by Peter Watson
David got up and wandered slowly down through the trees to the back of what was now the Palazzo Corsini but was once the Palazzo Riario. Here Queen Christina of Sweden had lived for many years after abdicating and converting to Catholicism. Would Thomas abdicate, perhaps? David didn’t know. He looked down on the Riario. Christina had been a great collector—pictures, sculpture, bindings. Yet she had died unhappy, had never adjusted to her abdication, and had tried several times to gain other crowns. Once you have power, he reflected, it always hurts to give it up. What would Thomas do? He would never be the same again if he failed. And neither would he, David, if Averne beat him at the board meeting next week. Today was make-or-break day for them both. The meeting with Massoni was less than an hour away. And Michael Stone arrived from Milan tonight to authenticate the Leonardo.
David moved north along the Lungara towards St Peter’s. As he had read, the army were out in force, their grey-green uniforms and squat, angular vans posted at every crossroad, every bridge, every traffic light. He followed the Lungotevere and turned left into the Corridori Borgo Sant Angelo. This brought him, at ten minutes to twelve, to the Porta Sant’ Anna. As on other—if very different—occasions, he was expected. A Swiss guard, in blue breeches, took him up the slight slope to the papal apartments on the left and rode with him in the elevator. At the third floor, when the elevator stopped and the doors had opened, he was received by a figure he didn’t recognize, presumably one of Massoni’s new secretaries. The papal apartments were subtly different from the last time he had been here, to discuss the big sale all that while ago. Two Swiss guards now stood in the corridor. Either Massoni was making the most of the ceremonial his new position entitled him to, or he really was afraid of being invaded. There were other differences, too: pictures had gone from the walls and there were no flowers anywhere. The place was as austere as a monastery.
David was shown into the same office where Thomas had first produced the list of art works which he wanted to sell. The same large table, the same view down on to St Peter’s Square, though the weather now was different: the early morning sunshine hadn’t lasted, the sky had clouded over and threatened rain.
David was kept waiting: the psychological game had begun. Eventually he heard movement beyond the double doors at the far end. They opened and Massoni swept through. He seemed taller in white. Taller but paler, a deathly pale. His high, cadaverous skull seemed about to break through his skin at any moment, so thin, so transparent did it appear.
There were no formalities. He stood by his desk and said, in Italian, ‘Mr Colwyn, I forget how good your Italian is. Shall we need an interpreter?’
‘No.’
Massoni turned to the young man who had entered with him and nodded. The young man left, closing the double doors behind him.
Massoni sat and David did the same, opposite him across the desk. ‘Well,’ said Massoni. ‘I am told you are here on behalf of the—of Thomas Murray.’
‘Yes, sir.’ David couldn’t, wouldn’t, call Massoni ‘Holiness’, but that was no reason to be needlessly disrespectful.
Massoni was silent. He wasn’t about to make things easy for David.
Outside the window a helicopter clattered by. Somewhere someone was whistling. David said, ‘Thomas feels that since the St Patrick’s Fund was his doing, his own idea, and that since it is so closely identified with him, he feels he should be allowed to take it with him.’
What then happened David had never seen before. Massoni grinned. It was alarming. His lips curled back to reveal teeth long, slightly curved, slightly too big for his mouth. It was an ugly sight, reminiscent of an ape’s war grimace. ‘He would, would he? Seven hundred million dollars? He would like me to give him seven hundred million dollars? Just like that? He is crazy. And what would he do with the money?—no, don’t tell me, I can guess. He would carry on spending the same as before. So the world would be plagued with these ill-advised schemes of his for years to come.’
Massoni slapped the desk between them. ‘Not only is he mad, Mr Colwyn, but you are, too, for accepting such a hopeless assignment. Does he, do you, really think I will hand over cash like that, just for the asking? I tell you: you are all still living in the past, Mr Colwyn. It’s over. Thomas is no longer Pope.’ He drew himself up. ‘I am.’
David reached into his jacket and took out a slip of paper. He placed it on the desk between them.
Massoni glanced down. He looked more closely. Then he snatched at it.
‘Yes, sir,’ said David. ‘Your Swiss bank account. And your personal fortune, as of last evening.’
‘How did you get this?’
‘So it is yours.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘You are not the only man with friends in Switzerland, sir.’
Massoni stared at David. ‘There’s nothing wrong with cardinals having bank accounts. I shall close it now, of course. Now that I am Pope.’
‘It’s not the account itself, or the very large balance, that I have come to discuss, sir, but rather how certain payments—from the St Patrick’s Fund—found their way into that account. You will recall it was I who noticed the pattern of investments in the first place—a pattern that was suspicious and drew attention to your brother’s involvement. Now we have a pattern of transfers into your account. That is suspicious also. More than suspicious. While you were conducting your own crusade against the fund, and against its achievements, at the same time you and your brother were stealing from it. That is frankly criminal. I’m not surprised you feel so insecure you need the Italian army guarding your doors. If—when—this is all made public, even they won’t keep you in that chair.’
Massoni still held the scrap of paper. For a long time he stared at it, as though the writing were hard to decipher. Eventually, he looked up. ‘This is all you have, isn’t it? A set of figures, and some dates perhaps. If you could prove the slanders you have just uttered, you would have the documentation with you. But you haven’t. You haven’t because there isn’t any. Not since your own report. Your own interference warned us to destroy a lot of the evidence, Mr Colwyn.’
Calmly Massoni looked across at David. ‘There’s no documentation is there?’ His stare burned into him. ‘Is there?’
When David didn’t reply, Massoni scrunched up the slip of paper and threw it contemptuously into a waste basket. He began to rise, terminating the meeting.
David improvised desperately. ‘Thomas says he won’t leave Sicily until he’s got the fund.’
The cardinal lowered himself slowly back into his seat. The toothy grin reappeared. ‘Let him stay,’ he said at length. ‘You know what will happen if he stays on, Mr Colwyn? He will outlive his welcome. Oh, there’s high emotion down there at the moment, I grant you that. But it won’t last. It can’t. Nobody lives at that emotional intensity for long. Then, when the emotion has died down, one of two things will happen. Either the government will arrest him and deport him—they are firmly on my side, Mr Colwyn, and will do everything they can to support me. Or, the Mafia will get him. He may have wonderful friends in Sicily but that’s where his most vicious enemies are too.’ He got up and stood above David. ‘If I gave Thomas the seven hundred million he’s asking for, there’d have been no point in all that has happened in the past forty-eight hours. He’d be afloat in the world somewhere, and still able to do whatever damage he wanted.’
‘Some people don’t see charity work as damage,’ said David.
‘But damage it is. Can’t you see that? Selling off all those wonderful treasures was damage. Interfering in Central America was damage. Meddling in Beirut was very damaging. Tampering in Northern Ireland was damage. Taking on President Roskill was both damaging and foolish. Plotting behind the Iron Curtain was in some senses the most damaging of all, potentially the most dangerous certainly.’
As he was speaking, Massoni sat down again and turned on the chair so that it was his profile David saw. David gasped. It was the same view he’d had that da
y in the restaurant off the Piazza del Risorgimento, when he’d eaten deep-fried anchovies and Massoni had been at another table with a jowly man David thought he’d seen before but couldn’t place. Now he could: Massoni’s action in sitting and turning had cleared his memory. That and the talk about damage behind the Iron Curtain. David made the connection and gasped. A quiet strength gripped him.
‘You’re not the one to talk about damage, cardinal.’
Massoni looked across, suddenly wary.
‘I now understand the damage you have worked to cause.’ The certainty in David’s voice carried him over Massoni’s objection. ‘And I think you will give Thomas the money he wants.’
‘Never—!’
‘Oh yes! You see, I know who it was who tipped off the Hungarians and the Russians about the Vatican’s secret cardinal. I know who divulged the identity of Cardinal Kharkov.’
Massoni’s face had frozen.
‘And I know how you did it, Massoni. I was there, watching you.’
Still Massoni didn’t move. His reaction, as loud as any words, said that David was right.
‘I should have worked it out before. It was Dorzhiev, the new director at the Hermitage, wasn’t it? I saw him eating with you at that restaurant off the Piazza del Risorgimento. I should have smelled something when he so quickly replaced Shirikin. Or when I saw him in the same photograph as the spy Edgar Seton. I mean, it’s a perfect cover. A Russian museum director can mix in the most capitalist company without raising the slightest suspicions. He can travel a lot, to conferences, exhibitions, auctions.’ David closed in. ‘You told Dorzhiev about Kharkov. You destroyed Thomas’s plans. You were willing to commit murder, simply to thwart him. You sent innocent Hungarian men and women to their certain deaths when you informed on Kharkov.’
‘You … can’t prove it.’
‘I won’t need to. I have all the times which will check out. You knew Kharkov’s identity, you talked with Dorzhiev. Coming after Seton’s defection the world will know I’m right. Don’t think Roskill will stand by you then, or the Italian government. Nobody will want a Pope who betrayed his own. You’ll be a prisoner here. Maybe there’ll be yet another Pope elected.’
‘You’re exaggerating. And bluffing.’
‘Okay, risk it!’ David pointed to the door. ‘Let me walk out of this room and start calling my friends in the media. Thomas will be told in time for his speech tonight. A speech the whole world is waiting for. Then see what happens.’ David got up, as if to leave. Massoni was right; he was bluffing. It was the greatest bluff of his life. But Massoni couldn’t be sure and that uncertainty was all David had on his side. He picked up his coat and put it on. He did up the buttons. He picked up his briefcase where it had been leaning against his chair and turned.
Massoni said, ‘Sit down, Mr Colwyn.’
David sat.
Massoni’s eyes moved rapidly in their sockets. David couldn’t tell whether it was through fear or anger. He knew the emotions were very similar, since he himself was experiencing both. ‘You are a bad actor, Mr Colwyn. Stick to auctioneering. However, although you are obviously bluffing I choose to play safe. Therefore if Thomas leaves Sicily today—and he never mentions the Kharkov business—I will send the St Patrick’s Fund, less one hundred million dollars—’
‘Why the deduction?’
‘The “Pietà”, Mr Colwyn, it’s on the market again. I want to buy it back.’
David thought fast. Should he hold out for the full amount? No. His position was not strong. Still, there was one matter he had to press. ‘I accept. But you must transfer the money quickly. I will stay here to represent Thomas. If we receive nothing within forty-eight hours, Thomas will go public on Dorzhiev.’
Massoni stood up. ‘Very well. Do you remember shaking hands with Thomas Murray, the first time you came to the Vatican? I remember the occasion very well. It started this whole sorry business. Will you shake hands with me, now? To finish it?’
David got to his feet. Massoni’s arm was extended. David reached across the desk and clasped the dry, old man’s skin.
16
Once outside the Vatican David grabbed the first free taxi he saw and told the driver to head for the Via dei Banchi Vecchi as quickly as he could. He took the steps up to Bess’s flat three at a time. In the apartment he shook off his coat and dialled the number Bess had given him. It was answered on the second ring—by Bess herself.
‘Yes or no?’ she said quickly as soon as she realized it was David.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But there are complications.’
He heard her shout across the room, ‘It’s a “Yes”!’ A dim cheer and a murmur of approval could be heard. ‘Okay,’ she said, coming back to the phone. ‘What are the details?’
He explained the deal he had struck with Massoni, the trade-off about Dorzhiev, the deduction for the ‘Pietà’, the fact that he would stay on in Rome over the weekend to handle the financial transaction.
Bess was aghast at what Massoni had done to Kharkov. But this was not the time for looking back. ‘There you are darling. I told you you were the right person for the job. Great! You’ll probably get an anti-Papal honour now, to go with the Papal one you already have.’
He smiled into the phone. ‘At least you’re joking again, Bess. Things must be looking up. What’s happening?’
At the other end of the line Bess was shouting across the room again. ‘OK! Coming! David, I’m sorry. I have to dash. Things are really crazy here, as you can imagine. Look, watch Thomas on television. When it’s over give me half an hour to get back to this phone then call me. Or I’ll call you. We’ll have time to talk then, I promise. I really promise. OK?’
‘I shall need a good long fix. And no excuses. I miss the old Mississippi drawl.’
‘It’s a deal. Thomas will probably want to talk to you too.’
David looked at his watch. It had already gone one. He went down the stairs and across to Gina’s for lunch. The rain had started at last, and the place was crowded. In the bar the television was already switched on. Government ministers who wanted their say about the two Popes were being interviewed but no one was paying much attention. The exact timing of Thomas’s speech was not certain, but no one wanted to miss it so they just had to hang around. Amid all the uncertainty there was only one thing beyond doubt: no work was being done in Italy today except for bars, television companies and the police.
Gina appeared to have put on her best dress for the occasion. She came and sat with David, arriving with the whisky she knew he liked. Despite the dress, a cheerful green, Gina was feeling low. She hated Massoni, but she chose to believe the rumour that Thomas would resign that afternoon and remain in Sicily. David wished he could tell her about his meeting with Massoni and the deal that had been worked out.
It was clear from comments around the bar that customers were split between Massoni and Thomas. Although many Romans had been against Thomas for some time, even they did not like the way Massoni had seized power. On the other hand there were some who clearly relished the split and simply treated the two Popes like rival football teams.
Lunch arrived, linguine followed by lombatina. Gina stayed and ate with David.
The television was now covering international reactions to Massoni’s coup. A film clip showed Roskill on the steps of the White House, saying he was saddened by the split but that Massoni promised a return to traditional Roman ways. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is wiser, duller, safer, slower, sedate and sober. Better.’ Pravda was quoted as saying that the decline and fall of Thomas’s Roman empire merely showed western religion to be as corrupt as ever, and pointed out that even Popes, or would-be Popes, were not above a little unholy subterfuge. Some things, David thought, Pravda got right. Fidel Castro in Cuba made no direct comment but announced that the Cuban government and the American government had reopened negotiations on the Guantanamo Bay naval bases. A picture of David’s dead former wife Sarah suddenly flashed on the screen and behind the Ita
lian commentary David caught the voice of Michael Greener, from London, saying he hoped Northern Ireland would now enjoy an easier peace and that a foundation was being established, the Sarah Greener Foundation, which would give scholarships to enable foreigners to study in Northern Ireland and see the problems at first hand, so that worldwide understanding of the situation would grow. The Nicaraguans said the Vatican coup didn’t make any difference: one Pope was as bad as the next. But the President said he admired Massoni: ‘He’s obviously been reading the right Trotskyist textbooks.’
Lunch was over. The bar was filling up now, the hubbub was deafening and the tobacco smoke so thick it gave a blue tinge to everything. On the screen attention had switched back to the cathedral square in Palermo. The square was a solid mass of bodies. There were people on the fountains, in the trees, leaning from every window. Overnight TV crews had arrived from everywhere: Rome, Africa, Madrid, Geneva, Marseilles. The carabiniere were out in force, but friendly, to judge from the TV pictures. Amazingly, the entrepreneurs had been busy during the early hours and already T-shirts and hats with ‘Papa vero’ on them were on sale. Flags with pictures of Thomas and the archbishop were everywhere. Unlike in Rome, the weather was glorious, the sun poured down.
Just before four o’clock the chanting started. ‘Pa-pa ve-ro! Pa-pa ve-ro! Pa-pa ve-ro!’ The chanting got louder, faded, got louder again. Then, as the cathedral bells started to clang the hour, the chanting changed into ‘The Almonds of Marsalen’.
On cue, as the last words faded, a glimpse of scarlet and white could be seen through the windows behind the balcony. A cheer went up and the windows opened, the cardinal archbishop leading the way. Applause, whistles, trumpets, all sorts of welcome greeted Ligorio and he waited patiently. As the din continued he smiled, nodded and waved to people he knew.
