The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  An immediate embrace followed their handshake. Then two kisses. Tarcisio let his eyes fill with tears, but none dared to spill down his face. Schmidt was not so overcome, but that didn't mean he had not missed his friend. He was simply less demonstrative. He had always been called "the Austrian iceman."

  "How are you, my friend?" Tarcisio examined his friend closely with a smile.

  "As God wishes," Schmidt replied, looking at his friend.

  "Sit down, sit down." Tarcisio pointed to an old brown leather sofa. "You must be tired. Did you have a good trip?"

  "Very pleasant," Schmidt said, accepting Tarcisio's invitation to sit and letting his body rest on the sofa. He crossed his legs. "Without delays or problems."

  Tarcisio sat down next to him. They were in his offi ce, which Schmidt had never been inside before. Very spacious, a large oak desk next to one of the wide closed windows that separated them from the Roman night outside.

  A tense silence settled in. The small talk was almost exhausted.

  "Did you have dinner? Do you want something to eat?" Tarcisio offered.

  "I'm fine, Tarcisio, thank you."

  Schmidt rarely felt hungry. Often during the time he was assigned to Rome, which seemed like ages past, he forgot to eat. He would faint from weakness. Schmidt was obstinate and dedicated himself completely to the tasks he was given, whether they were his studies or, later, his pastoral functions. For some years he was removed from these duties that gave him so much pleasure, helping Tarcisio with the more administrative and episcopal duties he knew were necessary, but didn't fulfi ll him. Whether he liked them or not, he performed them proficiently. Tarcisio had enor mous appreciation for him as a man, a cleric, and above all a friend.

  "Are we going to talk about your problem?" Schmidt inquired. His approach to problems was simple and direct; he didn't avoid them or turn his back to them. If they existed, they had to be solved at once, so that they did not return to defeat him. God protects the audacious.

  Tarcisio looked at the floor to find the right words, but feared words were fleeing him like water through his fingers. He decided to be direct, like his friend. Schmidt would not permit any other way.

  "The Status Quo was broken." He got it off his chest, and lifted his gaze to an indefinite point on the wall where there was a large portrait of the Supreme Pontiff, his face with a neutral expression. He waited for Schmidt's reaction.

  "Lay it all out" was the only reply, with a German accent to his Ital ian, normally fl awless.

  Tarcisio needed his friend's sharp, lucid mind. No solution pre sented itself unless all the facts were at hand. Tarcisio opted again for the concise, cold recounting of the elements, no matter the cost.

  "They killed Aragones and Zafer, and Sigfried has disappeared; so have Ben Isaac and his son." He threw out the names and facts point blank, as if mentioning them freed him from them or transferred them to Schmidt. He felt selfish for a moment, but it passed.

  "When did they die?" Schmidt questioned him without emotion. If he felt anything, he didn't show it.

  "During the week. Aragones on Sunday, Zafer on Tuesday, and Sigfried disappeared on Wednesday. We don't know when the Isaacs disappeared."

  "Did the entire family disappear?" Schmidt wanted to know.

  "Yes, the wife and the son also," Tarcisio concluded.

  "Who's going to handle this?"

  "Our liaison officer with SISMI and a special agent."

  "Who?"

  "Father Rafael. Do you remember him?"

  "Of course. Very competent. You don't need me," Schmidt remarked. "The situation is in good hands."

  Tarcisio did not seem convinced, to the contrary. He was nervous and agitated, tapping his foot on the fl oor.

  "If this explodes in our face . . ."

  "The church always survives everything and everyone," Schmidt offered. "I don't see any reason it shouldn't survive now."

  "You don't see? They're after documents that prove—"

  "That don't prove anything," Schmidt deliberated. "No one knows who wrote them or with what motives. They're only words."

  "An order in words wounds and kills," Tarcisio objected.

  "Words only have the power we give them," Schmidt disagreed without altering the tone of his voice.

  "Is this your defense now?"

  "Nothing needs my defense. Much less the church."

  "Tarcisio got up, irritated, and began to pace back and forth with his hands behind him.

  "We're at war, Hans."

  "We've been at war for two thousand years. I've always heard this war talked about, and we don't even have an army," Schmidt said ironically.

  "Can't you see what will happen if these documents fall into the wrong hands?"

  "If I remember well, Pope Roncalli took steps to avoid that sce nario. The agreement—"

  "The agreement expired," Tarcisio interrupted, raising his hands in the air. "It ran for fifty years. It ended a few days ago."

  "I know, Tarcisio. Personally I don't believe that Ben Isaac would have appropriated the docu—"

  "Why not? The contract had expired."

  For the first time Schmidt looked at him apprehensively. "Because I knew Isaac when he was renewing the agreement. Ben Isaac could be a victim, but not a villain."

  "That was twenty-five years ago. You saw him two or three times. Let's not forget that he is . . . Jewish." He said it as if it were a grave fault.

  "He's not a Jew, he's a banker. And we also pray to a Jew, Tarcisio."

  "It's not the same thing," the cardinal said, excusing himself.

  "I don't see the difference. He never knew any other religion."

  "Jesus founded the Catholic Church."

  "Tarcisio, please. You are the most influential cardinal in the Roman Catholic Apostolic Church today. Jesus never knew the Catho lic Church or any other inheritor of His name. He never founded it or, much less, asked that we construct it."

  The subject disturbed Tarcisio. It was a point of friction between the two men. This freethinking of Schmidt's exasperated him and only gave trouble to his friend. He remembered just then that this was the principal reason that his friend found himself in Rome tonight. He sat down again and let the silence spread through the office. Hans remained immobile, his legs crossed, the Austrian iceman, imperturbable.

  "Are you prepared for tomorrow?" Tarcisio fi nally asked.

  "I'll see when tomorrow comes."

  "I'm not going to be able to help you in front of the congregation, Hans. I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. He was genuinely sorry.

  "I'm not asking for your help, Tarcisio, nor would I accept it. Don't be sorry, don't worry about it. The congregation will make their deci sion. If they think my opinions fit with the church, fine. If not, fi ne as well. Either way serves me, and none will affect me."

  The confidence with which Schmidt offered these words impressed Tarcisio. They came from deep within him; they were sincere, without any presumption or perfidy. Schmidt had changed much in the last years.

  "I hope it goes for the best. As Our Lord desires," he wished.

  "Our Lord doesn't have anything to do with this," Schmidt concluded.

  "Do you also think Ben Isaac has nothing to do with this?" Tarcisio returned to the previous subject.

  "I suggest you try to find him, if it's not too late."

  "How?"

  "Think a little, Tarcisio. They killed Zafer and Aragones. We can very well fear for the fate of Sigfried and the Isaac family."

  "But who's behind all this?" Tarcisio asked."What's their intention?"

  "I don't know, but whoever it is doesn't stop at half measures." He stopped talking and thought about it. "Hm. Interesting."

  "What?"

  "The participants in the Status Quo are all being eliminated," he said with a thoughtful expression.

  "And?"

  "Two are left."

  14

  History tends to write itself with deep chisel marks that disappear
only with the passage of time, dissolving in oblivious rain. Insignificant people will never be remembered on bronze plaques that record their birth, the place they lived, or their achievements. They remain only in the memory of those who lost them, until they, too, disappear under a forgotten gravestone.

  No one would remember Yaman Zafer's deeds, not because there weren't any, but because he spent his life trying to conceal them. The last hours of his life proved that his best efforts were not enough.

  Rafael leaned over the greasy, disgusting stained fl oor, examining it in silence, as if hoping that the place would speak for itself. He was sad. He had known Zafer and his sons for more than twenty years. Not that he saw them often. Sometimes years passed, but they felt together at every moment. This had been eliminated.

  "I still don't see what you think you'll find here," Jacopo grumbled, standing up, looking at the priest.

  "I still don't see what you're doing here," the other replied.

  "You know perfectly well why I'm here."

  They had arrived in Paris around midnight. The flight had been

  smooth, covering the miles in the darkness. Jacopo had used the time to talk about his theory about the lack of proof for the stories in the Bible. Rafael listened to him without paying attention.

  "Until the end of the nineteenth century the truth of the Bible was never put into question. The Evangelists were inspired by God. The truth is that, as much as it could, the church didn't allow its faithful to read the sacred book in their language. It was a crime, punished by death." His theatrical gestures didn't impress Rafael. "It was Pope Paul the Fifth, in the seventeenth century, who said, 'Don't you know that much reading of the Bible harms the church?'" he quoted sarcastically. "Now, think about it. What church, especially one called a religion of the book, bases its dogmas on the book but prohibits its believers from reading the sacred book that gives credibility to everything it proclaims?" He paused dramatically. "The nineteenth century initiated a feverish archaeological search for proof of the 'facts'"—he sketched quotation marks in the air when he said this word—"narrated in the Bible. They excavated everywhere there was a site. Palestine, Egypt, Mesopotamia, a host of sites in the Near and Middle East. They wanted to fi nd Solo mon's temple, the remains of Noah's ark, anything to confirm the facts of the Bible. Paul Emile Botta, the French consul in Mosul, began the race, Austen Henry Layard, an English diplomat, was next, then another Englishman, also named Henry, embarked on the search."

  Rafael looked at him for the first time. He could do without the history lesson. He'd known this argument for years.

  "Do they pay you to teach this?" he asked scornfully.

  "After decades of excavations, smiles, delusions, anxieties, what did they find?" He left the question hanging in the air, ignoring Rafael's remark. Jacopo made a circle with his thumb and fi nger. "Zero," he proclaimed triumphantly. "Nothing."

  "Nothing?" Rafael asked.

  "Absolutely nothing," Jacopo reiterated. "Nothing to confi rm a single fact mentioned in the Old or New Testament. But they came to another conclusion: names of people and places appear in the Bible that the Greeks and Romans had never heard of. They're mentioned only in the Bible, and nowhere else."

  "On January 4, 2003, a block of limestone was discovered with inscriptions in ancient Phoenician of a detailed plan for the recovery of the first Jewish temple, Solomon's," Rafael said."It was found on the Temple Mount, in the old city of Jerusalem."

  "The Haram al Sharif, as the Muslims call it," Jacopo added, visibly pleased with himself.

  "The fragment dated from the time of the biblical king Jehoash, who reigned more than twenty-five hundred years ago. If you're so well versed in the Bible, then you must remember chapter twelve, verses four, fi ve, and six, specifi cally, from the Second Book of Kings, where it's related that Jehoash, king of Judah, ordered all the money from the Temple collected to use in its restoration."

  "Allegedly," Jacopo offered with a smile. "They never let me see that discovery. Nor was there further information about it."

  "In 1961," Rafael continued, "an excavation of an ancient amphi theatre, ordered built by Herod the Great in Caesarea in the year 30 B.C., revealed a limestone block, accepted as authentic. A partial inscription was found on it."

  Jacopo and Rafael quoted at the same time:

  DIS AUGUSTIS TIBERIEUM

  PONTIUS PILATUS

  PRAEFECTUS IUDAEAE

  FECIT DEDICVIT.

  Jacopo applauded, smiling. "Pilate's stone. It proves only the exis tence of Tiberias and Pilate, which was never in doubt, and confi rms that Pilate's office was prefect, or governor, and not prosecutor," Jacopo argued. "Do you have more?"

  "It's a work in progress. Don't forget we're talking about millen nia of history on top of history. But you never know when something new might appear, and you better than anyone know that it's a slow process."

  Jacopo lifted his arms and opened his hands. "Let the sophists return. They're forgiven."

  A light rain fell on them as they left the terminal, wetting their faces and clinging to their clothes.

  "Shitty weather," Jacopo complained.

  The police had sent a car to take them to the place where Zafer had been found by an addict who was using the private spot to get high. Instead he found an old man stretched out on the fl oor on his stom ach, lifeless.

  The warehouse was in the north of the city, far from the tourist traffic and glow that made Paris the City of Lights. A collection of pro jectors, powered by a generator that made a monumental noise, lit up the interior and exterior of the building. The cadaver had been picked up during the afternoon. A technician collected all the evidence that could reveal anything about the crime. The rest was pretty clear. Zafer had come of his own free will, received a beating, and an injection of prussic acid ended his suffering.

  Some plainclothes police wandered through the area busy with tasks that would make no sense to outsiders. Others were just talking together, anticipating the end of a long day of work.

  "Rafael Santini?" called out a man in a tan suit with a cigarette in his mouth.

  Rafael was brought back from the world of possibilities and specu lations he'd been absorbed in and got up.

  "That's me. Are you Inspector Gavache?"

  "Yeah." He extended his hand.

  "Jacopo Sebastiani," the other interjected.

  "What are you doing here?" Gavache asked, greeting him hostilely.

  "We're friends of the victim," Rafael put in before Jacopo answered.

  Gavache looked at them with displeasure. He didn't try to hide the fact he was there to keep an eye on them.

  "Tell me," he said to Rafael, who was obviously the leader, "who's Yaman Zafer?" He took a drag on his cigarette.

  "He's not of interest to the Vatican. We're here personally, as friends of the dead man."

  Gavache looked at them again. First one, and then the other, doing justice to his role as an inspector."Well," he finally said. Cigarette smoke formed a cloud around the three of them. "Friendship is a wonderful thing. Did you know him a long time?"

  "Twenty years. He was a respected archaeologist at the University of London. Maybe you know some of his publications," Rafael told him. He had to give him something. Gavache was no fool.

  "I don't like reading," the French inspector replied. "Life's already a big enough book to waste time with that. Did he archaeologize some thing for the Vatican?"

  "He did some work under the sponsorship of the Holy Father," Rafael confirmed. "Some excavations in Rome and Orvieto." He couldn't tell him everything. "Can we help with anything?" Rafael offered. He felt he was losing him.

  "No. If you don't mind my saying so, friends are a distraction in cases like this," he said disdainfully. "Jean-Paul," he called out to some one, who came up from behind. Gaunt and tall with veins sticking out on his neck. If you didn't know him, you would think he was starving.

  "Here, Inspector."

  "Escort these ge
ntlemen to the city. We don't need them here. Merci beaucoup." He turned his back, lifting his cigarette to his mouth again.

  "Follow me, s'il vous plaît," Jean-Paul said.

  At that moment Rafael looked at Gavache, who was brandishing some photographs a technician had given him.

  "Was this your plan?" Jacopo protested, sticking his hands in his pocket to fight the cold. "A waste of time."

  "The devil is in the details," Rafael replied, continuing to watch Gavache.

  They went outside to Jean-Paul's vehicle.