He turned the corner onto Mount Street and proceeded toward his destination. There were a lot of people out at that hour, eleven in the morning, and a lot of traffic, too. The glamour that Mayfair dis played at all hours didn't impress him at all. He didn't look in any store windows. Nothing distracted him. He was a man with a purpose, and that purpose was right in front of him, the Church of the Immaculate Conception.
After Father Donald's small church below the viaduct, this church was much larger, more monumental. He looked at the Gothic facade but didn't stop long.
He went inside the holy temple. Jesuit churches were normally dark, but not this one. A simple nave, supported by stone columns and a clerestory with sixteen windows. Rich side chapels on the left and right, carved and decorated, the relics of numerous saints, full of mystery. Rafael was uninterested in the sacred objects and architecture. He analyzed the exits, checked who was present, a woman kneeling in the front, a man with a Bible pressed to his heart, a line of people in back, and a Japanese couple taking photos of the brass altar created by Pugin. Rafael walked to the center of the nave, cautiously, alert to every movement and noise. A falcon hunting prey, silent, lethal.
He noticed the confessionals at the back, one on each side. The one on the left was empty. An orange light indicated confession time on the right. It was a wooden structure, totally closed, protecting the vicar and the sinner from the temptation of the world. He approached the confessional. Someone was there asking for mercy for his sins, whispering his weaknesses while the priest listened. Rafael overheard
therefore
and
because,
enough for him to know that the man was speaking English. His own sins were enough for him. He didn't need to hear those of others. Since no one was waiting, Rafael would be next. He looked around the immense space again. The same penitents agonizing in prayers for wisdom, grace, pardon. The Japanese had moved on.
The sinner must have received purgation and left the place of peni tence, free, light, clean, and immaculate to confront reality anew and commit the same sins and other, new ones.
Rafael let the man leave and went in. He kneeled on the prie-dieu next to the wooden screen that hid the confessor from the sinner.
"Good morning, Father," he greeted him.
"Good morning, my son. What brings you here?" the priest asked in a melodious, complacent voice.
"Forgive me, for I have sinned," Rafael said disquietedly.
"Tell me the nature of your sin, my son. What is troubling you?" the curate said in a bored way. He was more than accustomed to people's pain. A word from him would quiet all. That was the power of confession.
"I have a gun pointed at a priest's head," the sinner said coolly.
"What did you say?" He couldn't have heard what he thought.
"I have a gun pointed at a priest's head," Rafael repeated. "If he doesn't answer my questions, I'll have to kill him."
43
H
ans Schmidt entered the papal apartments escorted by Daniel and two more plainclothes Swiss Guards, who stayed in the background. Two others in uniform were standing at attention by the doors giving access to the papal privacy. They saluted the offi cer pass ing by them, and he returned the gesture to his men.
"Have they caught the murderer?" Schmidt asked, out of breath with the fast pace imposed on him.
"We can't reveal details of the investigation," the commander of Pontifical Security told him.
"I understand."
They made the rest of the walk in silence, except for the sound of shoes and boots striking the floor. Schmidt had not been there for sev eral years. The first time was in the 1980s in the time of Pope John Paul II, or Lolek, as he asked to be called in perfect German. That fi rst time was always an unforgettable experience. Meeting the Supreme Pon tiff, for a priest, was something transcendent, practically like meeting God in person. Lolek was the personification of Him. With the passage of time and more visits, Schmidt grew accustomed to the sumptuous place, the niches with statues of Pius IX, Benedict XIV, Pius XII, and Leo XIII, in a papal pose, all with the tiara on their heads, the symbol of eternal and secular power. Schmidt recognized the door that led to the pope's study a few feet away, with two sentinels with lances, immobile as the walls, ready to give their life for the Supreme Pontiff at any moment.
Two empty niches waited for history to fill them with new person ages, from the past or the present, by some patron closer to the arts than politics.
The sentinels saluted their superior and opened the doors. Schmidt examined the study. It was different from what he remembered. More austere, less happy. In Lolek's time it was completely disorganized. Papers stacked everywhere, even on the seats of chairs. This study seemed arranged and decorated to appear in the next issue of a design maga zine. Even the sun seemed shy about illuminating it with its rays. It was from that window that Ratzinger addressed the world every Sun day, but the Supreme Pontiff was not in the offi ce, only Tarcisio, who looked through a crack in the white curtains at the square below, teem ing with tourists and faithful completely ignorant of the blood spilled inside the walls of the holy state.
"Your Eminence," Daniel called, since Tarcisio had not noticed their presence.
The secretary turned as if he were returning to earth. "Ah, you've arrived." He extended both hands to Schmidt like a cry for help. "My good friend."
Schmidt took Tarcisio's hands in his own. "Difficult times, but they will pass, Tarcisio, that is certain."
Tarcisio looked at the Swiss Guard. "Leave us, Colonel."
Daniel and his men retired without turning their backs.
"Pope Benedict?" Schmidt wanted to know.
"He's in a secure location. The two of us cannot be in the same place. Security protocol. We are under threat, Hans." He was silent a few seconds. "Since Albino Luciani, no one has died this way on this soil," he shared with Schmidt.
"Who was the victim?"
Tarcisio hesitated before speaking the name of the person, who was a man of the church yesterday, and at that moment was no more than a story; it was as if saying it would transform the name into a truth Tarcisio didn't want to confront. "Ursino," he finally said, closing his eyes to contain his suffering.
Schmidt helped him to the papal chair, where Tarcisio sat down, drained.
"The murderer?"
Tarcisio shook his head no. "Still nothing."
"Just tonight I spoke with him," Schmidt remembered.
"How do you deal with such a tragic death?" Tarcisio asked. He was a man falling in a well of doubts.
"Like all the others, my friend," Schmidt reassured him in a fi rm voice. "Death is a part of life. Celebrate his good moments and don't consider the process a loss, but a privilege. You were part of Ursino's life. You illuminated the way, each for the other."
"But we'll never do it again," Tarcisio protested.
"But you did once. Don't feel sorrow for what cannot be. The future doesn't belong to us. What's important is that it happened when it happened and it was good. Life is always changing. Nothing is for ever. You're old enough to know that."
"That's easy to say," the secretary argued.
Schmidt continued to console him. "I understand, Tarcisio, but remember that mourning is a selfish act. To weep for someone who dies is an offense to the life that he lived and we lived with him."
The two men concluded what was a strange conversation, at least as far as Tarcisio was concerned. He was confused and didn't want to explore that philosophy. The church would always prevail in its ancient ways; that's how it was.
"Why did you call for me?" the Austrian iceman fi nally asked.
"Because . . . because I don't know whom to trust," Tarcisio
confessed. "Someone murdered a priest inside our walls. An important priest, as you know. I'm walking blindly. I need light."
"You must be cold, Tarcisio."
The secretary looked at him, overcome. The situation called for urgent measures. It was a century since the church had been attacked by such an implacable enemy, and, worse, an invisible enemy. Who could be behind such a diabolical scheme? What devil wanted to fi nish off the church? With a face, a description, one could plan a counter attack, take a position on the chessboard. It was better than nothing.
"We're living in difficult, ungovernable times."
"We have to steady our minds and analyze things coolly," Schmidt explained. "Let's start with what we know."
"We know they killed four of the Five Gentlemen."
"We should have put Ursino under security as soon as we knew about what had happened to the others," Tarcisio lamented.
"No, no, no. Nothing you think now will change what happened. Ursino is out. They've killed four Gentlemen. The fifth is left, and then there's Ben Isaac. Do you think we should put them under security?"
"The fifth is always safe. Ben Isaac takes care of his own."
"Okay, what else do we know?"
Tarcisio put his face in his hands. He was exhausted.
"We don't know anything else," Tarcisio said.
At that moment the doors opened, admitting Cardinal William.
"We know that the assassin is a Jesuit," he informed them with a smile.
"A what?" Tarcisio and Schmidt asked at once.
"I've just obtained confirmation. The murderer is a Jesuit. But there's more . . . the society should be current with the situation.
Schmidt's placidity changed to perplexity. "The Society of Jesus?"
"None other," William confi rmed.
"But why?" Tarcisio wanted to know.
"It doesn't seem possible to me," Schmidt argued.
"It's being verified at this very moment," William told them."You're going to be meeting with the superior general of the society this after noon, right?"
Tarcisio shivered, remembering the scheduled meeting. "Yes."
"You have to press him. Don't meet behind closed doors."
Schmidt smiled. "Please, Your Eminence. Do you think the supe rior general might attempt something against the secretary of state of the Vatican?"
William didn't reply.
"Are we to consider the Jesuits our enemy?" Schmidt asked.
Tarcisio and William shared a conspiratorial look for a few moments.
"It's possible," William fi nally said.
Schmidt remained skeptical.
"What now?" Tarcisio asked.
"Now . . . we wait for a woman to play her part,"William said, look ing at the square below. A
nd a man.
"The church in the hands of a woman. Ironic," Tarcisio observed.
"Not for the first time," William remembered.
44
T
he dining room of Ben Isaac's mansion resembled a command post. Computers, communication equipment, copiers, a com motion of technicians and agents from the Metropolitan Police, who entered and left in a whirl of activity that only they understood. Ben Isaac and Myriam were seated on a leather sofa, feeling upset. What would happen to little Ben? The kidnapper seemed to know every thing. This meant the end of their son, everything they had tried to avoid from the beginning.
"They told you to wait for instructions at home," Gavache recalled. "And you didn't try to contact law enforcement?" he asked angrily, with a reproving shake of his head.
"It's my son's life at stake," Ben Isaac argued. "He could already be dead because of this whole circus."
"Don't say that, Ben," Myriam cried out. "Let the offi cers do their work." She didn't add that it was because they'd always done things his way that they found themselves in the present situation, but she thought it. Blame wouldn't solve anything.
Garvis hurriedly joined the group. He was in charge of the whole operation. "Dr. Ben, everything is ready. Would you come with me, so I can explain the procedure when they call?" He was there to help, and he knew what the father and mother were going through, more than he wished.
"If they call," Ben grumbled as he got up.
"They'll call, Doctor." Gavache reassured him. "You have some thing they want very much. They've already proved how far they'll go to get it. They're not going to give up."
Ben Isaac went with Garvis to the heart of the machines and con nections that, God willing, would track down the kidnappers' hid ing place. Gavache was sitting in an armchair smoking, much to Ben Isaac's disapproval. Myriam watched him, intimidated.
"Do you believe what you're saying?" Myriam asked. She needed to know if Gavache was just talking.
"Another one of my faults. I always say what I think," Gavache assured her again, blowing a puff of smoke into the air, "and I have to smoke to think."
"I understand," Myriam said, more at ease with Gavache.
"Where's that amusing young lady, Jean-Paul?" Gavache wanted to know.
"She went into the bathroom ten minutes ago," Jean-Paul informed him, appearing behind his boss.
"Do you think she needs help?"
"No, Inspector," Myriam interjected. "She not feeling well. She's been nauseous lately."
"Did you hear that, Jean-Paul?" Gavache asked.
"I heard, Inspector."
"One more to keep us busy."
"But we need to work, Inspector," Jean-Paul contradicted him.
"We already have enough for this lifetime and the next."
Myriam found the exchange between them curious.