A Woman Involved (43 page)

Morgan frowned incredulously. She appealed softly:

‘Why the lies? Why say the examination only lasted twenty minutes when it lasted ninety minutes? Why say the embalmers and the professor made the examination when they weren’t even there?
Why?
’ She leant forward again. ‘Obviously, because it was not an embalming procedure but an
autopsy
that was performed! Obviously there was pressure from some Vatican officials to answer the worrisome questions! And
if
that autopsy proved that the Pope was
not
murdered, the Vatican would surely have announced it loud and clear, to put a stop to the speculation that was flying around Rome like a snow storm. But,
no.
So? So obviously that little autopsy showed that the Pope
had
been murdered. So they lied, about how long it took, about the purpose, about who was present …’

Morgan sighed grimly. He said: ‘What were the papers that the Pope was holding when he died?’

‘His personal staff came forward when all the Vatican lies piled up, and told the press the
truth … The papers were notes of people he was going to fire from their jobs in the Vatican
!’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘And those papers were never seen again! They disappeared into the Secretary of State’s pocket, along with the bottle of medicine that obviously contained the poison.’

Morgan took a weary breath.

Renata collected her notes and put them in the folder of press cuttings. Morgan said, ‘What was the name of the Secretary of State at the time?’

‘Cardinal Villot,’ she said. She spelt it. ‘He’s dead now.’

Morgan pulled out the list of names and passwords he had extracted from Klaus Barbie’s tape. He held it where she could not see it and ran his eye down the list. Villot’s name did not appear. He put the paper away.

‘And it’s not known who the Vatican officials were whom the Pope was going to fire?’

‘I don’t remember the rumours, but maybe I could find out.’ Renata pushed the folder across the bar to him. ‘Write a good book,’ she said earnestly.

He had not intended staying for dinner, but she pleaded that she had prepared a stew. ‘It’s
ready … 
’

She had gone to a great deal of trouble. The best wine, candles and flowers. They went through her facts again all through the delicious meal, until Morgan’s nerves were fraying. Over the coffee and cognac, he moved on to the subject of Benetti.

‘He is very concerned about you. He feels you have insufficient faith.’

‘Which is an understatement,’ she smiled.

Morgan said carefully: ‘I asked him if the Pope would agree to see you, as he knows about you. In the hopes of changing your negative attitude. He thought it might be possible to arrange. But
you
must request the meeting, and want it.’

She smiled. ‘Me seeing the Pope would not change anything. You mean
you
want me to see the Pope, to help you?’

Morgan felt awkward. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But it may indeed help you too.’ He added uncomfortably: ‘I suggested to Benetti that I be with you when you met the Pope.’

She smiled. ‘So you want me to trick the Pope into giving us a private audience?’

Morgan nodded. ‘Yes.’

She sat back, thinking.

‘Yes, I would like to meet him, too. I’m sure he is a good man.’ She shrugged. ‘Okay. Why not? I’ll try. When are you going away?’

Morgan concealed his elation. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll be back in December.’

‘So long?’ She sighed. ‘All right. Please telephone me when you are coming back. And I will take up the matter with Benetti.’

‘Thank you,’ Morgan said sincerely.

‘On one condition. That you write a good book. And give me an autographed copy.’ She smiled, embarrassed. ‘Why must you go away so long? You haven’t got a wife hidden away, have you?’

‘No. I really have urgent things to do.’

She said: ‘And please stay here when you come back. Save your money.’

He’d worry about that when the time came. ‘That’s very kind.’

It was after eleven o’clock before he could leave with reasonable politeness. She said, disappointed: ‘So early? We have all this excellent cognac you brought.’

‘I’ve got to make some international calls from my hotel.’

‘Make them from here! You can pay me.’

‘No, they’re calling me. And they’ll be lengthy.’

‘The Pensione Umberto has phones in the rooms?’

‘Yes.’

She sighed sadly, a woman who could hardly say more.

She picked up her stick, and walked beside him to the door. She undid the latch, then she faced him. She smiled shyly; then she stepped up against him.

He kissed her awkwardly; then her arms slid around him, and she crushed her mouth against his and gave a little moan. She clutched him tight, then suddenly she froze. She
let go abruptly, and she backed off. She whispered, wide-eyed:

‘Why are you wearing a gun? …’

He was taken aback. His mind fumbled.

‘I always do …’

‘Why?’ She stared.

He said, ‘I travel to a lot of dangerous places …’

She blinked. Then forced a nervous smile. She looked away. ‘I see. Yes, of course …’

She turned to the door, and opened it, agitated.

‘Well, good night …’

‘Good night, Renata,’ he said.

He was furious with himself for letting her near enough to feel the gun.
Goddammit, he should have foreseen that might happen – he should have left it in the bag! He had blown it! – Blown an excellent ally by frightening her! What would she think of a man with a gun who wants to get to see the Pope? And now he dare not go back to Benetti either! … 

He walked furiously through the rain back to the Excelsior Hotel. He took off the moustache and wig and threw himself on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

He felt wrung out. He had to force himself to calm down.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad about the gun.

He would go and see her tomorrow and explain it away. Win her confidence back. She was so obviously smitten, it shouldn’t be hard. He felt bad about using her but he needed her help. And he needed Benetti – he had to explore all possibilities of reaching the Pope and the Secretary of State … 

At nine o’clock the next morning Morgan began his last day in Rome for four weeks. First he telephoned the Vatican Press Office again.

‘Sorry to trouble you but this is the
Yorkshire Evening Post.
Could you please tell me the date Cardinal Pieter Gunter was first brought into the Vatican from America?’

‘Please call me back in ten minutes,’ the voice said.

Next Morgan telephoned Miguel Milano at
Il Figaro.

‘So sorry to bother you again, but I wonder if you can answer one more question. It’s worth a bottle of whisky.’

‘It better be a short question.’

Morgan said: ‘When Pope John Paul I died suddenly after only thirty-three days, I believe there were rumours about murder?’

‘And then some.’

‘And I believe the dead Pope was found holding papers, which disappeared, never seen again. And the rumour is that those papers contained a list of Vatican people he intended to fire?’

‘Yes. His personal secretary told the press that.’

‘Now my question is:
who
was he going to fire?’

‘You’re looking for a motive for murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t have to look far. I reckon God’s Banker had him murdered. Or his pals in P2. Because it was common knowledge by that stage that Pope John Paul I was going to fire Bishop Marcinkus, the head of the Vatican Bank, the very next day’ because the Pope detested the Vatican Bank’s connection with God’s Banker. The Pope was going to sweep the Vatican Bank clean. And if Bishop Marcinkus was swept out, P2 and God’s Banker would lose all their invaluable banking tricks. So they had the Pope bumped off. But don’t quote me.’

Morgan frowned. ‘And so Bishop Marcinkus was never fired?’

‘Nope. Bishop Marcinkus is now
Arch
bishop Marcinkus in fact, still president of the Vatican Bank. Confirmed by the next Pope. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘Wonder what? Are you saying –’

‘No, the present Pope had nothing to do with the murder – he was in Poland. But the fact that he confirmed Marcinkus in his post, even
promoted
him, when there was such a scandal, makes you wonder about the present Pope’s judgement. His wisdom. Now, look, I really must go. And that’s two bottles of whisky, pal …’

Morgan thanked him profusely. He sat back on the bed. If Miguel was right, it meant that Jack Morgan could hardly rely on Pope John Raul II to set his house in order and get rid of
Cardinal Pieter Gunter – a pope who was so unwise as to confirm Marcinkus as head of the Vatican Bank despite the scandal of God’s Banker could hardly be relied upon to investigate communist agents in his Church. But Morgan knew that Miguel Milano was wrong about who murdered the last Pope. If he was murdered it was also done by the Russians, as Klaus Barbie said – the same people who then tried to murder his successor a year later, the present Pope, John Paul II, in Saint Peter’s Square, to get their protégé, Cardinal Gunter, on the papal throne, and put the whole Holy Roman Church in their Kremlin pocket.

He put that aside and rehearsed again what he was going to say to Renata. He picked up the telephone and dialled.

The telephone rang and rang.

He hung up feverishly. He had to get on the road.

He waited five minutes, then tried again. Still no reply. He telephoned the Vatican Press Office again. The lady said:

‘Cardinal Gunter left America to take up his first position in the Secretariat of State in March 1981.’

Morgan looked at his notes. Pope John Paul was murdered, or died, on 28th September 1978, over eighteen months earlier. So Cardinal Pieter Gunter was not in Rome then.

He tried Renata’s telephone number again. Still no reply.

He left the hotel and bought two bottles of scotch whisky. He took them to the hotel receptionist and arranged for them to be delivered to Miguel Milano. He paid his hotel bill, and went up to his room.

He still had to go back to the Pensione Umberto, to collect the rest of his things: the tape-recorder, clothes, the ski gear. He did not want to abandon them and draw attention to Mr John Armstrong.

He tried Renata’s number once more, without success. He could not bear to wait any longer. He would call her later. He took off his wig and moustache, and he slipped out of the Excelsior Hotel, and hailed a taxi to take him to the Pensione Umberto.

As the taxi came around the corner, Morgan saw a police car parked outside the pensione, and his heart missed a beat. ‘Drive on!’ He waved his hand.

The driver looked nonplussed. ‘Umberto …’

‘Drive.’

The driver accelerated. They drove past the pensione. A policeman appeared in the doorway and looked up and down the street.

Morgan sat back, his mind fumbling.
Renata.
He had told her he was staying at the Pensione Umberto – she had telephoned the police and told them that an Englishman with a gun called John Armstrong was trying to get to see the Pope … 

‘Where to?’ the driver said.

Morgan feverishly pulled out a note he had made of a second-hand car dealer. ‘Here …’

A forestry road winds through the snowy mountains. Then a track leads off down into a little valley: you come out of the forest, into a rocky orchard that extends down to a river. Near the bottom is the old farmhouse. It has high walls around it, forming a courtyard, with a big double door. The walls are half a metre thick, made of stone and clay, whitewashed. The courtyard is cobbled and there are tumble-down cowsheds and chicken coops. The house is double-storeyed with a tower in one corner, holding the water tanks. The windows that look onto the orchard have bars on them. The only other door onto the outside is the kitchen door. There are walnut trees outside the kitchen, and a stream runs between them, on its way down to the little river at the bottom of the valley. The river is crystal clear, tumbling over stones, and trees grow along its banks, and there is a little waterfall, with a rocky pool where it would be lovely to swim in the summer. In the summer, the front of the house would be in deep shade. But now it was November, and most of the trees were bare, and the river was icy cold, and there was snow on the old red-tiled roof, and smoke was curling up the chimneys.

It was almost dusk when Morgan came winding down the track in the car he had bought.

Driving from Rome had given him his first opportunity to worry about what Anna’s reaction was going to be to his tricking her in Amsterdam: locking her in that whore-house dungeon, his breach of trust. He pushed it out of his mind, with the fortitude of a man who knew he had done the right thing. She would be breathing bitter fire when she first saw him, but he would weather it. And he still had to trick her yet again, when he returned to Rome in December: but he could not bear to worry about that yet. All he could think about now was getting her trust and love back. Then he came out of the forest, at the top of the orchard, and he stopped the car; and he was so relieved to see the smoke coming out of the chimneys, to know
that they had arrived safely, his worry went out of his mind. He was grinning. It was a wonderful feeling to be coming back to her. And oh, the house looked so cosy and safe. He gave a long blast on the horn because he did not want his head blown off by Makepeace. He bellowed: ‘
It’s me! Hold your fire
!’ He let the car roll down the slope, towards the house.

Then suddenly the big double door burst open, and Anna came out, breathing fire.

She came running up the snowy track, slipping and sliding and a tearful laugh all over her beautiful face. Morgan slammed on the brakes and scrambled out of the car.

He started running down the track towards her, grinning, slipping and sliding. They ran into each other’s arms.

‘
Oh thank God
,’ she gasped – ‘
oh thank God … 
’

Makepeace was up in the water tower, keeping a lookout for a while in case Morgan had been followed.