Blood of the Lamb (33 page)

58

Five angels gazed out beyond their chapel and over the church, the joy on their faces inviting the congregation to share in the glory of Ludovica Albertoni’s ascension to heaven. The sixth angel didn’t join them; he was watching Ludovica as the ecstasy of what was happening filled and thrilled her.

“Here?” asked Thomas. “You’re sure?”

“‘Death throes? The pure puling of being born?’” Livia quoted. “This is Ludovica Albertoni at the moment of death. There’s also always been a theory that it can be read as Saint Ann receiving the Immaculate Conception.”

“Simultaneously?”

“He did that sort of thing, Bernini. And see there? ‘Among the winged creatures . . . look down upon her face . . .’ That one
putto
, he’s the only one looking at her.” As Thomas followed her pointing finger, she added, “Aren’t they beautiful?”

They were, the light from Bernini’s hidden window glowing on the angels’ heads and on the tomb of the pious woman they were welcoming to paradise. Thomas didn’t offer his critical assessment, though, asking instead, “If this is right, where could the poem be?”

Livia paused, then answered, “The only place I can think of is inside that head.”

Thomas gazed skeptically at the sculpture. “But this was carved centuries before—”

“They’re mounted on steel rods. The heads. They were made separately and installed once the sculpture was in place.”

“They come off?”

“So I’ve read. I’ve never tried it.” Still she didn’t move, just stood gazing up at the flowing marble.

“Well?” Thomas said. “If that’s where it is, shouldn’t we go get it?” By “we” he meant she, and he was sure she knew it. She was clearly the better of the two of them at climbing on things.

Livia glanced around her. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I’m always so taken with this work. You’re right, of course. I’ll need something to stand on. I wonder if there’s a ladder in the sacristy—”

“What are you talking about? You can reach it from there.”

“From where?” she said, so he pointed. Her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. Stand on a Bernini?”

Thomas stared at her. “You climbed onto Santa Teresa’s altar. You stood on a collection box!”

Livia blinked. “But this is a Bernini.”

They traded looks of mutual incomprehension. With a huffed breath, Thomas turned, approached the sculpture, and said to her, “Then this time you make the distraction.” He took a quick look around. No one was near; this was the moment. Without waiting to see what Livia came up with, he slipped off his shoes, turned back to the beatified Ludovica and her angelic escort, grabbed a fold of her marble garment, and hoisted himself up.

59

Livia watched, appalled, as Thomas Kelly clambered across the supine marble body of Ludovica Albertoni to reach the angel head. On their way here, she and he had both made improvised efforts at disguise. She’d borrowed pants, a bag, and an
Io
Nuova York
T-shirt from Ellen; she’d bought tiny round Yoko Ono sunglasses and braided and pinned up her hair under a floppy white canvas hat. Thomas had bought a
Roma
sweatshirt—black; he was still a priest—and a baseball cap. They’d both ditched their cells and bought new, pre-paid phones. Thomas had fought doing that, in case the Cardinal called him; when finally persuaded that their GPS chips were like neon signs (“Even when the phone is off?” “Yes, Father. Thomas. Yes, Thomas”), the first thing he did when he got the new phone was to call Lorenzo Cossa from it. And got no answer.

What all this meant was, Thomas Kelly wasn’t wearing his clerical collar or tabbed shirt anymore. Crawling over the sculpture, he didn’t even have that air of authority to separate him from a common vandal. Of course, climbing on a Bernini did just about make him a common vandal, so maybe any separation would’ve been beside the point. Livia wanted to shout at him to stop, to come down, to be careful, but she clamped her mouth shut: she certainly did not want to alert anyone else in the church to what was going on. A distraction. She needed to cause a distraction. She turned to leave the Albertoni chapel.

The distraction caused itself.

The Noantri clerk from the Library, Jorge Ocampo. The man who, according to Spencer, had killed the old monk. Jorge Ocampo stood right smack in front of her, grinning.

She’d barely registered his presence when he lunged for her. No, not for her. For her bag. He’d wrenched it off her shoulder before she realized what was happening. She reached for it, grabbing nothing but air. Holding the bag high, Ocampo spun away. Livia leapt and tackled him for the second time that day. They both went down, rolling, tangled in each other’s clothes. Ocampo’s sharp elbow slammed painfully into Livia’s cheek. He stank of some disgusting cologne and was slimy with sweat; but though thin, he was strong and determined. She gave him a knee to the gut, tried to yank the bag back. His grip was like glue. He shoved her; her head smacked the chapel railing. She was stunned only for a second, less; but it was enough. Ocampo sprang to his feet and took off with her bag.

He collided, in the aisle, with a broad-shouldered, yellow-haired man.

Jonah.

Dumbfounded, Livia could only stare. Hallucination caused by concussion? Were hallucinations this detailed, carrying scent, glints of gold, the precise web of tiny wrinkles beside laughing eyes? For his part, Jonah, or his phantasm, had no time to acknowledge her presence or answer any of the thousand questions racing around in her head. Livia watched Ocampo try to shove Jonah aside, saw Jonah push back, then sweep his right fist into the clerk’s chin and pump his left into his stomach. When Ocampo doubled over, Jonah grabbed the shoulder bag, but Ocampo held tight to the strap and punched Jonah’s nose.

With a shout Thomas Kelly jumped from the sculpture to land beside her. He charged forward and grabbed the clerk’s arm as Ocampo was pulling back for another blow. Ocampo spun around snarling and threw Thomas hard to the ground. He raised his leg to stomp Thomas’s face. Thomas rolled; in that extra second Jonah slammed his fist into Ocampo’s neck. The clerk staggered and loosened his grip on Livia’s bag. Jonah yanked it away.

Livia suddenly realized that beyond all this chaos she could hear not only shouts and horrified screams, but sirens. They heralded the law; two officers burst into the church. She rose clumsily to her feet. Jonah, with a grin, tossed her her shoulder bag. He leaned down, helped Thomas up, and then yanked Ocampo to his feet, also. And socked him again. And then, instead of delivering a coup de grâce, he just stood, arms at his sides, and gave Ocampo an opening. The clerk couldn’t resist. He threw a punch. Livia stood, openmouthed, until Thomas, shoes in one hand, grabbed her elbow with the other and dragged her down the aisle, saying, “Now that’s what I call a distraction. Let’s go.”

60

The bread was nothing but crumbs, the
salumi
and
formaggio
gone. Giulio Aventino finished his coffee and signaled for another, and for a second for his sergeant, also. Raffaele Orsini drank
caffè macchiato
, into which he stirred sugar,
producing a sweet, complicated drink. Giulio preferred the bitter simplicity of espresso. But that was Raffaele. Everything was multilayered and everything was for the best.

They sat at a café in the piazza opposite Santa Maria della Scala, working the phones. Raffaele had been all for dashing out into the streets immediately, but Giulio had suggested mildly that they might do better if they knew which direction to dash in. Carabinieri and
polizia
all over Rome were on the lookout for the suspect, that Vatican Library clerk, and for his associates. Since Giulio and Raffaele both had street sources they cultivated for exactly this type of situation, why not explore whatever assistance the criminal underworld might be able to offer?

Before they’d settled in to run through their contact lists—Giulio wondered if Raffaele had a subfolder labeled “informant” on his cell phone, organized alphabetically or perhaps by specialty—Giulio had called the
maresciallo
to give him a report.

“The Curia’s not happy, Aventino,” the boss had said darkly.

Giulio stopped himself from asking why a holy friar gaining admission to heaven should displease the Vatican, saying instead, “We’re doing what we can.”

“Do it faster. Is the Gendarme any use? Or is he in the way? I could get him called off.”

“No, don’t. I think he’s worth having around. But what you could do is tell Central to alert me to any odd goings-on in a church anywhere in the city.”

If anyone else had spoken that way the
maresciallo
would probably have reminded him who was boss. Giulio could hear the gritted teeth as he asked, “Why? Is something else about to happen?”

“I have no idea. Just a feeling.”

The
maresciallo
allowed himself a snort, but Giulio didn’t care and they both knew that.

“All right, but be judicious in what you respond to. I don’t want you to waste your time on wild-goose chases.”

“Oh? Well, in that case, we won’t.” Giulio clicked off.

The Gendarme, Luigi Esposito, had gone off on his own. He wasn’t under Giulio’s command so Giulio couldn’t stop him. Esposito had told them his own sources were better consulted in person. That could be true, but Giulio suspected the young man was just plain excited at the prospect of spending his time on the bustling workaday streets of Rome, instead of the sedate corridors and tourist-choked public rooms of the Holy See.

Giulio himself would have gone out of his mind there.

He’d admonished Raffaele when the sergeant had snickered at the news a Gendarme was coming to join them, but in the pecking order of Roman law enforcement there was no question the Gendarmerie was at the bottom. The Rome
polizia
crowded the middle step, as local lawmen did everywhere in Italy: clumsy, slow-moving bureaucracies at best, or in some places, corrupt and dangerous. The constabulary pinnacle, of course, was occupied by the Carabinieri. A branch of the Italian military, they were well trained and well armed, charged with fighting crime all over the country and occasionally overseas: on any given day you could find Carabinieri on secondment to other nations, and to international agencies; and Carabinieri had been called up for, and had died in, service in the Middle East. Giulio himself had served in Africa, many years ago, and he knew this about his partner: as devoted as Raffaele was to his job and his young family, if called up he’d go proudly. And acquit himself well, Giulio had no doubt. For all Raffaele’s religious piety, Giulio had long suspected devotion to duty—to his family, to his job, to his country, and yes, to his Church—was Raffaele’s real faith.