Tarcisio occupied a chair that resembled a throne behind his solid, antique desk.
Adolph sat down on the other side in a smaller, less luxurious, but equally comfortable chair. The difference in size was not accidental. It served to show whoever sat in it the superiority in rank and power of the person on the other side of the desk. The secretary of state was the most powerful man in the world, except for the pope. He was respon sible for an empire of incalculable value, influential throughout the civilized world and in parts less civilized according to the standards set by the civilized. All his power was exercised without weapons or an army, and this was extraordinary in a world in which order was imposed by military might. Tarcisio never tired of telling how Pope Pacelli, during World War II, ordered his Swiss Guard to go unarmed, so that no accidental shot would create an international crisis with the Germans. History testifies that Hitler in all his power, capable of the most execrable massacres, master of the world, or at least pretending to be, with all his military might, never permitted a single German sol dier to cross the defenseless Vatican border into Saint Peter's Square. It wouldn't have taken half an hour to capture the Supreme Pontiff and to occupy the Vatican state, but as Pius XII said, My army is not of this world. Hitler never had the courage to test this assertion.
Adolph smiled cynically. He adjusted his glasses and waited for Tarcisio to begin their meeting as usual. Outside, rain continued to fall in a constant torrent, the sky blackened with heavy clouds, and the wind keened in the windows. Adolph and his cynical smile.
"I wonder if you have anything to say to me before we begin," Tarcisio began in a serious tone, his duty in the best interests of the church.
Adolph felt superior to Tarcisio, as if the secretary of state did not deserve the distinctions he received. "Not that I know of."
Tarcisio took off his glasses and began to clean the lenses with a velvet cloth. "Cut the bullshit. We know everything."
"About what, Your Eminence?" Adolph said, showing no surprise.
"Ernesto Aragones, Yaman Zafer, Sigfried Hamal, Ursino. Who's next? Joseph Ratzinger?" The secretary showed his anger.
"Should I know those names, Your Eminence?" Adolph asked with the same smile on his lips.
"If you want to continue lying, that's up to you, Adolph. I'll only say the following, we know everything."
Tarcisio finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on.
Neither one said anything for a few moments. Seconds, minutes, a tense silence.
"We were always the right arm of the church," the superior general finally said bitterly. "Our methods were never questioned."
"Well, when you interfere in matters of the church and kill inno cent people and dedicated servants within our own walls, we have to begin to question, don't you think?" Tarcisio argued.
"Not when we're dealing with traitors." He raised his voice and dropped his cool attitude, revealing the true Adolph under the cynicism.
"I'm ordering you to stop what you're doing immediately," Tarcisio demanded. He received a harsh laugh in reply.
"We're the guardians of the church," Adolph asserted, half laugh ing. "Don't give us orders."
Tarcisio got up suddenly, leaning on the desk. "Don't defy me, Adolph. Guardians of what? Of some bones that could belong to any one and some documents that, with all due respect, could have been forged by Loyola?"
"I disagree," Adolph warned. "Everything was analyzed scientifi cally. Everything is proved."
"It that right? Then you have until tomorrow to show me those results."
"I told you not to give me orders," Adolph repeated.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Tarcisio didn't wait for his reply. "I think everything was a fraud. I don't believe that Loyola brought back the bones of Christ."
"But you believe in the Gospel of Jesus," Adolph argued.
"Because it in fact exists and was proved genuine. Scientifi cally dated, and I can show you the results. Whether it is the Gospel of Jesus or not, we'll never know. As far as I'm concerned, He died on the cross, and everything else is fi ction."
"In any case, there's nothing you can do. This operation can't be stopped. Tonight the gospel will be in our power," Adolph informed him again, cynically.
"You're deceived."
"You might be in the larger chair, but that doesn't give you superior insight. Tonight the documents will be in the possession of the Society of Jesus, and then I shall communicate our demands to you," Adolph said sarcastically.
"Why later and not now?" the secretary asked.
"Haven't you understood me?" Adolph was angry.
"On the contrary. I understand you. But we're going to do things differently."
He pressed the button of the telephone on top of his desk, and in less time than it takes to say God, the doors of the office opened to admit Cardinal William, talking on a phone with two Swiss Guards at the ready.
"What does this mean?" Adolph asked in astonishment.
"Yes, yes," William responded to the person on the other end of the line. "Just a minute. I'm going to transfer you."
The prefect pressed a button on the phone and handed it to Tarcisio.
"Is it on speakerphone?" the secretary asked.
William nodded yes.
"Good afternoon," Tarcisio said.
"Good afternoon, Your Eminence," Jacopo's voice replied.
"Do you have any news for me?"
"Everything went as planned. The church is in possession of Ben Isaac's documents."
"Would you mind repeating that? I have someone here who didn't quite hear," Tarcisio said, looking an incredulous Adolph in the eye.
"The church is in possession of Ben Isaac's documents," Jacopo repeated.
"Thank you. We'll talk later." He hung up without taking his eyes off the superior general of the Society of Jesus.
He wanted to laugh in Adolph's face, but the moment demanded seriousness. For the first time in a long time, Tarcisio felt good. "You're too late, Adolph. Later I'll communicate my demands. Now get out of my presence."
57
The temperature rose that afternoon, and the day was sunny and pleasant. Jerusalem was a city that permanently swarmed with building cultural, artistic, and intellectual activity, the capital of eclec ticism, with a people who adapted rapidly to the modern world and what it had to offer.
The Holy City knew how to prepare for the future. Every year it received millions of tourists eager to visit the places where Jesus walked. It was the most important city for two religions of the book, and the second most important for the followers of an equally impor tant book. It was those books that gave meaning to all this history. Without them the world would be different.
The car was parked in the middle of a residential street. Francesco and JC were sharing the backseat. There was no sign of the cripple in the Armani suit. Francesco was afraid of JC. There was something about him, an invisible power, extrasensory almost—as ridiculous as it was to think—that radiated omnipotence more than any other person Francesco had known.
"Now what?" he asked suspiciously.
JC took something out of his jacket pocket—an airline ticket, a passport, some shekels—and handed them to Francesco.
"Your participation has come to an end," JC declared fi rmly. "I don't have to tell you that none of this ever happened."
Francesco was puzzled. What kind of random plan was this?
"Is that it? Call someone to instruct them to give some documents to Sarah to take to the Gare du Nord? Couldn't you have done that?" He wanted to understand, no matter what happened. "Why did you kidnap me in Rome and bring me here?"
JC looked at Francesco with a sardonic smile and raised two fi ngers. "Two reasons. The first, so Sarah would know everything was going as planned. Hearing your voice meant everything was under control. And there's a second reason." But he said nothing.
Francesco waited for clarification, but he had to ask for it. "What is it?"
JC looked out at the street, calm in the midst of Jerusalem frenzy. "What are your intentions toward Sarah?"
"What?" What kind of question was that?
JC didn't repeat himself. Francesco had heard him.
"Are you her father?" Francesco asked, irritated by the invasion of privacy. Although he did not personally know Raul Brandao Monteiro, retired from the Portuguese army, he knew who Sarah's father was.
JC didn't react, but only waited for an answer.
"Sarah is an astonishing woman; discreet, professional, very respon sible, and until recently I thought we might have a future together. But now, the truth is, I don't know," Francesco confessed. It was not worth the trouble to make up a reason for the old man; besides, Francesco was afraid JC would have sensed the lie.
JC thought about Francesco's words briefly. He was a practical man.
"I'd like to give you a glimpse of what Sarah's life is like. It's not always luncheons at embassies and ministries, nights at the paper, a movie at the Odeon in Leicester Square or the Empire, a play at the Adelphi, lunches at Indigo or home to fuck all night."
Francesco felt totally naked after that list of very specific, very real, intimate nights that he thought belonged to his private life.
"Part of her life has no schedule or plan," JC continued. "Don't expect that she'll fulfill all your expectations, because she won't. Or that she'll come home after work every night, because there'll be days she won't. Or answer all your phone calls; some she'll hang up on."
"Why are you telling me this?" Francesco wanted to know, his heart full of foreboding.
"So you'll know how your future with her will be. I know about her morning sickness."
This old man knows everything, Francesco thought.
"If you're thinking of continuing your relationship with her, you need to know these things. Marrying Sarah implies bringing me along. That's why we're having this conversation."
"You're trying to dissuade me from having a relationship with her."
"Of course not." JC smiled and coughed. "I'm showing you the whole picture. I know it's not common to do so in relationships. Only much later do you see the dark side of the one you marry. Consider this conversation a bonus. You can make a concrete decision about your future. Risk it or not, knowing all this implies."
It was too much to digest at one time, and this wasn't the place to do it.
He saw the cripple leave one of the houses on the other side of the street and come over to the car. He had a young man with him.
"We're going to take you to the airport. Don't forget: you saw and know nothing. Only that will guarantee I forget about you," JC warned.
The cripple put the boy in the backseat with those already sitting there. He had dark bruises on his face and traces of dry blood in his nose and mouth. The rest were covered up by clothes.
"Who are you?" he asked fearfully.
"Your father sent us. Don't worry. Everything is fine," JC reassured him.
"Where's my father?" he asked, looking around uneasily.
JC took his cell phone and dialed a number. A little later someone answered and spoke in French.
"How did everything go?" JC asked.
"Just fine. The woman has the documents and is on the plane," some one responded.
"Perfect. Can you get little Ben's father on the line? His son wants to talk to him. Good work, Gavache." He handed the phone to the young man. "Talk to your parents. They're very worried."
While little Ben calmed parental anxieties, JC lowered the window of the door. The cripple bent down to listen.
"Our work is almost concluded," JC whispered.
"What about Jerome and Simon?" the cripple asked, without look ing at JC.
"Thank them for taking care of the kid, and tell them to put in a good word for me when they meet their Creator."
The cripple took a gun out of his holster, checked the chamber, and put it away again. "It'll be done. I'll be back in fi ve minutes."
Little Ben said good-bye to his father and gave the phone back to JC. "Thank you so much. That was terrible. I can't thank you enough," he said breathlessly.
The old man smiled with satisfaction.
"You're going home now."
"What is your name, sir?"
"You can call me JC."
58
The Domus Sanctae Marthae was a five-story building ordered built by John Paul II in the 1990s to give some comfort to those visiting the Holy See on business or for devotion. Cardinals, bishops, or priests, some emissary from another country, it was for anyone who came under the good graces of the Holy Mother Church. It was best known for lodging the College of Cardinals in 2005. It was built on the site of the former Saint Martha Hospice, which Leo XIII constructed dur ing a cholera epidemic, and served as a refuge for Jews and others with troubled relations with the Italian government during World War II.
It was certainly not a fi ve-star hotel, but it provided all the neces sary comfort for anyone whose only requirement was a good night's sleep.
Hans Schmidt rested a little, not as much as his body would have liked, since he was no longer at an age when he could stay up all night and part of the following day without rest and food. He remembered he hadn't had a decent meal since arriving the previous night. He'd had coffee, some water, eaten half a sandwich, but nothing nutritious.
He opened his eyes. The room was dark, but the afternoon was only half over. He turned on the light over the bed and looked at his watch. It was four fifteen. He'd slept only an hour. He'd give himself fi fteen minutes more of rest before going to see Tarcisio and the fi nal developments in his case.
He turned off the light and shut his eyes again. He shut off his mind, refusing to think about anything. During the hour of rest one shouldn't think. Besides, any thought that had no practical effect was an excuse not to do what should be done when reality required it. People revived too many scenes from the past that they later embel lished in the way they wished things had happened or anticipated events that had not yet come. Most people lived in expectations and illusions. Hans didn't. He knew perfectly well that expectations grew to the extent they were imagined, and developed according to one's own wishes. Illusion, or delusion, was also a hope, just different, since one hoped that something one didn't really possess would bear marvelous fruit. Both attitudes were mistakes.
So when his cell phone began to ring in the room, interrupting his expected rest, it left him irritated, but he answered the phone with a smile.
"Good afternoon." Even if it was dark as night.
Whatever the call was about, whoever was calling, didn't give Schmidt a chance to reply to anything that was said, not even an inter jection or expression of surprise. The flush on his face indicated that the subject was uncomfortable to him in some way. Expectations and illusions could be controlled in theory, but not in real life.
"Okay, I'll find a way," he said. Just as he was hanging up the phone, someone knocked timidly on his door."Who is it?" he called out loudly.
"Trevor," he heard from the other side.
Schmidt got up from the bed, still in his clothes, and went to open the door.
"Good afternoon, Reverend Father."
"Good afternoon, Trevor. Come in, please. I was just getting up to go see the secretary," he explained.
The secretary's assistant came in with a certain shyness appropriate to his position.
Schmidt sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes.
"His Eminence asked that you come to see him. He has news," Trevor informed him.
"Oh, yes? What news?" he asked, tightening the laces on his shoes.
"The parchments are in the possession of the church," Trevor said, uncertain if he should reveal anything, but prompted by the obvious affection between Schmidt and Tarcisio.
"Yes, I was informed."
Trevor looked at him in amazement. "May I ask by whom?"
"By Cardinal William. He called to say the congregation was meet in
g to decide my future," Schmidt replied.
"I see," Trevor replied, a little confused by the explanation. Cardinal William had been with the secretary when he was asked to go look for the Austrian priest. There was no meeting of the congregation.
One of the two was lying, either William to Schmidt or . . .
There was no more time to devise plausible or credible explana tions. A belt tightened around his neck with suffocating intensity. He couldn't breathe. He tried to resist, but Schmidt twisted harder from behind, applying more pressure. The fight for life under these unequal circumstances couldn't last long, not two minutes, and Trevor's life left him.
The Pope's Assassin Page 28
