A Woman Involved (35 page)

He was told that the next bus left in forty minutes, to Valtourneche. He bought a ticket, and left the square. He stopped at a souvenir shop and bought a pair of sunglasses, an envelope, and stamps. He went back to the bar.

He ordered coffee, and sat in a corner where he could watch the door. He wrote a letter to the shop in Zermatt from which he had rented the skis and boots. He explained he had hurt himself and told them where the gear was.

Then he sat and drank the coffee, waiting for the minutes to pass. Trying to maintain the reckless calm.

He left the bar after twenty-five minutes. He stopped at a money-changer and converted a thousand dollars into Italian lira. He posted the letter.

The bus was waiting, its engine rumbling.

He sat at the very back. About a dozen people got on after him. None paid any attention to him.

It was a long five minutes’ waiting. More people came aboard. Then the door closed with a hiss. And Morgan closed his eyes in relief.

The bus moved off.

A hundred yards down the road he saw her.

He slumped low in his seat. She was walking hurriedly, towards the square. The bus rumbled past her.

It was early morning when his train pulled into Orvieto, south of Florence. It was cold and misty. He asked at the ticket office where the bus station was. It was still dark when he got there but the café was open. He caught the next bus to Rome.

It was just after ten o’clock that November morning when he arrived in the suburbs of Rome. He walked a few blocks, until he saw a taxi. He told the driver to take him to the Colosseum.

From here he knew his way to the centre of the city. He walked up the hill, alongside the Esquilino park, to Via Merulana. He stopped at a store selling electrical goods. He bought the cheapest portable tape-recorder. Then he came to the cathedral of Santa María: a few blocks to the right was the railway station. He turned away from it. The railway station was one of the places they would be looking for him.

He found a room in a place called Pensione Umberto. He paid for four days’ lodging. His room was on the third floor. It had a telephone.

He locked the door and lay down on the bed. He screwed his eyes up, then looked at the ceiling.

Rome … So, he had made it here. Against tremendous odds. And now what? … 

He ran his hand across his eyes. God, was he mad? … 

He swung off the bed, and sat up.
Get the calm back … 

Local knowledge, that’s the first step. See the lie of the land. Determine the possible. Get a map of Vatican City. Brief himself. And get some kind of disguise.

And listen again to the Klaus Barbie tape. Make notes of the names of every Russian boy who had been planted in the Catholic Church and their passwords.

And get those strips of film negatives developed. If they were indeed pornographic, and he could see who was in them, it could tell him a lot. But how do you get pornographic photographs developed? Take them to your friendly Kodak dealer? To a
sleazy Italian chemist? What if he makes a few copies and uses them for blackmail too? Everything could blow up then.

Trace Meteor Air. How? Telephone air traffic control in Malta? The airport manager? The Chamber of Commerce?

First things first. He pulled the Barbie cassette out of his bag. He inserted it into the tape-recorder and pushed the rewind button.

‘I repeat: “The
whole
world in his hand” …’

Morgan smacked the machine off, and lay back on the bed.

How did this tape of Klaus Barbie end up in Max Hapsburg’s secret deposit box? … 

He had turned that question over and over in his mind all the way from Zurich.

‘
I’d rather die like God’s Banker.’

Deduction: When she and Max had their drunken row, he had thrown God’s Banker’s murder at her, as proof that he had the microfilm which would show down her beloved Catholic Church.

Fact: This row had taken place on her birthday, 20th June 1982, two days
after
God’s Banker was found hanging.

Fact: Max’s forged passport, in the name of Maxwell Constantine, showed that he had flown from New York to London on the eighteenth.

Deduction: Max Hapsburg and God’s Banker had both flown to London to do business together about the microfilm.

Deduction: God’s Banker, who was bankrupt, intended using the microfilm to blackmail the Vatican.

Deduction: He was murdered to stop him getting it.

Question: What was Max Hapsburg going to get out of it? Money? But he had plenty. Was there some other purpose?

Question: Who murdered God’s Banker? The Russians, to protect their secret weapon in the Vatican? Or some persons in the Vatican itself? – to protect the Vatican.

Morgan dragged his hands down his face. Did those two questions matter? Wasn’t the only important question: How to get rid of the communist agents in the Church? How does one get to see the Pope?

He swung his legs off the bed and sat up. He picked up the
telephone book. He began to search through it. The pages rattled in his hand. He dialled a number.

‘
Informazioni turistichi
,’ a female voice said.

‘May I please speak to someone who speaks English?’

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m a tourist from England. I am in the theatre there, I’m a make-up artist and I would like to meet some people in Rome who do the same work, to compare techniques. Can you suggest how I start?’

‘Hold the line please, sir.’

Morgan waited. A minute later the woman came back.

‘I suggest you try the Teatro Romano. Here is their number …’

Five minutes later he was speaking to a Dutchman called Hugo de Vries.

‘Sure,’ Hugo said. ‘Always a pleasure to meet other people in the game. What company do you work for?’

‘The Royal Shakespeare. Stratford-upon-Avon.’

‘Nothing but the best, huh? Good, come by the theatre at five o’clock tonight, we’ll be making up the actors then, I’ll give you a tour.’

Morgan said: ‘Is it possible for us to meet now?’

‘Sure, why not? We can have lunch in the canteen. I’m on the second door, back. Just ask for Hugo if you get lost …’

He was a skinny man, six foot four. His room looked like a run-down hair salon. Plastic heads everywhere. A long mirror bordered with light bulbs. A long table covered in cosmetics. Shelves of wigs. A workbench with a half-finished wig on it.

‘The finest lace. Flesh-coloured. I stitch each hair on by hand. Real human hair. Once it’s glued on, you need a magnifying glass to see it’s a wig.’ He went to an old refrigerator and got out two beers. ‘But you’re not into wigs yourself?’

‘No,’ Morgan said. ‘But I’m interested in everything.’ He added, for something quick to say: ‘How do you get the wig off?’

Hugo looked at him. ‘With acetone. What do you use?’

‘Acetone, too,’ Morgan said hastily. ‘I just wondered if you had something special.’

Hugo smiled at him.

‘What do you actually do in theatre?’

Oh God, he was too tired to act. He looked at Hugo wearily.

‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m not really in theatre. That was just a ploy, to get to talk to you.’ Hugo stared at him. ‘You see, I’m doing some detective work. I need to be in disguise.’ He looked at him squarely. ‘Would you make me up, for a fee? Wig, moustache, et cetera?’

‘Detective work, huh?’

Morgan sighed. ‘Look, I can go to a hairdresser and get a wig. I can go to a novelty shop and buy a moustache. But I want it to stand up to close scrutiny.’

‘What are you detecting?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes, it does matter. Are you a legitimate private detective? Show me your identification.’

Morgan shook his head wearily. ‘No, I’m not a certificated detective. But that’s what I’m doing. It concerns my wife.’

‘Your wife?’

‘Okay my girlfriend. She’s the same as a wife.’

‘And what’s she up to?’

‘What do you think? I want to follow her and find out. She’s on holiday in Rome. She thinks I’m back home.’

Hugo turned away. A long pause.

‘You assure me this is legal?’

‘Absolutely legal.’

‘You’re not going to rob a bank, or something?’

Morgan smiled, despite himself. ‘No.’

Pause. ‘Do I get my wig and moustache back afterwards?’

‘If you want. But I would prefer to buy them off you.’

Another pause. Then:

‘If I get my wig back it’s one hundred pounds. If you keep the wig, three hundred pounds. And that’s cheap.’

Relief. ‘Fine,’ Morgan said. ‘But I’ll have to pay you in dollars.’

‘Okay. What size head are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘About fifty-eight. Have you got the money?’

Morgan pulled out a wad of notes. He counted out four hundred and fifty dollars.

‘Okay,’ Hugo said. ‘You bring the wig back, you get back
three hundred dollars.’ He was all business suddenly. ‘Sit.’

Morgan hesitated, then decided to try it.

‘Something else you may be able to help me with? Do you have any way of developing pornographic pictures? With complete confidentiality.’

Hugo blinked. ‘Pornographic? Of whom?’

‘My girlfriend, I think. I’ve only got the negatives.’

‘You think? Who took them?’

‘I don’t know. I found them amongst her things, after she left. That’s why I followed her here.’

Hugo leant on the chair. ‘No I don’t. And I’m liking this less and less. You assure me what you’re doing is legal?’

‘I do. Okay, forget it.’ He sat down before the man changed his mind.

Hugo stood behind him, and put his hands on his shoulders with some misgiving. He looked at him in the mirror.

‘If I make you an Italian, I’ll have to do a lot of cosmetic work. But your complexion is easy for a brunette. What do you want?’

‘Not Italian. I don’t want to worry about cosmetics.’

‘How about a wavy chestnut hairstyle?’

‘Good.’

‘Ten years older? A touch of grey?’

‘Good.’

‘Okay …’ Hugo said.

He set to work.

It was a strange feeling, and a comforting one. He felt
incognito.

He walked into a department store. He bought an umbrella and a raincoat. He watched the salesman closely, and the man did not appear to look at the wig or moustache.

He left the store, and walked until he saw a taxi.

‘
Vaticano, prego
.’

It was almost two o’clock. He settled into the back seat, and closed his eyes.

It was raining. The taxi crossed the Ponte Umberto and turned left along the Tiber. And then there, to the right, was the Via della Conciliazione, sweeping up to the crescent of colonnades, the open arms of Saint Peter’s Square. And Morgan felt his primitive Catholic heart turn over.

He looked up at the statues of the saints looming up against the rainy skyline, the mighty dome arching up above the crypt of Saint Peter himself, and he felt the age-old Catholic awe of coming to the holy of holies, the very heart of the Roman Church; and he loved it, and feared it, and he knew that he was a Catholic in his marrow. And he knew with absolute certainty that he was doing the right thing, and more than anything he wanted the right thing to happen for the Church.

There were tourists huddled under umbrellas around guides. Morgan told the taxi-driver to turn into the sidestreets on the edge of the Vatican City. He told him to stop when he saw a bookstore.

There were hardly any people on the streets, because of the rain. He hurried into the store.

He examined all the guide books on the Vatican City. He chose the one with the longest text, and he bought a large pictorial map.

Down a sidestreet he found a bar. It was a cosy place, chianti bottles hanging from the ceiling. He sat at a table in the corner and ordered spaghetti and a bottle of red wine. He opened his map and the guide book.

It was an excellent pictorial map, like an aerial photograph.

It was clear that the Pope’s palace was connected by a series of rooftops to the southern wall of Saint Peter’s cathedral. From the map, it seemed possible to lower oneself by rope from the rooftop of the cathedral, onto a rooftop below, and make one’s way by connecting roofs to the papal palace.

Sure, a good burglar could do it. And Morgan had been trained for this sort of thing. But doubtless this possibility had not escaped the attention of the bright boys responsible for Vatican security. That palace rooftop was surely bristling with alarm devices. Sure, a nutter had managed to get into Buckingham Palace, sit on Her Majesty’s bed and have a midnight
chat with her. But he bet nobody could pull off the same trick now.

Another possibility: the Gate of Saint Anne was the business entrance into the Vatican City itself. Every day hundreds of cars and thousands of people who worked in the Vatican City passed through those gates. There were sentries and one had to have a pass. But surely it would be possible to get a pass somehow, get through the gate, and thence to the papal front door. Disguised as a priest, for example. Better still, disguised as a monsignor – purple bib and purple socks. Most people don’t challenge monsignors.

All right … Doubtless it could be done. But, a lot of homework. A monsignor visiting Rome from where? He would have to have a perfect story. What’s his reason for needing an audience with His Holiness? How would such a priest go about it? Write a letter? Telephone for an appointment? How many officials would he have to bluff his way through? If he said it was a matter of life and death, for the Pope’s ears only? … 

By the time he had finished the wine he had learned one important fact from the guide book: the Pope himself sometimes heard confession from the public. This was only at Easter on a regular basis, but there were other times. One could enquire at the Vatican Information Bureau, about what other functions he officiated at. One applied at the Prefecture for permits to attend a mass audience the Pope gave to visitors.

When the Pope heard confession he would have an opportunity to speak to him … 

And say what? ‘I’ve got to see you in private, to tell you something very important. To save the Church …’?