"Say what you can, Gunter. Who's Ben Isaac?" he pressured him. "What are the documents?" He lowered his voice. "You don't need to be specific or get into details. Speak in generalities."
Gunter maintained a thoughtful expression, and his foolish arro gance softened the lines of his face. He'd follow the advice of his Italian friend. A soft reply placates fury, as the wise Solomon said.
"Inspector Gavache," the Jesuit called.
The inspector was smoking another cigarette while looking at the Delacroix. He didn't shift his attention, and it wasn't clear whether or not he admired the work.
"Have you decided to follow the path of goodness and love pro claimed by the first superior general of the Society?" he said ironically. He wanted to show that every detail was important to him.
"I'm going to tell you everything I know about Ben Isaac," Gunter declared, ignoring Gavache's sarcasm. His initial arrogance probably deserved it.
Gavache sat down near Gunter and invited him to do the same. The German did so carelessly. He was nervous. The inspector read his reaction as that of someone about to tell something he shouldn't.
"Ben Isaac's story is real. . . ."
At first, the reason for the interruption went unnoticed. Only when Gunter got a glassy look and started drooling blood before falling heavily on the floor of the Church of Saint-Paul–Saint-Louis did those present realize that someone had shot the Jesuit. There was a bullet hole in the back of his cassock. The rest happened much faster. Jacopo, Rafael, and Gavache were still looking incredulously at Gunter when they heard Jean-Paul, gun in hand, shout, "Drop it, guy."
Trembling, the acolyte Maurice tried to steady a gun with a silencer in his hand.
"Drop the gun, kid. You're not going to shoot anyone else," JeanPaul repeated.
Gavache joined him, aiming his gun at Maurice, who was beside himself, tears running down his face, panting.
Rafael bent over Gunter, who was suffocating.
"Gunter," he cried out as if it would help. "Call an ambulance," he shouted.
The Jesuit bled fast and groaned. Jean-Paul took one hand from his gun and grabbed the cell phone to make the call.
"I . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry," Maurice stammered.
"Calm down, kid," Gavache said while moving closer with short steps. He spoke in a whisper. "Everything can be resolved. Drop the gun. Let's talk."
Maurice looked at him with eyes filled with rage. He still pointed the gun at everyone and no one. "There's nothing to talk about. Shut up. He couldn't. He couldn't." Fury mixed with disgust was upsetting the young man.
"Calm down. You don't want to make the situation worse."
Jean-Paul ended the call and put the phone back in his jacket pocket. "The ambulance is on the way."
Rafael stayed with Gunter, who was fading fast."Rafael," he murmured.
"Don't talk, Gunter. Don't try. The ambulance is coming."
With a last effort Gunter raised his hand to Rafael's head and pulled him down lower. "Plaza . . . plaza," he whispered.
Rafael listened to his words fading away. With each second Gun ter's life was draining away.
"Saint Ignatius." He sighed before giving himself up to God. The pain was over. He was at peace. Rafael closed his dead friend's eyes and blessed him. He folded his hands and prayed for God to receive his soul. "Peace be with you."
Gavache continued to try to calm the acolyte, who trembled more and more. "Don't do anything foolish."
Rafael got up and fixed the acolyte with a hard stare. "You killed a good man."
Those words stirred him up even more. "I had to. It had to be. He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell."
The siren grew louder as the ambulance got closer to the church. It would be transporting a dead man, not a wounded one.
"Drop the gun," Gavache ordered. "I'm not going to warn you again," and he cocked the Glock. Jean-Paul did the same.
Maurice raised his hand to his head and shut his eyes. He made the sign of the cross and kissed the crucifix hanging on his chest.
"Ad maiorem Dei gloriam," the acolyte muttered before placing the mouth of the barrel under his chin.
"Don't do it," Gavache shouted.
The bullet made more noise exiting from his head than it did from the gun. Maurice fell helplessly, without life.
For a few moments nothing but the siren was heard. Not rain, or breathing, or heartbeats. Nothing. It wasn't the usual scene inside a church. Corpses were common, but during funeral rituals, not from some priests killing others on holy grounds.
The doors opened and the paramedics entered.
Rafael and Jacopo watched silently. Gavache came over and looked at them coldly.
"What the hell is going on?"
25
The secretary dragged his left leg as he walked as fast as he could.
The light was dim at that hour of night, and he'd asked that no lights be lit at all. There was no need to raise trouble among the staff of the apostolic palace. The intrigues of the day were enough. Trevor followed at his side in silence, submissive, respectful. Tarcisio knew it was more fear than respect.
His leg pained him, but that was nothing compared with the rea son Trevor had awakened him. That indeed was eating at him.
"Did you alert William?" he asked with effort.
"Yes, Your Excellency."
It was important that Cardinal William know about this. There still weren't a lot of facts, but Ursino had been blunt. They were in open war with an unknown enemy who had an advantage over them. They possessed confidential information that indicated that someone in the bosom of his church was the source. Christ had to separate the wheat from the chaff more than two thousand years ago. Saint Peter and he also had to do it, as did all those who succeeded them. The struggle never ended, it was a permanent war; the battles only changed generals from time to time.
With a commanding air, befitting a general, a brilliant strategist, Tarcisio entered the Relic Room, where he found Ursino and Hans Schmidt.
Ursino asked for his blessing, knelt, and kissed Tarcisio's ruby ring. "Pardon me for disturbing your sleep, Your Eminence."
Tarcisio helped him up quickly. "Tell me everything, Ursino. Who are they?"
Ursino explained. The voice that had spoken to him on the phone was male. He called during the afternoon office hours and said he would call back later, after midnight, and it would be in his interest to be there. He used a friendly tone, conciliatory. Ursino wondered why he had to wait for a telephone call so late in the night. He was used to going to bed right after sunset. The speaker said it was about Yaman Zafer and important.
"Zafer?" Tarcisio interrupted. "Are you sure?"
"I am, Your Eminence. These ears God gave me work perfectly. He said Zafer."
"Did he sound like a young man or older?" Schmidt asked.
"Middle-aged, but I can't really say. You know how it is. Voices are confusing."
"Of course. Continue," Tarcisio asked, raising his finger to his lips. He was all attention. He wanted to know everything.
"I confess curiosity got the best of me," Ursino continued, trying to be as precise as possible. The past mixes up thoughts and desires, dreams, all in the same stream of consciousness, and it is necessary to separate what happened from what was wished for, what was real from fi ction.
After midnight he returned to the Relic Room and waited for the call. Father Schmidt appeared unexpectedly to keep him company. Just then the call came. Same voice, another tone. Arrogant, sarcastic, cruel, vengeful. He said Zafer was dead and very soon the world would know about Christ's bones.
"Holy God," Tarcisio exclaimed, raising his hand to his sweaty face. "Christ's bones."
"It could be a bluff," Schmidt warned with a calm voice that settled the atmosphere as much as possible.
"I don't think so," Ursino said. "He mentioned Ben Isaac."
Tarcisio stretched out in Ursino's chair, exhausted. He'd heard that name too many times already in the last several hou
rs. It was never a good sign to hear Ben Isaac's name.
"The agreement expired," the secretary said at last. "Any connec tion between the Holy Faith and Ben Isaac is over." Again he had men tioned the name.
"The question is whether Ben Isaac will have any conditions for protecting the documents, now that the contract has ended," William commented as he entered the room. "And they've kidnapped his son."
"I should leave." Schmidt started to go.
"Please, Father Schmidt, if it's for my sake, stay," William said, walking over to the desk next to the portrait of Benedict XVI.
"I don't think its proper for us to meet before the hearing of the congregation. . . ." said Schmidt, excusing himself.
"Nonsense," William blurted out. "We're not going to talk about that, are we? This has to do with the church and defending her, and we're all together on that. Please stay."
Thinking quickly, Schmidt agreed to stay. His case had nothing to do with this situation, which at the moment demanded more attention.
"I am very worried about this, too," Tarcisio declared. "On the one hand he guarded the documents competently for more than fi fty years. But a son is a son. That changes everything."
"Zafer, Hammal, Aragones." Schmidt counted them off. "Ben Isaac Jr. Apparently they know more, and we know less. We don't even know who they are."
William paced from one side to another, thinking. "I don't think we should trust Ben Isaac. Not for his honesty and competence, but because of the delicacy of the situation. I think we should get posses sion of the documents as quickly as possible."
Tarcisio shook his head no. "It's not going to be easy. Pope Roncalli was forced to enter into the agreement with him because he couldn't get his hands on the documents. I don't think he's going to give them up for free."
"Let's pay," William cut in.
"Do you think we haven't offered money? Ben Isaac is a multimil lionaire. Any offer is small change for him, and he'll laugh in our face. He would pay us instead to keep them. The second agreement was so difficult that Pope Wojtyla limited himself to extending the term with out discussing other deal points at all."
"Why does he want to hold on to the documents so much? He can't use them. He gains nothing with them. As far as we know he's never mentioned their existence to anyone. On the contrary, he's kept them under enormous secrecy, which, fortunately, is in our own interests. No one can come near two hundred yards from the papyrus without swearing an airtight oath of complete silence. I don't understand his fixation on them," William declared.
No one did. Maybe only Ben Isaac could explain, if there was an explanation. Sometimes there are no reasons for human obsessions. They just are.
No one said anything in the minutes that followed. Enemies should be kept in sight, under vigilance. The worst enemy was the one you didn't know, whose movements could not be predicted because you didn't know who he was.
Tarcisio got up painfully. The night was already late. The following day would be a series of important meetings with foreign dignitaries, and he couldn't appear as if he needed rest. Certainly, makeup could turn a frog into a prince, but that was only a facade. The secretary of state's meetings required intelligence and preparation, not a pretty face.
"Well, tomorrow we have a full day, right, Trevor?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. In the morning the ambassadors of Pakistan and Brazil."
"The afternoon with Adolph, right?
"Correct, Your Eminence."
"Damn, this is going to delay everything," William grumbled.
Tarcisio turned to William. "Any news from our agents?"
"We have one with Ben Isaac at this precise moment. Rafael still hasn't reported anything."
"I think it's best to recover the documents. They'll be better with us," Tarcisio deliberated.
"I already gave orders to recover them," William said, "but what if Ben Isaac won't give them to us?"
Tarcisio thought about it a few seconds, then started out of the Relic Room, where the bones of the saints reposed. "We'll use whatever means are necessary."
26
The morning darkness was cold. It wasn't raining, though the pavement was wet. He continued on foot, going down Via Cavour toward the Via dei Fori Imperiali. He turned right and followed the long street toward the Piazza Venezia, turning his back on the Colos seum. Francesco shivered, but couldn't tell whether it was from the chill. Cold sweat made him anticipate the moment of truth a few hun dred feet ahead. The man had said Sarah needed him. Everything was all right, there was no problem, not to worry, but he needed to meet her in the Piazza di Gesù, which was after the Piazza Venezia on the left side. Just a few steps down Via del Plebiscito. Spread out on both sides of Via dei Fori Imperiali were the vestiges of what was once the Roman Empire. History didn't lie and was there to be seen. At the end on the left was the Vittoriano, commonly known as the Altar of the Fatherland, an eccentric work by Giuseppe Sacconi in homage of Vic tor Emmanuel II, the father of the country, the fi rst king of a unifi ed Italy. The building was jokingly called the torta nuziale, or "wedding cake," by the Roman citizens.
Francesco ignored all this, thinking only about Sarah, not what was waiting for him in the Piazza di Gesù. The man spoke with a Tuscan accent, which in itself meant nothing. Sarah was a mystery. How she was able to make such influential contacts in the inner circles of the church and politics, he had no idea. Only she could say, and she never did. She was very reserved, and Francesco's hot blood, even if it boiled, always respected her will and her space. He'd be excluded entirely if Sarah felt he was invading her privacy.
He crossed the Piazza Venezia to the left side and walked beside the Palazzo Venezia, which had once served as the Venetian embassy. He rounded the corner and walked down Via del Plebiscito.
At the end, the small Piazza di Gesù, dominated by the Church of the Gesù.
Two beggars slept next to the church door, rolled up in dirty clothes that covered them to their heads. With the exception of these two souls, forgotten by God, he saw no one else. From time to time a car or motorcycle passed. A bus emptied out its few passengers, on their way to work.
Where could Sarah be? Or the man who had called him? Was she in danger? He put the thought out of his mind. Absurd. Sarah left with a priest. What danger could come of that? It was true there were many examples of despicable acts committed by the church, but they wouldn't have the courage to hurt a journalist, or two, if they consid ered him.
He tried not to think about it for a while. His mind always looked for patterns, labeled situations, good, bad, cold, hot, comfortable, uncomfortable, restful, uneasy. He was nervous now because he let his mind elaborate on innumerable theories about what would happen next. Not one true because the future is always unknown . . . always.
His phone pinged, indicating a text message. He took it out and looked at the screen: Continue toward Largo di Torre Argentina.
The sender was unknown. Had they called him to come to this location and were now changing it? What did it mean? He'd asked to talk to Sarah when they called, but the man said she was busy, but wanted to see him. Later they called him on his cell, which meant they had his number. Sarah could have given it to them, or, of course, who ever was responsible for this could have his own methods for fi nding out his number. His curiosity was greater than his fear, so he turned toward the Largo di Torre Argentina, which was close by. According to legend, it was in these Roman ruins of the Theater of Pompey, pro tected by a wall, that long ago some conspirators, including Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, stabbed Julius Caesar twenty-three times. No place was more opportune for a meeting.
The yellowish light from the streetlamps created a mysterious atmosphere. A group of drunken partiers passed him, singing louder than was appropriate for the hour. Finally he reached his destination after covering several yards on Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. Some peo ple were wandering out from a bar after the alcohol they'd enjoyed had awakened their spirit of adventure.
"
Do you have a match?" a completely drunk man startled Francesco.
"I'm sorry. I don't smoke."
The guy mumbled some unintelligible curse and continued limp ing in the direction of Via dei Cestari, where he disappeared.
Small groups came and went, but didn't stop. This was a passage way, not a place to linger.
"Do you have a light?" the drunk again asked. He had suddenly reappeared.
"I just told you I don't smoke," Francesco repeated with irritation.
The Pope's Assassin Page 13
