The Fourth K (43 page)

“Tell me,” Kennedy said, “how can you justify in your own heart the things you have done, your betrayals of human trust? I’ve read your dossier. How can any human being say to himself, I will better the world by killing innocent men, women and children, I will raise humanity out of its despair by betraying my best friend—all this without any authority given by God or his fellow beings. Compassion aside, how do you even dare to assume such power?”

Yabril waited courteously as if he expected another question. Then he said, “The acts I committed are not so bizarre as the press and moralists claim. What about your bomber pilots who rain down destruction as if the people below them were mere ants? Those good-hearted boys with every manly virtue. But they were taught to do their duty. I think I am no different. Yet I do not have the resources to drop death from thousands of feet in the air. Or naval guns that obliterate from twenty miles away. I must dirty my hands with blood. I must have moral strength, the mental purity to shed blood directly for the cause I believe in. Well, that is all terribly obvious, an old argument, and it seems cowardly to
even make it. But you say how do I have the courage to assume that authority without being approved by some higher source? That is more complicated. Let me believe that the suffering I have seen in my world has given me that authority. Let me say that the books I have read, the music I have heard, the example of far greater men than myself, have given me the strength to act on my own principles. It is more difficult for me than you who have the support of hundreds of millions and so commit your terror as a duty to them, as their instrument.”

Here Yabril paused to sip at his coffee cup. Then he went on with a calm dignity: “I have devoted my life to revolution against the established order, the authority I despise. I will die believing what I have done is right. And as you know, there is no moral law that exists forever.”

Finally Yabril was exhausted and stretched back in his chair, arms appearing broken from the restraints. Kennedy had listened without any sign of disapproval. He did not make any counterargument. There was a long silence and finally Kennedy said, “I can’t argue morality—basically, I’ve done what you have done. And as you say, it is easier to do when one does not personally bloody his hands. But again as you say, I act from a core of social authority, not out of my own personal animosity.”

Yabril interrupted him. “That is not correct. Congress did not approve your actions; neither did your Cabinet officers. Essentially you acted as I did, on your own personal authority. You are my fellow terrorist.”

Kennedy said, “But the people of my country, the electorate, approve.”

“The mob,” Yabril said. “They always approve. They refuse to foresee the dangers of such actions. What you did was wrong politically and morally. You acted on a desire for
personal vengeance.” Yabril smiled. “And I thought you would be above such an action. So much for morality.”

Kennedy was silent for a time as if giving careful consideration to his answer. Then he said, “I hope you’re wrong, time will tell. I want to thank you for speaking to me so frankly, especially since I understand you refused to cooperate in former interrogations. You know, of course, that the best law firm in the United States has been retained for you by the Sultan of Sherhaben and shortly they will be permitted to consult with you on your defense.”

Kennedy smiled and rose to leave the room. He was almost at the door when it swung open. Then as he was about to walk through it he heard Yabril’s voice. Yabril had struggled to his feet despite his restraints and fought to keep his balance. He was erect when he said, “Mr. President.” Kennedy turned to face him.

Yabril lifted his arms slowly, resting them crookedly under the nylon and wire jacket. “Mr. President,” he said again, “you do not deceive me. I know I will never see or talk to my lawyers.”

Christian had interposed his body between the two men and Jefferson was by Kennedy’s side.

Kennedy gave Yabril a cold smile. “You have my personal guarantee that you will see and talk to your lawyers,” he said, and walked out of the room.

At that moment Christian Klee felt an anguish close to nausea. He had always believed he knew Francis Kennedy but now he realized he did not. For in one clear moment he had seen a look of pure hatred on Kennedy’s face that was alien to everything in his character.

When Franco Sebbediccio was a little boy in Sicily he had chosen the side of law and order not only because it seemed the stronger side but because he loved the sweet consolation of living under strict rules of authority. The Mafia had been too impressionistic, the world of commerce too dicey, and so he had become a policeman and thirty years later was the head of the antiterrorist division of all Italy.

He now had under arrest the assassin of the Pope, a young Italian of good family named Armando Giangi, code-named Romeo. The code name irritated Sebbediccio intensely. Sebbediccio had incarcerated Romeo in the deepest cells of his Roman prison.

Under surveillance was Rita Fallicia, whose code name was Annee. She had been easy to track down because she had been a troublemaker since her teens, a firebrand at the university,
a pugnacious leader of demonstrations and linked to the abduction of a leading banker of Milan.

The evidence had come flooding in. The safe houses had been cleaned by the terrorist cadres, but those poor bastards had no way of knowing the scientific resources of a national police organization. There was a towel with traces of semen that identified Romeo. One of the captured men had given evidence under severe interrogation. But Sebbediccio had not arrested Annee. She was to remain free.

Franco Sebbediccio worried that the trial of these guilty parties would glorify the Pope’s murder and that they would become heroes and spend their prison sentences without too much discomfort. Italy did not have a death penalty, so they could receive only life imprisonment, which was a joke. With all the reduction of time for good behavior and the different conditions for amnesties they would be set free at a comparatively young age.

It would have been different if Sebbediccio could have conducted the interrogation of Romeo in a more serious fashion. But because this scoundrel had killed a Pope, his rights had become a cause in the Western world. There were protesters and human rights groups from Scandinavia and England and even letters from America. All these proclaimed that the two murderers must be handled humanely, not subjected to torture, not ill treated in any way. And orders had come down from the top: Don’t disgrace Italian justice with anything that might offend the left-wing parties in Italy. Kid gloves.

But he, Franco Sebbediccio, would cut through all the nonsense and send a message to the terrorists. Franco Sebbediccio was determined that this Romeo, this Armando Giangi, would commit suicide.

•  •  •

Romeo had spent his months in prison weaving a romantic dream. Alone in his cell he had chosen to fall in love with the American girl, Dorothea. He remembered her waiting for him at the airport, the tender scar on her chin. In his reveries, she seemed so beautiful, so kind. He tried to remember their conversation that last night he spent with her in the Hamptons. Now in his memory, it seemed to him that she had loved him. That her every gesture had dared him to declare his desire so that she could show her love. He remembered how she sat, so gracefully, so invitingly. How her eyes stared at him, great dark pools of blue, her white skin suffused with blushes. And now he cursed his timidity. He had never touched that skin. He remembered the long slim legs and imposed them around his neck. He imagined the kisses he would rain on her hair, her eyes, the length of her lithe body.

And then Romeo dreamed of how she stood in the sunlight, draped in chains, staring at him in reproach and despair. He weaved fantasies of the future. She would serve only a short term in prison. She would be waiting for him. And he would be freed. By amnesty or by the trading of hostages, perhaps by pure Christian mercy. And then he would find her.

There were nights when he despaired and thought of Yabril’s treachery. The murder of Theresa Kennedy had never been in the plan, and he believed in his heart that he would never have consented to such an act. He felt a disgust for Yabril, for his own beliefs, for his own life. Sometimes he would weep quietly in the darkness. Then he would console himself and lose himself in his fantasies of Dorothea. It was false, he knew. It was a weakness, he knew, but he could not help himself.

•  •  •

Romeo in his bare cell received Franco Sebbediccio with a sardonic grin. He could see the hatred in this old man’s peasant eyes, could sense his bewilderment that a person from a good family who enjoyed a pleasant, luxurious life could become a revolutionary. He was also aware that Sebbediccio was frustrated that the international public watch restrained him from treating his prisoner as brutally as he might wish.

Sebbediccio had himself locked in with the prisoner, the two of them alone with two guards and an observer from the governor’s office watching but unable to hear from right outside the door. It was almost as if the burly older man were inviting some sort of attack. But Romeo knew that it was simply that the older man had confidence in the authority of his position. Romeo had a contempt for this kind of man, rooted in law and order, handcuffed by his beliefs and bourgeois moral standards. Therefore he was extremely surprised when Sebbediccio said to him casually, but in a very low voice, “Giangi, you are going to make life easier for everyone. You are going to commit suicide.”

Romeo laughed. “No, I’m not, I’ll be out of jail before you die of high blood pressure and ulcers. I’ll walk the streets of Rome when you’re lying in your family cemetery. I’ll come and sing to the angels on your tombstone. I’ll be whistling when I walk away from your grave.”

Sebbediccio said patiently, “I just wanted to let you know that you and your cadre are going to commit suicide. Two of my men were killed by your friends to intimidate me and my associates. Your suicides will be my answer.”

Romeo said, “I can’t please you. I’m enjoying life too much. And with all the world watching, you don’t dare to even give me a good kick in the ass.”

Sebbediccio gave him a benevolent smile. He had an ace in the hole.

Romeo’s father, who all his life had done nothing for humanity, had done something for his son. He had shot himself. A Knight of Malta, father of the murderer of the Pope, a man who had lived his whole life for his own selfish pleasure, he had unfathomably decided to don the mantle of guilt.

When Romeo’s newly widowed mother asked to visit her son in his prison cell and was refused, the newspapers took up her cause. The telling blow was struck by Romeo’s defense lawyer as he was interviewed on television. “For God’s sake, he just wants to see his mother.” Which struck a responsive chord not only in Italy but all over the Western world. Many newspapers gave it a front-page headline, quoting verbatim, “For God’s sake, he just wants to see his mother!”

Which was not strictly true: Romeo’s mother wanted to see him, he did not want to see her.

With pressure so great, the government was forced to allow Mother Giangi to visit her son. Which enraged Franco Sebbediccio, who had opposed this visit; he wanted to keep Romeo in seclusion, to keep him cut off from the outside world. What kind of a world was it that dared grant such kindness to the killer of a Pope? But the governor of the prison overrode him.

The governor had a palatial office and summoned Sebbediccio to it. He said, “My dear sir, I have my instructions, the visit is to be allowed. And not in his cell, where the conversation can be monitored, but in this office itself. With nobody within earshot, but recorded by cameras in the last five minutes of the hour—after all, the media must be allowed to profit.”

Sebbediccio said, “And for what reason is this allowed?”

The governor gave him the smile he usually reserved for the prisoners and the members of his staff who had become almost like the prisoners themselves. “For a son to see his widowed mother. What could be more sacred?”

Sebbediccio said harshly, “A man who murders the Pope? He has to see his mother?”

The governor shrugged. “Those far above us have decided. Reconcile yourself. Also, the defense lawyer insists that this office be swept for bugs, so don’t think you can plant electronic gear.”

“Ah,” Sebbediccio said, “and how is the lawyer going to do the debugging?”

“He will hire his own electronic specialists,” the governor said. “They will do their job in the lawyer’s presence immediately before the meeting.”

Sebbediccio said, “It is essential, it is vital that we hear that conversation between them.”

“Nonsense,” the governor said. “His mother is your typical rich Roman matron. She knows nothing and he would never confide anything of importance to her. This is just another silly episode in the quite ridiculous drama of our times. Don’t take it seriously.”