by Declan Finn
Father Frank hesitated. “He had started as being friends with the Pope. Maybe frenemies. That, and malpractice as a science professor. But, he kept all of his church pensions and kept up all his communications with other scientists around Europe. Was it smart to disobey a direct order from the Church, and make fun of the Pope during the Protestant Revolutions? No. But, because the Church sentenced him to house arrest for teaching a theory like it was the Truth, it has been labeled as ‘anti-progress’; nowadays it’s just good science. Some have even charged that Newton was prosecuted by the Church — which would have been difficult, as he was Anglican. Contrary to the claims of some best-selling novels, the church has never suppressed a scientist. Although I can think of a few novelists who’d fit the stake better…”
The priest smiled. “The fact is the Church has been a fan of science, especially with the development of the anthropic principle in 1974, which states that, scientifically, the universe seems to be made for mankind. As a cardinal contemporary of Galileo said: ‘the Bible tells us how to go to Heaven, not how the heavens go.’ The Jesuits even run the Vatican observatory out in the American desert. No other religion has one.”
She glanced at Father Frank. “Can we help you, Father?”
“Yes,” he said, as soft as ever. “I was sent to assist Commandatore Figlia in showing you around. He knows the technology, but I know the history.” He tapped his collar and smiled. “Besides, a collar can open many a door here. You might say I could even get away with murder.”
Chapter VI: A Pius Spy
“He was here going through the Vatican Archives,” Veronica Fisher said. She looked down at the clipboard, leaning back against the wall of her makeshift lab.
The white spacesuit covered her 5’6” frame as she glanced over the crime-scene report. Her brown hair was up in a hairnet to avoid contamination, and she looked like she just had come out of a bio-hazard area. She was standing next to a freckle-faced man with silver hair who was well past his expiration date, laid out quite neatly on a metal slab next to her.
However, the corpse of Dr. David Gerrity didn’t mind all that much.
Figlia raised an eyebrow. “I thought I was supposed to be the cop here.”
She smiled. “His entrance slip to the Archives was in his pants pocket. Stomach was empty, so he hadn’t eaten any breakfast.”
“He couldn’t have simply wanted to go out to eat? Maybe even to the hotel lobby?”
She shook her head. “His hotel shows that room service delivered breakfast and dinner to his room every day he stayed there. No lunch. I’m going to take a guess that Mr. Gerrity ate breakfast, spent all day at the archives, and then wandered back to his hotel room.”
“How could you tell that?”
Fisher smiled, brown eyes twinkling with mirth. “Because we get a lot of flakes coming through there. Have you ever heard of a serious scholar who wasn’t in need of a keeper? I know of a scholar-priest who needed to have a nun assigned to babysit him because he was found passed out in the Library of San Francisco — he fell into the research for two days straight and forgot to eat, sleep, or leave the building. Your man had the alarm on his watch set for five in the evening, probably so he’d know it was time to leave.”
Figlia grinned. “Sounds reasonable enough.”
Fisher shook her head. “He was a diabetic — the insulin was in the minibar refrigerator — he couldn’t afford not to eat, and he shouldn’t have been playing games with the lack of lunch, either. It looks as though he must have been much heavier at some point — he had stretch marks along the base of his stomach, and I doubt he was pregnant. Between his age and the diabetes, he had a choice between losing the weight or a leg. So he had to set the alarm, unless he wanted to die.”
Figlia flinched. “So, what was he researching? Was he here on behalf of anybody?”
“He has a faculty ID card for the Universities of Navarre and Notre Dame, Indiana.”
Figlia blinked at the corpse once more. “He looks Irelandese.”
“Irish? With a name like Gerrity, I’d hope so.”
“I could understand Notre Dame, they have a heavy Irish population. But Navarre?”
“He had a doctorate in sacred theology and in Thomistic philosophy.”
“How do you know?”
She pulled out a slip of paper she had collected from the man’s luggage, now neatly encased in an evidence collection bag. “It says so in a letter of introduction. The signature on it is from a professor at Navarre.”
Figlia looked at it, then at her. “It looks like someone knew him well; it says he needs a keeper, lest he forget to eat.”
She grinned. “Imagine that.” She slid it onto the evidence tray.
“So, he was here on behalf of either one or both colleges, doing what?”
“You should have read the rest of the letter.” Fisher slid her gloved finger down the front page. “He was here on his own time, for his own research. Come, I’ll show you.”
In the next room over, there were several books spread out along the tables, each of them being photographed in their current, bomb-blasted state before they were put back together again. What titles he could read depressed him: The Deputy, by Rolf Hochhuth; Hitler’s Pope; Papal Sin; Constantine’s Sword; and Three Popes and the Jews.
Figlia groaned. “Oh no, don’t tell me that I have to deal with the canonization of Pius XII.” He slapped his forehead. “The American press already wants to hand Joshua his own head on a stick; this is going to be even worse.”
Fisher shrugged. “Sorry about that, but they were at the scene. And you’re right. I know some papers will have people swearing up and down that His Holiness put a hit out on Dr. Gerrity here.”
Figlia stopped a moment, and suddenly barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding, si, Ronnie? I’m in charge of Vatican Security; I stole this case from the carabinieri, and happened to be there in time for the body to land on my car. Some will say I killed either or both of them.”
Fisher laughed. “Well, in that case, Mr. Assassin, you used a very inefficient weapon on Dr. Gerrity - a .22 Beretta with a plastic water bottle for a silencer. We found it at the scene. Granted, the bottle had been crushed in the explosion, but the tape still held it firmly to the gun — our hit man used enough tape to keep an antenna attached to a motor home in the middle of a hurricane.”
Figlia thought for a moment. “So Dr. Gerrity was in Italy researching Pope Pius XII; he was executed by our other man, who was killed in the explosion and destroyed my perfectly good ca…”
She nodded. “We’re not certain who he is yet, though.” She snapped her gloves off. “I’ll be able to tell you after we get the prints off the Beretta.”
“Why not off one of his fingers?”
Fisher spared him a glance. “No fingers. I’ll try running a facial-recognition program on him once I get him cleaned up. Your windshield put up a hell of a fight before it lost to his face. We’ll also print out those cell photos you took at the crime scene; maybe his face looked better when it first landed. As it is, any more damage, we’d need to go for facial reconstruction. His was almost shredded, and it’s a miracle he looks this good.” She undid the hairnet. “So, what happened to your guests?”
“I pushed them off on a priest just long enough to stop by. I didn’t want to wind up giving you something only to put it on the back burner.”
She gently elbowed him in the ribs. “You could always let me tell you tonight, maybe over dinner, when I have the full report?”
He took her hand, and kissed it. “If only I could. The problem is I’m working late tonight.”
“Ah well. Who’s heading the detail today?”
“Minor.”
She thought for a moment. “I wish I could tell the Swiss Guards apart — they all have blonde hair and blue eyes, I feel like I’m in a Nazi movie whenever they walk by.”
Figlia laughed. “Tu scherzo, si? These guys wear costumes out of a comic opera, designed by Mic
helangelo, and you think of Nazis? Time to take you away from American movies. Anything on the bomb?”
She shook her head. “Run-of-the-mill black powder. It might have been a beeper detonator, but I’m not certain. There was a cell phone in the room, so we’re not sure what pieces came from what device just yet. I’m not sure I can tell you who called him last — he was on the phone at the time, because a few pieces wound up in his skull, which means he had it at his ear when the bomb went off — there is no last dialed, or caller ID. It’s even money this is prepaid.”
One of her assistants came over and handed her a sheet of paper. Fisher read it over and said, “Well, we’ve got a name on your dead man. We got fingerprints off the gun and the serving cart.”
* * *
Manana Shushurin and Scott Murphy strolled along the Spanish Steps, using them to travel from Via Sistina to Via del Babuino. The stairs were solid marble, going from the Palazzo di Spagna leading down between a set of elegant homes — the Italian equivalent of a brownstone, but more red than brown — into an oval plaza with a wide fountain in the middle. The steps were bordered by a solid stone wall, waist-high and at least a foot thick on either side. Where the steps met the wall, a thick unbroken line of red roses traveled the entire length.
Murphy was grateful for the tourist attraction; that way, more people would be looking at the scenery instead of his companion. “Has there been anything else in Rome that’s odd? Seriously odd?”
Shushurin checked her watch. “There was an explosion at a hotel today, and a murder. From what I heard, the murderer was blown up.”
Murphy avoided stopping dead in his tracks only by dint of rigorous training. “What? That’s stupid — you don’t draw attention to a nice quiet elimination like that.”
“Unless someone was sending a message.” She shrugged, making her shirt tighten across her chest — it briefly attracted the eyes of one man on the steps, who was promptly chastised by his wife; the distinctive slap across his face echoed like the crack of a rifle.
“There was talk of it smelling like a fireworks display in the air,” she added, “so I doubt it was an accident.”
Murphy arched a brow. “How did you hear about that?”
“It’s Italy, people talk… and talk. There was only one cop at the scene, a few pedestrians, and the car.”
“Car?”
Manana Shushurin nodded. “The corpse landed on a passing car. I heard it belonged to the head of Vatican security.”
Scott Murphy thought for a moment. That was uncannily close to who he and Shushurin were supposed to keep tabs on — Hashim Abasi, an Egyptian police officer who had arrived in Rome to coordinate with the Vatican’s Central Office of Vigilance, in order to guarantee a safe papal visit through Egypt.
Given Abasi’s terrorist connections and the timing of the visit, the German BND thought it would be a good idea to follow the man. He couldn’t find a reason to disagree.
“I guess Vatican security isn’t too happy,” He concluded. “His name is Giovanni Figlia, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?”
“I’m a spy. Figure it out,” he lied. He knew exactly who and where Figlia had come from, because his boss kept files on everyone around the world’s top leaders, down to the upper echelons of their organizations, and the Catholic Church was no exception; though he had a special “in” with the church that other Israeli government departments only dreamed about.
Shushurin continued anyway. “From what happened, it seemed Figlia took over the investigation, and the Italians let him have it.”
He sighed. “They would — the Italians are so non-confrontational that they’re only outdone by the French. The Italian military’s tanks have one gear forward and three back; French tanks only go in reverse… at least in the jokes in my neighborhood.”
“Boston, New York, or Tel Aviv?” she asked.
He gave her a sidelong glance. “How—?”
Shushurin tapped her ear. “You hide the accents well, but you’re not really trying.”
Murphy smiled. “I’ll work at it. Anyway, if Figlia’s on the case…” he stopped, and blinked. “Wait a second, why is he working it? Did this happen in Vatican City?”
She shook her head, her hair softly moving with it. “In a hotel right outside the Vatican.”
He felt the urge to run toward St. Peter’s. “That sounds like a great place for someone to stay if they’re working at the Vatican archives, don’t you think?”
Shushurin nodded slowly. “Isn’t that a little outlandish? Yousef was dealt with cleanly, not with such heavy-handedness.”
Sounds like they didn’t give her great training at her Charm School; handedness is a word, but who uses it? “How exactly was he done in?”
“On the Ponte d’Angeli, shot by a man wearing all black.”
Murphy tensed and walked faster, compelled by an odd feeling of dread. His analytic skills were so good that few back at Mossad questioned them, and they questioned everything up, down, and sideways, while hanging upside down and looking in a mirror. The rule was two analysts, three opinions.
“That sounds like a perfect disguise for near the Vatican, don’t you think?” he said. “In fact, that’s exactly the costume I’d wear.”
Murphy stepped onto the Via del Babuino, looking for the nearest taxi. Shushurin’s long legs kept an easy pace with him all the way. “What is it?” she asked
“We’re splitting up,” he told her. “I’m going to check out that hotel, see who died. Find Abasi. I’ll call your cell when I’m done.”
A taxi sped along the Via del Babuino; Murphy treated it like any taxi in Boston, and simply stepped in front of it. The taxi stopped an inch away from his knees, and the driver waved at him. Murphy stepped around the car and got in.
“La Basilica di San Pietro. Molto pronto.”
He slipped the driver the equivalent of twenty American dollars, which broke any language barrier that might have existed — this passenger wanted speed. Murphy buckled up and held on tight as the driver proceeded to work at breaking the sound barrier.
A man in all black. I wouldn’t be surprised if Yousef’s German babysitters had seen a man in actual priestly garb. It would be the perfect disguise: who would notice one more priest? He smiled. I can just see the movie — Vatican hit squads, and they’re manned by Jesuits.
* * *
Father Frank Williams, Jesuit, stood in St. Peter’s Square. He was next to the tall obelisk marking the place where St. Peter had been crucified.
Father Frank explained all of this to Abasi and Goldberg in the same gentle voice he might use in talking to parishioners in the confessional — soothing and down-to-Earth.
“If you notice, by standing right where we are, next to the obelisk,” he continued, “you can see a nice little optical illusion. If you’ll turn your attention to the colonnade, you can see that only one pillar of each row is visible, with the other columns hiding immediately behind. You can actually repeat this on the other side of the obelisk.”
Special Agent Goldberg marked the effect, thinking, for some reason, that it would make a great bottleneck. She shook her head. Wake up, Villie. This is the twenty-first century, not the tenth. Suicide bombers are more likely than an invading army. Bottleneck indeed. You’re not even here five hours and already your mind is in the Dark Ages.
The colonnade was curved in semi-circles enclosing St. Peter’s Square. On top of the colonnade, the pillars held up what could only be called a marble roof, or maybe an awning. All of it was solid marble, with the wide pillars made from the stuff of mountains, and God was probably the only one who knew how much it all weighed.
She jotted down one note — Snipers on the colonnade. Keep the sniper rifles on roof. Add beanbags or rubber bullets if it will keep Pope happy. Goldberg smiled. Always keep the big man happy; otherwise nothing gets done.
While Goldberg pondered the tactical possibilities of the layout, Hashim Abasi merely appreciated th
e architecture.
Goldberg allowed her hazel eyes to flicker over the square. It was the main entrance to Vatican City, the only gap in the perimeter. “Isn’t it a little odd to have walls around the city?”
Father Frank chuckled, pointing at the walls. The sun glinted off of the priest’s ring: it was a gold ring with two swords crossing behind a gold crucifix, set on a red background. “The walls, as you can see, are made of solid stone blocks. Those are meant to fend off possible invaders. However, the wall wasn’t totally constructed in the ‘dark ages,’ as some ignorant people like to call them.”
She nearly jumped. What, he reads minds now? She would have been offended, but he had said “ignorant people” in such a sad way--more disappointed than mocking.
The priest continued. “You’ll notice the black, wrought-iron and additional, more modern stonework that adds at least another fifteen feet to the wall’s height. This was installed during World War II, meant to keep out the fascists.”
Goldberg almost started a discussion on “Hitler’s Pope,” but she considered it rude to disagree with the priest who had taken the time to show them around.
Father Frank snapped his fingers, and his violet eyes lit up with glee. “I just remembered, in reference to your perimeter security question — during the war, we had a clearly demarked line in front of the colonnade, a narrow white line you can still see. The Nazis had two guards just outside the line to keep troublemakers in, but they weren’t all that bright. The wall is ample to keep out most invaders.” He looked down to meet her eyes. “However, it’s not like we can lock up St. Peter’s Square every night.”
She smiled. Perimeter security? How did he know that’s why I asked? The line of patter made her wonder what this priest had been before the seminary. He wasn’t born with that collar, was he? He might have been some sort of Vatican history scholar, but that would hardly account for answering security questions before she asked them.
History aside, where the hell does he get off answering the questions I didn’t ask?
Father Frank smiled. He read her face like a neon billboard. “As you noticed, the Office of the Swiss Guard is just inside the wall, and immediately next to the colonnade. This, of course, is not a coincidence. As with any protection force, you want your guards at the front door. As it happens, the Pope chose to park his office right across from the Swiss Guards.”
