattling away in Italian. He saw that I admired this rosary, so he took it out of its box and showed it to me. I said—with gestures, ‘How much?’ He said— with gestures, ‘6500 lire.’ I said—with a lot of gestures, ‘Too much!’ He just shrugged and walked away. I think he knew I was going to become a captive audience.”

  “Sixty-five hundred lire! Why that’s . . . that’s . . .”

  “About five dollars.”

  “Robbery!”

  “That’s what I thought. But every day as I left or entered the hotel, there he would be. With the rosary. And every day the price would go down. And every day it was still too high.

  “Well, this morning I took a short walk outside the hotel before breakfast and there he was. By now, the price was down to 2600 lire.”

  “About two dollars.” Irene’s arithmetic was improving.

  “So I said, ‘No, no,’ and held up a one dollar bill, but he just shrugged and walked away again.

  “Then, after breakfast, we were about to get on the bus, and I guess he could tell this was the end of our negotiations. He came over to me with the rosary, and said, sort of disgustedly, ‘Hokay, una buck.’ But I told him that was my offer before breakfast. Now I had only fifty cents left. And I showed him the two quarters.

  “He shook his head and muttered something.

  “Well, I got on the bus and sat down. Suddenly, there was a tapping at the window. There he stood, grimacing, but nodding, with the rosary held up in one hand and the other open palm outstretched.

  “So I opened the window, took the rosary, put the two quarters in his hand, and he turned and walked away and that’s the last I saw of him.”

  “Bet he’ll never forget you!”

  “I guess not. I really feel rather proud of myself.” Joan held up the rosary rather like a trophy. “Oh, I forgot to get it blessed.”

  “I think you can probably find a clergyman not a hundred miles from here to do that.”

  “How about you?” Joan asked. “Did you get any souvenirs?”

  Irene nodded, and smiled sheepishly. “Yes, but unlike you, I sort of got taken.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Well, I went on that bus trip—you know, Rome’s version of the Grey Line Tour. We began and ended at St. Peter’s. When we finished the tour, the guide touted us into a religious goods store right in the building. So I bought a bunch of stuff. Then I went up the stairs to the first roof of the basilica—you know, where all the tall statues are.

  “And there, I discovered another religious goods shop run by a bunch of sweet little nuns. Their stuff was lots nicer than what was selling downstairs, and a fraction of the price.”

  “No!”

  “Well, I went right back down and demanded my money back. I’ll say this for them: they didn’t bother pulling that ‘no spika English’ routine. They just told me that there were no refunds. I could see my traveler’s check on top of a pile of others on the back counter, but I couldn’t reach it, or I would’ve just taken it.”

  “How frustrating!”

  “Yes. But the Irish kid doesn’t quit when the score’s one to nothing against her.

  “I marched outside just as another tour bus was pulling up and the guide was giving the passengers the same pitch our guide gave us—all about this great shop where you could get all this great stuff at a great price. I’ll bet every one of those guides gets a kickback from the shop owner.

  “Anyway, before all those passengers could even go in, I stood at the door and told them all about the better, less expensive place upstairs.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Yes, I did! And everybody marched up to the little sisters’ shop. And you should have seen the salespeople from that ripoff shop: they weren’t happy, any of them—including the bus driver and the tour guide. Oh, I’m sure they get some sort of rakeoff for touting the store.

  “And none of them got any happier when I spent the entire afternoon standing there diverting tour passengers away from their store and upstairs to the nuns’ shop.”

  “They let you get away with it?”

  “Oh, they said a few things in Italian, English, and Profane. But I guess they decided it wasn’t worth putting out a contract on me—although at one point they did call the police. And when I explained to the police that those people refused to give my money back, they told the police I was crazy in the head from standing in the sun all afternoon! By that time, it was late in the day, so I decided I’d made my point, and called a halt to my crusade.”

  “Well, good for you! That’s showing them. I’m proud of you!”

  “It was sort of a standoff. They didn’t get any more customers that afternoon . . . but I didn’t get my refund either.”

  “Excuse me, Irene . . .” Joan stood and stepped into the aisle. “While I’m thinking of it, I’m going to take this ros
ary to Bob Koesler for a blessing.”

  “Why stop with a lowly priest,” Irene called after her, “when there’s a Holy Roman Cardinal aboard?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t bother the Cardinal just to bless a rosary!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. We remain on schedule. We should be touching down at Heathrow Airport at 10:25 a.m. London time. The temperature in London is fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and the weather is—you guessed it—rainy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you look out the windows on the right side there you can just see Paris off in the distance. At least you should be able to make out the Eiffel Tower.”

  “It never fails,” said Father Koesler to his row companion, Ramon Toussaint, “when one of those announcements is made, I am always on the wrong side of the plane.”

  Neither man made a move to the other side of the cabin to see the Eiffel Tower.

  “Oh, Bob,” said Joan Blackford Hayes, “could I get you to bless this rosary for me?”

  “Of course, Joan. But why pick on me when you’ve got a Cardinal on board?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t bother the Cardinal just to bless a rosary!”

  “Well,” Koesler grinned at Toussaint, “I guess that puts me in my place!”

  Holding the rosary in his left palm, Koesler traced a cross over the beads with his right hand. Then he returned the rosary to Joan.

  “That’s it?” she said with a touch of incredulity.

  “That’s what you get for giving your rosary to a simple parish priest,” Koesler responded. “Now, if you had tried the Cardinal, he probably would have used incense.”

  “Of course he would have, Bobby. But you’re sure it’s blessed?”

  “It’s blessed already.”

  “Then thank you.”

  Koesler watched Joan as she returned to her seat.

  “Don’t you wish you could do that?” Koesler said to his companion.

  Toussaint smiled. “Make a pretty lady happy by blessing her rosary? That would indeed be nice. But I am only a deacon.”

  “You ought to be a priest.”

  “Have you forgotten that I am married?”