Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  “I’ll be glad to do it. Where do I meet them, and when?”

  “You’re a life-saver, Rick. Can you take down this information?”

  After finding himself earlier without pen and paper, he was now properly armed. “Go ahead, I’m ready.”

  “They are Mr. and Mrs. Lambert Field, and they will be waiting for you in the lobby of the Hassler at three o’clock. They already know what they’d like to see. I’ll set up a car and driver tomorrow morning.”

  He had an idea. “Leave that up to me.”

  “Really? That would help me greatly; this group is very demanding and tomorrow morning I’ll be up to my neck in details.”

  “Glad to help out. And thanks again for getting my friend the appointment with Father Galeazzo.”

  “I forgot all about it. Hope it works. Buona sera, Rick.”

  “Buona sera, Sister.” Was he finally getting used to this new name?

  He slipped his phone back into his pocket and entered a jumbled grid of dark streets on his way to his apartment. Despite the hour, he passed people on the street who were perfectly comfortable strolling about the city center. Anyone found in downtown Albuquerque at this time of night would be looking for trouble or trying to avoid it. The center of Rome, unlike most American cities, was still essentially residential, and Romans felt safe walking around their neighborhoods. Rick knew well that there were rough sections of the city, but this one, in the historic center, wasn’t one of them.

  As he turned a corner he realized that he was close to Guido’s Pub. With so much on his mind he wasn’t ready to go to bed yet, so why not stop in for a nightcap and perhaps run into someone he knew? A few minutes later he pushed open the door and was greeted with the dank odor of Guido’s establishment, and the sight of the proprietor himself behind the bar. He stepped in and saw Art sitting at his usual table with a man who looked vaguely familiar. Art spotted Rick and waved him over.

  “Rick, my friend, come join us. You remember Pelé, our classmate? Coincidentally, we were just talking about you.”

  Rick did remember him. Pelé, whose real name was João Figeroa, was the only Brazilian he’d ever met who not only couldn’t play soccer but wasn’t at all interested in the game, a distinction that earned him his nickname. Instead of playing sports, he was captain of the school chess team, which, as he often pointed out, had a better win-loss record than the soccer squad. Pelé had been a short, curly-haired kid with glasses in high school, and now he was a short, bald man with glasses. He looked at Rick with wide eyes, made wider by the thick lenses. They shook hands and Rick sat down after waving a beer order to Guido.

  “Good to see you, Pelé. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “You think so, Rick?”

  “Absolutely. Do you live in Rome, or just passing through?”

  “I’m here with the embassy. Your father was with the American embassy, wasn’t he?”

  “Right,” said Rick.

  “And you…you’re not working for the embassy?”

  “Nope. Starting my own business. Private sector.”

  Pelé glanced at Art, and took a sip of his beer before excusing himself for the bathroom.

  “What was that about, Art?”

  “He believes you’re with the CIA.”

  Rick’s beer arrived and he took a long pull. “Why would he…wait a minute, did you…?”

  “I might have dropped a hint or two to that effect. Remember how much fun we had playing pranks on him in high school? And then you walk in here like it was all planned, so maybe he thinks I’m a spook too. This is getting better and better.”

  Rick glanced left and right before lowering his voice. “Perhaps I am a spy.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course not, schemo. Watch it, here he comes.”

  Pelé took his seat and flashed a tight smile. “So, Rick, what business are you in? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Interpreting, translating. I’m a freelancer. Which reminds me, I need to make a call.” He pulled out his phone and punched in a number while the two men watched. He held the phone close to his ear so they could hear only his voice, not Carmella’s.

  “This is Montoya.”

  “I’m off duty, kid, and tomorrow’s my day off. Why are you bothering me?”

  “I know that. I have a job for you.”

  “Driving?”

  “That’s right, and it should be lucrative.”

  Pelé’s eyes widened, and Art looked up at the ceiling.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “The Hassler at three o’clock. I’ll be there as well.”

  “Got it.”

  Rick hung up and turned back to Pelé. “Sorry for the interruption. As I said, I’m freelancing. I’m just getting started, but I’m hoping it pays off. And what do you do at the embassy?”

  “I’m an administrative officer.” He downed the rest of his beer in one gulp.

  “That’s all?” Art said. “Come on, Pelé, you can tell us. We were classmates.”

  “Of course that’s all. I’m in charge of building maintenance, the motor pool, that kind of thing.”

  “I suppose you got the job because you speak Italian.”

  “That helped, Art. It was—”

  He was interrupted by the ring of Rick’s cell phone, the Lobo Fight Song. Rick held up his hand. “I’m really sorry, guys. I’d better take it; it could be someone who needs my services.”

  Pelé looked at Art, who shrugged.

  “Montoya.”

  “Mister Montoya, you know who is calling.”

  It was Syms-Mulford. Did he think the phone might be tapped?

  “Yes, I do indeed.”

  “I need to speak to you. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course. When and where?”

  “At nine o’clock? Somewhere inconspicuous, but in public, if we might.”

  What is it with this guy? “How about the Pantheon?”

  “Perfect, I can melt into the crowd of tourists.”

  Rick looked at Pelé, who was following the conversation, and said: “Be sure you’re not followed.”

  “Righto.” The line went dead.

  “Listen guys,” said Pelé, “I’ve got a big day at work tomorrow. We’re doing an inventory, so I’d better head for home. Rick it was great seeing you.”

  “My pleasure, Pelé, I’m sure we’ll run into each other here again.”

  “That will be great. Good night, Art.” He got up, walked quickly to the bar to settle his bill, waved again at the two at the table, and made his escape.

  “Rick, what was that second phone call?”

  “A guy I interviewed in connection with my uncle’s investigation of the count’s murder. I needed to talk to him again anyway, so this works out perfectly. Oh, and he thinks I’m some kind of secret agent.”

  “I’m beginning to think that myself.”

  “I may have embellished the conversation for Pelé’s benefit.”

  “The look on his face was priceless. Let me buy you another beer as a token of my appreciation.”

  “Not necessary, but I accept. Next time the drinks are on me, since I have my first job tomorrow, thanks to Lidia. That’s what the first call was about.”

  “Lidia? I don’t think I know any Lidia. Now if you’re talking about Sister—”

  “Don’t be a wise ass, Art.”

  While his friend went to the bar for the next round, Rick tried to imagine what Syms-Mulford could want to talk to him about. He hoped it had something to do with the murder of Count Zimbardi, but given the man’s fascination with the cloak and dagger, it could be anything.

  The Pantheon was an appropriate place for Rick to meet a historian, it being one of the most historic buildings in the city. Built by the Emperor Hadrian
as a temple honoring all the Roman gods, it had served various purposes over the centuries but was now essentially a tourist attraction. Tombs, including those of the kings of modern Italy and the painter Raphael, should have bestowed a quiet dignity on the circular space, but it was lost among the hordes of tourists in shorts and baseball caps. At any given time half the visitors were looking up at the oculus in the center of the dome, which despite its elegant Latin name was still just a big hole. Tour guides tried to explain the engineering marvel that was the Pantheon, but most of their charges were most fascinated by the hole.

  What happens when it rains? The floor gets wet.

  Rick walked under the columned portico and through doors tall enough to have been recycled from a medium-sized castle. Despite the relatively early hour, it was starting to fill with tourists, either in groups herded by umbrella-carrying guides, or wandering around on their own. He hadn’t been in the Pantheon since high school, and now, as then, it made an impression. By all logic it should have come crashing down the year it was built, but here it was, almost two millennia later, still standing. Those early Romans knew how to build things to last, as long as the barbarians didn’t come through and tear them down.

  He looked around and didn’t spot Syms-Mulford. Could the guy be more Italian than British, and be late? He didn’t think so, and ran his eyes along the wall, where wood benches lined the edge of the marble pavement. They stopped on a figure huddled at the end of one of the benches. It was a man wearing a dark coat, snap-brimmed cap, and sunglasses, reading a newspaper. Who comes into the Pantheon and reads a newspaper wearing sunglasses? Rick walked over and sat down next to him. The man kept his eyes on the paper.

  “Mr. Syms-Mulford, was it really necessary to meet like this?”

  The man kept reading. “My colleagues at the office were getting nosy about you visiting, and I didn’t want them to know you were connected to the police. It is not good for a respected historian to be interrogated by the authorities. Tongues wag.”

  “Your…disguise?”

  “One never knows who one will run into, even in at a location like this. I assumed you would be accustomed to such precautions.”

  A pair of Eastern European tourists came up and stood close to them, their backs to the wall, to get a better view of the hole. They were too close for Syms-Mulford, who buried his nose in the newspaper until they walked off.

  Rick leaned his back against the wall and checked out the hole. “And what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “At my office, you never asked me where I was on the night of the murder. You were supposed to have asked me that.”

  The meeting had been amusing, but now the man was starting to annoy Rick. “Could it have occurred to you that I might have already known where you were that night?”

  Syms-Mulford looked at Rick for the first time, then quickly returned his eyes to the newspaper. “So you know.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you are still supposed to ask me, aren’t you?”

  “Okay, where were you, Mr. Syms-Mulford, the night of the count’s death?”

  “Before I answer, let me state emphatically, that my uppermost concern is shielding Countess Zimbardi from more stress. She has gone through so much already with the death of Umberto, she does not need any further agitation added to the grieving process.”

  Rick found the declaration fascinating. He wasn’t sure what was behind it, but had a good idea. It confirmed his theory about Syms-Mulford and the countess. “I understand your concern. Now, where were you that night?”

  “I hope you do indeed understand, Mr. Montoya. In that regard, I would assume than none of our conversation will get back to the countess. None of it concerns her.”

  A lot of concerns going on here, Rick thought. “You can be assured that I will relay your concerns to the higher authorities in the case.”

  The statement appeared to satisfy Syms-Mulford. He took a very deep breath and continued. “I was with someone that night.”

  Rick waited for more, and when none came, he asked: “Who was it?”

  “You must understand that I cannot say. It would be terribly embarrassing for…that person.”

  “A woman?”

  “I believe our conversation is arriving at its conclusion, Mr. Montoya.” He folded the newspaper.

  “Mr. Syms-Mulford, I don’t understand. If we at the police were not focusing on where you were that night, why did you feel you had to bring it up to me?”

  “I was sure the issue would come up eventually, and I wanted to be the one to volunteer it to you, rather than have it wrung out of me in some windowless basement room at the questura.” With that he got to his feet, adjusted his sunglasses and hat, and strode into the sunlight.

  Rick watched him leave and tried to compute what he’d heard. The guy was with some woman the night Count Zimbardi was murdered. That brought up two possibilities. One: he wasn’t with anyone that night and in fact did in the count himself. Two: he was with someone but it would embarrass her, and him, if it came to light. In both scenarios, Syms-Mulford was counting on the police to look the other way, since it involved affairs of the heart. “We are all men of the world, aren’t we?” he was saying. But if he was with some woman the night of the murder, who would it be? Again, two possibilities. The obvious one was that it was the countess herself, and that would be embarrassing indeed, fooling around on the very evening when her husband meets his fate. But what if it was some other woman? That would be most embarrassing to Syms-Mulford assuming—and it was still an assumption—that the rascal was also having an affair with the countess. For all these sets and subsets, one thing was certain: it was in the man’s interest to keep the countess in the dark.

  Rick pulled out his phone, checked the time, and decided he should be on his way. He didn’t want to be late for his appointment with Father Galeazzo and Juan Alberto, and assured himself that he had plenty of time. He walked out the door, between the columns, and into the piazza in front of the Pantheon. A fountain sat at its center, but there were so many tourists sitting on surrounding steps or milling about that it was not to be seen. Instead, the obelisk at its center seemed to rise from the middle of the crowd. He turned and walked along the side of the Pantheon to another square, this one a bit less overrun with tourists. It was faced by the Santa Maria Sopra Minerva church, built on top of a pagan temple to the goddess Minerva. Romans loved whimsy, and the Egyptian obelisk in this piazza sat on the back of a marble elephant. When Rick was a kid he always wanted to come here to see the elephant with the trunk curled around the side. As he looked up at the animal he realized that this could be one of the best things about moving to Rome. Now he could come look at Bernini’s elephant whenever he wanted.

  He took a few turns around it and walked out to a main street to catch a taxi. Traffic wasn’t too busy, but it took a full ten minutes before an empty one appeared and Rick jumped in, giving the address.

  “That’s near the Vatican, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve never been there, but I assume it is.”

  “Not a good time of day to try to get across the river.”

  “That might be,” answered Rick, “but that’s where I have to go.”

  The driver shrugged and they pulled into a line of cars. A moment later all vehicular movement stopped. Not stopped completely, but enough so that the driver never got out of first gear. Ten minutes passed and they came to an intersection where one or two cars were able to get through with each green light. They speeded up somewhat after the turn, but still the maximum gear was second. Rick looked out and watched an old man with a cane passing them on the sidewalk.

  The driver rolled down his window and craned his neck out to get a better view of what was ahead. “You really want to go there?” He settled back in the seat.

  “What would have given you that idea? Damn, you�
�ve seen through my ruse—I really want to go to the airport.”

  “You don’t have to be like that.”

  They didn’t talk the rest of the way, and Rick got to his appointment five minutes late.

  The building was a warehouse. A man dressed in overalls unloaded a truck parked outside its wide doorway while another man, this one all in black, watched with folded arms. Rick paid the taxi and walked to the guy in black.

  “I’m looking for Father Galeazzo.”

  “You’ve found him, my son. You must be Signor Sanguinetti.”

  “No, Father, I’m his interpreter, Riccardo Montoya.” They shook hands.

  “Caspita. The man doesn’t speak Italian but has an interpreter? Must be a serious operation. Well, come on inside to my office, such as it is.”

  He led the way past the boxes that had been stacked just inside the doorway. Rick noticed that they were either Nutella, which the truck driver used a dolly to bring inside, or breadsticks, which he carried in his arms. An image of priests dipping breadsticks into Nutella jars jumped into Rick’s head. Beyond, on one side, were floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with various food items, in front of which was parked a small forklift marked with the papal seal. What looked like a cold locker ran along most of the other side, leaving room for a niche with a desk and three metal filing cabinets that Rick took to be the office. A crucifix hung on the wall next to a calendar. The father pointed to a tall wood box in front of the desk.

  “I was only expecting one of you, so if you could pull over another box, I’d appreciate it.”

  Rick found another box that was strong enough to hold him, dragged it next to the other, and perched himself on top. No sign of Juan Alberto, and he was starting to become concerned. “It must be a complicated business, feeding everyone in the Vatican.”

  “I just buy the food, the sisters cook it. But you’re right, it can get a bit tricky, what with priests from all over the world. The Italians, they’re easy, lots of pasta. Same with the Swiss Guards, they like their carbs, but you have to give them fondue at least once a week or they get cranky. You don’t want those guys cranky, what with those big spears they carry around.”