The First Apostle

by James Becker

  Mandino ran a finger down the list until he found the one he was looking for. Then he glanced at the digital clock on his desk and picked up his cell phone again.

  III

  In his office in the City, Mark Hampton had shut down his computer and was about to go off for lunch—he had a standing arrangement with three of his colleagues to meet at the pub around the corner every Wednesday—when he heard the knock. He shrugged on his jacket, walked across the room and opened the door.

  Two men he didn’t recognize were standing outside. They didn’t, he was certain, work for the firm: Mark prided himself on knowing, if only by sight, all of the employees. There were stringent security precautions in place in the building as all four companies housed there were involved in investment and asset management, and their offices held financially critical data and programs, which meant that the men must have been properly checked in by the security staff.

  “Mr. Hampton?” The voice didn’t quite match the suit. “I’m Detective Sergeant Timms and my colleague here is Detective Constable Harris. I’m afraid we have some very bad news for you, sir.”

  Mark’s mind whirled, making instant deductions based on nothing at all, and almost immediately dismissing them. Who? Where? What had happened?

  “I believe your wife is at your property in Italy, sir?”

  Mark nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “I’m afraid there’s been an accident there. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your wife is dead.”

  Time seemed to stop. Mark could see the police officer’s mouth opening and closing, he even heard the words, but his brain completely failed to register their meaning.

  He turned away and walked across to his desk, his movements mechanical and automatic. He sat down in his swivel chair and looked out of the window, seeing but not seeing the familiar shapes of the high-rise buildings that surrounded him.

  Timms had continued talking to him. “The Italian police have requested that you travel out there as soon as possible, sir. Is there anybody you’d like us to contact?

  Someone who can go with you? To handle the—”

  “How?” Mark interrupted. “How did it happen?”

  Timms glanced at Harris and gave a slight shrug. “She was found by your cleaning lady this morning. It looks as if she had a bad fall on the stairs sometime last night.

  I’m afraid she broke her neck.”

  Mark didn’t respond, just continued to stare out of the window. This couldn’t be happening. It must be some kind of mistake. It’s somebody else. They’ve got the name wrong. That must be it.

  But Timms was still there, still spouting the kind of platitudes Mark assumed policemen had been trained to say to bereaved relatives. Why didn’t he just shut up and go away?

  “Do you understand that, sir?”

  “What? Sorry. Could you say that again?”

  “You have to go to Italy, sir. You have to identify the body and make the funeral arrangements. The Italian police will collect you from the nearest airport—I think that’s probably Rome—and drive you to the house. They’ll organize an interpreter and whatever other help you need. Is all that clear now?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “I’m sorry. It’s just—” A racking sob shook his whole body, and he sank his face into his hands. “I’m sorry. It’s the shock and . . .”

  Timms rested his hand briefly on Mark’s shoulder. “It’s quite understandable, sir.

  Now, is there anything you want to ask us? I’ve a note here of the contact details for the local police force in Scandriglia. Is there anyone you’d like us to inform on your behalf? You need somebody to stand by you at a time like this.”

  Mark shook his head. “No. No, thank you,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain. “I have a friend I can call. Thank you.”

  Timms shook his hand and handed him a single sheet of paper. “Sorry again, sir.

  I’ve also included my contact details. If there’s anything else you need that I can help with, please let me know. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  As the voices faded away, Mark finally let himself go, let the tears come. Tears for himself, for Jackie, tears for all the things he should have said to her, for all that they could and should have done together. In an instant, a few words from a well-meaning stranger had changed his life beyond all recognition.

  His hands shaking, he flicked through his Filofax and checked a cell phone telephone number. Timms, or whatever his name was, had been right about one thing: he definitely needed a friend, and Mark knew exactly whom he was going to call.

  3

  I

  “Mark? What the hell’s wrong? What is it?”

  Chris Bronson pulled his Mini to the side of the road and held the cell phone more closely to his ear. His friend sounded totally devastated.

  “It’s Jackie. She’s dead. She—”

  As he heard the words, Bronson felt as if somebody had punched him in the stomach. There were few constants in his world, but Jackie Hampton was—or had been—one of them. For several seconds he just sat there, staring through the car’s windshield, listening to Mark’s tearful explanation but hearing almost none of it.

  Finally, he tried to pull himself together.

  “Oh, Christ, Mark. Where did . . . ? No, never mind. Where are you? Where is she?

  I’ll come straight over.”

  “Italy. She’s in Italy and I have to go there. I have to identify her, all that. Look, Chris, I don’t speak the language, and you do, and I don’t think I can do this by myself. I know it’s a hell of an imposition, but could you take some time off work and come with me?”

  For a moment, Bronson hesitated, sudden intense grief meshing with his long-suppressed feelings for Jackie. He genuinely didn’t know if he could handle what Mark was asking him to do. But he also knew his friend wouldn’t be able to cope without him.

  “I’m not sure I’ve got a job right now, so taking time off isn’t a problem. Have you booked flights, or what?”

  “No,” Mark replied. “I’ve not done anything. You’re the first person I called.”

  “Right. Leave it all to me,” Bronson said, his firm voice giving the lie to his emotions.

  He glanced at his watch, calculating times and what he would need to accomplish.

  “I’ll pick you up at the apartment in two hours. Is that long enough for you to sort things out at your end?”

  “I think so, yes. Thanks, Chris. I really appreciate this.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  Bronson slipped the phone into his pocket, but didn’t move for several seconds.

  Then he flipped on the turn signal and pulled the car back out into the traffic, working out what he had to do, keeping his mind focused on the mundane to avoid dwelling on the awful reality of Jackie’s sudden death.

  He was only a few hundred yards from his house. Packing would take him no longer than thirty minutes, but he’d need to find his passport, pick out whichever cards had the most credit left on them, and get to the bank and draw some euros.

  He’d have to let the Crescent Road station know he was taking unpaid compassionate leave and confirm they had his cell phone number—he would still have to follow the rules despite his problems with Harrison.

  And then he’d have to fight his way through the London traffic to get to Mark’s crash pad in Ilford. Two hours, he guessed, should be about right. He wouldn’t bother trying to book tickets, because he wasn’t certain when they would reach Stansted, but he guessed EasyJet or Ryanair would have a flight to Rome sometime that afternoon.

  II

  The direct-line telephone in Joseph Cardinal Vertutti’s sumptuous office in the Vatican rang three times before he walked across to the desk and picked it up.

  “Joseph Vertutti.”

  The voice at the other end of the line was unfamiliar, but conveyed an unmistakable air of authority. “I need to see you.”

  “Who a
re you?”

  “That is not important. The matter concerns the Codex.”

  For a moment, Vertutti didn’t grasp what his unidentified caller was talking about.

  Then realization dawned, and he involuntarily gripped the edge of his desk for support.

  “The what?” he asked.

  “We probably don’t have a great deal of time, so please don’t mess me about. I’m talking about the Vitalian Codex, the book you keep locked away in the Apostolic Penitentiary.”

  “The Vitalian Codex? Are you sure?” Even as he said the words, Vertutti realized the stupidity of the question: the very existence of the Codex was known to a mere handful of people within the Vatican and, as far as he knew, to no one outside the Holy See. But the fact that the caller was using his external direct line meant he was calling from outside the Vatican walls, and the man’s next words confirmed Vertutti’s suspicions.

  “I’m very sure. You’ll need to arrange a Vatican Pass for me to—”

  “No,” Vertutti interrupted. “Not here. I’ll meet you outside.” He felt uncomfortable about allowing his mystery caller access to the Holy See. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a map of Rome. Quickly his fingers traced a path south, from the Vatican Station. “In the Piazza di Santa Maria alle Fornaci, a few streets south of the Basilica di San Pietro. There’s a café on the east side, opposite the church.”

  “I know it. What time?”

  Vertutti automatically glanced down at his appointments book, though he knew he was not going to meet the man that morning: he wanted time to think about this meeting. “This afternoon at four thirty?” he suggested. “How will I recognize you?”

  The voice in his ear chuckled. “Don’t worry, Cardinal. I’ll find you.”

  III

  Chris Bronson drove his Mini into the long-term parking at Stansted Airport, locked the car and led Mark toward the terminal building. Each man carried a carry-on and Bronson also held a small computer case.

  Bronson had reached the Ilford apartment just more than an hour after leaving Tunbridge Wells, and Mark had been standing outside waiting when he pulled up.

  The journey up to Stansted—a quick blast up the M11—had taken them well less than an hour.

  “I really appreciate this, Chris,” Mark said for at least the fifth time since he’d climbed into the car.

  “It’s what friends do,” Bronson replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but I know being a copper doesn’t pay much, and you’re helping me out here, so I’m picking up the tab for everything.”

  “There’s no need,” Bronson began a halfhearted objection, though in truth the cost of the trip had been worrying him—his overdraft was getting near its agreed limit and his credit cards couldn’t take too much punishment. He also wasn’t certain whether Harrison was going to try to suspend him or not, and what effect, if any, that would have on his salary. But Mark’s last bonus had been well into six figures: money, for him, wasn’t a problem.

  “Don’t argue,” Mark said. “It’s my decision.”

  When they got inside the airport, they realized they’d just missed the midafternoon Air Berlin flight to Fiumicino, but they were in good time for the five thirty Ryanair, which would get them to Rome’s Ciampino Airport at just before nine, local time.

  Hampton paid with a gold credit card and was given a couple of boarding cards in return, and they made their way through the security control.

  There were a few empty seats at the café close to the departure gate, so they bought drinks and sat down to wait for the flight to be called.

  Mark had said very little on the journey to the airport—he was clearly still in shock, his eyes red-rimmed—but Bronson desperately needed to find out what had happened to Jackie.

  “What did the police tell you?” he asked now.

  “Not very much,” Mark admitted. “The Metropolitan Police received a message from the Italian police. They’d been called out to our house this morning.

  Apparently our cleaning woman had gone to the house as usual, got no answer and used her key to get inside.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, then took out a tissue and dabbed at them. “Sorry,” he said. “She told the police she’d found Jackie dead on the floor of the hall. According to the Italian police, she’d apparently stumbled on the stairs—they found both of her slippers on the staircase—and hit the side of her head against the banister.”

  “And that . . .” Bronson prompted.

  Mark nodded, the depth of his despair obvious. “And that broke her neck.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he took a sip of water.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “Maria Palomo—she’s the cleaner—told the police that I worked in London. They traced me through the British Embassy in Rome, and they contacted the police here.”

  That was the limit of his knowledge, but the paucity of information didn’t stop him speculating. Indeed, for the next hour or so he did little else but hash and rehash possible scenarios. Bronson let him—it was probably good therapy for him to get it out of his system—and, to be selfish, it gave Bronson a chance simply to sit there, contributing little to the conversation, as his mind spanned the years and he remembered Jackie when she’d been plain Jackie Evans.

  Bronson and Mark had first met at school, and had formed a friendship that had endured, despite the very different career paths they’d followed. They’d both known Jackie for almost the same length of time, and Bronson had fallen helplessly, hopelessly in love with her. The problem was that Jackie only really ever had eyes for Mark. Bronson had hidden his feelings, and when Jackie married Mark, he had been the best man and Angela Lewis—the girl who would become Mrs. Bronson less than a year later—was one of the brides-maids.

  “Sorry, Chris,” Mark muttered, as they finally took their seats in the rear section of the Boeing 737. “I’ve done nothing but talk about me and Jackie. You must be sick of it.”

  “If you hadn’t, I’d have been really worried. Talking is good for you. It helps you come to terms with what’s happened, and I don’t mind sitting here and listening.”

  “I know, and I do appreciate it. But let’s change the subject. How’s Angela?”

  Bronson smiled slightly. “Perhaps not the best choice of topic. We’ve just finalized the divorce.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think. Where’s she living now?”

  “She bought a small apartment in London, and I kept the little house in Tunbridge.”

  “Are you talking to each other?”

  “Yes, now that the lawyers are finally out of the picture. We are talking, but we’re not on particularly good terms. We just weren’t compatible, and I’m glad we found out before any kids arrived to complicate things.”

  That, Bronson silently acknowledged, was the explanation both he and Angela gave anyone who asked, though he wasn’t sure if Angela really believed it. But that wasn’t why their marriage failed. With the benefit of hindsight, he knew he should never have married her—or anyone else—because he was still in love with Jackie.

  Essentially, he’d been on the rebound.

  “Is she still at the British Museum?”

  Bronson nodded. “Still a ceramics conservator. I suppose that’s one of the reasons we split up. She works long hours there, and she had to do field trips every year.

  Add that to the antisocial hours I work as a cop, and you’ll see why we started communicating by notes—we were almost never at home at the same time.”

  The lie tripped easily off Bronson’s tongue. After about eighteen months of marriage he’d begun to find it easier to volunteer for overtime—there was always plenty on offer—instead of going home to an unsatisfactory relationship and the increasingly frequent rows.

  “She loves her job, and I thought I loved mine, but that’s another story. Neither of us was willing to give up our career, and eventually we just drifted apart. It’s probably for the best.”

  �
�You’ve got problems at work?” Mark asked.

  “Just the one, really. My alleged superior officer is an illiterate idiot who’s hated me since the day I walked into the station. This morning I finally told him to shove it, and I’ve no idea if I’ll still have a job when I get back.”

  “Why do you do it, Chris? There must be better jobs out there.”

  “I know,” Bronson replied, “but I enjoy being a cop. It’s just people like D.I. Harrison who do their best to make my life a misery. I’ve applied for a transfer, and I’m going to make sure I get one.”

  4

  Joseph Vertutti changed into civilian clothes before leaving the Holy See and, striding down the Via Stazione di Pietro in his lightweight blue jacket and slacks, he looked like any other slightly overweight Italian businessman.

  Vertutti was the cardinal head, the Prefect, of the dicastery of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the oldest of the nine congregations of the Roman Curia and the direct descendant of the Roman Inquisition. Its present-day remit hadn’t changed much since the times when being burned alive was the standard punishment for heretics, only now Vertutti ensured that it was somewhat more sophisticated in its operations.

  He continued south, past the church, before crossing to the east side of the street.

  Then he turned north, back toward the piazza, the bright red and green paintwork of the café building contrasting with the Martini umbrellas that shaded the tables outside from the afternoon sun. Several of these tables were occupied, but there were three or four vacant at the end, and he pulled out a chair and sat down at one of them.

  When the waiter finally approached, Vertutti ordered a café latte, leaning back to look around him and glancing at his watch. Twenty past four. His timing was almost perfect.

  Ten minutes later the unsmiling waiter plopped a tall glass mug of coffee down in front of him, some of the liquid slopping into the saucer. As the waiter moved away, a heavyset man wearing a gray suit and sporting sunglasses pulled back the chair on the other side of the table and sat down.