The Public Prosecutor (6 page)

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Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor
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“We should put this in the fridge.”
“Whatever you say, Dad.”
He held back, remembering the time he had stingingly reacted to her remark as if it were yesterday.
They went into the front hall, where her “horse collection” was displayed on an out-of-place empire chest of drawers. The showpiece was a polychrome Chinese wooden horse with saddle but without rider, which he had bought her for her birthday from an antique dealer on Brussels’s Zavel market.
The living room with its rustic open hearth was soberly furnished, if one did not count the enormous white leather sofa and the twenty or so cuddly toys stacked side by side and on top of one another in the middle. A couple of Henry Alken hunting scenes decorated the walls, not unlike his house on Amerikalei. A .22 FN Trombone rifle graced one of the corners.
She relaxed in an armchair, lit a cigarette and absently flicked through a copy of
Vogue
. He made his way to the kitchen, placed the bag in the fridge and moved on to the bedroom. When he returned five minutes later in riding breeches and boots, tweed jacket and riding hat, she looked at her watch.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“OK.” She stubbed out her cigarette determinedly.
The gaunt, pale-faced priest stared unwaveringly at the blue-suited woman lying flat on her belly on the floor of the crypt, her arms outstretched, in front of a solid silver railing, the massive marble tomb behind it covered with lilies and engulfed by a vague smell of vanilla. The crypt had an extraordinary oval shape surrounded by a wooden gallery on the ground floor and what appeared to be a second level. The gallery was filled with pews where women either leaned forward with their hands over their eyes as if deep in prayer, stared into the distance or took notes in a writing pad. It was deathly quiet. Every now and then a woman would leave the gallery, noiselessly passing the woman on the floor without disturbing her. The women were dressed for the most part in the same black or grey knee-length skirts, white long-sleeved blouses, flat shoes and pallid nylon stockings. They wore their hair short and there was no evidence of make-up. They walked to the railing, to which a round silver medallion depicting the head of a man in relief had been fastened, touched it with their right hands and raised it to their lips. They remained standing with their heads bowed for a few seconds and then left the crypt.
The priest watched motionlessly as the woman on the floor struggled to her feet. The woman looked at him. He returned a brief nod. Both touched the medal, raised their hands to their lips, and made their way silently to the exit. They found themselves in a corridor with bare marble walls, ascended a flight of stairs and entered a chapel with a simple altar and a red sanctuary lamp. They both kneeled and crossed themselves, walked through the room and ascended another flight of stairs, steep and narrow as a mine shaft. The priest took the lead, climbing two stairs at a time. The woman was unable to keep up the pace and stopped halfway, out of breath. The priest continued. At the top of the stairs he looked down at the woman with what appeared to be a derisive sneer on his face. He glanced at his watch and waited. The woman slowly climbed the remaining stairs.
“Forgive me, Father,” she gasped. “I’m not as fit as I used to be.”
The priest pretended not to have heard her.
After a maze of corridors and stairs, some leading upwards, some downwards, they arrived back in the corridor with the portrait, where they stood for a moment. The priest walked to the parlour door, opened it with brusque impatience and invited her to lead the way.
They sat in the same chairs as they had an hour before.
He ill-temperedly opened the file, which was still lying on the table, removed a sheet of paper with a typed text, tapped his glasses and started to read.
The woman fished a handkerchief from her handbag and blew her nose. He looked up for an instant, put down the sheet of paper and turned his gaze to the ceiling. “Your father,” he commenced, “appears to have bequeathed you -
inter vivos
- a portion of the family property, consisting of a penthouse apartment in Knokke-het Zoute, a villa with garden, pool and concierge in Wijnegem, and fourteen acres of woodland in the Belgian Ardennes. Am I correct?” “Indeed, yes—” Her voice was toneless.
“And was there an agreement to share assets?”
“Of course not—”
“So you have full title to the assets?”
“Yes—”
“Shares and bonds? Money? Other resources?”
“No, Father,” she answered almost inaudibly.
“Are you telling me the truth?” he asked with a penetrating look.
She sat upright and said: “What do you think?”
“Personally, I have no thoughts on the matter, but Saying 367 of our holy founder,
Il Beato
Josemaría’s
The Way
states: ‘Even the most exquisite dish turns into pork if it is eaten by a pig. Let us not be
animals
like so many.’”
“What are you implying, Father?”
“What am I implying?”
“Yes.”
“That liars are worse than
animals
! That’s what I’m implying.”
“There are shares to the value of roughly ten million Belgian francs…”
He whacked the table with the flat of his hand, snorted and started to laugh scornfully. “Is that everything?”
She nodded and hung her head.
“Look,” the priest continued, “before we go any further, allow me to ask you a pertinent question: do you still wish us to negotiate with the Belgian Royal Family on the question of an aristocratic title for your husband, a hereditary title that would pass to your two sons?”
The woman sat upright and a self-satisfied smile appeared on her lips. “My dearest wish, Father. Public Prosecutor General Savelkoul is a commoner and unfortunately my sons bear his name…”
“We are aware of this.”
She said nothing and stared at him anxiously. He waited, evidently searching for the correct words. He then spoke with hesitation, as if his sentences were divided into segments.
“We are prepared… to intervene… with the Private Secretary to His Majesty King of the Belgians… The man is one of our cooperators. He is well disposed towards us, although not a member.”
“Precisely…”
“He has so much influence… A recommendation from him… always meets with a positive response… from His Majesty… We speak from experience… His coat of arms does not bear the emblem
Dieu est Mon Epée
for nothing…”
He closed the file and looked beyond her to the figureless cross on the wall.
“We have a notary in Belgium, a supernumerary member of Opus Dei, prepared to do whatever is necessary…”
“Whatever is necessary?”
“He will fill you in on the details,” he responded arrogantly.
“Surely not the entire family patrimony?…”
“Rest assured, you will have enough left to live according to your station in life.”
The woman nodded.
The priest leaned forward and grinned victoriously. “Now to a completely different matter…”
She looked at him.
“I suppose you are aware of the… er… the Public Prosecutor’s extramarital
behaviour
?”
The woman closed her eyes, her frown coinciding with a painful twitching.
“Is my question clear enough?”
She nodded in the affirmative.
“
Alors
…”
“I have known about it for a long time, Father.”
“How long exactly?”
“Almost fifteen years.”
“Do you know the woman?”
“I have never seen her. I don’t even know her name.”
“Do you know where they meet?”
“No. I have never tried to find out.”
The priest pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “I’m sure you are aware that the committee of inquiry into the suitability of a candidate for a title is particularly strict on ethical matters.”
“I come from a noble family myself, Father.”
The priest’s eyes narrowed. “
Il Beato
Josemaría was Marquis of Perálta, young lady.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“
Basta!
When do you return to Belgium?”
“My airline ticket is open-ended.”
“
Muy bien
. There is a retreat for young ladies being conducted here in the house at present. Would you like to participate?”
She nodded.
“
Muy bien
. Let me sum things up: the moment you are back in Belgium, you will contact the notary we spoke about and make the necessary arrangements.”
“And my husband?”
“What do you mean? You did not agree to share your assets when you married. There should be no problem.”
“No, the other matter—”
“
Distinguo!
” he snapped, using a typically Jesuit term for discerning the difference between truth and illusion adopted by Opus Dei. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Can I still count on Opus Dei mediation with His Majesty’s private secretary? I happen to know Pierre…”
The priest turned white as chalk.
“
Ma fille
, what do you want? Do
we
arrange things or would you prefer to do it yourself?”
“I will keep a low profile, Father,” she whispered. The matter clearly troubled her.
Once again, the priest pressed his thumb and forefinger together as if he was handing out Communion and said: “Women have no need to be intelligent, only dedicated and careful. And do not forget: the sanctity demanded of us by the Lord is founded on three pillars: sacred daring, sacred compulsion and sacred brazenness! We are merely
instruments
in His hands.”
He stood up abruptly and thrust his chair noisily under the table. “Let me bring you to the retreat house.”
She got to her feet and followed him, head bowed, along the marble corridor towards the elevator. The priest pressed the call button, stood stock-still on the tips of his toes, closed his eyes and waited like a statue, his fingers stiffly intertwined against his midriff, his knuckles white, the leather file clasped firmly as if he feared he might lose it.
 
After accompanying the Belgian woman to the retreat house, situated in the west wing of the building, which had served as the residence of the Hungarian ambassador to the Holy See until 1945, the priest made his way to his office on the fourth floor. The room was spacious, high-ceilinged and furnished with simple but expensive furniture, the centrepiece a modern desk with a telephone and switchboard, a black Artemide halogen reading lamp, a small wooden crucifix within hand’s reach, and nothing else. Two life-size framed photographs adorned the wall opposite, one of John Paul II, whose cunning old man’s scowl made him appear angry, and one of El Padre, Monsignor Josemaría Escrivá de Balaguer y Albás, founder of Opus Dei. It was a copy of the altarpiece from the Ardeatino, Rome’s Opus Dei Church, and presented him
in pluviale
, dressed in a gold-embroidered cope that accentuated the narrowness of his shoulders, blessing the faithful with a deeply furrowed brow, a discreet halo around his head.
An IBM Aptiva computer, a laser printer/fax, a large photocopier and an enormous widescreen TV graced a long table against another wall.
The priest, Joaquín Pla y Daniel, procurator of the Opus Dei (responsible for relationships with the Holy See), was the great nephew of Cardinal Pla y Daniel - known in his day for his ultra-conservative stance - Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain until his death in 1967.
He rolled back his chair, sat down, placed the leather file in front of him on the desk, the file he had reviewed with the “young lady”. He stared vacantly into space for a time, reached out to the crucifix for a second, took off his glasses, carefully polished the lenses with a white handkerchief, returned them to their place, and pushed a button on the switchboard, which connected him automatically to a specific number. He left the receiver in the cradle and waited, his back rigid and tense.

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