by Glenn Meade
Zedik picked it up. “What’s in it?”
“A check. Think of it as a bonus. When your work is completed to my satisfaction, you may cash that check.”
Zedik opened the envelope and saw the generous amount written on the check. He turned pale. “Mr. Malik, I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Just take it. But against my advice my brother insists on being involved in this enterprise. Nidal can be hotheaded. So I want you to watch his back, Bruno. Make sure he doesn’t get hurt. I have trust in a man like yourself, a man well versed in violence, able to take care of himself. You have always served me well.”
Zedik slipped the envelope into his pocket. “Sure, Mr. Malik, I understand. You and Nidal are really close. But what exactly do you want me to do?”
Hassan Malik met the Serb’s stare. “There is an ancient scroll, a precious artifact that has gone missing. You and Nidal will retrieve it for me.”
* * *
Hassan Malik sat alone by the pool, sipping an espresso. Nidal stepped out onto the patio and removed his sunglasses. He wore an Armani dressing gown over his reed-thin body and he strolled to the poolside table and eased himself into a chair. “Has Bruno gone?”
Hassan Malik was used to regarding the world with angry contempt, but the sight of his younger brother never failed to elicit a protective feeling in him. “Yes, Nidal. He has gone.”
“Have you told him everything, Hassan?”
“No. But enough so that he knows he’s a player in a dangerous game and that I will require him to do unpleasant things, perhaps even kill.”
Nidal stroked the neatly trimmed beard that covered his delicate features. “What happens next?”
Hassan sipped his espresso, then put down his cup. “Bruno will help you find the scroll. You will use whatever means you have to.”
Nidal’s boyish look was suddenly gone, replaced by a kind of angry madness that erupted in his dark eyes. He slipped a frightening, curved Arab dagger from inside the pocket of his gown. “When the time comes, let me do the killing for you, Brother?”
“That’s our father’s knife. Put it away, Nidal.”
Bitterness flashed in Nidal’s face. “Is it not rightful that I use it? These people deserve to die, Hassan.”
“Put the knife away, Brother. There will be time enough for spilling blood later.”
Nidal reluctantly replaced the knife inside his gown.
Hassan stood. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Nidal? No taking risks. Leave those to Bruno, it’s what he’s paid for.” He touched his palm to his brother’s face in a tender gesture. “I simply want no harm to come to you, ever.”
Nidal’s face sparked, and then he smiled boyishly. “Trust me, Hassan. I’ll be careful. And I’ll get the scroll for you, just wait and see, my brother.”
48
ROME
JOHN BECKET STRODE into the narrow streets of the red-light district.
He was free again and this time he wore a plain dark suit and white, open-necked shirt. To avoid being recognized he’d pulled his broad-rimmed hat down over his face. He paused at a corner store window and looked back, his heart pounding.
Behind him, reflected in the glass, he saw the figure of a man rounding the corner. He was well built, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a dark jogger’s rain slick. He wore a woollen hat pulled down over his head. Becket reckoned that the man had been following him since he’d left by the Vatican’s east gate.
Too far away to get a close look at the man’s face, Becket felt certain there was something familiar about him. But instinct told him that he was being followed by a member of the Vatican’s security services.
Becket stood there, catching his breath, considering what to do next. Dark alleyways veined off the side street, sprinkled with seedy pickup bars and sex shops, the pavements bustling with crowds. There were women everywhere, prostitutes mostly. Some of them were beautiful as only Latin women were beautiful, and wearing the shortest skirts. Here, in the backstreets, you saw life at its rawest, the poverty and despair that drove men and women to crime and wrongdoing.
“Do you want to have some fun, mister?”
John Becket turned. A young woman, jittery with nervous energy, greeted him with a manic stare. She had dyed black hair, painted red fingernails, and bad skin. “No, thank you, my child.”
Her smile vanished. “Suit yourself but you don’t know what you’re missing.”
She whirled on down the street, pirouetting like some frenzied dancer. Becket guessed she was high on drugs.
At that exact moment, he saw the man following him. He was fifty yards behind, his woollen hat pulled well down on his head, his eyes staring at the pavement as if he was eager not to be recognized.
Becket saw his chance. He ducked down a crowded alleyway and plunged into the dark heart of the red-light district.
After five minutes of running through the backstreets, Becket slowed his pace and looked back. He saw no sign of the man. He took a deep breath and his chest felt on fire. He was out of condition, his legs trembling.
“Hello, Padre. It’s a small world.”
His heart jolted and he looked round. It was the young woman with the fake white Gucci handbag he’d encountered the previous evening, Maria. She was seated at a nearby café, smoking a cigarette, most of the empty tables spread out along the pavement. She wore a low-cut blue dress—revealing more bust than was decent—and high black leather boots. The bruising on her jaw was less noticeable, and still covered with heavy makeup. “Maria.”
She seemed in better form as she stood and playfully wagged a finger at him. “Out on the prowl two nights in a row, Padre? The church mustn’t be keeping you busy. And this time you’re dressed up for the town, I see.”
“How are you, Maria?”
“Not so busy that I couldn’t let you buy me a coffee.”
“How is your jaw?”
She put a hand to her face and despite the bruising she smiled. “Hey, sorry about the other night. My pimp was giving me grief. He smacks me one now and then when I don’t earn enough cash to keep him happy. Well, what do you say about that coffee, Padre?”
Becket scanned the alleyway for any sign of the man. Instinct told him to get far away from here as fast as possible but Maria plucked him by the arm and guided him to her table. “You’re not going to hurt my feelings twice in a row, now are you?”
“Maria, I—”
“I could do with the company. I haven’t even made the price of a cup of coffee all evening.”
Becket needed to escape, not linger outside a café. What if the man following him caught up with him? What if someone in the café recognized him? He felt his heart thump and sweat dampen his brow.
Maria frowned. “Why do I get the feeling you look sort of familiar, Padre?”
Becket wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.
Maria whistled at a passing waiter. “Two cappuccinos, Marcelo. And while you’re at it bring a couple of Camparis and soda for me and my new friend here.”
49
MONSIGNOR SEAN RYAN was drenched in sweat.
Dressed like a jogger—in a zip-up dark blue nylon Windbreaker, blue nylon jog pants, a stupid-looking dark woollen hat pulled down over his red hair—Ryan felt like a second-rate private detective in a bad movie. But that was the least of his worries.
He was having a difficult time trying to keep up with John Becket. After running for eight blocks, Ryan figured that his boss could jog with the best of them. Then, much to Ryan’s relief, he saw Becket stop outside a café, fifty yards away.
Ryan halted beside a corner store window and winced. A sign above said Madame Sin. The store was in darkness, which was just as well—Ryan saw that the window was filled with scantily clad female mannequins wearing erotic underwear. He was, after all, in Rome’s red-light district.
Ryan felt as jittery as a truant schoolboy. He was pretty sure that John Becket had already spotted him and realized that he
was being tailed. Ryan could do nothing about that except try to remain well back and out of sight. But the store window allowed him to observe a reflection of what was happening in the café down the street. Sweat dripping from his brow, he focused on the reflection in the window and what he saw shocked him, so much that he risked a look back at the scene.
The pope was drinking and talking with a brassy, attractive blond woman wearing a short skirt and boots. Ryan asked himself, Am I seeing things?
There were no two ways about it: the way the woman was dressed in such a neighborhood said prostitute. He dreaded to imagine the field day that the rag tabloids would have if the pope were recognized, drinking outside a café bar with a hooker. The pictures would end up on the cover of every newspaper in the world. Worse, it seemed that the pope was actually enjoying himself. He saw John Becket smile in the young woman’s company.
Ryan shook his head. This is insane. Popes were not known to venture into red-light areas to talk with prostitutes. At least not since the debauched reign of Borgias in the fifteenth century, when Pope Gregory liked to frequent Rome’s brothels.
Ryan tried to convince himself that what he was witnessing was perhaps harmless. That the pope was making social discourse with the less fortunate of society. But he knew he was simply making excuses. His mind screamed out that something about all of this was very wrong. Not only that, this unsavory neighborhood could also be dangerous.
Ryan felt for the reassuring bulge on his left side. His subcompact Glock 27 was tucked in his inside-the-pants holster.
Just in case.
Confused, Ryan forced himself to turn back to the storefront window. Staring at the reflected images of the pope and the prostitute, Ryan’s mind was assaulted with a single, worrying thought: What in the name of heaven is happening here?
“Italian men think we should be paying them. They’re all peacocks.”
“You think so?” Despite himself, Becket found himself entertained by the young woman’s shameless, working-class honesty. She was a breath of fresh air after the stiff formality of the Vatican.
Maria said, “I know so. All they think about is sex, just like all men. Let me give you a good example of the typical Italian male. Have you heard the story about Luigi?”
“No. Tell me.”
“His young wife dies and at the funeral he’s sobbing his eyes out. As they lower her coffin into the ground, Luigi’s friend puts an arm around him and says, ‘Don’t worry, someday soon we’ll find another nice girl for you to settle down with.’ And a sobbing Luigi says, ‘That’s all very well, but what about tonight?’”
Maria giggled and slapped a hand on her leather boot. “Well, not bad, eh Padre?”
John Becket realized he was smiling. “Not bad. If I racked my brain I could probably tell you a joke or two but tonight I’m preoccupied.”
Maria sipped more Campari. “By what?”
Becket flicked a nervous look across the street. “Too many things to mention, Maria.”
“You speak good Italian but you’re not Italian, are you, Padre?”
“No.”
He didn’t offer any further explanation and she didn’t ask as she studied him, then raised her Campari in a toast. “You know, for a priest, you’re pretty okay.”
“You mean most priests are not?”
Maria put down her glass. “Not the ones I’ve met. They want sex just like any man. All men are born with an open fly.”
“We are all sinners, Maria, in one way or another. None of us escapes life’s impulses. Not even Jesus himself. But the important thing is that we try with all our heart to live our lives with truthfulness, dignity, and respect, and to follow his example. If we all did that, we might even live in a near-perfect world.”
“Hey, don’t tell me you’re one of these do-gooders who want to clean up the streets. Next you’ll be asking me if I believe in God.”
“Do you, Maria?”
“See? I stopped a long time ago.”
“What do you think of those in the Vatican?”
Maria snorted. “Half the world starves and they live like princes in their ivory towers. Will I tell you why I stopped believing? Because I always wanted to ask God why he allowed so much suffering, poverty, and injustice in the world.”
“He might ask us the same question.”
“How do you mean?”
“Don’t we allow it, Maria? Each of us. In our hearts and minds. In the way we ignore the suffering of others and close our ears to their cries of pain. The way we disrespect our fellow man and are selfish for our own needs. Much of human suffering is avoidable. But a righteous path has a high price, and many are not prepared to pay that price.”
Maria frowned. “You’ve lost me, Padre.”
Becket placed a hand gently on hers. “Maria, I could give you the deepest theological thought on the subject of human suffering. I could even explain how pain and torment bring us closer to God.”
“How?”
“Because our own suffering causes us to feel pity. And pity makes us more human. And being human allows us to truly experience the joy of love. I could explain our purpose for being here, the reason for our existence in this universe. It’s the most profound and yet the simplest reason of all: to enlighten our souls and to redeem God’s gift to us—His eternal love. And make no mistake, Maria, the gift of love is truly eternal. But do you have the evening free to discuss it all?”
“Not unless you’re paying me by the hour.”
Becket was tempted to smile, then suddenly froze. Across the street he noticed the man in the nylon Windbreaker, jogging pants, and sneakers looking casually in a darkened store window. His head was still covered by the woollen hat but he was closer now, close enough for Becket to feel a tingle of recognition. His heart pounded. He was almost certain it was Sean Ryan. “Maria, I need to get away from here urgently.”
“Is my company suddenly that revolting?”
“No, Maria, I have a problem. I have an important appointment to keep, but there’s a man following me. He’s across the street.”
“Which man?”
“Be careful. If you look back don’t make it obvious. He’s wearing a dark blue rain slick, a woollen hat, sneakers, and running pants.”
Maria took a few more sips of Campari before risking a casual glance. The man was peering into the darkened storefront. She turned back with a scowl. “Why’s he after you? Did you steal from the church collection?”
“I wish it were that simple. But I need to get away from him.”
Maria considered. “Your best bet is a door at the back of the café, past the toilet. It leads to an alley. Don’t worry if the guy tries to come after you. I’ve been stopping men for years. One more shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thank you.” Becket placed a generous handful of notes on the table. “Please keep the change. Maybe it will stop you being beaten again.”
Maria picked up the banknotes and raised an eye. “Maybe you did steal from the collection after all?”
“No, Maria, but I hope we meet again.” Becket wrote a number on a bar napkin and slid it across. “If anyone ever threatens to harm you, or if you’re afraid of them, I want you to call me at this number. If I can help you, I will.”
Maria frowned. “You know, it’s killing me where I saw you before. Were you ever a regular at the massage parlors near the main railway station?”
Becket suppressed a smile and gave the rim of his hat a sharp tug to ensure it covered much of his face. “I’m afraid not. You’re a good woman, Maria.”
She laughed. “Not for at least ten years. Now, get out of here or you’ll be late for your appointment.”
50
AN HOUR LATER, as Cardinal Umberto Cassini was about to leave his office for a late appointment, his cell chirped and Ryan’s name and number appeared. Cassini answered urgently, “Where are you, Sean? What’s the news?”
“I just got back to the Vatican. I’m afraid uncle managed to eva
de me. The last time I saw him he was enjoying a drink with a tarty-looking lady in the red-light district.”
“You’re—you’re joking.”
“I wish I was. I saw uncle give her a handful of paper money. After that he disappeared and I lost him.”
“So we don’t know where else he’s gone?”
“No, but he’s back. Security on the east gate spotted him climbing out of a taxi five minutes ago.”
Cassini said irritably, “This cat-and-mouse game is becoming ridiculous. Did security get the cab’s license number? Maybe we could question the driver and find out where he made the pickup?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s time I put a stop to this and demand an explanation from the Holy Father for his behavior. It’s absurd.”
“You think such a confrontation is wise, Your Eminence?”
“Wise or not, it needs to be done. I won’t have his reckless behavior bring the church into disrepute.”
51
FIVE MINUTES LATER Cassini walked the long corridors to the papal chambers. They were vast, with floor-to-ceiling oak doors, red carpet, polished marble tiles, and sparkling chandeliers. Even the intricate ceiling roses were finished with solid gold leaf.
Passing a Louis XIV writing bureau, Cassini knew it was worth a small fortune, like the many antiques that decorated the chambers, or the exquisite paintings that draped the walls. He recalled that a recent audit disclosed the Vatican’s net worth to be in the region of $100 billion. Cassini thought that the figure was probably on the conservative side; after all, the Vatican was the single owner of Rome’s most prime real estate.
He was just about to knock on the double doors when one of them was yanked open and John Becket stood there, wearing his plain white gown. “Umberto, I was just about to summon you. Come inside, please.”
