‘That won’t be necessary, Bishop.’ The cardinal took his hands off the desk and moved toward the door. ‘His Holiness is informed.’
Before the cardinal could leave, he heard the American’s reply.
‘That’s good, Your Eminence. You never know what could happen in the future.’
Showing no reaction to these last words, the cardinal left and closed the door.
All the theories end with the closing of this door, witnessed by the employee in the outer office.
Marcinkus ordered no interruption whatsoever until further notice, a decision the employee noted without understanding why. With the American you listened, shut up, and complied.
Inside, the bishop grabbed a phone and dialed a number.
‘They’re tightening the circle,’ he told the person on the other end of the line, not bothering with a greeting. It wasn’t the time for protocol. ‘We have to act quickly.’
The bishop listened for some time to the person he’d called.
‘I don’t want any mistakes or excuses. I want this resolved as quickly as possible. The German, Ratzinger, just left.’
6
Solomon Keys was an American. In itself this was neither a fault nor a virtue, just a fact. He was eighty-seven, and those times of excessive patriotism, of America, land of opportunity, liberty, and so on, were long gone for him. Let it be clear, Solomon Keys did go for all of that in the past even until very recently. He was born in the District of Columbia – named in honor of the discoverer of the continent – the center of world politics since 1800, and Solomon Keys fought in the war of his generation, World War II, ‘fought’ in quotations, since he never saw a front line, death, wounds, or anything similar. His field of operation was in London, in the Office of Strategic Services, decoding German messages, and, perhaps, while hurting his back as he leaned over his desk, he had saved some lives. He escaped the Blitz that darkened England’s nights and days in 1940 and 1941, for he arrived in the English capital in May 1943. Be that as it may, he served his country with dedication, competence, zeal, and obedience, like a good American.
When he returned home, he set off to New Haven, Connecticut, to enroll at Yale, where he studied law. Of course a young man born in the nation’s capital, who had served in the OSS, which, at the end of the war was converted by order of President Harry S. Truman into the Central Intelligence Agency, didn’t take these steps as easily as they are described. Everything depended on knowing the right people at the right time and place, including his initiation into the secret society of Skull and Bones in 1948 in the same group as the forty-first president of the United States. Every Thursday and Sunday night there was a meeting in the Tomb, where the not-very-secret society met for notoriously secret activities, from dignified mud wrestling to the celebrated and awkward moment in which the future member was called on to reveal some secret he’d never revealed to anyone, after which and from that day on he was treated as a ‘bonesman.’ They are the men who will be most influential in the country and even in the world, linked to one another by rites and secrets, blood brothers, in mutual service for the rest of their lives. The ‘gentlemen,’ as the members call themselves, are chosen for taking power, for molding the ‘barbarians’ to their will, ‘barbarians’ being their term for all non-members.
But all this was part of Solomon Keys’s rich past. After decades of work and dedication, he decided to set off to meet the unknown, solely for pleasure without destination or ambitions, as these had already been abundantly achieved. And now we find him, far into his travels, in downtown Amsterdam hurrying to catch the Go London tour, which included a train to the Hoek van Holland Haven station, followed by a ferry to Harwich and, then, a train from Harwich International to London with arrival at Liverpool Street station. The trip was called the Dutchflyer, and Solomon Keys had a return ticket to Amsterdam, on this same service, departing in three days. From there he would leave immediately for Eastern Europe to explore the former Iron Curtain countries.
It’s a little embarrassing to explain that this great man found himself with his pants down in one of the station toilets, answering nature’s call. He had ninety minutes before the train left for Hoek van Holland, and it was always better to go here rather than take a chance on the train’s dubiously hygienic WCs.
Solomon Keys’s calm was interrupted by someone shoving open the entrance door, followed by noises that ended in the stall next to his until … until the noises continued with a light banging he couldn’t figure out. It would be indelicate to describe these actions and leave the elderly man ignorant of what was actually happening. Therefore, instead of making ourselves voyeurs, let’s remain next to Solomon Keys, who was trying to decipher the sounds reaching him from the other stall, as if deciphering a code in wartime. In his eighty-seven years this might have been the first time the American had listened to someone copulating like that so close by. It’s not our place to confirm or deny the theory that Skull and Bones promoted orgies or other similar activity. If they did, it never happened in his presence.
Filling the sounds reaching Solomon Keys’s ears and stimulating his imagination, the stifled moans of a woman allowed him to imagine the pleasure and passion of the two. The sliding of clothes and smacking of bodies suggested their unbridled enjoyment. A few minutes later, the frenzy died away, and the moans changed to sighs of pleasure, masculine as well as feminine, and the words we cannot repeat. The wall separating Solomon from the passionate couple began to tremble more intensely, as if something or someone were being pushed against it. A change of position? Good God, thought Solomon, who was not religious. He remained seated, quiet, his pants around his ankles, his heart hammering. He had never given in to the clutches of matrimony, not that he hadn’t enjoyed sex, of course. But he had never heard such dirty talk during coitus.
While their activities continued with the promise of a quick climax, the door of the stall the couple occupied opened suddenly. Two muffled sounds changed that giddy excitement to sudden silence. Solomon Keys heard the sound of the bodies falling lifeless on the floor.
What the hell? thought a frightened Solomon Keys. Firm, heavy steps approached the door of his stall. Excitement gave way to panic. Solomon Keys stretched out his arms against the sides of the stall and rose quickly from the toilet bowl.
Two shots passed through the door. The first hit the tiles behind him; the second, his chest. Gripped with pain, the American felt like everything was coming to an end. Whatever he had done or deserved in the past, or the simple uncertainty of life, was over today, now. He heard nothing from the other side of the closed door. Neither steps, nor breathing. Only silence. Maybe he could still get out and look for help. With great effort he raised one hand toward the latch on the door. It seemed enormous, like the heavy lock of a huge gate. His strength rapidly abandoned him. His suffering ended quickly with a third shot that passed through the door and struck his head. The end.
Solomon Keys saw his life end in a toilet stall in Amsterdam Centraal station, along with the young lives of the sexual adventurers.
7
Marcinkus
February 19, 2006
You can’t administer the Church with Ave Marias.
– PAUL MARCINKUS to the Observer,
May 25, 1986
A lot could be said about Paul Casimir Marcinkus, archbishop of the Church of Rome. Over many years, more than a decade, he was the most influential man in the Vatican. How could a man who never became a cardinal become more powerful than the pope himself? Well, that’s another story.
What truly mattered on this day of February 19 was the solitude. The solitude of Paul Marcinkus, after sixteen years away from Rome, exiled in his own land of birth. He’d lived in Rome more than two-thirds of his life, cutting off practically all ties with his own country. Paul Marcinkus belonged to no side. He was a citizen of the world and at the same time estranged from it. For Paul Casimir Marcinkus, only his own world mattered; other people were no more than mar
ionettes to be manipulated at his whim until no longer useful.
Sent back to the diocese of Chicago in 1989, he was obliged to forget all the opulence and power that had surrounded him for so long. The only thing left for him was solitude and, more seriously, the realization that he had no friends, only acquaintances. Friendships based on power crumble away almost instantly when that power is lost. Returning to Chicago, after sixteen years, he realized for the first time he’d always been alone, always an orphan. Even today, having turned eighty-four in the last month, living in Sun City, Arizona, a city of around forty thousand inhabitants, he was alone.
Now he practically never left his bedroom. No more celebrating the Eucharist in the parish of San Clemente in Rome. He spent the day with memories, ever more vivid in his mind, or looking at papers and photographs. The popes Peter, Calvi, and Gelli in the good times, the scoundrels Villot, Casaroli, Poletti, the bastards Luciani and Wojtyla … Emanuela … the beautiful Emanuela. How sad not to have a photograph of Emanuela. How could he? He, an archbishop of the Roman Catholic Church, married to God, Whoever He might be, administrator, for many years, of the accounts bequeathed by Him on earth, he’d managed to triple his investments, some claimed in a risky, harmful way, but that was malicious gossip. A picture of the sweet Emanuela? How could he justify it? How marvelous to have a photo of the beautiful Emanuela. How many years had passed since she … twenty-two? Twenty-three? To think he had become the king of numbers, calculations, financial operations. But nonsense, eighty-four years is a lifetime. The dead make better company than the living.
Two knocks at the door took him out of his dreamy state of thinking about the distant but vivid image of Emanuela … of God, if you will permit the correction. He took his time getting up from the desk and getting to the door. He didn’t hear another knock. Either it was someone very patient or old Marcinkus was now hearing things. But as soon as he opened the door, he was relieved to see someone on the other side.
‘Good afternoon, Your Eminence,’ a young visitor greeted him. Since the term ‘young’ has a wide range, one should reduce it to between twenty-eight and thirty-three years. The young man was somewhere in that range.
‘Who are you?’ Marcinkus asked rudely. Congeniality was never his strong suit.
The young man didn’t seem the least impressed with the importance of the man or his lack of manners.
‘I’m Brother Herbert. I called at the parish to say I was coming,’ the young cleric informed him. Black pants, black shirt and jacket, and a collar identical to what priests wear. Marcinkus deliberated. The young man was carrying a writing case with papers and a bottle.
‘No one’s told me anything. Why are you here?’ Marcinkus shot back. He hated visits, especially from people he didn’t know.
‘I’m coming from Rome. I’m doing my doctorate. Excuse me for bothering you, but my thesis is about the financial world and the Church. And who better than Your Eminence to inform me about that?’ the young man continued, submissive and well mannered.
‘I can’t help you. Good afternoon,’ Marcinkus replied, starting to close the door.
‘I’m not going to take much of your time, Your Eminence. I promise you,’ the young man hastened to argue. ‘I brought you a present from Italy.’ He raised his hand with the bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, a marvelous red nectar from Tuscany, full-bodied with an intense flavor, which should not be confused with the more common Rosso di Montalcino from the same region.
Marcinkus thought for a few seconds.
‘Let’s do the following.’ The young man changed strategy, negotiating, the difference between a good thesis and an excellent one, the gateway to a great career. ‘The bottle stays with you, and I’ll return at a better time. Is that all right?’
Marcinkus looked at the young man awhile longer.
‘Come tomorrow after dinner.’
‘Thank you, Your Eminence. I’m eternally grateful.’
‘I’ll collect on that gratitude.’
‘It will be a privilege.’ The young man started to turn around. ‘Thank you, Your Eminence. Until tomorrow.’
‘Wait,’ Marcinkus ordered. ‘That stays here.’ He took the bottle from the young man’s hand.
‘Of course, of course. A thousand apologies. Until tomorrow, Your Eminence.’
‘Don’t be late.’ And he shut the door, with a slam that almost knocked the plaster from the wall. Marcinkus returned to his memories, to the specters that waited for him from the other side, whatever that was, where the dead live, waiting for time to pass for us. No one has ever returned to tell us what this other side is like, but Marcinkus was going to remember those dead, awaken them, even if only in his own memory. What he didn’t know was that today the dead who had accompanied him for eighty-four years would demand he join them.
‘Rest in peace, Your Eminence,’ the young cleric said. Paul Marcinkus didn’t hear him.
Time runs out. The archbishop, stretched out on his deathbed, knows that his problems are starting now, when he will be called to account by the God he fears so much and forgot on so many occasions. The true banker of God sees himself before the Omnipotent, showing his books of assets and liabilities, what is owed and what is owned, explaining why he committed frauds, convincing Him of the necessity of diversifying the investments and laundering the money of organized crime. In the fever and anguish of death, Marcinkus sees God like the chairman of a board of directors, incapable of recognizing that everything His servant did over eighty-four years was for the good of the Enterprise.
On the floor of the bedroom, beside the bed, an overturned bottle and a broken glass.
8
Raul Brandão Monteiro knew this day had to come. It was not that he had the soul of a mystic or had had some premonitory dream. A retired captain of the Portuguese army didn’t permit himself, at the risk of his professional reputation, to seek foresight in anything other than reason. As much as he tried to convince himself and others that the past was past, he knew a day would come when the past would claim its own. That day was today.
First an old man with a cane came in. His hand covered the cane’s golden lion head. Then a younger man in an impeccable black silk Armani suit entered. If the cane with the lion head supported the old man, it also wouldn’t have been inappropriate for the younger. His pronounced limp revealed a past accident or wound to his left leg. Only a few knew the origin of the injury; perhaps the captain himself, Raul Brandão Monteiro, had some idea of what had happened. The man in the impeccable Armani suit, now a cripple, was not a person who divulged things from the past or raised questions of karma. Everyone must play the cards he’s dealt.
The sudden tension was out of place in the serene Alentejan mountain in Trindade, near Beja, where the captain had decided, several years ago, to take off his boots and enjoy retirement, with his wife, Elizabeth, English by birth. Better that Elizabeth wasn’t in the house, though, with these people. This old man with so much power, capable of bending the CIA to his wishes, knew Elizabeth had gone to the city to shop.
‘My beloved captain. We meet again,’ said the old man, stopping before Raul.
The cripple, ignoring manners, brought a chair over so the elderly man could sit down and catch his breath. Age is a stepmother and time a stepfather. Together they have no mercy; they are implacable, bending down the strong and the oppressed, nobles and commoners.
The captain looked from one man to the other, weighing the possibilities. The old man sitting down was an easy target, despite being the one who gave orders. The other was a different story. His defect was in his leg, not his hands. He wouldn’t hesitate two seconds in pulling a gun, and he’d do it coolly enough to aim well. The fact that the old man had taken the trouble to travel to the meeting clearly indicated important interests at stake, so likely the shot or shots would not be fatal.
‘What do you want from me?’ the soldier asked abruptly.
‘Oh, my good man, where are your manners?’ the old man
protested without altering his neutral tone. ‘We are in good wine country. I know you have your own production for home consumption. We can begin there.’ Let no one be confused by the polite tone. That was an order, not a suggestion. These men were not given to friendly requests. Their world is not governed by congeniality.
Raul went to the kitchen under the close watch of the cripple; since as yet he has no other name, we’ll continue to call him that. Not for a moment did he let the soldier out of his sight. Some people only need a second, one opportunity to get away, but not today, not now, not under his watchful eye. Only one man had ever escaped easily and caught him unprepared in the past, leaving a permanent mark. That wouldn’t happen again.
Raul returned with glasses and a bottle. Without ceremony he put them on top of the table in the entrance room in this house in the middle of nowhere, filled the glasses with red wine, and left the rest to the old man, who stretched out a hand for one of the glasses and sipped a mouthful.
‘Magnificent,’ he commented. ‘One of the jewels of your country is undoubtedly the wine.’ He turned to the cripple. ‘Have a drink.’ Then he turned again toward the soldier. ‘Take a glass yourself.’ Savoring a fine wine was always good for moving conversation along.
‘I don’t want one,’ Raul told him as coldly as possible.
‘Our future time together will teach you many things, one of which is that I don’t like to repeat myself,’ the old man stated categorically and raised the glass to his mouth again. The cripple, too, took small sips from his own glass, showing neither delight nor disgust. It was difficult to imagine what he was thinking. He was a professional who never took his eyes off his target, in this case, the Portuguese captain. Work was work, port was port, and, even sipping wine, he didn’t let himself be distracted, whatever the quality of the vintage. It was not the time, and the old man didn’t forgive distractions. Nor did he.
The Holy Assassin Page 4
