“Revolutionary?” Fowler leaned forward.
“Very much so, Padre. He argued for the use of condoms, for the ordination of women priests. He would have been a pope for the twenty-first century. Furthermore he was still relatively young, although he was almost fifty-nine years old. If he had sat on the throne of Peter, he would have been in charge of Vatican Council III, which many people believe the Church urgently needs. His death has been a terrible and senseless misfortune.”
“You would have voted for him?” Fowler asked.
The chamberlain laughed between his teeth.
“You are not seriously asking me to reveal whom I am going to vote for, are you, Padre?”
Paola stepped back in to take the reins of the interview.
“Your Eminence, you said you had less in common with Portini. What about Robayra?”
“A great man. Totally committed to the cause of the poor. He had defects, certainly. He was very given to imagining himself dressed in white, standing on the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square. Of course, he never went public with his ambition. We were very close friends. We wrote to each other all the time. His only sin was his pride. He always made a great show of his poverty. He signed his letters with a beati pauperes. And just to rile him up, I signed mine with beati pauperes spirito, but he never let on that he understood my allusion. Despite his defects he was a man of state and a man of the Church. He did so much good over the course of his life. I never dreamed I would see him wearing the fisherman’s sandals, but I suppose that was because I was so close to him.”
As he went on about his friend, the old cardinal shrunk a little and turned a shade of gray, his voice saddened, his face revealing the accumulated fatigue in a man of seventy-eight years. Despite the fact that she did not share the man’s ideas, Paola felt sorry for him. She knew that behind those words, framed as a proper epitaph, the old Spaniard regretted not having any time to be alone and weep for his friend. Damned dignity. As she was thinking this, she realized that she was beginning to look beyond the cardinal’s cape and his dark red robe, to see the person wearing them. She’d have to learn to stop looking at the clergy as if they were one-dimensional beings. Her prejudice against the priesthood could easily put her work in jeopardy.
“When all is said and done, I suppose no one is a prophet in their own country. As I mentioned, we agreed on a great many things. Good old Emilio came here seven months ago. It was the last stop on his trip. One of my assistants took a photograph here in the office. I know I have it here somewhere.”
The man in the dark red robes walked over to his desk and reached inside a drawer for an envelope with photographs. He looked through them, chose one, and handed the Polaroid to his visitors.
Paola looked at the photograph without much interest until something in the image suddenly grabbed her attention. Her eyes became as wide as saucers and she grabbed Dante’s arm, nearly pulling it out of its socket.
“Oh, shit. Shit!”
CHURCH OF SANTA MARIA IN TRASPONTINA
Via della Conciliazione, 14 Wednesday, April 6, 2005, 10:41 A.M.
Pontiero knocked again and again on the door that led from the rear of the church into the sacristy. Following police instructions, Brother Francesco had placed on the door a sign, written in an unsteady hand, indicating that the church was closed for renovations. Beyond being obedient, the friar must also have been a little deaf, because Pontiero had now spent five minutes pounding away on the door. Behind him, thousands of people crammed the Via Corridori, in ever growing, ever more disorderly numbers. There were more people on that small street than on the Via della Conciliazione.
Pontiero at last heard sounds coming from the other side of the door. The bolts were drawn back and Brother Francesco’s face appeared in a crack in the doorway, squinting into the harsh sun.
“Yes?”
“Fratello, I’m Detective Pontiero. Remember me from yesterday?” The monk nodded once, and then a second time.
“What do you want? You’ve come to tell me that I can reopen my church now, praise the Lord. With so many pilgrims out here . . . Take a look yourself, look around,” he said as he gestured toward the thousands of people in the street.
“No, Fratello. I need to ask you a few questions. Is it all right with you if I come in?”
“Must it be now? I was just saying my prayers.”
“I won’t take much of your time. Really, just a minute or two.”
Francesco shook his head from side to side.
“What times these are, what times. Death turns up everywhere, death and people running around. They won’t even let me finish my prayers.”
The door opened slowly and then closed behind Pontiero with a loud bang.
“Padre, that is one heavy door.”
“Yes, my son. At times it’s very hard for me to open it, most of all when I come back loaded down from the supermarket. These days nobody helps an old man carry his bags. What times these are, what times.”
“You should get a shopping cart.”
Pontiero walked back and inspected the door from the inside, attentively checking the bolt and the heavy hinges that held it into the wall.
“What I meant to say is, there are no bruises on the lock. It doesn’t look like it was forced at all.”
“No, my son. Thanks to God, no. It’s a strong lock. The door was painted about a year ago by a parishioner, a friend of mine, good old Giuseppe. He has asthma, you know, and the fumes from the paint didn’t agree with him—”
“I’m sure Giuseppe is a good Christian.”
“He is, my son, he is.”
“But I’m not here for that. I need to find out how the killer was able to get into the church, especially if there are no other means of access. Ispettore Dicanti thinks it’s an important detail.”
“He could have come in by one of the windows, if he had the use of a ladder. But I don’t think so, because they would be broken. Madre, what a disaster if he’d gone so far as to break one of the stained glass windows.”
“Would it bother you if I took a look at those windows?”
“Not at all. Follow me.”
The friar limped from the sacristy toward the church, illuminated only by the candles placed at the feet of the statues of the saints and martyrs. Pontiero was surprised so many of them were lighted.
“So many offerings, Francesco.”
“Ah, my son, I lighted all the candles here in the church, asking the saints to carry the soul of our Holy Father John Paul straight to the heart of heaven.”
Pontiero was amused by the friar’s simplicity. They were standing in the central aisle, from which vantage point the sacristy door was visible, along with the main entrance and the windows at the front of the church, the only ones in the church. He slid a finger along the back of one of the pews, an involuntary gesture he had repeated during thousands of Sunday masses. This was the house of God, and it had been profaned and defiled. Today, illuminated by the flickering glow of the candles, the church took on a very different character than it had the day before. Pontiero felt an involuntary chill. The interior of the temple was cold and damp, in contrast with the heat outside. He looked up toward the windows. The one farthest down was at a height of some sixteen feet off the ground. The entire window was composed of intricate stained glass in a full spectrum of colors, no part of which had suffered so much as a scratch.
“No one came in through the window with some 200 pounds on his back. The killer would have had to use a crane. And he would have been seen by thousands of pilgrims on the outside. No, it’s impossible.”
Both men heard the songs the young people were singing as they stood on line to say farewell to Pope John Paul. All of them spoke of love and peace.
“Ah, young people. Our hope for the future. Isn’t that so, Detective?”
“Right you are, Francesco.”
Pontiero scratched his head. He was at a loss to think of any entrances to the building beyond the doo
rs and the windows. He took a few steps, which set off a strong echo in the empty church.
“Listen, Francesco. Does anyone else have keys to the church? Perhaps the person who does the cleaning?”
“No, no, absolutely not. A few of the very devout parishioners help me clean the church on Saturdays very early in the morning and on Monday in the afternoon, but they always come when I’m here. In fact, I’ve only one set of keys, which I always carry with me. See?” And he put his left hand into an interior pocket of his brown habit and shook the key ring.
“OK, Padre, I give up. I cannot understand how he could have gotten in without being seen.”
“I have nothing to add, my son. I’m sorry I haven’t been of more help.”
“Thanks, Padre.”
Pontiero spun around and started to walk toward the sacristy.
“Unless . . .” The Carmelite seemed to reflect for a moment, and then nodded his head. “No, it’s impossible. It can’t be.”
“What is it? Tell me. Any little thing could be helpful.”
“No, forget it.”
“I insist, Fratello, I insist. What are you thinking?”
The friar stroked his beard and brooded.
“Well, there is an underground access. It’s an old passageway which dates from the time when the temple was rebuilt.”
“There was another church here?”
“Yes, the original building was destroyed during the sack of Rome in 1527. It was in the line of fire from the cannons which were defending Castel Sant’Angelo. And at that time this church—”
“Can we leave the History class for later? Let’s see the passage right now.”
“Are you sure? You’re wearing a nice, clean suit—”
“Sure I’m sure. Show me where it is.”
“As you wish, Detective, as you wish,” the friar said humbly.
He hobbled around the entrance to the church, near the spot where the fountain of holy water was situated. He pointed out a crack in between the stones in the floor.
“Do you see that crack? Stick your fingers in there and pull hard.”
Pontiero got down on his knees and followed the friar’s instructions. Nothing happened.
“Try again. Pull hard to the left.”
Pontiero did as Francesco told him, but to no avail. Short and skinny as he was, Pontiero was nonetheless strong. He wasn’t about to give up. On the third try, he felt the stone shift. Then it came up easily. It was, in fact, a trapdoor. He opened it with one hand. Down below was a short, narrow stairway, some eight feet high. He found a small flashlight in his pocket and shined it into the darkness. Stone steps, and they looked solid enough.
“Very nice. Let’s see where all this takes us.”
“Detective, don’t go down there by yourself, if you would.”
“Take it easy, Fratello. There’s nothing to it. I’ve got things under control.”
Pontiero imagined what Dante and Dicanti’s faces would look like when he told them what he had found. He got to his feet and then took his first step on the stairway.
“Wait. Let me get a candle.”
“Don’t bother, Fratello. I can see all right with this torch,” Pontiero shouted.
At the bottom of the stairs was a short passageway with damp walls, which in turn gave way to a room about eighteen feet square. Pontiero ran his flashlight over every surface. It looked like the basement stopped here. There were two truncated columns, each about six feet tall, both in the middle of the room. They looked very old. He couldn’t identify the period they dated from; he’d never paid much attention in History class. But even so, he could see, in what was left on one of the columns, what he thought were pieces of something that should not have been there. It looked like . . .
Duct tape.
This wasn’t a secret passage, it was an execution chamber.
Pontiero turned around just in time for the blow, which was aimed so that it would split his skull, but hit him on the right shoulder instead. He fell to the ground, shuddering with pain. The flashlight had rolled far away, its beam illuminating the base of one of the columns. He knew intuitively that a second blow was on its way in an arc from the right behind him, and it struck him on the left arm. He felt around for his pistol in the space between his arm and his side, and he managed to nudge it out with his left arm, in spite of the pain. The pistol felt like it was made of lead. He had no feeling in his other arm.
An iron bar, he thought. He must have an iron bar or something like that. . . .
He tried to aim but couldn’t pull it off. He was hobbling toward the column when the third blow, square on the back this time, knocked him flat on the ground. He gripped the pistol even tighter, like someone holding on for dear life.
A foot on top of his hand forced him to release the gun. The foot kept pushing down hard, and while the bones in his hand began to make a crunching noise just before they broke, he heard a voice he vaguely recognized, a voice with a very distinct tone.
“Pontiero, Pontiero. As I was saying, the original church was in the line of fire from the cannons which defended Castel Sant’Angelo. And that church had in its time replaced a pagan temple which was torn down by Pope Alexander VI. In the Middle Ages it was believed to be the tomb of Romulus himself.”
The iron bar descended once again, striking Pontiero on his back as he lay on the ground stunned.
“But its exciting history doesn’t end there. The two columns you see here are the very ones to which Saints Peter and Paul were bound before being martyred by the Romans. You Romans, always so attentive to our saints.”
Once more the iron bar struck a blow, this time on the left thigh. Pontiero howled in pain.
“You would have learned all this upstairs, if you hadn’t interrupted me. But don’t worry, you are going to get to know these columns really well. You will be very, very well acquainted with them.”
Pontiero tried to move, but he discovered to his horror that he was unable to do so. He didn’t know how badly he was hurt. He had lost feeling in his limbs. Very powerful hands were carrying him in the darkness. He could feel that happening, and a very sharp pain. He howled in pain.
“I don’t recommend you try to shout. No one will hear you. No one heard the other two either. I took plenty of precautions. I don’t like it when they interrupt me.”
Pontiero felt his consciousness falling into a deep black hole, like that of someone who bit by bit slips into a dream. And just as in a dream, far-off he heard the sounds of young people in the street, just a few feet above him. He thought he recognized the hymn the choir was singing. It was a memory from when he was a child, a million years in the past. “If you’re saved and you know, clap your hands.”
“In fact, I really can’t stand it when people interrupt me,” Karosky said.
PALAZZO DEL GOVERNATORATO
Vatican City Wednesday, April 6, 2005, 1:31 P.M.
Paola showed the photo of Robayra to Dante and Fowler. A perfect close-up, the cardinal laughing affectionately, eyes glittering behind his oversized tortoiseshell glasses. At first Dante just stared at the photograph. He failed to see anything there at all.
“The glasses, Dante. The ones that disappeared.”
Paola looked for her mobile, dialed frantically as she headed toward the door, and flew out of the office of the astonished camerlengo.
“The glasses! The Carmelite’s glasses!” Paola shouted as soon as she reached the hallway.
And then Dante understood.
“Let’s go, Father!”
Dante apologized hastily to the chamberlain and left with Fowler in pursuit of Paola.
Paola stopped dialing. She was furious. Pontiero wasn’t answering. He must have switched his mobile off. She raced down the stairs, toward the street. She would have to run the whole length of Via del Governatorato. At that second a small car with the SCV on the license plate appeared from the opposite direction. Three nuns were sitting inside. Paola frantically waved her arms
at them to stop and then jumped in front of the car. The fender jerked to a stop an inch or so from her knees.
“Santa Madonna! Are you mad, miss?”
Paola hurried over to the driver’s side, her badge at arm’s length in front.
“Please, I don’t have time to explain. I have to get to Santa Ana gate.”
The nuns stared at her as if she were a madwoman. Paola climbed into the backseat on the driver’s side.
“You can’t get there from here; you’d have to cross the Cortile del Belvedere on foot,” the nun who was driving said. “If you want, I can get you as close as the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio. It’s the quickest exit out of the city right now. The Swiss Guards are putting up barriers on account of the Conclave.”
“Whatever, but let’s get there quickly.”
The nun was in first gear and quickly speeding up when the car came to a halt a second time.
“Has the entire world lost its mind?” one of the nuns blurted out.
Fowler and Dante were standing directly in front of the car, both of them with hands on the hood. As soon as the car was at a full stop, they ran around and squeezed into the trunk. The nuns in the front seat and the back crossed themselves.
“Sure, Sister, but for Christ’s sake hurry it up!”
It took barely twenty seconds for the little car to cover the quarter mile that separated them from their goal. The nun with her hands on the wheel gave every impression of wanting to get away as quickly as possible from her strange, ill-timed, and embarrassing cargo. She hadn’t even hit the brakes in the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio before Paola was out and running toward the black iron gates that guarded that entrance to Vatican City, her cell phone in her hand. She dialed the number for police headquarters. The operator came on line.
“Ispettore Paola Dicanti, security code 13897. Agent in danger, I repeat, agent in danger. Detective Pontiero is on-site at Via della Conciliazione, 14. The church of Santa Maria in Traspontina. Send as many units as you can. Possible murder suspect inside the building. Proceed with extreme caution.”
Paola ran, her jacket flapping in the wind, the gun peeking out of its holster, while she shouted into her cell phone like a woman possessed. The two Swiss Guards at the entrance took one look at her and poised themselves to block her escape. When one of the guards grabbed her by her jacket, she thrust her arms back violently, losing her grip on her cell, which flew out of her hand. The Swiss Guard was left holding two empty arms on a jacket pulled inside out. He was just starting after Dicanti when Dante arrived at full speed, his Corpo di Vigilanza ID thrust in front of him.
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