The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  He looked at the book and read the title, The Man Who Never Existed, by one Hans Schmidt. A heresy in two hundred pages that pre tended to point out the road to salvation. He couldn't understand it. God showed them the way. Why did she have to look for other ways? He was too merciful. Some people needed to learn the hard way how to stay on His track.

  He threw the book in the fi replace, which was burning with a hot flame, and opened his briefcase. He took out the last envelope he had received. Inside there was a letterhead with round strokes in large let ters. On the top line he read AD MAIOREM DEI GLORIAM. On the next line was Deus vocat, followed by the name of the chosen ones. Normally there was one name, rarely two. This time he read two: Yaman Zafer and Sigfried Hammal.

  He threw the letter and envelope into the fi replace.

  He got up and went to see her. She was kneeling by the bed to pray.

  The power of prayer. He didn't interrupt her, since nothing is more sacred than the direct contact with God through prayer. To ask forgive ness, grace, an idea, a suggestion, this was the privileged, sacred chan nel that should never be interrupted. He waited with his arms crossed, staring at her. As soon as she made the sign of the cross, signaling the end of the communication, she got up and lay down in bed. He went to a chest at the foot of the bed and opened a drawer. His back was turned to her, so he didn't see her eyes fill with tears, which she quickly wiped away. Her shaking lessened, then stopped, for better or worse. He looked at her and came over. He carried a syringe containing a yellow liquid.

  "Give me your arm," he ordered.

  She wouldn't. He pulled her to the edge of the bed and inserted the needle. He slowly emptied the syringe and waited. He looked at his watch. Two minutes later she'd be sleeping like a baby. Breathing quietly. A sleep without dreams. A holy repose. He undressed, folding and hanging each piece of clothing on a chair. He got on the bed, on top of her, raised her nightgown, opened her sleeping legs, and entered her. He went in and out in a frenzy, and she never opened her eyes or uttered a sign. A few minutes later he finished, with a few drops of sweat on his face. She remained asleep, unchanged, with the same quiet breathing.

  He left her asleep and went to look at the mail. A box in the door with a lock only he had the key to. There was an envelope in it, as he suspected. A cold smile, if it could be called that, spread over his lips. He opened the box and took it out. The same letterhead across the top and then the name of those chosen by God to join Him. He had no time to waste. This time there were three names.

  18

  Tell me the story straight," Gavache asked as he leaned his head against the front passenger seat.

  Jean-Paul was driving the inspector and the two Italians into the city.

  "Saint Ignatius of Loyola was the first to use that saying in the Society of Jesus, which he founded. Ad maiorem Dei gloriam. For the greater glory of God," Rafael explained.

  "Saint," Jacopo mocked.

  "Are you telling me the Jesuits go around killing people?"

  "No, I'm telling you that a Jesuit killed two people—"

  "Three," Jacopo interrupted to correct him.

  Gavache's eyes almost jumped out. An exasperated Rafael stared at Jacopo with disdain.

  "Three? The count has now gone up to three? Did you hear that, Jean-Paul?" He looked at Rafael like an inquisitor.

  "Yes, Inspector. Someone's hiding information." Jean-Paul joined the party.

  "That's exactly what I think, Jean-Paul. Somebody's making fun of us. What can you expect from those who preach morality? They only preach morality when they're being immoral, right? But who's fooling us, Jean-Paul?" he looked around and stared at the passengers behind him.

  Jean-Paul didn't answer Gavache's rhetorical question since he knew the inspector could be dramatic when necessary.

  "I'm sorry, Inspector. I didn't remember that detail," Rafael began uncomfortably. He hated to apologize. Difficult for someone who nor mally did as he pleased . . . in the name of God. Jacopo had to learn to keep his mouth shut, but this could wait. "The third homicide, which chronologically was actually the first, was a Catholic priest in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem."

  "When?" demanded Gavache brusquely.

  "Three days ago."

  "Name?"

  "Ernesto Aragones. He was the administrator of the Catholic wing," Rafael clarified. He was still on shaky ground.

  "Why do you say the Catholic wing?"

  "Because the Church of the Holy Sepulcher is administered by six distinct churches."

  "Did you hear that, Jean-Paul?"

  "A real mess, Inspector." Jean-Paul kept his eyes on the road.

  A light rain continued to fall, glazing over the windshield irritat ingly. The wipers dirtied the windshield more than cleaning it off, forc ing Jean-Paul to double his focus.

  "How can six churches fit into one?" He turned around, facing the road. Spending so much time twisted around to the back was giving him a crick in the neck.

  "Do you know the importance of this church?"

  Gavache didn't answer, as if he were thinking about it, but Rafael realized that he was just irritating him.

  "It's the most important."

  "Exactly. It marks the place where Jesus was crucified and buried."

  "Supposedly," Jacopo added, as if that one word made all the difference.

  "I see your friend is not very Catholic," Gavache offered, amused but not smiling.

  "Not at all Catholic," Jacopo added. "Not a drop."

  "So why'd you come?"

  Jacopo didn't know what to say. He'd rehearsed answers for every possible question, but he didn't know how to answer that.

  "Jacopo is an eminent historian at the University of Rome, La Sapi enza," Rafael said. "He came because he was a friend of Yaman Zafer."

  "And of Sigfried Hammal?"

  "I think we met at a conference in '85, but it wasn't important enough to remember," Jacopo offered in a timid voice.

  "And this Ernesto Aragones," Gavache insisted.

  "I've never heard of him."

  Gavache was silent a few moments. The only sound was the car moving on the street.

  "Where were we?" he asked after some time.

  "How is it six churches can fi t in one?" Jean-Paul remembered, as if it were nothing.

  "Exactly. How?" Gavache repeated.

  Rafael explained. "As we said, this church is the most important of all the ancient churches, for historical reasons." He stared hard at Jacopo. "A treaty worked out with the Ottomans in the 1850s divided the custody of the church and adjacent residences between Roman Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Armenians, Copts, Syrians, and Ethiopi ans. They named a neutral watchman."

  "Watchman?" Gavache asked.

  "The person who locks and unlocks the church," Rafael explained. "They named a Muslim watchman."

  "What a happy world in which all the religions live together in peace," Gavache said sarcastically.

  Rafael ignored the remark. "This treaty is called the Status Quo."

  Gavache absorbed the historical information and wet his lips.

  "Now the million-dollar question." He permitted himself a few seconds of suspense and turned toward the back. He massaged his neck to ease the pain. He wanted to see their faces when they replied. "Did Ernesto Aragones, Yaman Zafer, and Sigfried Hammal know each other?"

  The two passengers in the back looked at each other.

  "I have no idea," Rafael answered.

  "I don't know what to tell you," was Jacopo's response.

  "Hmm . . . do you think they'd give the same answers if they were in separate rooms, Jean-Paul?"

  "I have no idea, Inspector. I don't know what to tell you," the sub ordinate replied.

  Gavache was a falcon. He hovered over his prey several times before sinking in his talons.

  "Are the crimes related? How did the other one die?"

  "A bullet in the back of the neck."

  Gavache sighed. "Is this a Jesuit pr
actice?" Sarcasm at a new level. "A priest, an archaeologist, a theologian," he said, speaking more to himself than to the others. "We know the archaeologist and theologian are related. The priest's death differs in the modus operandi. Here I am with a priest and historian who keep the best information to them selves and sweet-talk me. Do you think we can trust them, Jean-Paul?"

  "I don't know what to say, Inspector. Are you greedy?"

  "I'm greedy, Jean-Paul. Of course I'm greedy. I'd rather have a bag of candy in my hand than have them handed to me one at a time, or have to beg them to give me more."

  "There's your answer, Inspector."

  Their dialogue irritated Rafael and made Jacopo apprehensive.

  "Inspector Gavache, I've given you everything I have," Rafael offered, attempting an excuse."I didn't mention the crime in Jerusalem because I didn't think it was related. As you yourself said, the modus operandi is different. It could have been the same murderer or not. I didn't try to trick you. I hope you understand that. It's been a terrible week for us."

  "And I have two related deaths on French territory, in less than twenty-four hours, in the capital and the south. Do you think that's easy?" Gavache countered.

  "That's not what I was trying to say," Rafael said, in his own defense. It wasn't easy to argue with Gavache. Actually it was impossible. He'd never win this kind of argument. He decided to leave things the way they were.

  Silence settled in again. Jean-Paul drove through the heart of down town Paris. Perhaps because it was still before the morning rush hour, there was not much traffic, and it was easy to drive. Several minutes passed in a deafening silence that could have been counted out by a heavy ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock.

  Rafael recognized the street, Boulevard du Temple. Boulevard des Filles du Calvaire followed, farther along rue de Saint-Antoine.

  "Why did you ask help from the Vatican?" Rafael asked.

  Gavache didn't answer at once. He looked ahead like Jean-Paul, turn ing over in his mind everything that had been said, the good and bad.

  "The Vatican was mentioned on your friend's recording," he fi nally said. "But something else intrigued me even more."

  Rafael leaned against the seat in front. He was very attentive."What?"

  "The murderer said the pope would pray for him. It could have been an innocent remark, but to me it means that your Jesuit did what he did on his orders."

  "Are you crazy?" Rafael exclaimed. "That doesn't make sense."

  "I'm only a layman. If you have a better explanation, I'm all ears," Gavache said ironically.

  "Does it make sense that the Holy Father would hire a murderer and later agree to help in the investigation of a crime he himself ordered?"

  "You know as well as I do that criminals sometimes testify in crimes they themselves perpetrated. It wouldn't be the fi rst time."

  "What we have here is a Jesuit out of control . . . with his own per sonal agenda," Rafael compromised.

  "To whom do the Jesuits answer?" Gavache asked.

  "To the superior general of the society," Rafael explained.

  "And to whom does the superior general answer?"

  Rafael took longer to answer than he liked.

  "To the pope," Jacopo put in.

  No one said anything further, except Jean-Paul, with a brusque "We've arrived," as he braked hard.

  Gavache got out of the car and looked around. The others joined him.

  "Another church, Jean-Paul."

  "Another church, Inspector," Jean-Paul repeated.

  "I hope you're right," Gavache remarked to Rafael.

  "I do, too."

  And they climbed up the stairs toward the entrance.

  19

  The helicopter shook as it headed into the side wind. The pilot was accustomed to these conditions, and chose a route farther to the north to avoid fighting the wind. The call had come from the Voyager of the Seas, a cruise ship sailing along the coast between Livorno and Corsica.

  It happened sometimes, someone more critically ill than the ship's clinic could handle or disagreements that had to be resolved by the police. In this case it was a couple who urgently needed to get to Fiumicino. They were alarmed, but spoke a language the pilot didn't understand. It sounded Arabic, but he couldn't say. Hebrew is diffi cult for anyone. They hadn't explained the urgency, nor did they have to. Must be some millionaire who needed to close a business deal, spoil ing the vacation of his wife—or his lover, since she looked younger than he.

  Ben Isaac secured himself as well as he could. Myriam clung to the seat and looked at the instrument panel countless times. No father should have to see something like this. His son, little Ben, tied up, bloody, with tape over his mouth and a blindfold covering his eyes. He was holding up a white sign with Hebrew letters written in black:

  THE STATUS QUO IS OVER. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.

  But she didn't care about the sign or what it said. Only that the boy she had given birth to was suffering, helpless, with no one, without protection, without his mother. She had tears of worry on her face, and kept looking at his image.

  "What is it they want, Ben?"

  "I don't know, Myr," Ben Isaac answered, keeping his voice under control.

  "Money? Pay them, Ben. Pay whatever they want."

  Below they began to see lights from the coastal towns. They were nearing the peninsula.

  Ben Isaac looked out the window just as a light rain began to strike the glass. In his worst nightmares he had never imagined such a scenario. Had they kidnapped little Ben to blackmail him? He knew exactly what they wanted, but who were they? How did they find the information? Only a leak could have started all this, and there were not many who could have informed when those involved were so few. He had failed in the most important duty of his existence—protecting his family. Just as he had failed Magda in another life, long ago, in his forgotten past.

  The pilot radioed his position to the control tower and followed instructions for landing. A few minutes later they put down on the assigned runway. A van waited to take the passengers to a plane Ben Isaac had leased while still on board the ship.

  As soon as they settled into the van, his cell phone rang. It showed his son's number. Ben looked anxiously and turned the screen to his wife, who suddenly snatched the phone from his hands and answered.

  "Ben? Ben?" she cried desperately with tears running down her face. She listened a few moments and closed her eyes. Moments later she held out the phone to Ben. "It's for you."

  Her husband took the phone and lifted it, reluctantly, to his ear. "Ben Isaac," he answered. He said nothing more. He just listened. Probably as he was ordered to do. Myriam looked at him in suspense. No reaction, no interjection. Nothing. Total silence. The one-sided conversation lasted a few seconds. Ben Isaac hung up, and Myriam, instead of bombarding him with questions, made only one observa tion. "Don't hide anything from me, Ben."

  The van stopped next to a Learjet 60 XR that was ready to board them. An attendant waited next to the steps to help Myriam and Ben climb into the plane.

  "Welcome," she greeted them with a brightly enameled smile.

  The interior of the jet was a luxury they had become accustomed to, but even if they weren't used to it, they wouldn't have noticed. They were stopped in their tracks by the sight of a cardinal, accompanied by a young woman, seated comfortably in the cabin.

  "You're a difficult man to find, Ben Isaac," the cardinal observed.

  "I was never hiding."

  "Sit down." William gestured toward the seats. "Make yourselves at home."

  20

  The priest's name was Gunter, and he made them wait awhile. It was just as well that an acolyte received them inside the immense Church of Saint-Paul–Saint-Louis, sheltering them from the rain, which was getting heavy.

  Gavache lit another cigarette over the useless objections of the aco lyte. Those who enforce the law are always above it.

  Jacopo displayed a scornful smile, which everyone else co
nsidered idiotic, but no one said so.

  A Delacroix looked over them in silence, Christ in the Garden of Olives. A statue, the Virgin of Sorrows, by a prominent French sculp tor, could also be admired. Rafael felt as if he were inside a puzzle with missing pieces. He was used to being a step ahead, not a step behind. It was not a comfortable position.