Cabal - 3 (19 page)

‘Can you hear me, dottore?’

Zen cleared his throat.

‘Only just.’

‘I prefer not to speak too loudly. Our enemies are everywhere.’

It was the man who had phoned him earlier at the Ministry.

‘You are probably wondering why you have been summoned at such short notice, and in this unusual fashion. I shall be frank. Many people think of the Curia as a monolith expressing a single, unified point of view. This is not surprising, since we spend a considerable amount of time and trouble cultivating just such an impression. Nevertheless, it is a fallacy. To take the present instance, considerable differences exist over the handling of the Ruspanti affair. There have been some heated exchanges. I represent a group who believe that the issues at stake here are too serious to be swept under the carpet. If our arguments had been rejected by the Holy Father, we should of course have submitted. We have in fact repeatedly urged that the matter be placed before him, but on each occasion we have been overruled. The decision to cover up the truth about the Ruspanti case has been taken by a small number of senior officials acting on their own initiative.’

Zen glanced at the grille, but the interior of the confessional was so dark that he could not make out anything of the speaker.

‘What have you been told about the Cabal?’ the man asked abruptly.

Zen cleared his throat.

‘That according to Ruspanti there was an inner group within the Order …’

‘Speak up, please! I’m rather hard of hearing.’

Zen raised his mouth to the grille.

‘I was told that Ruspanti claimed that there was an inner group within the Order of Malta known as the Cabal. These claims were investigated and found to be false.’

‘Nothing more?’

‘
Is
there more?’

The response was a low chuckle which sent a shiver up Zen’s spine.

‘Both more and less. Some of what you’ve been told is true, but the manner of its telling has been deliberately designed to mislead you into discounting it and concentrating your efforts elsewhere. Certainly Ludovico Ruspanti approached us with allegations about a secret society within the Order of Malta, of whom he was himself of course a distinguished member, and with whom he had taken refuge before we gave him sanctuary. We had received similar information before, but this was the first emanating from an authoritative source and which offered the possibility of verification. Ruspanti claimed to be able to provide names, dates and full documentation. Relations between the Holy See and the Order of Malta have been strained for some time …’

The man’s voice faded under a ululating howl which seemed to come from inside the confessional. It grew quickly louder until it was deafening, then gradually faded to nothing.

‘What was
that
?’ asked Zen.

‘What?’

‘That noise.’

‘I heard nothing. As I was saying, relations between the Holy See and the Order of Malta have been strained for some time, but our first reaction was indeed one of suspicion. To our dismay, however, our preliminary investigations substantiated every single claim which Ruspanti had made. Far from finding his allegations baseless or false, we uncovered evidence of the most alarming kind. I hasten to add that these findings did not in any way implicate the Order of Malta as a whole, which is and has always been an admirable body, tireless in its charitable exertions and unwavering in its loyalty to the papacy. The Cabal is something quite different, a parasitic clique, a sinister inner coterie hidden within the ranks of a respectable organization, like Gelli’s P
₂
within the Masonic Order.’

The voice fell silent. For a moment, Zen thought he heard the rustling of paper.

‘You may remember the Oliver North scandal in the United States,’ the man continued. ‘A small group of influential people in the Reagan administration decided that there were actions which needed to be taken, actions which the President would certainly approve, inasmuch as they were logical developments of his avowed policies, but whose existence and implementation he could not afford to know about. These men therefore decided to take matters into their own hands, since Reagan’s were tied by his constitutional and legal obligations.’

Hearing footsteps behind him, Zen looked round. One of the blue-jacketed attendants wearing the red leather badge of the basilica staff was passing on his rounds. He glanced briefly at the kneeling penitent, but with no more than the usual impersonal curiosity which anyone might feel, wondering what secrets were being divulged in muttered undertones. Zen shifted his position slightly. His knees were beginning to ache.

‘The idea behind the Cabal is very similar,’ the man went on. ‘In short, they believe they know what the Holy Father wants better than he does himself – or at any rate, better than he can afford to express openly. Like many of us, they are disturbed by the decline in church attendance and in the numbers presenting themselves for the priesthood, and by the rampant hedonism and materialism of society today. Wojtyla’s early life was dominated by the struggle against a godless ideology, but he has come to feel that we now face an even more implacable foe than Communism. The sufferings of the Church in Poland and elsewhere ultimately served to strengthen the faith of believers. But what the Communists failed to destroy with force and terror is now in danger of decaying through sheer apathy and neglect.’

Zen emitted a grunt, of pain rather than agreement. Had some malicious cleric selected this rendezvous as a way of making him appreciate his place in the Vatican’s scheme of things?

‘In this situation, it is inevitable that some people should cast envious glances at the very different situation in the Muslim world. While our young people seem to think of nothing but the instant gratifications of a materialist society, theirs are gripped with a religious fervour of undeniable intensity, for which they are prepared both to die and to kill. While our cities are flooded with drugs and pornography, theirs are rigorously patrolled by religious police with summary powers of arrest and punishment. And while the authority of our leaders, including the Holy Father himself, is challenged on all sides, a single pronouncement by one of theirs is sufficient to force a celebrated writer to go to ground like a Mafia supergrass. Can you doubt that there are those of us who are nostalgic for the days when our Church was also capable of compelling respect, by force if necessary?
Of course
there are!’

Once again the brief pause, the slight rustle of paper. Was the man reading a prepared text?

‘But while some may idly regret an era which has passed for ever, others are scheming to bring it back. These people have noted Wojtyla’s effect on the cheering crowds who come to greet him in their hundreds of thousands during his tours of Africa and Latin America. Here is a man who has both the potential and the will to bring about a radical desecularization of society. Naturally the Holy Father cannot be seen to harbour any such ambitions, still less endorse the tactics of destabilization necessary to bring them to fruition. But by his sponsorship of such organizations as Opus Dei and
Comunione e Liberazione
, Wojtyla has made it quite clear in which direction he wishes the Church to move.’

Zen tapped impatiently on the wall of the confessional. It resounded hollowly, like a stage property.

‘This is all very interesting,’ he remarked in a tone which suggested just the opposite, ‘but I’m not a theologian.’

‘Neither are the members of the Cabal! Like the original Knights of Malta, from whom they draw their inspiration, they are men of action, men of violence, organized, capable and ruthless. What happened to Ruspanti is proof of that.’

‘And what
did
happen?’

‘Ruspanti made the mistake of trying to play a double game. On the one hand he was trading information for protection here in the Vatican, doling it out scrap by scrap, feeding us just enough to whet our appetite for what was still to come. He described the structure and aims of the Cabal in general terms, named a few of the minor players and hinted that under the right circumstances he would be prepared to identify the leaders, including well-known figures in the political, industrial, financial and military worlds. At the same time, he was also trying to put pressure on the Cabal itself, threatening to expose them if they didn’t meet his terms. That was a mistake which proved to be fatal. Last Friday he was summoned to a meeting with two senior representatives of the Cabal, here in St Peter’s, and …’

Zen wasn’t listening. He had just realized why his mother’s absence from home had seemed so oddly disturbing. When this man had phoned him at the Ministry, he claimed to have tried Zen’s home number and been told he was at work. That was a lie. There had been no one at home to answer the phone. The deception was trivial, but it altered Zen’s whole attitude towards this faceless informant. No longer did he feel constrained or deferential. He felt rude and sassy. His knees were killing him, and he was going to get even.

‘… that the Cabal is everywhere, even within the Curia,’ the man was saying. ‘Any opposition to their aims, any threat to their secrecy, is punished by instant death.’

‘If they’re so clever, why haven’t they found the transcript of Ruspanti’s phone calls?’ demanded Zen.

There was silence in the confessional.

‘Grimaldi had it, so they killed him,’ Zen went on. ‘But they didn’t find it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I did.’

It was a shot in the dark, but he had nothing to lose. The urgent tremor in the speaker’s voice revealed that it had gone home.

‘You have the transcript?’

There was a sudden eruption of sound, as though a bomb had gone off.

‘Hello?’ cried the voice. ‘Are you still there?’

Now the source of the noise was visible: a rack of spotlamps being lowered from their position high above the south transept.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ said Zen.

Why couldn’t the man see him?

‘Where is the transcript?’

‘Where Grimaldi hid it. It was I who discovered his body, and I had time to search his room before the Carabinieri got there. Someone else had been there too, but they didn’t know what to look for.’

Beyond the grille, the confessional was as silent as the grave.

‘Among Grimaldi’s belongings was a red plastic diary,’ Zen continued. ‘It was for the new year, so it was mostly empty, but he had noted down a series of letters and numbers that leads straight to the transcript, assuming you know where to look.’

‘And where’s that?’

Zen laughed teasingly.

‘Have you told anyone else where it is?’ the man demanded.

‘Not yet. It’s hard to know who to tell, with so many conflicting interests involved.’

There was a considerable silence.

‘Naturally you want to do the right thing,’ the voice suggested more calmly.

‘Naturally.’

Again the man fell silent.

‘This revelation changes everything,’ he said at last. ‘This is not the time or place to discuss it further, but I do urge you most strongly to take no further action of any kind until we contact you again.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Zen replied. ‘I don’t even know who you are. Suppose you step out of there and let me see your face.’

The sinister chuckle sounded again.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, dottore.’

Zen took the fake pistol from his pocket. He had been right to bring it after all.

‘You’re taking a big chance,’ he warned the man. ‘Supposing I decide to let someone else have the transcript instead?’

‘But how would you know it
was
someone else? You know nothing about us.’

One hand gripping the wooden railing, Zen raised himself painfully to a crouching position. Then he straightened up, gritting his teeth against the fierce aching of his knees. The revolver in one hand, he swept aside the heavy curtain covering the entrance to the confessional.

‘I do now!’ he cried.

He gazed wildly around. There was no one there. Then he heard the low chuckling once again. It was coming from a small two-way radio suspended from a nail which had been driven into the wall of the confessional, just below the grille.

‘You know nothing about us,’ the voice repeated. ‘Nothing at all.’

5

Ever since his transfer to the capital from Naples, Aurelio Zen had travelled to and from work by bus. His removal from active duty at the Questura at the time of the Aldo Moro kidnapping had had no effect on this, since the Ministry of the Interior – where he had been allocated a menial desk job – was only a few blocks from police headquarters. Even the opening of the new underground railway line had not induced him to change his habits, despite the fact that the terminus at Ottaviano was only a few blocks from his house, and the Termini stop a short walk from the Ministry. But experience showed that twenty minutes in the tunnels of the Metropolitana A left Zen’s day spavined before it had even begun. The bus journey was by no means an unrelieved joy, but at least it took place in a real city rather than that phantasmagoric subterranean realm of dismal leaky caverns which might equally well be in London, or New York – or indeed the next century.

Tania Biacis had changed Zen’s habits in this respect, as in so many others. They spent about three nights a week together, absences which Zen explained to his mother in terms of overtime or trips away from Rome. But whether Zen had slept at the flat or not, he and Tania travelled to work together by taxi every morning. It was yet another aspect of the new arrangement which was costing a small fortune, but it seemed worth it just to have that precious interval of time with Tania before they separated to go about their different jobs at the Ministry. He was perfectly willing to pay, Zen reflected as his taxi crossed Ponte Cavour on the way to Tania’s that Thursday morning. The problem was his ability.

The simple fact that was he could no longer go on supporting two households in this kind of style, and what was the point in doing it if not in style? Mistresses were not something you could get on the cheap, any more than champagne or caviar. They were a luxury, a self-indulgence for the rich. If you couldn’t afford them, you had to do without. Zen couldn’t do without Tania, but it was becoming clear that he couldn’t really afford her either – unless he found some way of making a large sum of money overnight. As the taxi turned right along the embankment of the Tiber, he found himself wondering idly how much the transcript of Ruspanti’s phone calls would fetch, assuming that his intuition about the hiding-place proved correct.