Costa 08 - City of Fear (2 page)

Even—and this was a forlorn hope, he knew—some small note of concern about his driver, Elena Majewska, everyone’s favorite, shot in the chest as the two vehicles blocked his government car in the narrow street of Via delle Quattro Fontane, at the junction with the road to the Quirinale. It was such a familiar Roman crossroads, next to Borromini’s fluid baroque masterpiece of San Carlino, a church he loved deeply and would visit often if he had time during his lunch break from the Interior Ministry building around the corner.

They could have snatched him that day from beneath Borromini’s dome, with its magnificent dove of peace, descending to earth from Heaven. He’d needed a desperate fifteen-minute respite from sessions with the Americans, the Russians, the British, the Germans.… Eight nations, eight voices, each different, each seeking its own outcome. The phrase that was always used about the G8—the “industrialized nations”—struck him as somewhat ironic as he listened to the endless bickering about diplomatic rights and protocols, about who should stand where and with whom. Had some interloper approached him during his brief recess that day, Batisti would have glanced at Borromini’s extraordinary interior one last time, then walked into his captor’s arms immediately. Anything but another session devoted to the rites and procedures of diplomatic life.

Then he remembered again, with a sudden, painful seizure of guilt, the driver. Did Elena—a young, pretty single mother who’d moved to Rome from Poland to find security and a better life—survive? If so, what could she tell the police? What was there to say about a swift and unexpected explosion of violence in the black sultry velvet of a Roman summer night? The attack had happened so quickly and with such brutish force that Batisti was still unsure how many men had been involved. Perhaps no more than three or four, to judge from the pair of vehicles blocking the way. The area was empty. He was without a bodyguard. An opposition politician drafted into the organization team was deemed not to need a bodyguard, even in the heightened security that preceded the summit. Not a single sentence was spoken as they dragged him from the rear seat, wrapped a blindfold tightly around his head, fired—three,
four times?—into the front, then bundled him into the trunk of some large vehicle and drove a short distance to their destination.

Were they now issuing ransom demands? Did his wife, who was with her family in Milan, discussing a forthcoming family wedding, know what was happening?

There were no answers, only questions. Giovanni Batisti was forty-eight years old and felt as if he’d stepped back into a past that Italy hoped was behind it. The dismal seventies and eighties, the “Years of Lead.” A time when academics and lawyers and politicians were routinely kidnapped by the shadowy criminals of the Red Brigades and their partners in terrorism, held for ransom, tortured, then left bloodied and broken as some futile lesson to those in authority. Or dead. Like Aldo Moro, the former prime minister, seized in 1978, held captive for fifty-six days before being shot ten times in the chest and dumped in the trunk of a car in the Via Caetani.

“Look at me,” a voice from ahead of him ordered.

Batisti closed his eyes, kept them tightly shut. “I do not wish to compromise you, sir. I have a wife. Two sons. One is eight. One is ten. I love them. I wish you no harm. I wish no one any harm. These matters can and will be resolved through dialogue, one way or another. I believe that of everything. In this world, I have to.” He found his mouth was dry, his lips felt painful as he licked them. “If you know me, you know I am a man of the left. The causes you espouse are often the causes I have argued for. The methods—”

“What do you know of our causes?”

“I … I have some money,” Batisti stuttered. “Not of my own, you understand. My father. Perhaps if I might make a phone call?”

“This is not about
money,”
the voice said, and it sounded colder than ever. “Look at me or I will shoot you this instant.”

Batisti opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, across the bare, dreary room. The man seated opposite him was perhaps forty. Or a little older, his own age even. Professional-looking. Maybe an academic himself. Not a factory worker, not someone who had risen from poverty, pulled up by his own boot laces. There was a cultured timbre to his voice, one that spoke of education and a middle-class upbringing. A keen, incisive intelligence burned in his dark eyes. His face was leathery
and tanned as if it had spent too long under a bright, burning sun. He would once have been handsome, but his craggy features were marred by a network of frown lines, on the forehead, at the edge of his broad, full-lipped mouth, which looked as if a smile had never crossed it in years. His long, unkempt hair seemed unnaturally gray and was wavy, shiny with some kind of grease. A mark of vanity. Like the black clothes, which were not inexpensive. Revolutionaries usually knew how to dress. The man opposite him had the scarred visage of a movie actor who had fallen on hard times. Something about him seemed distantly familiar, which seemed a terrible thought.

“Behold, I will make a covenant.…”

“I heard you the first time,” Batisti sighed.

“What does it mean?”

The politician briefly closed his eyes. “The Bible?” he guessed, tiring of this game. “One of the Old Testament horrors, I imagine. Like Leviticus. I have no time for such devils, I’m afraid. Who needs them?”

The man reached down to retrieve something, then placed the object on the table. It was Batisti’s own laptop computer, which had sat next to him in the back of the official car.

“Cave eleven at Qumran. The Temple Scroll. Not quite the Old Testament, but in much the same vein.”

“It’s a long time since I was a professor,” Batisti confessed. “The Dead Sea was never my field. Nor rituals. About sacrifice or anything else.”

“I’m aware of your field of expertise.”

“I was no expert. I was a child, looking for knowledge. It could have been anything.”

“And then you left the university for politics. For power.”

Batisti shook his head. This was unfair, ridiculous. “What power? I spend my day trying to turn the tide a little in the way of justice, as I see it. I earn no more now than I did then. Had I written the books I wanted to …”

Great, swirling stories, popular novels of the ancients, of heroism and dark deeds. He would never get round to them. He understood that.

“It’s a long time since I spoke to an academic. You were a professor of ancient history. Greek and Roman?”

Batisti nodded. “A middling one. An overoptimistic decoder of impossible mysteries. Nothing more. You kidnap me, you shoot my driver, in order to discuss history?”

The figure in black reached into his jacket and withdrew a short, bulky weapon. “A man with a gun may ask anything.”

Giovanni Batisti was astonished to discover that his fear was rapidly being consumed by a growing sense of outrage.

“I am a servant of the people. I have never sought to do anyone ill. I have voted and spoken against every policy, national and international, with which I disagree. My conscience is clear. Is
yours?”

The man in black scowled. “You read too much Latin and too little English. ‘
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.’”

“I don’t imagine you brought me here to quote Shakespeare. What do you want?” Batisti demanded.

“In the first instance? I require the unlock code for this computer. After that, I wish to hear everything you know about the arrangements that will be made to guard the great gentlemen who are now in Rome to safeguard this glorious society of ours.” The man scratched his lank gray hair. “Or is that
theirs?
Excuse my ignorance. I’ve been out of things for a little while.”

“And after that you will kill me?”

The man seemed puzzled by the question.

“No, no, no. After that
he
will kill you.”

The man nodded toward the back of the room, then gestured for someone to come forward.

Giovanni Batisti watched and felt his blood freeze.

The newcomer must have sat silent throughout. Perhaps he was in the other car when they seized him at the crossroads.

He looked like a golden boy, a powerfully built youth, naked except for a crude loincloth. His skin was the color of a cinematic Mediterranean god. His hair was burnished yellow, long and curled like a cherub from Raphael. Bright blue paint was smeared roughly on his face and chest.

“We require a sign,” the man in black added, reaching into his pocket and taking out an egg. “My friend here is no ordinary man. He can foretell the future through the examination of the entrails and internal
organs. This makes him a …” He stared at the ceiling, as if searching for the word.

“A haruspex,” Batisti murmured.

“Exactly,” the man agreed. “Should our act of divination be fruitful …”

The painted youth was staring at him, like a muscular halfwit. Batisti could see what appeared to be a butcher’s knife in his right hand.

On the table, a pale brown hen’s egg sat in a saucer with a scallop-shell edge.

The man with the gun said, in a clear, firm voice,
“Ta Sacni!”
Then he leaned forward and, in a mock whisper behind his hand, told Batisti, “This is more your field than mine. I think that means, ‘This is the sanctuary.’ Do tell me if we get anything wrong.”

The golden boy stepped forward and stood behind him. In his left hand was a small bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water. His eyes were very blue and open, as if he were drugged. He bent down, gazed at the egg, and then listened, rapt, captivated, as the man in black began to chant in a dry, passionless voice, “Aplu. Phoebos. Apollo. Delian. Pythian. Lord of Delphi. Guardian of the Sibyls. Or by whatever other name you wish to be called. I pray and beseech you that you may by your majesty be propitious and well disposed to me, for which I offer this egg. If I have worshipped you and still do worship you, you who taught mankind the art of prophecy, you who have inspired my divination, then come now and show your signs that I might know the will of the gods! I seek to understand the secret ways into the Palace of the Pope.
Thui Srenar Tev.”

Show me the signs now
, Batisti translated in his head.

The youth spilled the water onto the table. The knife came down and split the egg in two.

The older one leaned over, sniffed, and said, “Looks like yolk and albumen to me. But what do I know? He’s the haruspex.”

“I cannot tell you what you want to know,” Batisti murmured. “You must appreciate that.”

“That is both very brave and extremely unfortunate. Though not entirely unexpected.”

The naked youth was running his fingers through the egg in the
saucer. The man pushed his hand away. The creature obeyed, immediately, a sudden fearful and subservient look in his eye.

“I want the code for your computer,” the older one ordered. “You will give it to me. One way or another.”

Batisti said nothing, merely closed his eyes for a moment and wished he retained sufficient faith to pray.

“I’m more valuable to you alive than dead. Tell the authorities what you want. They will negotiate.”

“They didn’t negotiate for Aldo Moro. You think some junior political hack is worth more than a prime minister?” He seemed impatient, as if this were all a tedious game. “You’ve been out of the real world too long, Batisti. These people smile at you and pat your little head, caring nothing. These”—he dashed the saucer and the broken egg from the table—“toys are beneath us. Remember your Bible.
‘When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. For now we see in a mirror dimly …’
”

Batisti recalled little of his Catholic upbringing. It seemed distant, as if it had happened to someone else. This much of the verses he remembered, though.

“‘But faith, hope, love, abide these three,’”
he said quietly.
“‘And the greatest of these is love.’”

“Not so much of that about these days,” the silver-haired man replied mournfully. “Is there?”

Then he nodded at the golden boy by his side, waiting, tense and anxious, for something to begin.

THE PEALS FROM THE NEARBY CLOCK TOWER CUT through the muffled rumble of late-afternoon traffic. In his mind’s eye Gianni Peroni could imagine the slender white campanile that sat atop the great palace on the hill above them. The Italian tricolor fluttered at the summit, the blue European flag beneath, both accompanied, if the president was in residence, by his own personal standard on the other. All three flew at half-mast during times of national mourning. Perhaps that would happen soon, Peroni thought with regret.

At that moment he felt every day of his fifty-three years. His hefty muscular frame ached from the hours he’d spent on the cobbled streets of the
centro storico
, and his mind was numb from staring at so many blank faces regarding him with trepidation and a little fear. He knew he wasn’t the prettiest cop on the beat. The physical slashes that marked his cheeks like knife scars saw to that. No stranger opening the door to him could possibly guess that the appearance he gave—so rough, so intimidating—was nothing like the man himself, until he spoke, kindly, with a keen, bright diligence and genuine emotion.