Brotherhood of the Tomb (12 page)

‘Listen to me carefully, Father ... what did you say your name was?’

‘Makonnen.’

‘Listen carefully, Father Makonnen. If you are correct and the archbishop has indeed taken his own life, I am sure you understand the need for ... discretion. I take it you have informed no one else of this ... unfortunate discovery.’

‘Yes, Eminence.’

‘Fa bene. See to it that Father Diotavelli is kept in the dark. The last thing we want is those bastards from the Congregation for Doctrine getting wind of this. They poke their noses into everything and find excuses for endless investigations. Keep Diotavelli out of this at all costs.

‘Now, this is important. I do not wish to distress you further, Father, but you must tell me how the archbishop ... managed things.’

‘He ... I think he took poison, Eminence. There was a small container.’

‘Feleno? Bene. There is no blood, the body is not marked in any way? Nessun segno sul corpo?

‘No.’

‘Very good. The archbishop: you found him in bed?’

‘No, Eminence. In his study. I’m phoning from there.’

There was a pause. Makonnen glanced up. On the wall above the desk a crucifix hung on a single nail. The figure of Christ was small and pale and wounded, his body slumped in the resignation of death. In the chair beneath sat Balzarin, red-faced and irresolute, mocking the pale image.

‘Father Makonnen, you must somehow get the body of the archbishop to his bed. It is the best way. Remove all traces of the poison. When everything is straightened, telephone a private doctor, someone who has helped us avoid some ... scandals in the past. I will already have spoken to him: he will understand. There must be no autopsy. The certificate will say Archbishop Balzarin died in his sleep of natural causes. Morte naturale. Capisce?

‘I understand.’ It was standard procedure. Bishops did not commit suicide. Nuncios, like popes, died in their beds. Peacefully.

‘One thing more, Father. Did the archbishop leave a note of any kind? A letter, anything?’

Makonnen hesitated.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in his study. Perhaps in his bedroom, I’ll take a look. But...’

He paused.

‘Yes?’

‘Eminence, there was a file. It was lying open on his desk when I found him.’

‘A file, yes. What sort of file?’

‘It...’ He remembered the papers he had couriered to Fazzini the previous month. The cardinal must know. He would explain everything. ‘It has a symbol on the front, Your Eminence. A Jewish candlestick, a ...’ He thought for a moment. ‘A menorah, but

with a cross in the centre. Your Eminence - someone visited the archbishop today. An American. He asked about that symbol. About the papers that came from Father De Faoite. At the time I thought Archbishop Balzarin seemed distressed.’

There was a long silence at the other end. When Fazzini spoke again, his voice had changed.

‘Father Makonnen, I must tell you that this is not a matter to be discussed over the telephone. I am very grateful for this information. Until I see you in person, however, I cannot give you any details. All I will say is that the archbishop had become involved in ... certain matters not in keeping with his position. You must make sure the file is secure. The Church could be gravely damaged if any of this leaked out.

‘Wait where you are and I will send someone to help you. Do not telephone the doctor until they come. There may be other documents, we must be extremely careful. Do not touch anything else until help comes. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Your Eminence.’

‘I shall wish to see you tomorrow in my office in Rome. Take the first flight. In the morning you will summon the other staff members back to Dublin. Do not contact them yet.’ There was a brief pause. ‘This American, Father. Did he give his name?’

‘His name? Yes, Eminence. It was Canavan. Patrick Canavan.’

‘Very good. He may have to be contacted as well. His life may be in danger. Did he leave an address?’

‘I’m not sure. Just a moment, Eminence, I’ll check.’ What did the cardinal mean, ‘His life may be in danger’?

Addresses were kept in a small filing cabinet in one corner. Makonnen opened it and started looking under ‘C. There it was: ‘Patrick Canavan,

104 Pembroke Road, Ballsbridge.’ He returned to the phone and gave the address to the Cardinal.

‘You have done very well, Father. Sono molto contento di te. Please be patient. Try not to worry, everything is being taken care of. Wait for help to arrive. And pray for the soul of Archbishop Balzarin. Try not to judge him. We are all human. We are all tempted. Satan is powerful.’

‘I understand, Your Eminence. I’ll do my best. Thank you for your help.’

‘Goodbye, Father Makonnen. Thank you for calling me.’

The phone went dead. Makonnen replaced the receiver with a shaking hand. Against his will, he was being drawn into dangerous waters.

Moving the archbishop’s body was not easy. With a shock, he realized that this was the first time he had ever handled a corpse. It took all his strength to drag Balzarin across the corridor into his private apartment. They were cheek to cheek, like lovers in a silent dance. The nuncio’s flesh lay cold and clammy against his skin, intimate and nauseating.

He lifted the body into bed and arranged the sheets. But try as he might, nothing could dispel the impression of unnatural death. Balzarin’s lips were curled back from his teeth in a tortured grimace. And Makonnen could not banish his fear that, at any moment, the dead eyes would open again in horror and outrage.

Makonnen looked in all the obvious places for a note, but there was nothing, not even a sign that the nuncio had started to write one. To avoid thinking of the silent bedroom, he busied himself checking that all was in order in the study. He pocketed the phial that had held the poison. The file he slipped into a large brown envelope, ready to take to Rome. He

went carefully over the other papers on the desk, to be sure that there was nothing else that seemed out of place. As far as he could tell, all was in order.

He found himself restlessly pacing the floor of the study. Several times he started to pray, as the cardinal had asked him to, but the words came sterile to his lips, as though Balzarin’s death had killed something in him too. On his knees in the stillness of the study, he found himself bereft, without resources, impotent in the face of a darkness greater than any he had known. He felt as though something bestial had ravished his innocence.

Still restless, he decided to fill in the time packing for his journey to Rome. His best flight would be the 9.55 Aer Lingus departure, direct to Fiumicino, arriving at 1.35 that afternoon. He picked up the envelope containing the file and took it upstairs to his room.

There was little to pack. He had done this so often he had it down to a fine art. He did not know how long he would have to stay at the Vatican, but however long his visit everything would be supplied for his simple needs. He slipped the file into his overnight case and zipped it closed.

Back in Balzarin’s study, he checked each of the filing cabinets in turn, just to be sure there was nothing obviously missing. Satisfied that all seemed in order, he sat down to wait for the help Cardinal Fazzini had promised. And then he remembered the nuncio’s private safe. Fazzini would want to know the contents. But where was the key?

He looked through the drawers of the nuncio’s desk, but none of the keys he found fitted the safe. He found Balzarin’s key-ring in the pocket of his trousers, but the key he sought was not on it. He tried the housekeeper’s keys on a ring in the kitchen, but nothing matched. Just as he was about

to give up, he remembered feeling something round Balzarin’s neck as he carried him to his room. He returned to the bedroom: the key was on a chain, hanging beside a little gold crucifix.

The safe was packed solid with papers. Some seemed extremely old, others quite new. He carried them across to the desk, feeling a sense of guilt at this intrusion on a dead man’s privacy. And yet, not an hour earlier, had he not come down to this room for the express purpose of prying?

His attention was drawn at once by two large folders, their dark blue covers overprinted in gold. Each bore a golden circle inset with a candlestick, also in gold, and above it another symbol, two crossed keys, like those in the papal coat of arms. He took one to the desk. It contained about a dozen pages, on each of which several photographs had been pasted. Those at the front were old, many dating from the last century. As he got nearer the back, he came closer to the present day.

The photographs passed slowly through his hands: black and white butterflies pinned to a moment in time. They looked at him out of their rectangular cells: pale faces, dreaming eyes, opening and opened lips. He could not tear himself away. They willed him to look, to pass judgement, to remember.

The men in the photographs were, for the most part, senior clergy: bishops, archbishops, cardinals, the heads of seminaries, the chiefs of Curial Congregations. They were all Italian, all middle-aged or elderly, each one facing the camera disdainfully, mocking its trivial vanity with a chilling pride. Transfixed, he leafed through the pages, unable to find any pattern or meaning in them.

There was the sound of a car drawing up on the gravel path outside. Thank God, someone had come

at last. He stood up, preparing to go to the door. As he did so, he let go of the folder. It shifted, opening at one of the later pages. He glanced down and paused, his attention drawn at once by the photograph at the top left corner. It was Balzarin, portentous, smiling, dressed in purple. Beside him, in red robes and virgin lace, he recognized the thin, unsmiling features of Cardinal Fazzini.

SIXTEEN

Makonnen felt his heart go cold. Though he was still unable to make sense of any of this, instinct told him he was in terrible danger. For all he knew, the folders and the photographs in them were entirely innocent. But something made him doubt it. Balzarin’s secrecy, Fazzini’s insistence that the nuncio’s death be hushed up, just as De Faoite’s had been, the cardinal’s request that he bring him the file, and now the discovery of his photograph among these others: Balzarin and Fazzini were both involved in something serious enough to push one of them to suicide.

Outside, the car engine was switched off. There was a sound of car doors opening and closing.

He ran to the window and looked out. Security lights illuminated the area around the entrance. Two men were walking towards the door. They were not priests, or were not, at least, dressed as such. There was something purposeful about their movements, something that reminded him of ... what? Undertakers?

Without even pausing to think, he snatched up the bundles of papers from the safe. The doorbell rang.

He looked round desperately for something to carry the papers in. His briefcase! It was in his own office down the corridor. Clutching the papers to his chest, he ran out of the room. The corridor was unlit save for the bar of light coming down from the open door behind him. His office was two doors down. He put the papers on the floor and went in. As he opened the door his chest heaved. Panic fluttered in his stomach. Downstairs, the bell rang a second time. What if it woke Diotavelli?

Hurriedly, he emptied his briefcase. There was something else he had to do, but for the life of him he could not remember. Blood pounded in his brain. Suddenly, it came to him. He ran across to his desk and opened the top drawer. Lying on top was his diplomatic passport. He snatched it out and thrust it into his soutane, then turned and dashed out of the room. He bundled the papers inside the case and snapped it shut. He heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, then the familiar creak of the front door opening.

The file! It was still in his bedroom. He ran along the corridor, his heart like lead in his chest, weighing him down. As he passed, dark portraits glared at him in disapproval. He could hear doors being opened below, footsteps on the stairs.

In his room, he unzipped the case and transferred the file to his briefcase. Hurriedly, he took his overcoat from its hook on the door and slipped it on. His hands were shaking with fear. And yet his mind was preternaturally clear: he had to escape and go with what he knew to someone he could trust, someone who had the authority to ask questions he could not. As he turned to go, his eyes fell on the wooden crucifix on the wall. He hesitated momentarily, snatched it down, and thrust it into his overcoat pocket.

He switched off the light and opened the bedroom door. Outside, the corridor was still shrouded in darkness. He turned right, away from the stairs, heading down another passage, in the direction of the fire escape. At that moment the lights flashed on. Like a badger trapped at the entrance to his hole by a man with a torch, Makonnen froze. Gripped by an agonizing fear, he turned to face his hunter.

Diotavelli was standing outside his bedroom door, dressed in a nightshirt.

‘Che succede, padre? he asked in a sleepy voice.

‘Niente, niente! Please, go back to bed.’

But Diotavelli was not to be so easily placated. It was three in the morning. He had heard a doorbell ringing. He was sure there were sounds of someone moving about downstairs. And here was a member of the nunciature staff, fully dressed and carrying a briefcase, sneaking about in the dark. The Jesuit took several steps towards Makonnen.

‘Che cosa sta succedendo? Che cosa state facendo qui?

‘An emergency, Father. I have to go out. Please be quiet: you’ll wake the archbishop.’

At that instant a man appeared at the end of the passage. He was dressed in black tight-fitting clothes, like a mountaineer. A tight hood was pulled over his head. In his right hand he carried a pistol fitted with a silencer.

Whatever Diotavelli may have lacked in physical courage, he made up for in self-confidence. He had served the Holy Office for over twenty years, hunting out heresy in all parts of the globe. He was accustomed to respect and obedience. Men with guns were nothing to a man who had faced down the minions of Satan.

‘Net nome di Dio! Chi...’

The stranger simply raised his gun and fired. He did not deliberate. He did not take aim. Makonnen watched in horror as Diotavelli bucked as though he had been punched hard in the chest. His feet left the ground, blood spurted from his chest. There was hardly any sound: a whisper from the gun, a broken cry, the smack of the bullet tearing flesh, then silence everywhere even before the body reached the ground.

The Ethiopian saw the killer move as though in slow motion. He watched the gun dip and turn, saw

light reflected off the barrel, the man’s eyes reaching for him, snatching him, holding him, the gun lifting in an arc towards him. His body twisted heavily as if through treacle, and he threw himself sideways. He heard his voice cry out, saw the muted flash in the barrel of the silencer, felt the floor crash hard against his shoulder.

His hand moved without conscious direction to his pocket. He saw the gunman turn - slow, unhurrying, taking his time. His fingers gripped the crucifix, like a talisman to take with him into death. Hurried lips whispered Jesus - there was no time for prayer.

The killer raised his hand, aiming for a head shot. Makonnen jerked away from the bullet, crashing against the wall. He came up gasping, the crucifix in his hand now, as though to ward off evil. As the gun swivelled for his head a second time, he drew back his arm and hurled the cross at his attacker. The sharp edge caught the man on the forehead and fell to the floor. The gunman cried out and dropped his weapon.

By then Makonnen was on his feet. The light switch was a step away. He flicked it up and turned to run, his black skin and black clothes invisible in the sudden darkness. Someone shouted behind him and there was a low hissing sound, repeated and repeated. He kept on running.

The door at the end of the corridor gave onto the fire escape. The cold night air tore his breath away. A heavy gust of wind snatched at him, knocking him off balance. He stumbled and fell down the first flight of steps, winding himself further. A light came on in the corridor along which he had escaped. Behind him, he could hear feet pounding and a hoarse voice calling him to stop.

The
 
briefcase
 
had
 
dropped somewhere
 
in the

course of his fall. He fumbled for it on the hard steps, in the unremitting darkness. There was a sound of feet on metal stairs. The wind howled round the corner of the building. His fingers found the briefcase. Lifting it, he half ran, half fell down the next flight. A metallic crash marked the path of another bullet.

At the foot of the stairs he paused only momentarily. The garage was to his right, by the side of the house. Rennealy had taken the Volvo, Stephens and Corcoran the Volkswagen. That left the nuncio’s Mercedes or his own bicycle. He had a key for the Mercedes on the ring in his pocket, but realized it would be foolish to take such an easily traced vehicle. The bicycle would be slower, but silent and almost invisible.

Keeping to the grass by the side of the house, he ran as fast as he could, the heavy briefcase dragging in his hand. Behind him, he heard his pursuer’s feet move from metal to gravel. Then the sound of a second pair of feet, moving round from the front of the house. The thin air slashed his lungs. He staggered, fell, picked himself up, and ran again. He had only feet to go. There was a shout to his rear, followed by the hiss of the gun firing. A window in the garage shattered with a brittle sound.

The bicycle was in its usual place by the garage wall. Here in the nunciature he always left it unlocked. He rammed the briefcase into one of the panniers and grabbed the handlebars, pushing the machine across the reluctant gravel, mounting as he ran. A man appeared in front of him, running. He swerved, missing him by inches. The bicycle was picking up speed. Gasping for breath, he pushed the pedals, knowing his life depended on it.

He was round at the front of the house. The

running footsteps behind him were fading as he pulled away from them. Now he was on the drive. The ground rushed away beneath him like a dream of freedom. He glanced up and saw stars where the wind had sucked away the clouds.

With a sigh of relief he made out the figures of the two gardai manning the gate. He braked and stepped off the bicycle. The policemen turned and watched him approach. One of them switched on a powerful flashlight. The beam caught him in the eyes, dazzling him.

‘Father Makonnen, is that you?’

He nodded and the guard turned off the light.

What on earth are you doing out here at this time of night, Father?’

Makonnen recognized the voice as belonging to Sergeant Dunn. He had not remembered that the sergeant was on night duty this week.

‘Sergeant Dunn, I ... have ... to speak ... with you.’

‘Take it easy, Father. You’re all out of breath. Whatever is the matter?’ Dunn spoke in what Makonnen had been told was a country accent, Mayo or Limerick, he could not remember which.

Taking deep breaths between sentences, he tried to explain as well as he could, without sounding hysterical. The two policemen listened in silence. When he finished his story, he realized he was shaking. All around, the wind blew, shaking the trees on Navan Road.

Suddenly, there was a sound of feet approaching along the drive.

‘Sergeant,’ Makonnen began, ‘those men! Coming this way!’

‘It’s all right, Father, we’ll deal with this. You’re in safe hands. There’s nothing to worry about’

Wouldn’t it be better to call for help? They’re carrying guns.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Father. Constable O’Driscoll here and myself are both well enough armed ourselves. Aren’t we, Sean?’

‘Right enough, we are, Padraig. Don’t go worrying, now, Father. We’ll talk to these lads.’

The first man came into sight. It was the man who had killed Diotavelli. He drew near. Makonnen noticed that he still held the gun in one hand.

Dunn was the first to speak.

‘Good morning, sir. It’s terrible windy, isn’t it? Would this be the man you’re after looking for, sir?’