Shout in the Dark (9 page)

"
And
is
that what
you're telling me, Your Eminence?"

"
The inclusion of modern resins certainly explains why the
object broke into so many pieces. But, Sartini, you must understand
that there is still a considerable way for us to go in our
inquiry." The Cardinal turned through his papers. "Monsignor
Giorgio here will be in charge of investigating the authenticity of
the so-called relic."

The small Monsignor raised his head
haughtily at the mention of his name. Marco had encountered men
like Augusto Giorgio before. Men who worried about their self
importance.

"
Sartini, we are here today to consider your own ...
position within the Church," continued Cardinal Amendola with a
barely perceptible uncertainty in his voice. "I have been examining
your records, and what do I find?" He paused, looked up, then
returned to his notes, staring at them through his heavy rimmed
glasses. "I find a young man who was connected with a woman's death
in suspicious circumstances below the Via Sistina six years ago. An
episode with certain inconsistencies in the evidence. You were
perhaps fortunate to escape serious charges over your involvement.
I find that you then became a second-hand car salesman, a womanizer
-- an open womanizer, who was once married."

"
The woman who died was my wife," said Marco
quietly.

"
Yes, quite." Amendola coughed to cover his confusion. "I am
sorry if ... if I sounded callous. But no matter the reason by
which you are now free of that bond, such a man is not everyone's
idea of a priest who would be suitable to take up duties in his
first parish. If you had behaved more responsibly last night, you
would not be here now. Do I make myself clear?"

Marco refused to nod in the assent. He
looked straight ahead.

Amendola continued with his sermon. "Very
well, I must warn you that you may be required to appear here on a
future occasion to answer further questions. I shall now read my
provisional judgment, and we can terminate this
meeting."

The Cardinal stood, as though preparing to
deliver the death sentence on behalf of the Inquisition. Marco rose
with him, standing to attention.

"
Marco Sartini, this is a panel of inquiry, not an official
ecclesiastical court. Your position will be considered in detail
over the coming weeks. In the meantime, using the powers of the
Holy Church committed to me, I direct that until the investigation
is complete you are relieved of all duties pertaining to the
ordination of the priesthood. That will be all."

Marco stared back. Reprimands he could
cope with, but the Church was now his life, and his future had just
been sliced away. And he'd come here prepared to go down
fighting!

Amendola almost managed a hint of a smile.
"Sometimes these matters are simply a formality, Sartini. You will
remain here with Father Josef, as there is apparently a matter he
wishes to discuss with you. I need hardly add that you are not to
make any sort of statement on today's inquiry, either publicly or
privately. And certainly not to television companies."

It was probably an attempt at humor by
Amendola's standards. Marco refrained from responding. He stayed on
his feet as the Cardinal and his entourage swept out of the
chamber. Father Josef came over and put his right arm around him.
The comforting hold was clearly a pledge of friendship, which Marco
received with relief.

"
Cheer up, Father Marco. Amendola is, I think you would
agree, rather heavy on formalities. But his bark is possibly worse
than his bite. Possibly. And he may not always mean to frighten.
Now, we have some serious business to discuss."

Marco wasn't going to hide his anger.
Relieved of his position of assistant parish priest -- and he had
not even started to be one yet! But whatever he was expecting next,
he was completely unprepared for the old man's startling
proposition.

Chapter
9

Via Nazionale

MANFRED KESSEL turned to Karl
Bretz.
"Always remember
the Fatherland, Karl. How can you be a true German if you do not
put the future of the Fatherland first?"

Karl's response was to push Kessel
backwards in anger. Kessel felt himself falling, but to his relief
he ended up sprawled across the narrow hotel bed.

"
Me
be a
true German, Herr Kessel?" Karl stood over him, sounding and
looking threatening. "You've done nothing but shout at me since we
came to this stupid place. My father said you were born a Jew.
You're a
Mischling!
"

The accusation was explosive. "You'd
better tell me what you mean, Karl!" Kessel stood up quickly, but
kept his distance.

"
It's common knowledge about you and your Jewish blood, Herr
Kessel. You walk around as though you're a true German, but you're
a bastard. A true
Bastard
. So
don't keep on at me about failure."

Kessel stared at Karl, his dread of being
found out finally realized. If it was common knowledge, as Karl
claimed, how strange it was that he had never heard the
whispers.

He responded warily. "Do you think I would
have been entrusted with finding the relic -- of setting up the
Shrine of Unity -- if what you're saying is true?"

"
Entrusted?" Karl asked in derision. "No one in the ADR
knows we're here. Phönix would have been thrilled to bits if you'd
dropped the head of a Jew on his desk!"

"
A Jew? Do you really think true Christians worship a Hebrew
God? If God came to Earth, it wouldn't have been as a
Jew!"

"
All I know is that my father joked about you being Jewish,
Herr Kessel. A Jewish Italian! Don't lecture me on being a true
German, because I am one and you're not!
In Ordnung
-- all right!"

Kessel could only shake his head. "You've
totally overstepped the line, Karl Bretz. I will personally make
sure your insubordination is dealt with when we return to
Germany."

KARL STORMED OUT of the hotel and crossed
into the busy Via Nazionale. To be honest, he was glad to be shot
of Herr Kessel for a couple of hours. It was time to be alone, to
become familiar with the layout of the streets.

He doubted
whether Herr Kessel had the power to cause trouble
back in Germany, but he wished he'd not let himself be riled by the
pompous old
Narr
. He
wondered why he'd invented the bit about common knowledge. As far
as he knew no one in the ADR had mentioned it -- but on several
occasions his father had laughingly accused Herr Kessel of being a
Jew, though not often to his face. It might be true. The man spoke
Italian too well to be an Aryan.

Once he found the priest, he knew what to
do. He even knew the exact words from the training manual.
Find where the
target lives, then keep watch. Study the target's movements,
observe, and finally execute
. They had trained him to be observant, and trained him to
act on his observations. But the chances of recognizing Sartini
amongst the million faces in Rome were ridiculous. Herr Kessel
should contact Phönix immediately for expert help. A man like
Phönix, a man at the top of
Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung
, would be able to obtain an address for
Sartini, using help within the Vatican. But the old
Narr
was definitely worried about
Phönix. Obviously they shouldn't have come to Rome without his
permission.

Away from the security of the cheap hotel,
Karl walked with an unaccustomed feeling of anxiety, in spite of
his size. The hotel rooms were cramped and stuffy, but at least
there was safety there. He had no particular route in mind, and no
interest at all in seeing the tourist sights of this crumbling
city. He needed time to think. Perhaps someone had photographed him
during the raid -- although the only pictures in the papers this
morning showed the outside of TV Roma and the broken glass. It was
like
Kristallnacht
come to Rome.

The red baseball cap and blue American
sweatshirt, bought hurriedly by Herr Kessel in the local market
early this morning, probably provided sufficient cover for now.
Back in Düsseldorf, Karl knew that dressed like this he would stand
out as an undesirable foreigner. In Rome he just blended in with
all the stupid people.

The perspiration began to run down his
back, making the horrible American clothing feel tight and
uncomfortable. His old black T-shirt had been so light. He paused
to look in a jeweler's window. He'd promised himself a gold ring
with some of his father's money. His mother had immediately taken
charge of it, but there had been an account she was not aware of.
Copying his father's signature to get the money had been easy: the
training weekends had shown how to do it.

On the opposite side of the street three
men stood on the sidewalk out of the sun, tinkering with a black
moped. A trickle of dark oil had run from the engine and was
spreading slowly across the dusty sidewalk.

He watched the men's reflections in the
window of the jeweler's. Was it possible the Italian
carabinieri
had put them there to spy on
him? He continued looking in the window while the men joked amongst
themselves. One of them lit a cigarette. Karl decided to walk on,
but he'd take his time by playing the lethargic tourist. When he
rounded the corner he stopped, positioning himself in a spacious
doorway leading to a cool courtyard, unaware that it was already
occupied.

DAVID SIMPSON was English, on holiday from
Birmingham, and alone. After an overnight stay at the youth hostel
he had come down to the center of Rome on the crowded, bright
orange tram. Trams and buses were a brilliant way to travel, and he
felt excited that he had managed to get around Rome all morning
without buying a ticket
-- an achievement high on his list of money-saving
triumphs. He dumped his backpack on the ground and studied the
map.

A large man in the bright clothes, dressed
like an American, appeared without warning and began kicking
against the backpack. As he started to open his mouth in protest,
David Simpson noticed just how big the man looked. He allowed one
more kick, then picked the backpack up.

"
So sorry," he muttered. "I expect it was in your way."
Discretion was the better part of velour, that's what his mother
always said. It was discreet to leave this big ape alone. He swung
the backpack onto one shoulder and walked off down the street,
wondering just how cheaply he could get a meal round
here.

KARL WATCHED THE thin man walk away.
Another foreigner clogging up the streets, with a great big
backpack to get in everyone
's way. Stupid baggy shorts and brown woolen socks rolled
down to the ankles. English for sure. Karl waited precisely three
minutes, then returned to the jeweler's window. The men were still
joking, and the moped was still dripping oil onto the
ground.

He realized just how much he hated Rome --
and it was all Herr Kessel's fault. Kessel? The name had not always
been Kessel. When his father had first brought Herr Kessel home,
years ago, he had been using an Italian name. Enzo something. Yes,
Enzo Bastiani.

So, Herr Kessel really
was
a sham -- a
Mischling
. Everyone in the ADR probably knew it; his father would
certainly have known it. He could remember Herr Kessel's first
visit, especially the blond hair and his ill-mannered lack of
interest in the family. His father's Jewish joke was probably
true.

Herr Kessel seemed to be a man haunted by
the past, always reading about the war. He had been rambling on
yesterday about battles between crack German troops and partisans
in the Corso d'Italia. Perhaps Herr Kessel's Corso d'Italia was
somewhere near. Without a map and unable to speak the language,
there was little chance of finding it.

A McDonald's fast food restaurant must be
somewhere close. That was the third advertizing sign he'd seen.
Although not a great fan of their food, Karl knew that hamburgers
would be easy to order just by pointing at the menu, and they
probably tasted better than some of the unpalatable garbage being
served in Rome's noisy bars.

Turning the corner again, following the
McDonald's arrow, he glanced back. The three men were still
standing, laughing together as they wiped their hands on an oily
rag being passed around.

He felt puzzled by his own behavior.
Attacking that security guard in the elevator had been stupid. He'd
over-reacted, and over-reaction was something he'd been trained to
avoid. Now he was worrying about three dozy Italians with a broken
moped. He clenched his fists and tightened his arm
muscles.

Suddenly he became aware he was on the Via
Sistina, one of Herr Kessel's famous roads where Nazi troops had
been stationed. All round here was real history. Herr Kessel had
pointed out roads like the Via Sistina and the Via Tasso on the
map. Never mind the shoddy Roman ruins, this could be what
sightseeing was all about.