A Woman Involved (49 page)

Morgan held his face. God, it was all unreal.

He went down to the car park. He got into the car, started the engine. He took up the road map, looking for the easiest way to get to the first beauty spot he had selected.

He muttered: ‘Now help me, God …’

And maybe God did help him. The first scenic spot he checked out was the best. He went to four others, but they were not nearly as easy and good as the first.

It was eleven miles out of Rome, on the Appian Way, a picnic site in a forest of pine, overlooking a volcanic lake. To get to it, you proceed down the Appian Way for ten miles: then you encounter an intersection. There is a stop sign. Turn left. Drive five hundred metres, and a track leads off to the right. Wind up through the forest. Over a hill. A fork in the track. Down the right-hand fork, to picnic tables. The left-hand fork winds along the lake and eventually loops back to the road.

And something else: half a mile before the intersection was a public telephone. And beyond the intersection he found a truckers’ stop called Bar-Restaurant Venezia. He went in. He ordered coffee and cognac. There was also a public telephone in the corner. He lifted the receiver. It worked. He made a note of the number.

He drank the coffee and cognac. He told himself that all this was only a contingency plan. You’ve always got to have a contingency plan, that’s what they’d taught him.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a good place for murder. Nowhere is perfect for murder.

He wanted to weep.

He had over two hours to wait. And he did not know how he was going to stand it. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to get in his car and just drive, drive away. Then he knew what he really wanted to do.

It was two o’clock when he got to Saint Peter’s. There was muted organ music, the smell of incense, the chanting of devotions. Way down there the lamps burned around the sunken tomb of Saint Peter, the triumphal baldachin aflicker, the afternoon light gleaming through the stained-glass window onto the throne of Saint Peter. It was magnificent, and Morgan knew all over again that he was a Catholic in his bones, and he stood in awe of the power and the glory which all this material majesty symbolized, and with all his desperate heart he wanted the right thing to happen. He dipped his fingers shakily in the holy water, and crossed himself.

He walked down the long nave, past Saint Peter’s tomb, towards the pews below the throne at the apex of the basilica.
He came to the second row, right in front of the altar. He genuflected. He sat down.

He sat, his hands on his knees, looking up at Saint Peter’s throne, trying to let the holiness of the place seep into him, calm him. He closed his eyes, and rested his forehead in his hand.

He realized he was trembling. He screwed his eyes up tight and tried to concentrate. It was a long moment before he could think of anything more than
Please God
… Then he clenched his teeth:

‘
Keep helping me now, God! To do what is right!
’

And suddenly he knew that God would help him, that today would be lucky, that soon all this awful business would be over, and with that comfort the dam bust, and he wept.

It was three o’clock when Morgan got to the Appia Antia Golf Club.

He found a parking space. He sat there a moment, calming himself. Then he got out, and walked across the parking area, up into the club house.

There were Christmas decorations. People in the lounge and at the bar. He turned into the office. The secretary’s door was open. The man glanced up, recognized him and smiled.

‘Good afternoon,’ Morgan smiled. He felt shaky. ‘Have I had any luck?’

‘Not yet,’ the secretary said. ‘He came rushing in, but I will catch him when he comes off, in about half an hour.’

‘Is it all right if I sit in the lounge and wait? I’d like to thank him, if that’s possible, so would you give me a wink when he comes in, in case he goes rushing off?’

‘If I can,’ the secretary said, ‘but I may be rushing myself …’

It was a long half hour.

He went onto the terrace: every fairway had players on it. Golfers were trudging back towards the club house. Most of them made for the door beneath the terrace, into the changing rooms. Morgan tried to gauge whether he would, recognize Cardinal Gunter from that distance. He doubted it, unless the man played golf in clerical robes, which surely he would not.

He turned back into the lounge, to the bar. He badly wanted
a drink, but he did not dare. He ordered coffee, paid, and went to sit where he could see the entrance to the secretary’s department. He slowly sipped the coffee, not tasting it. People were coming and going all the time.

If he missed him … He had a vivid image of the man, from the photograph on the back of his book, but now suddenly he was assailed by doubt. How long ago was that photograph taken? God – he was a fool not to have gone to the public library and checked through newspaper files until he found a recent photograph of the man! If the club secretary did not tip him off he might not recognize him from this distance! The bar was filling up with golfers joining each other, waving to each other, ordering drinks.

It was a long half hour. Then suddenly the club secretary was coming towards him, holding a book, Morgan began to rise, in panic.
The man had gone!
… The secretary handed him the book and whispered: ‘The cardinal has autographed it. He is the man in the middle of that group.’

So he had missed him.
Cardinal Pieter Gunter was at the bar, his back to him, laughing at something somebody had said. Then he turned sideways, and Morgan could see his face. He was much more impressive in the flesh than in his photographs. He was bigger than he had imagined, six foot two easily, broad in the shoulder. And that leonine sweep of well-groomed grey hair. His cheeks flushed from the cold, he looked a vigorous, confident man in his mid-fifties, in the prime of his professional life. He was dashing in his well-cut clothes. Morgan could almost feel the man’s charm and natural authority from where he sat. He was a natural leader. Now he was telling a funny story. His companions craned forward, grinning in anticipation. It was quite a long story, and Morgan had a good chance to observe him. The man was a natural story-teller, a natural actor, using his hands, his eyes. Then he came to the punchline, and his group roared with laughter, and the cardinal laughed as heartily as any, delighted with his own joke.

Morgan sat, pretending to read
Letters to the Mighty.
Glancing up and down, watching the man peripherally. He saw him glance at his watch several times. But for twenty more minutes
he hung on with his group. Then, suddenly, he excused himself, and he turned and left the bar.

Morgan looked at the cardinal’s drink – it was finished. The man was striding down the bar jauntily, waving to people. Morgan hastened up out of his chair after him. The cardinal turned the corner and disappeared. Morgan turned the corner; and the man was nowhere to be seen.

There were two possibilities. He had either disappeared into the toilet, or down into the changing rooms. Morgan strode for the toilet door, pushed it open. Nobody. He hurried down the stairs, two at a time. Into the changing rooms.

It was full of golfers, changing. He saw the cardinal holding his bag of clubs, talking to somebody. At that moment the two men started walking slowly towards him, talking earnestly. Morgan turned and started mounting the stairs. At the bend he looked back. The two men appeared at the bottom, still talking. Morgan mounted the stairs, to the top.

He walked into the toilet. It was still empty. He kept the door open a crack. He saw the two men reaching the top of the stairs. They stopped, and shook hands. Then the cardinal turned and headed towards the toilet.

Morgan retreated to the wash basins. He slammed on a tap. Cardinal Gunter walked in. He went to the urinal. Morgan turned to him, his heart knocking. He opened his mouth, to say the passwords; and the toilet door opened again, and another man walked in.

Morgan slammed off the tap. He dried his hands on a paper towel shakily, and walked out of the toilet.

He retraced his steps, back to the lounge, without looking back. He picked up his empty coffee cup, and pretended to drink, and he looked back. He saw the cardinal come around the corner.

He walked back down the bar, carrying his clubs, to his group. Morgan sat down. The cardinal waved his finger, refusing another drink. He said a few jolly words of farewell. Then he turned and walked out of the lounge again. Morgan hurriedly got out of his chair.

He hurried across the lounge. The cardinal was entering the hall purposefully. There were some people coming up the steps
into the club, smiling. The cardinal stopped, and talked to them.

Morgan turned towards a notice board, his heart knocking. He pretended to read it. He realized he was trembling. He felt as if everybody in the club was looking at him suspiciously. The cardinal was talking Italian. Morgan could stand it no longer. He walked around the cardinal. Down the steps, into the cold dusk. Into the car park. He looked back. The cardinal was saying farewell. He turned and began to descend the steps.

Morgan stooped, and fumbled with his shoelace. He peered around. The cardinal was striding down a line of cars. Morgan scrambled up and strode after him; he called:

‘Cardinal Gunter?’

The man strode on. Morgan called again: ‘
Cardinal!
’

The man looked back over his shoulder. Morgan forced a smile and he waved the book. The cardinal stopped. Morgan called: ‘I just want to thank you for autographing my book …’

‘Oh, a pleasure.’ He smiled and turned to walk on.

‘Cardinal?’

He stopped again. Morgan’s heart was knocking. He slipped his hand inside his jacket and switched on the tape-recorder. He stopped in front of the man. He looked him in the eye. He said:

‘The elk is not only a Siberian creature.’

There was a stunned silence.

The cardinal stared at him, as if he could not grasp what was happening. Then he blinked, ashen. He glanced towards his car, then back to Morgan. He whispered: ‘Who are you?’

Morgan’s mouth was dry. ‘You know who I am, Cardinal. I’ve got instructions for you.’

The cardinal was suddenly agitated. He glanced back towards the club house, as if frightened of being seen. Morgan whispered shakily:

‘There’s no running away. Not only am I armed, but there’s always tomorrow.’

The cardinal shook his head hastily in denial. He took a breath, to control himself. ‘Well, what is it, man?’

Morgan said, ‘We’re going to your apartment in Vatican City.’

The cardinal looked more alarmed. ‘Why there?’

It seemed unreal that this was happening. He had rehearsed it all, but he felt a fraud. He did not feel like a KGB agent. ‘Because those are the orders. The safest place. And because that’s where the computer is.’

‘What computer?’

‘And I must be officially in your company. With an official permit. My name will be John Armstrong. An old friend of yours from America.’

‘Why the official permit?’

‘So you can’t deny afterwards that I was with you. Now, let’s go please, Cardinal.’

The man suddenly seemed more in control. Still ashen, but his shock had turned to grimness. For an instant Morgan thought he was going to tell him to go to hell. Then he said: ‘Why would I deny that?’

Morgan did not know what to make of him. ‘Let’s get on with it, please. I’m coming with you in your car. You’ll instruct your driver to stop at Saint Anne’s Gate, and get a permit for me. Then have me escorted to your apartment.’

Cardinal Gunter looked at him, then clamped his mouth shut. He jerked his head and turned.

Morgan followed him. He wanted to retch.

He’d had over a day, driving to Rome, to rehearse his role, his lines, his cross-examination, to cover every possibility: but he still had to remind himself that it was the cardinal who was on trial, not him. He rode up in the elevator beside the Swiss guard. It stopped on the second floor. A large door was opposite. The guard opened it. Morgan entered a gilded ante-room. He hardly noticed the furniture. Across the room was another door. The guard opened it and stood aside. Morgan walked through.

The door closed behind him. He was alone. The room was richly carpeted. Big windows looked onto Saint Peter’s Square.
There was a large, ornate desk, a large, marble fireplace. The walls were lined with books. In the corner was another door.

Morgan put his hand inside his jacket and switched the tape-recorder on again. He waited grimly. He was still shaky. Then the corner door opened, and Cardinal Pieter Gunter, Secretary of State for the Vatican, entered.

He had changed into official robes, and the transformation from the jolly man in golfer’s garb was profound. He had composed himself. Gone was the shocked, unnerved man Morgan had accosted at the golf club. Morgan could not tell whether his grimness suppressed anger or fear. And Morgan could feel his natural authority – this was a leader, every inch a man to be reckoned with. The cardinal walked to the high-backed chair behind his desk and sat down. He did not invite Morgan to sit. He looked at him steadily, and said:

‘Well? What do I call you?’

Morgan’s mouth was dry. ‘For the time being just call me English.’ The cardinal snorted softly, and Morgan said, ‘You didn’t expect an Englishman?’ He walked to the chair opposite the desk and sat.

‘What identification have you got?’

Morgan closed his eyes angrily. Because this was the behaviour of a guilty man, on his guard. And he desperately wanted a frightened, innocent man. ‘My identification is: “The elk is not only a Siberian creature”. That’s good enough for you, Cardinal, or I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’ He added: ‘We half-expected this.’

‘Half-expected what?’

‘That you might fence with us. Prevaricate. Stop it, Cardinal. It’s all on file.’

‘What is?’

Morgan had almost stopped being nervous now. He said:

‘The class of 1931. A brilliant Russian boy being tutored in Catholicism in a
dacha
outside Moscow. In English. Pieter Otto Gunter. Fictionally German, bound for America.’ Morgan waved his hand. ‘So let’s get on with business.’