The Confessor (21 page)

A Mercedes sedan was waiting in the San Damaso Courtyard outside the entrance of the Apostolic Palace. Unlike lesser Curial cardinals, Brindisi did not have to endure the luck of the draw in the Vatican motor pool. A Mercedes sedan and a driver were permanently assigned to him, along with a
Vigilanza
security man. Brindisi climbed into the back, and the car pulled away. It moved slowly along the Via Belvedere—past the Pontifical Pharmacy and the Swiss Guards’ barracks—before slipping through St. Anne’s Gate into Rome proper.

The car crossed the Piazza della Città, then turned into the entrance of an underground parking garage. The building above was a Vatican-owned residential complex where many Curial cardinals lived. There were several others like it scattered around Rome.

The car braked to a halt next to a gray Fiat van. As Brindisi climbed out, the van’s rear door swung open and a man lowered himself to the ground. Like Brindisi, he was cloaked in a cassock, with a crimson simar and fascia. But unlike the secretary of state, he had no right to wear it. He was not a cardinal; in fact, he was not even an ordained priest. Cardinal Brindisi did not know the man’s name, only that he had worked briefly as an actor before coming to work for the
Vigilanza
.

Brindisi’s stand-in stepped out of the shadows and paused for an instant before the cardinal. As always, Brindisi felt a chill at the back of his neck. It was as if he were gazing into a mirror. The features, the round eyeglasses, the gold pectoral cross—the man had even learned to mimic the arrogant angle of Brindisi’s zucchetto. A tepid smile flickered over the man’s face, a precise imitation of Brindisi’s own, then he said, “Good evening, Eminence.”

“Good evening, Eminence,” Cardinal Brindisi found himself repeating.

The impersonator nodded tersely, then climbed into the back of Brindisi’s staff car and sped away. Father Mascone, Brindisi’s private secretary, was waiting in the back of the van. “Please hurry, Eminence. It’s not safe to stay here long.”

The priest helped the cardinal into the back of the van and closed the door, then guided him onto an embroidered stool. The van sped back up the ramp and turned into the street. A moment later, it was heading across Rome toward the Tiber.

The priest unzipped a garment bag and removed several articles of clothing: a pair of gray trousers, a mock turtleneck pullover, an expensive tan blazer, a pair of black loafers. Cardinal Brindisi loosened his simar and began to undress. After a moment, he was naked except for his underwear and a spiked chain wrapped around his right thigh.

“Perhaps you should remove your cilice,” the priest said. “It might show through your trousers.”

Cardinal Brindisi shook his head. “My willingness to shed my vestments goes only so far, Father Mascone. I will wear my cilice tonight, regardless of whether or not it shows through”—he paused—“my trousers.”

“Very well, Eminence.”

With the priest’s help, the cardinal quickly changed into the unfamiliar clothing. When he was fully dressed, he removed his distinctive spectacles and replaced them with a pair of slightly tinted eyeglasses. The transformation was complete. He no longer looked like a prince of the church, but like a well-to-do Roman male of ill repute, perhaps a man who put himself about with younger women.

Five minutes later, in a deserted square on the opposite side of the Tiber, the van came to a stop. The priest opened the door. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi made the sign of the cross and stepped out.

IN MANY
ways, Rome is a company town. Under normal circumstances, Marco Brindisi could not walk the Via Veneto without being recognized, even dressed in the simple black cassock of a parish priest. Tonight, however, he moved unnoticed, slicing his way through the buzzing crowds and past overflowing cafés as though he were just another Roman in search of a good meal and pleasant company.

The glory days of the Via Veneto had long since faded. It was still a lovely boulevard lined with plane trees, exclusive shops, and expensive restaurants, but the intellectuals and movie stars had long ago moved on in search of undiscovered delights. Now the crowd was mainly tourists and businessmen and pretty Italian teenagers careening about on motor scooters.

Marco Brindisi had never been seduced by the Via Veneto’s
dolce vita,
even in the sixties, when he was a young Curial bureaucrat fresh from his Umbrian hill town, and it seemed even less appealing now. The snatches of table conversation drifting past his ears seemed so utterly trivial. He knew that some cardinals—indeed, even some popes—liked to walk about Rome in mufti to see how the other half lived. Brindisi had no desire to see how the other half lived. With few exceptions, he found the other half to be an immoral and uncouth rabble who would be far better off if they listened more to the teachings of the Church and less to the incessant blare of their televisions.

An attractive middle-aged woman in a low-cut dress shot him an admiring glance from a café table. Brindisi, playing the part, smiled back. As he walked on, the cardinal begged Christ’s forgiveness and applied pressure to his cilice to increase the pain. He had heard the confessions of priests who had fallen victim to the temptation of sex. Priests who kept mistresses. Priests who had performed unspeakable acts with other priests. Brindisi had never known such temptations. The moment he entered the seminary, his heart was given over to Christ and the Virgin. Priests who could not keep their vows sickened him. He believed that any priest who could not remain celibate should be defrocked. But he was also a pragmatist, and he realized that such a policy would certainly decimate the ranks of the clergy.

The cardinal came to the intersection of the Via Veneto and the Corso d’Italia and glanced at his watch. He had arrived at precisely the scheduled time. A few seconds later, a car pulled to the curb. The rear door swung open, and Carlo Casagrande climbed out.

“Excuse me if I don’t kiss your ring,” Casagrande said, “but I don’t think it would be appropriate under the circumstances. The weather is quite mild this evening. Shall we walk in the Villa Borghese?”

CASAGRANDE LED
the cardinal across the broad boulevard, exposing the second-most-powerful man in the Catholic Church to the bloodlust of Rome’s drivers. Arriving safely at the other side, they strolled along a gravel footpath. Come Sunday, the park would be filled with screaming children and men listening to the soccer matches on portable radios. Tonight it was quiet except for the swish of traffic along the Corso. The cardinal walked as though he were still wearing crimson, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head down—a rich man who had dropped money and was making a halfhearted effort to find it. When Casagrande whispered that Peter Malone was dead, Brindisi murmured a brief prayer but resisted the impulse to conclude it with the sign of the cross.

“This assassin of yours is quite efficient,” he said.

“Unfortunately, he’s had a good deal of practice.”

“Tell me about him.”

“It’s my job to protect you from things like that, Eminence.”

“I don’t ask out of morbid curiosity, Carlo. My only concern is that this matter is being dealt with in an efficient manner.”

They came to the Galleria Borghese. Casagrande sat down on a marble bench in front of the museum and motioned for Brindisi to do the same. The cardinal made a vast show of brushing away the dust before gingerly settling himself on the cold stone. Casagrande then spent the next five minutes reluctantly reciting everything he knew about the assassin called the Leopard, beginning with his long and bloody association with left-wing and Palestinian terrorist groups, and concluding with his transformation into a highly paid professional killer. Casagrande had the distinct impression that the cardinal was enjoying his vicarious association with evil.

“His real name?”

“Not clear, Eminence.”

“His nationality?”

“The prevailing sentiment among European security officials is that he is Swiss, although that too is a matter of some speculation.”

“You’ve actually met this man?”

“We’ve been in the same room, Eminence. We’ve done business, but I still wouldn’t say that I’ve actually met him. I doubt whether anyone truly has.”

“Is he intelligent?”

“Highly.”

“Educated?”

“There is evidence to suggest that he studied theology briefly at the University of Fribourg before he was lured away by the call of leftist violence and terror. There is also evidence to suggest that he attended a novitiate in Zurich when he was a young man.”

“You mean to tell me this monster actually studied for the priesthood?” Cardinal Brindisi shook his head slowly. “I don’t suppose he still considers himself a Catholic?”

“The Leopard? I’m not sure he believes in anything but himself.”

“And now a man who once killed for the Communists works for Carlo Casagrande, the man who helped the Polish pope bring down the Evil Empire.”

“Politics, as they say, does make for strange bedfellows.” Casagrande stood up. “Come, let’s walk.”

They set out down a path lined with stone pine. The cardinal was taller than the security man by a narrow head. His vestments had the effect of softening his appearance. Dressed as he was now, in civilian clothing, Marco Brindisi was a hard, menacing figure. A man who instilled fear rather than trust.

They sat on a bench overlooking the Piazza di Siena. Casagrande thought of his wife, of sitting with her in this very spot and watching the horses parade around the oval track. He could almost smell the strawberries on her hands. Angelina had loved to eat strawberries and drink
spumanti
in springtime in the Villa Borghese.

Cardinal Brindisi shattered Casagrande’s unsettling memory by raising the subject of the man known as Ehud Landau. The Vatican security man told the cardinal about Landau’s visit to the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Brenzone.

“My God,” the cardinal murmured beneath his breath. “How did Mother Vincenza hold up?”

“Apparently quite well. She told him the cover story we devised and saw him on his way. But the next morning, he returned to the convent and asked about Sister Regina.”

“Sister Regina! This
is
a disaster. How could he have known?”

Casagrande shook his head. It was a question he had been asking himself since Mother Vincenza’s second telephone call. How could he have known? Benjamin Stern’s apartment had been thoroughly searched. Everything dealing with the convent had been removed and destroyed. Obviously, some piece of evidence had slipped through Casagrande’s net and landed in the hands of his adversary from Israel.

“Where is he now?” the cardinal asked.

“I’m afraid I haven’t a clue. I put a man on him in Brenzone, but he slipped away from him in Verona. He’s obviously a trained professional. We haven’t heard from him again since.”

“How do you plan to deal with him?”

Casagrande turned his gaze from the ancient racetrack and looked into the pale eyes of the cardinal. “As secretary of state, you should be aware that the Security Office has identified a man it believes is intent on assassinating the Holy Father.”

“So noted,” the cardinal said formally. “What steps have you taken to make certain he does not succeed?”

“I brought Achille Bartoletti into the picture, and he has responded as you might expect. A task force has been formed, and a round-the-clock search for this man is now under way.”

“I suppose that at some point the Holy Father will need to be told about this threat as well. Perhaps we can use this information to influence his decision about going to the ghetto next week.”