God's Spy

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  “Go back to your room and close the door,” Fowler told him, barely able to keep from shouting.

  The three quickly went through the door at the end of the hallway and hurried down the service stairs. The cramped space reeked of humidity and seemed to give off a bad smell from beneath the paint on the walls. The passageway was badly lit.

  “Perfect for an ambush,” Paola thought. “Karosky already has Pontiero’s gun. He could be waiting for us at any turn in the stairs, ready to blow off two of our heads before we even know what’s what.”

  In spite of this, they flew down the steps as quickly as they could, tripping more than once. They followed the stairs to the basement, one level below the street. The door there was closed with a heavy lock.

  “He didn’t get out this way.”

  They retraced their steps. Noises were coming from the first floor. They opened the door and walked directly into the kitchen. Dante walked ahead of Paola, his finger on the trigger and the barrel of his gun pointing straight ahead. Three nuns were rummaging about among the frying pans. They froze in their tracks, staring at the police officers, their eyes wide open.

  “Did anyone come through here?” Paola shouted at them.

  The nuns didn’t respond. They simply stared straight ahead, bovine looks on their faces. One of them ignored Paola completely, slicing green beans and tossing them into a cooking pot.

  “Did anyone come through here? A friar!” Paola repeated.

  The nuns shrugged their shoulders. Fowler put his hand on Paola’s arm.

  “Leave them alone. They don’t speak Italian.”

  Dante walked all the way through the kitchen until he came upon a very solid-looking metal door, six feet across. He tried to open it without success. He gestured at the door to one of the nuns while he held up his Vatican ID. She walked over to the him and slipped the key into a lock concealed in the door. The door made a buzzing noise as it opened on a side street off the Piazza Santa Marta. The Palace of Saint Charles was directly in front of them.

  “Shit! Didn’t the nun say there was only one exit in and out of the Domus?”

  “Well, see for yourself. There are two,” said Dante.

  “Let’s go back.”

  They ran back upstairs, from the vestibule to the top floor. There they found the stairway that led to the roof. But at the top, the door was bolted and barred.

  “No one escaped through here.”

  Out of breath, they sat down in the dirt and dust of the narrow stairs below the door. Their lungs were pumping like bellows.

  “Do you think he’s hiding in one of the rooms?” Fowler asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he slipped away,” said Dante.

  “Through where?”

  “Through the kitchen definitely, when one of the nuns wasn’t looking. There’s no other explanation. The other doors have locks or they are guarded like the front entrance. Impossible by the windows, it would be too risky. Agents of the Vigilanza make their rounds every few minutes. And it’s the middle of the day, for crying out loud.”

  Paola was furious. If she hadn’t been so out of breath after running up and down the flights of stairs, she would have been banging the wall with her fists.

  “I need your help, Dante. Get them to cordon off the piazza.”

  Dante shook his head emphatically. His forehead was soaked with sweat, dark beads of which were raining onto his leather hunting jacket. His hair, always so well combed, was a messy tangle.

  “How do you want me to call them, my dear one? Nothing works in this fucking building. There are no cameras in the hallways; telephones and mobiles and walkie-talkies—none of them work. Nothing more complex than a lightbulb, nothing that requires waves or ones and zeros in order to function. Let’s hire a carrier pigeon, say what.”

  “By the time you’re down there, he’ll be far away. No one is going to notice a friar in the Vatican, Dicanti,” said Fowler.

  “Can someone please explain to me how that fucker got out of this building? It has three floors, the windows are locked, and we had to break down the damn door. All entry points to the building are guarded or locked,” Dicanti said as she banged on the door to the roof again and again, which answered her with a loud noise and a cloud of dust.

  “We were so close,” said Dante.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, and fuck. We had him!”

  It was Fowler who stated the terrible truth, and his words echoed in Paola’s ears like a shovel scraping on a stone.

  “What we have now, Dicanti, is another dead body.”

  DOMUS SANCTAE MARTHAE

  Piazza Santa Marta, 1 Thursday, April 7, 2005, 5:15 P.M.

  “We have to take care of our business discreetly,” said Dante.

  Paola was livid. If she had had Cirin himself in front of her at that moment, she wouldn’t have been able to control herself. She found herself thinking that this was the third time she wanted to knock the bastard’s front teeth out, just to see if he would still maintain his calm air and that monotone voice.

  After they had run into the obstacle at the top of the stairs, they turned back around and went down, all of them crestfallen. Dante had to walk over to the other side of the piazza to get his cell phone to work, and he spoke with Cirin about reinforcements and to request that there be an analysis of the crime scene. Cirin’s response was that he could only allow access to one technician from the UACV, and he had to be wearing street clothing. Whatever equipment he needed to use he should bring in an ordinary suitcase.

  “We can’t let all this get out any further. You understand, Dicanti.”

  “I don’t understand any of this shit. We are trying to capture a killer. We have got to empty the building, find out how he got in, collect evidence—”

  Dante looked at her as if she’d gone mad. Fowler shook his head, not wanting to meddle. Paola knew she was letting the case slip through an unguarded part of her soul, poisoning her sense of well-being. She was trying to be as rational as she could, since she knew the way her character reacted. When something got under her skin, dedication turned into obsession. At that instant she felt her anger corroding her spirit like a drop of acid falling every few seconds onto a slab of raw meat.

  They stood in the third-floor hallway, the same hallway where everything had happened. Room 56 was empty. Its occupant, the man who had told them to look in Room 57, was the Belgian cardinal Petfried Haneels, seventy-three years old. He was very much affected by what had happened. The building’s doctor was tending to him on the floor above, where he would be staying for the time being.

  “Luckily, most of the cardinals were in the chapel, participating in afternoon meditations. Only five heard the shouts, and they’ve already been told that a mentally disturbed person got in and went about screaming in the hallways,” said Dante.

  “And that’s it? That’s your damage control?” Paola was breathing fire. “To make sure that none of the cardinals realize that one of their own has been killed?”

  “That part is easy. We’ll say that he was indisposed and was taken to Gemelli with gastroenteritis.”

  “And with that everything has been resolved,” Dicanti shot back, with a full dose of irony.

  “Well, there is one more thing. You can’t speak to any of the cardinals without my authorization, and the scene of the crime has been limited to Room 57.”

  “You cannot be serious. We have to look for prints in the doorway, in the points of access, in the hallways. You cannot be telling me this seriously.”

  “Just what do you want, bambina? A whole set of squad cars in the doorway? Flashes from thousands of cameras? Bellowing into the four winds is the one sure way not to catch your degenerate,” Dante said, as arrogantly as he could. “Or are you only looking to wave your degree from the FBI in front of the cameras? If you’re so good at what you do, it would be better if you showed it.”

  Paola refused to let him provoke her. Dante completely supported the theory that gave
priority to concealing everything that had happened. She had to choose: either to lose time banging her head against a two-thousand-year-old granite wall or to give in and try to move as quickly as possible to make the maximum of the few resources at her disposal.

  “Call Cirin. Tell him to have Troi send his best technical person. And put his men on alert for a Carmelite monk in and around the Vatican.”

  Fowler cleared his throat to get Paola’s attention. He took her aside and spoke to her in a quiet voice, his mouth close to her ear. Paola couldn’t help it, his breath gave her goose bumps, and she was happy that she had worn a jacket so no one would notice. She still remembered his strong, unwavering hold on her the day before, when she had thrown herself into the crowd like a madwoman and he had held her back. His good sense had anchored her. She wanted him to hold her again, but in that situation her anxiety was completely out of place. Things were complicated enough already.

  “Those orders have assuredly already been given and are being carried out now. And forget about standard police procedure, because in the Vatican that’s never going to happen. We’ll have to play with the cards destiny has given us, however weak they may be.” Then his tone changed. “All of which puts me in mind of an old saying: ‘In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is King.’ ”

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t argue. . . . For the first time in this case we have a witness. And that’s something.”

  Fowler lowered his voice even further.

  “Talk to Dante. Be diplomatic for once. Tell him to let us have a free hand in speaking to Casey. Maybe we can get a useful description.”

  “But without a forensic artist—”

  “That comes later. If Cardinal Casey saw him, we should be able to come up with a portrait, a quick sketch of the killer. The most important thing is to have access to his testimony.”

  “His name rings a bell. Is Casey the cardinal who made an appearance in the report on Karosky?”

  “The same. He’s tough, and intelligent. Let’s hope he can help us with the description. Don’t mention the name of our suspect. That way we will see if he recognized him.”

  Paola went back to join Dante.

  “What, are you two lovebirds already done trading secrets?”

  Dicanti decided to ignore the running commentary.

  “Fowler has advised me to remain calm, and I think I’m going to follow his advice.”

  Dante looked at her distrustfully, as if he were surprised by her attitude. He had no idea what to make of this woman.

  “Very wise on your part, Ispettore.”

  “ ‘Noi abbiamo dato nella croce.’ Right, Dante? We’ve run straight into the Church.”

  “That’s one way to look at it. A very different way to look at it is that you have been invited into a country that isn’t your own. This morning we did things your way. Now we do it ours. It’s nothing personal.”

  Paola took a deep breath.

  “Fine. I need to speak with Cardinal Casey.”

  “He’s in his room, recovering from his ordeal. Denied.”

  “Dante. Do the right thing, just once. If you do, maybe we catch our killer.”

  The cop stretched his thick neck, first to the left and then the right. A few of his neck bones made a creaking noise. He was thinking things over.

  “OK. But with one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “You say the magic words.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Paola turned around, only to walk straight into Fowler’s glare of disapproval. He had been following the conversation from a short way off. She spun back around to face Dante.

  “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  The fat pig was enjoying her humiliation. All right then, here it was.

  “Please, Inspector Dante, may I have your permission to speak with Cardinal Casey?”

  Dante broke out in a smile. She had passed with high marks. He then suddenly turned serious.

  “Five minutes, five questions. No more. I can play at this too, Dicanti.”

  Two members of the Vigilanza, both in black suit and tie, exited the elevator and took up position on either side of the door to Room 57, inside of which lay the body of Karosky’s latest victim. They would guard the entrance until the specialist from UACV arrived. Dicanti decided to make use of the downtime to interview the witness then and there.

  “Which is Casey’s room?”

  It was on the same floor. Dante led them to Room 42, the room next to the door leading to the service stairs. He knocked softly, with just two fingers.

  Sister Helena opened the door. She wasn’t smiling now, but a look of relief appeared on her face when she saw them.

  “Ah, at least you’re all right. I heard they chased the lunatic downstairs. Were they able to catch him?”

  “Sadly, no, sister,” Paola answered her. “We believe he escaped through the kitchen.”

  “Oh my God, through the delivery door? Blessed Virgin of the Olives, what a disaster.”

  “Sister, why did you tell us that there was only one access?”

  “There is only one, the main door in front. The kitchen door isn’t an access, that’s just for delivery trucks to pull up to. A heavy door, with a special lock.”

  Paola was beginning to realize that Sister Helena spoke a different Italian than everyone else. She very much took her nouns to heart.

  “The kill— I mean the assailant, could enter through there, though.”

  The nun shook her head no.

  “The only two people with a key are the head of the kitchen and myself. And she only speaks Polish, as do many of the sisters who work here.”

  Dicanti deduced that the head of the kitchen must have been the woman who opened the door for Dante. Only two copies of the key. The mystery intensified.

  “May we come in to see the cardinal?”

  Sister Helena shook her head energetically. No, again.

  “Impossible. He is, how do you say, zdenerwowany. In a nervous state.”

  “It will just be for a moment,” said Dante.

  The nun’s face took on an even more serious look.

  “Zaden. No, and no again.”

  It seemed she preferred to take refuge in her native tongue when replying in the negative. The door was already half-closed when Fowler stuck his foot against the jamb, to keep her from closing the door all the way. And then he spoke, a little hesitantly, chewing his words. “Sprawiać przyjemność, potrzebujemy źeby widzieć kardynalny

  Casey, Siostra Helena.”

  The nun’s eyes widened into saucers.

  “Wasz jzyk polski nie jest dobry.”

  “I know. I ought to visit your beautiful country a little more often. Haven’t been there since the early days of Solidarity.”

  The nun shook her head and wrinkled her brow, but it was clear that Fowler had gained her confidence. She reluctantly opened the door and moved out of the way.

  “Since when do you know Polish?” Paola whispered as they were going in.

  “Just the barest outlines. Travel broadens the mind, as the saying goes.”

  Paola glanced admiringly at Fowler before giving her attention to the man stretched out on the bed. The room was dark, the Persian blinds nearly all the way down. Cardinal Casey lay there with a handkerchief or wet towel on his forehead. There was so little light it was hard to tell. When they drew close to the foot of the bed, the cardinal propped himself up on one elbow and sighed. The towel slid off his forehead. He was a heavyset man with sharp features. His hair, completely white, was knotted into a clump where the towel had soaked it.

  “Forgive me, I . . .”

  Dante bent over to kiss the cardinal’s ring, but the cardinal stopped him.

  “No, please. Not now.”

  The Vatican cop took a step back, a little unnerved. He had to clear his throat before saying anything.

  “Cardinal Casey, we apologize for our intrusion, but we need to ask you a
few questions. Do you feel well enough to respond?”

  “Certainly, my children. I was just resting a moment. What a terrible thing to see myself assaulted here in this holy place. And the fact is, I have a meeting on several important issues just a few minutes from now. So please be brief.”

  Dante looked at Sister Helena and then at Casey. The cardinal understood: no witnesses.

  “Sister Helena, please tell Cardinal Pauljic that I am running a bit late. If you would be so kind.”

  The nun exited the room, grumbling rather nasty things on her way out. Things certainly inappropriate for a religious person.

  “Can you tell us how things happened?” asked Dante.

  “I had gone up to my room for my breviary when I heard a terrible shout. For a second I was frozen in my tracks; I suppose I was trying to figure out if it was all just a product of my imagination. I thought I heard the sound of people racing up the stairway, and then a crash. I went out to the hallway, very much astonished. In the doorway of the elevator was a Carmelite friar, hidden in the indentation of the elevator doorway. I looked at him. He turned around, and looked at me too. At that instant I heard another crash and the Carmelite attacked me. I fell to the ground and cried out. You already know the rest.”

  “Did you get a good look at his face?” Paola broke in.

  “It was almost completely covered by a thick beard. I don’t remember anything specific.”

  “Could you describe his face and his physical complexion?”

  “I don’t think so, I only saw him for a second and my eyesight isn’t what it was. Just the same, I remember that his hair was a grayish white. I knew right away he wasn’t a friar.”

  “What made you think that, Your Eminence?” Fowler inquired.

  “The way he was acting, of course. Standing there pressed against the elevator door, he looked nothing like a servant of God, absolutely not.”

  Sister Helena came back into the room, clearing her throat nervously.

  “Cardinal Casey, Cardinal Pauljic says that, as long as is possible, the commission will wait for you before starting to organize the novena masses. I’ve set up the meeting room on the first floor for you.”