Authors: John Gordon Davis
‘He’s reaching the masses,’ Tony said, ‘spreading Christianity.’
‘Pity he doesn’t spread a little more largesse. I, you may gather,’ Whacker said to Morgan, ‘am a Protestant.’
‘Fact or fiction?’ Whacker growled.
Tony had gone. Whacker was a heavy, jowly man with grey hair and a whisky tan.
‘Fiction. But my facts must be accurate.’
‘A book …’ Whacker complained. ‘Isn’t a newspaperman alive who doesn’t want to write a book. But can we? No, it’s bloody lawyers and housewives who can’t even spell who write the books and make the money, while we professional wordsmiths who feed them all the stories every day just get cirrhosis of the liver and several divorces. All right … So you’ve come to Rome to sniff out a story. What’s your hero’s problem?’
It felt good to be amongst almost-normal people, not hiding. ‘He has to get to see the Pope privately.’
‘Tricky. If not impossible. What’s his job?’
‘He’s a private detective.’
‘And why’s he got to see the Pope?’
‘Because the Pope is about to be murdered.’
‘Ah. And why doesn’t he tell the police? Or his ambassador?’
‘Because they’ll say he’s a nutter.’
‘Uphill struggle all the way, huh? Conflict, that’s what stories are made of.’ Whacker hunched aggressively over his glass. ‘Which is another thing that annoys me. Somebody wants to see his Pope. To discuss some very important moral issue, say. Like starvation. Or to have his soul saved. Can he? No. The apostles went out and spoke to everybody, against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But the Pope? Oh no, he’s royalty. If you want to see the Pope you’ve got to have an ambassador recommending you in triplicate, your application is scrutinized right the way to the top. If you’re just a nice private detective, forget it.’
‘What would happen if he wrote the Pope a letter saying he had vital secret information, for the Pope’s ears only?’
‘What happens if you write a letter to the Queen of England? She wouldn’t even see it. Every day Buckingham Palace and
the papal palace receive tons of mail from nutcases.’ Whacker shook his head. ‘Your man’s letter to the Pope would be filtered through half a dozen officials. It would probably be chucked in the waste-paper basket. Anyway, it wouldn’t be secret any more.’
Morgan sat back. ‘Are there any
un
official channels?’
‘Of course. Your detective could do what Clint Eastwood would, and shin up the drainpipe. Or pretend he’s come to repair the television.’ He shrugged. ‘Unofficial? Sure. But you’ve got to be pretty official to use them.’
‘Meaning?’
Whacker sighed irritably. ‘Meaning that the Vatican, just like any government, has its information network, its spies. Particularly in Rome. Rome is full of diplomats. There’re parties which diplomats attend for the principal reason of picking up titbits of information. Rome is full of rumours and gossip the Vatican needs to hear. Now, your detective could somehow wangle an invitation to one of these parties, and somehow send an unofficial message to the Pope.’
‘Does the Pope attend any of these parties?’
‘Occasionally. But he’s pretty hard to get close enough to whisper in his holy ear.’
‘Could I wangle an invitation to such a party?’
‘You’d have to be very lucky in pulling your strings. And patient.’
Morgan sighed. ‘What about the Secretary of State? My man also wants to see him.’
Whacker shook his head. ‘Same problem. Even if you somehow get an official pass to enter the Vatican you still would not get past the reception area of the Secretariat. Unless, again, you have an introduction from somebody like an ambassador.’
‘But he’d get as far as the reception area?’
‘Yes.’
Morgan thought: And I hand the receptionist a letter addressed to Cardinal Gunter, marked personal, and written inside is simply
The elk is not only a Siberian creature … Meet me at so-and-so.
Would the cardinal get it? Or would it be opened by a secretary? And the secret would be out.
‘Of course,’ Whacker went on, ‘your detective would find it easier to meet the Secretary of State
outside
Vatican City.
Because, being a somewhat lesser mortal, the Secretary can have a more informal private life. Go out to restaurants, for example. Play golf. Without fanfare and a host of security men.’
Morgan looked at him. ‘Does Cardinal Gunter play golf?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which club does he play at?’
‘He’s a member of the Appia Antia Country Club.’
Morgan felt elated. ‘How often does he play?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’m not a golfer.’ He added: ‘Bill Fletcher’s a member. He’s a stringer for the
Guardian.
Look his number up in the book.’
‘Thanks.’ Morgan made a note. He felt he was getting somewhere at last. ‘Which restaurant have you seen the Secretary of State dining in?’
Whacker sighed. ‘I’ve seen him at Borodini’s. That’s a famous joint. But he gets around a lot, I’m told.’
Morgan said: ‘The Calvi affair – God’s Banker, who was found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge. Do you think it was suicide?’
‘Is this for this book of yours?’
‘Maybe I can work it in.’ He stood up. ‘Another scotch?’
He went to the bar and came back with a double whisky, and a beer for himself. Whacker growled:
‘Who commits suicide like that? When he’s got a gun – a clean way out. Besides, he wasn’t desperate enough. His bank may have been bankrupt but he himself was a multi-millionaire – he’d been robbing his own banks for years.’
‘Why did he go to London, do you think?’
‘You better talk to Mike Milano. He’s an Italian-American journalist. He really dug into the Calvi affair, covered the inquest in London, the prosecution of Calvi in Italy, the lot. Thinking of writing a book himself.’ He pointed at Morgan’s notebook. ‘”Miguel Milano,
Il Figaro
newspaper”.’
Morgan made a scrawled note. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t say thanks every time, it makes me nervous.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Or sorry.’
‘Okay.’ Morgan grinned. It was a relief to smile.
Whacker said, ‘Of course, the Vatican’s got a spy network.
Maybe your detective could get to the Pope through one of them.’
Morgan looked at him. ‘Do you know any of them?’
‘A good spy doesn’t admit it, you know. But yes, I’ve heard of one in particular.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll make a phone call. She better tell you herself, it’s her story. How do you fancy a pizza, around the corner?’
It was a
trattoria
called Mamma Mía near the Press Club. It had candles in chianti bottles and the waiters sometimes burst into song.
Renata was a pretty German woman of about thirty-five, with long brown hair and a sallow face, without make-up. She moved with difficulty, with a walking stick. She said:
‘Anyway, the doctors don’t know what to do with me. And that’s how I met him. He’s a masseur. At the Sacred Heart hospital.’
Whacker rumbled: ‘That’s a Church-run hospital.’
Renata said: ‘He’s famous, as a masseur. Supposed to have almost a healing power. The diplomats go to him. Including Pope John Paul. All this is no secret. His name’s Benetti.’
Morgan made a note. Renata went on:
‘I went to him, for my illness. The Nigerian ambassador arranged it.’
‘Nigerian?’
‘I worked for Save the Children and other affiliated organizations. I travelled a lot. I knew a lot of embassy people here in Rome, particularly from black countries. The black embassy people go to Benetti a lot, you know how they love a hint of magic’
‘And this Benetti is part of the Vatican information network?’
She said, ‘He hears a lot of gossip. He goes to ambassadors’ homes, to do massage. He’s invited to their parties. A lot of big industrialists go to him too. He knows all the big-wigs, either as patients or socially. And he reports to the Pope.’ She added: ‘He’s been around a long time.’
‘How do you know he reports to the Pope?’
‘Rumours,’ Whacker growled. ‘This town is full of rumours.’
‘But it’s true.’ She nibbled a piece of pizza. She had no appetite. ‘Once my organization needed a new engine for a
helicopter, in Chad. That was during Gaddaffi’s invasion of Chad. It had to come from America. It was forbidden to supply it, because of America’s embargo of trade with Libya. We were helpless. I mentioned it to Benetti while he was massaging me. He said, No problem. The next day the engine arrived from America, in transit to Chad. Customs, papers, everything legal.’
‘That wasn’t the Pope’s handiwork,’ Whacker rumbled.
‘In
one
day? It was the Pope himself who picked up a telephone to the White House.’ She turned to Morgan. ‘Once, I needed a visa to Angola very urgently. You know what these communist countries are like. Two weeks to wait, minimum. I phoned Benetti. I had a visa in one hour.’
‘The Pope doesn’t issue visas to Angola,’ Whacker complained.
‘But
one hour
?’ She turned to him irritably: ‘And I’ll tell you something else, Whacker. I haven’t told you before because you’re such a pain in the ass!’
‘If you had an ass like mine,’ Whacker said, ‘you wouldn’t find anybody to massage you.’
Renata sat back with a sigh. ‘All right, forget it.’
‘What?’ Morgan and Whacker said simultaneously.
She shook her head.
‘I was only pulling your leg,’ Whacker said apologetically. ‘This man is trying to write a book.’
‘My legs are the problem.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘And they used to be good legs.’ She turned to Morgan. ‘Benetti is a very spiritual man. Intense. And …’ She sighed, ready to be disbelieved. ‘He told me he had asked the Pope to pray for me. But it didn’t do me any good.’
There was a silence. Whacker staring at his wine glass.
She said, ‘But maybe that’s my fault. I’m a non-believer.’ She paused. ‘No, not a non-believer, really. I just don’t believe in German priests ardently praying for victory over British soldiers who have British priests ardently praying for victory over German soldiers.’ She frowned at him, with liquid eyes. ‘What nonsense. Go out to Central Africa and see the starving children. Little things with legs like sticks, who have never done anybody any harm. And all you pray for is
rain.
Not bread. Not medicine and donations …’ She spread her hands
to the ceiling. ‘Just water from the skies, to make the crops grow, grass to feed the goats. Nothing complicated.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘God could do it like
that
.’
She waited. Morgan nodded. She sat back.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘in comparison to ugly Africa, what an unimportant matter is Renata Schuman’s pretty legs …’
It was almost midnight when Morgan and Renata rode up in the elevator to her apartment. He followed her slowly down the corridor, to her door.
‘Thank you, Renata. You’ve been very kind to help me.’
She leant on her stick. ‘Will you not come in for a nightcap?’
He had drunk more than enough, but if she hadn’t asked him he had intended inviting her to dinner tomorrow because he wanted to meet Benetti. ‘You’re not too tired?’
She inserted the key. ‘The nights are long these days.’ He followed her in. She said: ‘Will you get the drinks?’ She pointed with her stick at the bar. ‘I’ll have cognac’
It was a pleasant apartment, decorated with African artefacts. She eased herself onto one of the bar stools. She said: ‘I like bars. When I’m sitting on a bar stool I look normal.’ Her stick clattered to the floor. She smiled at him: ‘And now tell me what further help you want from me?’
He liked her. She was perspicacious. And he was too tired to play it softly-softly.
‘About Benetti, the masseur? Would it be possible to meet him?’
‘You or your detective?’
‘Me.’
She smiled. ‘If you have a muscular problem.’
He said, I do. My back.’
‘How boring. Tell him you’ve got sciatica. It’s hard to detect and harder to treat.’
‘That’s what I’ve got.’
‘Apart from your terrible case of sciatica, why do you actually want to meet the man?’
He smiled. ‘To get authentic detail. Hemingway said, “Never write about things you haven’t experienced.”’ He added: ‘Does Benetti report only to the Pope, or to the Secretary of State as well?’
‘I suppose that would depend on the nature of the information. What’s your story actually about?’
Morgan smiled shyly. ‘My hero believes there’s a plot to murder the Pope.’
‘I see …’ She rested her chin on her laced knuckles. ‘Do you know how true your story may be?’
He was ready to believe almost anything now. ‘There’s a plot against the Pope?’
Renata said dramatically: ‘Against the
last
Pope. Pope John Paul I reigned for only thirty-three days, then he was murdered.’
Morgan looked at her. Klaus Barbie had claimed that too.
‘What makes you say that?’
Renata said flatly:
‘There was an outcry from the Italian press about the suspicious way the Vatican behaved.’ She held up a finger: ’ Why did the Vatican forbid an autopsy to find out why the newly elected Pope died? In Italy, like in every civilized country, there must be a Certificate of Death, certifying the
cause
of death. To ensure there’s no foul play. Usually the family doctor, who attended the man through his last illness, can certify that. Then he can be legally buried, and his estate distributed to his heirs. But if a
healthy
man dies – even if he’s a beggar on the street – there
must be an autopsy.
That’s the law.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘But the Vatican is a law unto itself. Legally the Vatican is an independent sovereign state. The Italian police could do nothing.’ She snorted. ‘There were other suspicious circumstances. There were lies, I forget them now. But the Vatican had him immediately embalmed. And he was a healthy man! The Italian press was up in arms. But they got no answers. Now,
why
?’
If what she said was true, he thought he knew why. ‘And if I were to go back through the Italian press files, I’ll find all this written up?’
‘Of course.’ She pointed at his nose. ‘You write a book about
that
, Jack Armstrong! … Can you read Italian?’.