The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  "Do you think Jesus and his family didn't read the Bible?" Robin asked suddenly.

  "They read the Old Testament," Rafael responded, remember ing Jacopo's lecture to Gavache the night before in the Church of Saint-Paul–Saint-Louis.

  "Exactly—that is, they knew all the steps they had to take to present the heir of David, the Messiah, to the world."

  No carpenter in the first century in Israel would have the resources to make a journey to Jerusalem every year to celebrate the Passover. Nor was it necessary, according to Robin's vivid account, to consult apocryphal texts to know that Jesus's family went every year, as was the custom of those who could afford it. Some of these journeys are described in Holy Scripture.

  Jesus continued to make them as an adult with his disciples.

  "He even died during Passover, if we choose to believe this."

  "Don't tell me that's not true," Rafael grumbled uncomfortably.

  Robin got up suddenly. It was not something he could say sitting down. He was visibly upset. "We still don't know."

  "Then who does know?" Rafael asked impatiently.

  Robin looked up at the angry Italian priest, who was acting like a petulant child.

  "You don't have any idea what's happening, do you?"

  Rafael shook his head no, as if he didn't know and didn't care.

  "Remember the manuscripts that mention manuscripts that men tion bones?" Robin reminded him.

  "Of course."

  "We're talking about the bones of Christ."

  "What? Repeat that." Rafael was astonished.

  "We're talking about the bones of Christ," the Englishman repeated.

  It was Rafael's turn to get up. What the hell was he talking about? He could only be joking. Rafael shivered from nervousness. Had Loyola gone to look for those bones in Jerusalem? "Are you kidding, Robin?"

  "I wish." He smiled slightly. "For nearly five hundred years the Society of Jesus has been guarding these relics with their lives, under constant threat, inside and outside the church."

  Rafael was not feeling well. This went against everything he'd been taught. The Gospel of Mary Magdalene mentioned the place where Jesus was buried. This discredited everything. Everything he had learned, for which he'd fought, was based on a lie? He wasn't in shock, but he had difficulty breathing. Then there was the so-called Gospel of Jesus. What confusion.

  "Tell me, my friend, how can you hope to save the church if they don't even tell you the truth?" Robin continued, twisting the knife.

  Rafael sat down again, let himself sweat, opened his collar and took a deep breath to regain control.

  "Have these bones been tested?" Rafael asked.

  "Obviously. Science indicates that the bones belong to someone who lived in 1 A.D. or B.C. They were excavated from a tomb, no lon ger accessible today, carved into the rock of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They were in an undecorated urn with only one inscription, Yeshua ben Joseph."

  Rafael closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear this. Every word out of Robin's mouth was like a knife stabbing him.

  "Of course, Yeshua and Joseph were common names in the fi rst century," Robin continued. "Like Mary, Magdalene, Martha, Peter, James, and Andrew."

  "Are you trying to give an excuse to the historians paid by the church to refute the idea?" Rafael accused him.

  "But it's true. That recent discovery was featured among all the international media on the Discovery Channel with that documentary directed by James Cameron. The tomb of Talpiot underscores the idea that they were common names."

  What was the probability of having two tombs with the same name in different places in Jerusalem? There was a Jesus, a Joseph, and another that could be Mary, Magdalene, or Mary and Magda lene in the same urn, or it could be neither the one nor the other, but Martha, another common name, which also could mean Mary or be Martha herself. The doubts were too many, and the answers too few. The only difference was a tomb no one had heard about, while the tomb of Talpiot. . . .

  "Do you mean that the bones that Loyola found in Jerusalem might not be His?" Rafael asked. He preferred doubt, mystery, to an irrefut able certainty.

  "In spite of being found in the exact place the Gospel of Mary Magdalene indicated, that's exactly what I'm telling you. At that time secrecy was extremely important. The Jews were experts at hiding things and giving misleading directions. The Church of the Holy Sep ulchre may mark the place where he was buried . . . or not," Robin said distastefully. "And don't forget we have the question of Ben Isaac, who guarded the Gospel of Jesus, supposedly written by Him in Rome in A.D. 45."

  Rafael snorted. This was too much.

  "That's what Ben Isaac guarded for more than a half century. He had an agreement with the church, the Status Quo. They say he paid a lot for the church to let him keep possession of the documents." Robin sighed deeply. He was tired.

  When the agreement was renewed in 1985, Peter, the superior gen eral of the society, demanded that Wojtyla not sign an extension, but the Pole wouldn't listen to him. He wanted to get rid of the hot potato as quickly as possible. Robin agreed with the superior general at the time. It was a mistake. Probably in exchange for millions of dollars.

  "Now you don't want to run the risk of Pope Ratzinger doing the same," Rafael concluded.

  "We can't, Santini!" Robin shouted. "One of the reasons you're hearing this story for the first time is because of us," he said, striking his chest with his hand. "If it were up to me, nothing would be known about it at all."

  "Ben Isaac and the church have done a good job of hiding it, too."

  "How much longer?" Robin complained. "This proves that the pope doesn't trust us, Rafael."

  Rafael sighed. The priests of the Society of Jesus were stubborn, and it wasn't worth arguing about.

  "Do you think it's worth killing people over this?"

  "Don't you understand the seriousness of what I just told you?" Robin answered.

  "You don't even know if the bones are His. With respect to the Gos pel of Jesus, anyone could have written it. You know perfectly well that the authorship of the gospels, apocryphal or canonical, has never been established definitively. The writing of the Pentateuch was attributed to Moses, in which he narrates his own death. Damn. Everything is uncertain. No one knows anything."

  Robin tapped his foot on the fl oor nervously.

  "However serious it might be, it's not worth four deaths, Robin."

  "I am not involved with these strategic decisions." The English Jesuit sounded defensive, as if washing his hands of it.

  "I understand, but nothing in all this justifies kidnapping Ben Isaac's son. I really hope he's not going to be victim number fi ve."

  Robin looked at him, astonished. "We didn't kidnap Ben Isaac's son."

  "Robin, don't fuck with me," Rafael cursed. "You murdered four men and kidnapped Ben Isaac's son. There's no point in denying it, after all you've told me."

  "Rafael, I give you my word we had nothing to do with the kidnap ping. At least as far as I know, and I usually do."

  Robin seemed sincere. Whether he was or not, only he knew, since no one has found a way to discover if someone is lying; even the lie detectors can be fooled.

  Rafael got up. He still felt hot, and his heart was racing. He looked at his watch and saw it was twelve thirty. "I think that's enough for today."

  "It's always a pleasure to serve an envoy from the Supreme Pontiff, even one pointing a gun at my head," Robin said sarcastically.

  "How's this all going to end?" Rafael asked.

  "Do you want to know what I've discovered in all my years of expe rience?" Robin paused to get Rafael's attention. "The end makes every thing clear."

  Rafael walked to the door. "I hope so."

  "It'll be easy for you to predict," Robin offered, going to the desk and picking up the phone. "After everything I told you, you don't expect to leave here with your life, do you?" Someone answered the phone. "We have an escape attempt. Code red," Robin said.
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br />   52

  It wasn't a pretty sight, and none of the three men would have been there to witness it if they could have helped it. It would not have been humane or pious to let Ursino leave such a sacred place with out a moment of prayer and expiation for the services he so diligently performed for His Holiness, four of them, always taking into consid eration the greater interest of the Holy Mother Church, submissive to the dogma and teachings of our Lord.

  The paramedics had placed the body on a stretcher. A white sheet covered him to the chest and left his face visible. The fibula was still stuck in his eye, shocking the three men of God who observed him in silence. His face was black on the side with the wound, striped with dried blood. His mouth and chin were white as chalk. Ursino looked at peace, the kind of quiet that emanates only from the dead, who know a greater truth, their mission accomplished here on earth, problems resolved or left for others to deal with. . . . What better reason to be at peace, with no debt collector to hassle them, the worries of borrowing a car, marriage disputes, loneliness, loss behind them. Death can be good.

  "Your Eminence," the doctor called, shutting a first-aid kit that had been of no use. He had cleaned the wound a little so that the dead priest would be at least slightly more presentable for the secretary of state. He would not remove the fatal bone for legal reasons.

  Tarcisio didn't hear him. He was absorbed in his prayer.

  "Your Eminence," he called again.

  "Yes, Lorenzo?"

  "Do you want me to inform the family?" the doctor asked politely.

  "No, thank you. Father Ursino had no living relatives," the secre tary informed him in a weak, sorrowful voice.

  At that moment he noticed the trace of blood that had dripped from Ursino's eye to the floor next to the desk. He tried to avoid vomiting as he imagined the sordid scene that had unfolded there. A sacrilege. William and Schmidt continued to watch over the corpse, whispering prayers to the All-Powerful Father to receive their brother in His merciful arms.

  "Clean up that blood as soon as possible, please," Tarcisio ordered, pointing at the dark red stain.

  "Certainly," the doctor answered. He looked around for one of the paramedics. "Tomaso, clean up this blood—"

  "I don't think that's a good idea, Your Eminence," Daniel, the com mander of the Swiss Guard, interrupted. "It's evidence."

  Tomaso waited while they decided, bent over the spot, ready to make it disappear. The secretary of state gestured to continue, a deci sion that did not make Daniel happy, but he swallowed silently and said nothing.

  Lorenzo cleared his throat before speaking. The subject bothered him. "What about the body, Your Eminence?"

  "He will be buried in the German cemetery."

  That seemed strange to both Lorenzo and William. Schmidt laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. He knew how difficult this was for him.

  "I'm sorry to ask, but the law requires an autopsy—"

  "The law requires nothing, Lorenzo," Tarcisio interrupted with irri tation. "You're confusing Italian law with the law of the Vatican. Ital ian law requires, Vatican law recommends. There will be no autopsy. According to the will of the Holy Father."

  "I'll comply with that, Your Eminence." Lorenzo cleared his throat again. Another question remained, and he wasn't happy to ask it. His conscience demanded that he do so. "Cause of death?"

  Tarcisio reflected a few moments. His reply would determine how history would hear about this death. It would be the fi rst murder within the high walls of the hill of the Vatican since the nineteenth century, if it were officially deemed murder. There was no other option.

  "An accidental cerebral hemorrhage," William proposed. "The cause of death was a stroke."

  Lorenzo looked at the secretary for confirmation. Only he was able to give it. A nod of his head sealed Ursino's cause of death, wounded in the right eye by a bone, a fact that would be suppressed in the offi cial records. No murder had occurred within the walls of the Vatican, according to any record.

  Lorenzo left the Relics Room, leaving the leaders of the church to contemplate the corpse, Tomaso to clean up the blood, and Daniel with two Swiss Guards to protect the prelates.

  "He is at peace," Schmidt affi rmed.

  "Yes. Surely looking down on us from the Almighty's side," Wil liam added.

  Tarcisio said nothing. He didn't know any words appropriate for a moment like this. Human life was sacred. The disrespect for it by some, capable of taking it, as if killing a chicken or a cow, lives that God dis posed for our nourishment. To take away God's greatest gift was like renouncing Him.

  While Tomaso cleaned up, his colleagues approached with the stretcher. "Can we remove the body, Your Eminence?" one of them asked.

  Tarcisio made the sign of the cross with his hand pointed at Ursino and wondered whether to cover his face with the sheet. Only then did he authorize them to carry the body off. As soon as the stretcher left the room, the atmosphere became lighter and more breathable. At last . . .

  "Now what?" Schmidt asked.

  "I'm going to make the funeral arrangements," Tarcisio said. "But first . . . a meeting with Adolph."

  "Do you need me?" William asked helpfully.

  "Maybe later."

  "I'm going to try to get some rest," Schmidt said. "I'm feeling the effects of all this."

  "Of course, my good friend. You deserve it. I'll ask Trevor to speak with the Daughters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul to prepare a room for you in the Domus Sanctae Marthae," he offered.

  "There's no need."

  "I insist. I won't accept a refusal," Tarcisio said, closing the subject. "Trevor, go with Father Schmidt and get a room prepared for him. He is our guest," he ordered.

  Trevor complied immediately.

  "Tonight you'll be notified of a new date to hear the sentence of your hearing," William informed Schmidt solemnly.

  "This is not the time for that, William," Tarcisio admonished him, and then looked at Trevor. "Go with Father Schmidt and make sure he has everything he needs."

  Trevor and Schmidt left the Relics Room. Daniel ordered one of the guards to go with them.

  "Commander," Tarcisio called.

  "Your Eminence." Daniel was ready to hear his orders.

  "Order this room sealed. Until a new curator is appointed, no one must enter this space."

  "I'll do so, Your Eminence."

  "Is the investigation concluded?"

  "According to your wishes, Your Eminence."

  "Let's go, then. We can't keep people waiting," the secretary said, looking one last time at the room that guarded the sacred relics of the church. Someone else would be chosen to continue Ursino's work and take care of this almost immeasurable treasure with the respect and devotion it deserved. Tomaso had finished cleaning and disappeared, like the blood that had stained the floor. Now all that remained was to try to forget. He looked at William. "I'm at your service."

  The two men left the room, escorted by Daniel and the other guard. William looked at Tarcisio with an open smile, which the secretary returned.

  "I'm really in need of good news," Tarcisio said.

  53

  The noise was deafening. Vehicles of all kinds circled the runway in an ordered chaos typical of a big city at rush hour. The jet waited for Sarah, ready for departure.

  They arrived in a black SUV with tinted windows, driven by one of Garvis's agents, who sat in the backseat with Sarah and Jean-Paul.

  Sarah carried only a simple leather folder pressed between her hands. Inside it contained the most important parchments in Chris tianity, and Sarah was deathly afraid of losing them. Her nervousness made it hard to breathe. The sickness threatened to return. She should never have agreed to do this. Who did she think was judging her? Mother Teresa of Calcutta, who was ever ready to resolve the problems the church got into? Friendly couples like the Isaacs? How she longed for a normal life, without thousand-year-old secrets, or any secrets, without the human cruelty that prevailed everywhere, e
specially on the highest levels. God was said to have created man in His own image, but she knew this was a lie and, worse, the terrible truth that contradicted that affirmation. It was man's fault. It was he who created God in his own image—cruel, intolerant, spoiled, punishing, greedy, fearful. How could billions of people believe in an all-powerful, omnipresent, moral being with so many faults and such a bad temper?

  "Thanks again for cooperating, Sarah," Garvis said in a baritone voice with a West Country accent.

  Sarah hadn't noticed his voice before. It was curious how concen trating so hard on one thing could block out everything else. Sarah would not make a good detective. Sometimes the obvious escaped her, even though, as a journalist, a certain nose for things was essential.