Shadow of Death fk-5

by William X. Kienzle

  “Of course he would have, Bobby. But you’re sure it’s blessed?”

  “It’s blessed already.”

  “Then thank you.”

  Koesler watched Joan as she returned to her seat.

  “Don’t you wish you could do that?” Koesler said to his companion.

  Toussaint smiled. “Make a pretty lady happy by blessing her rosary? That would indeed be nice. But I am only a deacon.”

  “You ought to be a priest.”

  “Have you forgotten that I am married?”

  “Who could forget Emerenciana? Nevertheless, I’m convinced you’ll be the first modern married Latin rite priest.”

  “And how will that come about, Bob?” Toussaint smiled again. In his soft, Haitian accent, ‘Bob’ rhymed with ‘daub.’

  “I’m not sure. But somehow you’ll pull it off.”

  “That is probably true, Bob.”

  “Is your hand still troubling you?”

  Toussaint touched the bandage exploratively. “No, not much, anymore. The cuts were not that deep.”

  “I can’t get over how you were able to pick out that assailant last night. There were quite a few black men in that line.”

  “Oh, it was not that much, Bob. It was just a feeling that grew stronger the closer he got. It started with the kerchief on his head. The feeling got stronger when I was able to see his eyes. They were sort of glazed. He seemed not to be focusing normally. Like someone who was at least partially under the influence of some kind of drug. And, finally, I saw the edge of the knife inside his sleeve. At that, I think I might have missed the knife if it had not been for the other indications.”

  “Amazing! But how did you happen to become an expert on Rastafarians?”

  “I am not an expert.” Toussaint chuckled. “I know something about them, of course. Most of the black community knows of them. But when I first suspected and then learned that some of them might be involved in this plot, I began to read everything I could put my hands on about them.

  “The Rasta is a complex way of life. Bob. This could help you understand it.” He removed a softcover book from his briefcase and showed it to Koesler. It was titled, Rastafari: A Way of Life, with a text by Tracy Nicholas and photographs by Bill Sparrow. Adorning the cover was the photo of a turbaned black man with a dreadlocked beard.

  “Let me first tell you,” said Toussaint, “that when the Rastafarians were first developing in 1933, their creed included hatred for the white race, which was considered by the Rastafarians to be inferior to the black race. Also among their tenets was the desire to seek revenge for what they considered the wickedness of the whites; the destruction, downfall, and abasement of the local forms of the white government of Jamaica; readying themselves for a return to Africa and, of course, affirming Haile Selassie as their divine deliverer, and the true sovereign of the black race.

  “This was in 1933. Nothing has changed much in the fifty years since then,” Toussaint continued. “The Rastafarians’ current belief is still that Haile Selassie is ‘the living God’; that whites are inferior to blacks—or that blacks are superior to whites; that the Jamaican establishment is hellish and the Jamaican existence is hopeless; that Ethiopia is Eden on earth; that the immortal and invulnerable Emperor of Ethiopia is even now arranging for disenfranchised blacks to be repatriated in Ethiopia, and that eventually, blacks will reign over all the earth.

  “You see, Bob, they have not much altered their principles or goals over the years.”

  “But why marijuana? I mean, I know it’s a popular drug, but, as far as I can tell, the Rastafarians are alone in adopting it as a group lifestyle—a sacrament, indeed.”

  “I think because it is there. It grows abundantly on the hills and in the Jamaican mountains. And, I think, because it helps blot out the harsh realities of their lives. With the possible exception of my own country, Haiti, the poor blacks of Jamaica exist in the most abysmal poverty of anyone in the Caribbean.

  “The Rastafarian poet Sam Brown voiced the horror of his people’s degradation and brutalizing poverty when he wrote of families—whole communities—forced to coexist with dogs and rats amidst unspeakable stench; of the old dying of despair and the young broken on the wheel of malnutrition, disease, and ignorance.”

  There followed a prolonged silence as each man sat lost in his thoughts.

  “I remember one of my few surgical experiences.” Koesler finally broke the silence. “They gave me a shot of Darvon. For a while there, everything looked pretty great: God was really in His heaven and all was really right with the world. I remember thinking at the time that if this was the kind of escape that drugs provide, I could understand why people who led utterly miserable lives could conceivably grow to depend on this kind of escape from reality.

  “I guess I can begin to see why ganja has become a sacrament for the Rastafarians.”

  “Yes.” Toussaint thought for a moment. “What with their peculiar beliefs and the constant use of ganja, they certainly march to their own drummer. It even reflects itself in their manner of speech.”

  “How’s that?”

  Toussaint thumbed through the book he had shown Koesler, and found the passage he was seeking.

  “For one thing, Bob,” he looked up from the open book, “there is the importance for Rastafarians of the number one, which they also identify by its other significance: the alphabet letter ‘I.’ Whether it appears as the roman numeral or the letter of the alphabet, they always pronounce it as the letter, ‘eye.’

  “It is as this book states,” and Toussaint read, “‘I’ is part of His Imperial Majesty’s title—Haile Selassie I. It is the last letter in Rastafari. ‘I’ is so important that a Rasta will never say ‘I went home,’ but would say instead, ‘I and I went home,’ to include the presence and divinity of the Almighty with himself every time he speaks. ‘I and I’ also includes bredren who also say, ‘I and I.’ In this simple way, through language, Rastafari is a community of people all the time.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Koesler commented. “It’s similar to the Christian ideal of identity with God and each other through Christ.”

  “Exactly,” said Toussaint, and smiled. “And they certainly did not get any help forming this belief from the example of their ‘Christian’ masters.

  “But see, the book goes on to explain how the Rastafarian importance of ‘I’ can influence their entire speech pattern,” and again Toussaint read: “‘I’ is also used in combination with other words, to glorify them: by substituting ‘I’ for a syllable, the Rastas create their own meanings. The word ‘power’ becomes ‘I-ower,’ ‘thunder’ ‘I-under,’ ‘total’ ‘I-tal,’ and so on. The word ‘irie’ (pronounced eye-ree), is an ultimate positive. ‘All is irie’ means nothing could be better; the ‘irie heights’ or ‘ites,’ in Rasta talk, are tantamount to heaven or a strongly uplifting spiritual feeling.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “Yes. Bob, I think you should read this book. It will give you a good basic grasp of what the Rastafarians are all about.”

  “I intend to. This afternoon after we check into our hotel. But you didn’t mention: Does this book have anything to say about the black fist symbol that we’ve found at the scenes of these attacks?”

  Toussaint frowned. “No; as far as I could see there was no mention of that. Of course, this book is about the basic Rastafarian movement in general. I do know that at least some, if not most, of the Rastafarians are of the opinion that the Pope is the Satan of Babylon. But there is no mention in this work—or any others I have read—of any segment of Rastas who would want to kill the Pope, let alone any Cardinals.

  “This smaller, almost isolated, group of Rastas are blazing a new trail, as it were. So, they are not in a position to rely on their own traditions as much as setting new courses. Very probably, they have borrowed the symbol of the fist from the Black Power movement in the States. There is every reason they should do so. Theirs is definitely, if peculiarly, a mov
ement to establish Black Power over the white religious figure they perceive as the centuries-old oppressor of blacks all over the world.”

  “But,” Koesler’s brow furrowed in confusion, “from what you’ve read and explained about the Rastafarians, I don’t understand how they could produce such violent members. Their whole creed would seem to lead toward and engender the formation of a peace-loving holy people!”

  Toussaint smiled wryly. “Is that not the way of it, Bob? The Rastas—the Haitians, for that matter—might say the same about white Christians. Jesus taught only love. It was His one commandment. It was His teaching to turn the other cheek, to pray for one’s persecutors, to identify with those most in need.

  “If the white Christians had lived up to their faith; if they had been true products of the creed they profess, Africa would still be home for the forcibly transplanted black men and women. How could one enslave the very people one has been instructed to love and serve?

  “Here and there, there are Christians who live up to the faith. Just as there are Rastas who live up to theirs. In a sense, the Rastas we are now involved with are, at worst, not the run-of-the-mill selfish sinner. As evil as is their purpose, they are only trying to wipe out their principal enemy . . . or those whom their confused minds perceive as their principal enemy.

  “Which,” Toussaint smiled again, “does not mean we must not prevent them from achieving their goal.”

  Koesler shook his head. “I’m going to have to mull this over.” He wondered briefly if Toussaint was aware that he, the deacon, had just delivered a sermon on basic Christianity to a priest.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. We are still right on schedule and will shortly be making our descent preparatory to landing at Heathrow. Just off to the right side of the plane, you may be able to make out the Cliffs of Dover as we complete our crossing of the English Channel.”

  “It never fails,” said Joe Cox to his everything companion Pat Lennon, “when one of those announcements is made, I am always on the wrong side of the plane.”

  Neither reporter made a move to try to behold the White Cliffs of Dover or the bluebirds that might be over them.

  “Look at it this way, love,” said Cox, “if that murder and attempted murder hadn’t happened in Rome, you’d be winging your way back to Detroit with the rest of them.”

  “Joe!” Lennon turned toward him, “that’s grotesque!”

  “It’s also true. Even with that attack on Boyle last night, poor old Nelson Kane had to roust Larry David and a slew of the other brass before he got an OK for my continuing on this story.”

  “No kidding! What possible argument could anyone make against your staying with this?”

  “That the Boyle assault was a fluke. That it won’t be repeated. That now that they’ve caught one of the assailants, the rest—if there are any more—will give up their plan. That they can save a lot of money if I get my tail back to Detroit.”

  “That’s what you get for loyalty! You should have come over to the News when they invited you.”

  “What! And leave Nellie Kane? For the glory of the Freep, I’ll live with my fate and be the only one aboard this plane who can’t afford the trip.”

  “You’re forgetting Irene Casey.”

  “What?” Cox craned to establish that Irene was aboard. “What do you mean Irene can’t afford the trip? She works for the Archdiocese, doesn’t she?”

  “I know.” Lennon was laughing quietly. “That’s what I thought, too, till I talked with her about it this morning. The Detroit Catholic is financially independent of the Archdiocese.”

  “No kidding! That little paper has to pay for this trip? I thought the Detroit Catholic was owned by the Archdiocese.”

  “In a way yes and in a way no. Technically, the Archbishop is president of the Detroit Catholic Company and publisher of the Detroit Catholic newspaper. But that’s only a legal fiction. The paper stands—or falls—on its own.”

  “I never thought—”

  “We’re not the only ones who thought the paper was under the financial wing of the Archdiocese.” Lennon smiled. “Irene told me everytime they enter negotiations with the Newspaper Guild—”

  “They’ve got the union? That little paper?”

  “I was surprised too. Anyway, she says the Guild always takes it for granted that, in a pinch, the Church will sell the Sistine ceiling to cover its demands.”

  “Well, as they used to say on ‘Saturday Night Live’: that’s different; never mind.” He shook his head. “I’ll have to lay this on Nellie next time I see him: The little Detroit Catholic pays the freight for its editor to cover this story while the mighty and friendly Free Press equivocates.

  “And, speaking of this story, where do you think it’s going?”

  “I’m not sure. I have a feeling there’ll be another attempt on Cardinal Boyle’s life.”

  Ordinarily, competing reporters would not discuss any story they were each developing, unless it were to subvert the other’s coverage. But the relationship of Cox and Lennon was, in many ways, unusual if not unique. Each was at or near the top of their common field of print journalism. Each had the self-confidence such a position ought to engender. Beyond that, each was reasonably confident that neither would take undue advantage of the other. And, with most infrequent exception, neither did.

  “Do you buy the motive?” Cox asked. “That this group of Rastafarians is after top-ranking Cardinals because they can’t get at the Pope?”

  “Makes as much sense as anything else, I suppose.”

  “How about if it’s just a group that wants to gain publicity by knocking off some pretty important people?”

  “I don’t think so, Joe. This would be the first time in my memory that a world conspiracy of murder or terrorism was initiated solely to gain attention. Sure you’ll get your Middle East group, for instance, claiming responsibility for some act of violence so they can call attention to themselves. But there’s always some additional motive: They are nationalists seeking independence for their colonized country, or they are revolutionaries seeking to establish a new form of government in their country . . . something along those lines.

  “Individuals might resort to violence to gain attention. But not groups. Groups always have an ulterior motive. Besides, no individual or group—no one, in fact—has publicly claimed responsibility for these acts of violence. Far from seeking the spotlight, they’re lying low.”

  “I suppose you’re right. At least they’ve got the guy who tried to kill Boyle last night. They’re probably trying to sweat information out of him right now.” Cox closed his mouth, pinched his nostrils together, and blew to clear his ears. “We must be descending.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now in our descent pattern. The Captain has asked that your seat belts be fastened and that you extinguish all smoking materials. Please remain in your seats until we have arrived at the gate and the plane has come to a complete stop.”

  “You’re a prophet, Joe.”

  “On the other hand,” Cox resumed his line of thought, “if they don’t get the inside story from this guy, and if this theory is correct, then we’re playing in a pretty big ballpark. I mean, there are a lot of Cardinals. Who’s to say which one might be next?”

  “That’s right,” Lennon agreed. “As far as which Cardinals might be favorites to win the next papal election, it all depends on whose lineup you’re looking at.”

  Cox nodded, then his eyes narrowed as if struck by a new thought. “Pat . . . suppose—there’s a list.”

  “A list?”

  “Yeah. Look at it this way: These Rastafarians must know who they’re going after. They must have some sort of list. Sort of a rotten parody of Gilbert & Sullivan—you know: They have a little list; they’ll all of them be missed.” He turned to her. “What do you think?”

  Lennon slowly nodded. “I think you’re right; they’d have to have a list.”

  “Okay; assuming there is one, do
you think the cops know about it?”

  Lennon shrugged. “Beats me. But,” she tilted her head, “if we were smart enough to figure it out, the cops must have come to the same conclusion. The big question is: Do they know who’s on such a list?”

  It was Cox’s turn to nod. “I think their best shot is that guy they apprehended in Rome. He could open a lot of doors is my guess.” He pondered for a minute. “Boyle is making only one public appearance in London, isn’t he?”

  “Right: Westminster Abbey, tomorrow evening.”

  “What say we check it out, file our stories, and then get down to some serious investigation?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Mine, silly. You know the News provides better accommodations for its reporters than the Freep.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to London. We hope you have an enjoyable time.”

  Cox squeezed Lennon’s hand. “We intend to.”

  LONDON

  The two friends were seated at a small table just inside the entrance to Beoty’s, a Greek restaurant on St. Martin’s Lane adjacent to the theater district. They were about half an hour early for their 8:00 p.m. dinner date with Inspector Koznicki.

  After landing at Heathrow earlier that day, Father Koesler had gone directly to the Hotel Carburton, grateful that the British, unlike the Italians, did not conduct prolonged sightseeing tours of the countryside while the hotel rooms were being prepared. After a most welcome shower—he had been without running water for something more than twenty-four hours—he had napped and now felt refreshed.

  Ramon Toussaint, on the other hand, after arriving at the hotel had left immediately to establish his mysterious contacts.

  By prearrangement, they had met in the hotel lobby a little after seven and taken a taxi to Beoty’s, Inspector Koznicki’s suggested meeting ground.

  “The Catholic Church of the future will be interesting. But I don’t have the slightest clue what it will be like.” Koesler rattled the ice in his bourbon manhattan.