Cabal - 3 (12 page)

‘Never again, Aurelio!’ Gilberto told him as they parted in the street. ‘Don’t even bother phoning.’

Back at Tania’s, Zen had called his mother to tell her that his duties in Florence unfortunately required him to stay another night but he would be back for sure the following day.

‘That’s all right,’ his mother replied. ‘At least you ring up and let me know what’s happening, not like some.’

‘What do you mean, mamma?’

‘Oh, that Gilberto! It makes me furious, it really does! Rosella phoned here only half an hour ago, to ask if I knew where you were. Apparently Gilberto called her this afternoon and said he might be a bit late home this evening because he was meeting
you
, if you please! Can you believe the cheek of it? Poor Rosella! Come nine o’clock there’s no sign of him and the dinner’s ruined, so she phones me to try and find out what’s going on. Of course I didn’t know any of this at first, so I just told her the truth, that you were in Florence. It’s the old story. I told her. Just look the other way. There’s no point in making a fuss. You’re not the first and you won’t be the …’

‘Listen, mamma, I’m running out of tokens. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Wait, Aurelio! There’s a message for you. This gentleman called, he wouldn’t leave his name, but he said it was about a Signor Giallo. He asked you to phone him immediately.’

Zen dialled the number he had been given by Lamboglia. It was answered by a different voice, this time with a foreign intonation. But why not? The Vatican was the headquarters of an international organization.

‘Your presence is required tomorrow morning,’ the man told him. ‘Come to the main entrance to the Vatican Museums, pay in the normal way, then follow these directions.’

Zen noted them down.

‘Now there’s something I want
you
to do,’ he told the anonymous voice. ‘Contact whoever is responsible for the maintenance of the building where Signor Giallo lived and find out whether a workman was sent there yesterday to investigate the sewers.’

He had hung up just as Tania walked in naked from the shower, looking rather like the gracefully etiolated females in the frescos which covered the chamber where he now found himself. The subjects were nominally biblical, but the action had been transferred from the harsh realities of historical Palestine to a lush Italian landscape peopled by figures of an ideal renaissance beauty. On one wall, ships navigated under full sail and armies manoeuvred for battle. Another showed a large chamber where men were disputing and orators pronouncing. The painted room was about the same size and shape as the one on whose wall it was depicted, and the artist had cleverly included a painted door at floor level, creating the illusion that one could simply turn the handle and step into that alternative reality. Zen was just admiring this amusing detail when the handle in fact turned and the door opened to reveal the stooping figure of Monsignor Lamboglia.

‘Come!’ he said, beckoning.

Inside, a spiral stone staircase burrowed upwards through the masonry of the ancient palace. They climbed in silence. After some time, Lamboglia opened another door which led into a magnificent enclosed loggia. The lofty ceiling was sumptuously carved and gilded, the rear wall adorned with antique painted maps representing a world in which North America figured only as a blank space marked
Terra Incognita
. The large windows opposite offered an extensive view over St Peter’s Square, now reduced to serving as a parking lot for those pilgrim coaches which had managed to fight their way through the traffic.

Zen followed his guide through a door at the end of the loggia, beneath a stained-glass light marked ‘Secretariat of State’ and into a vaulted antechamber. The walls and ceiling were covered in fantastic tracery, fake marble reliefs and painted niches containing
trompe l’oeil
classical statues. Lamboglia pointed to one of the armless chairs upholstered in grey velvet which stood against the painted dado, alternating with carved wooden chests and semi-circular tables supporting bronze angels.

‘Wait here.’

He disappeared through a door at the end of the corridor. Zen sat down in the designated chair, which proved to be as uncomfortable as it was no doubt intended to make the occupant feel. The windows on the opposite wall were covered in lace curtaining which strained the sunlight like honey through muslin. Zen closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what he was going to say. Try as he would, though, his thoughts kept drifting away to the night before. Tania had lied to him, there was no doubt about that. Not just filtered the truth, as he would shortly do for the benefit of the Vatican authorities. No, Tania had lied.

‘Were you out this afternoon?’ he had asked casually as they lay in bed together.

‘Out?’

He ran his fingertips lightly over her ribs and belly.

‘Mmm. About six o’clock.’

She pretended to think.

‘Oh yes, that’s right. I stepped out for a moment to do some shopping. Why?’

‘I tried to phone. To tell you I’d be late.’

He rolled up on his side, gazing down at her.

‘A man answered.’

A distant look entered her eyes, and he knew she was going to lie. The rest was routine, a matter of how hard he wanted to press, how much he could bully her into revealing.

‘You must have got a wrong number,’ she said.

He looked away, embarrassed for her, regretting that he’d brought it up. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help adding. ‘It happened twice. I dialled again.’

She laughed lightly.

‘Probably a crossed wire at the exchange. It’s a pity the Vatican doesn’t run a phone system as well as a postal service. They fly their mail out to Switzerland to be sorted, you know, yet it still arrives in half the time it takes the post office.’

He accepted the diversion gratefully.

‘That’s because the post office sends it to
Palermo
for sorting. By boat.’

She laughed again, with amusement and relief. Thinks she’s got away with it, Zen thought to himself. Already he was getting used to the idea of her treachery. To be honest, once he’d recovered from the initial shock it was almost a relief to find that she was indeed deceiving him. The immense and unconditional gift which Tania had made of her love still amazed him. Being worthy of it had been a bit of a responsibility. This discovery evened things up considerably. All in all, he told himself, it was probably the best thing that could have happened.

The door at the end of the corridor opened and Lamboglia reappeared. He extended his right hand, palm down, and waggled the fingers beckoningly. Zen rose and followed him into the office where he had been received by the Cardinal Secretary of State’s deputy the previous Friday. On this occasion, Juan Ramón Sánchez-Valdés was in his full episcopal regalia, an ankle-length soutane with a magenta sash, piping and buttons. The crown of his head was covered by a skullcap of the same colour. The rim of an ecclesiastical collar was just visible beneath the soutane, while a plain silver cross hung from its chain at the base of the archbishop’s chest.

As before, Zen was placed on the long red sofa while the archbishop sat in the high-backed armchair by the table. At his elbow, beside the white telephone, lay a single sheet of paper with some lines of typing. Lamboglia took up his earlier position, just behind the archbishop’s shoulder, but Sánchez-Valdés waved him away.

‘Sit down, Enrico! You make me nervous, hovering there like a waiter.’

Flinching as though he’d been struck, poor Lamboglia trotted off across the elaborately patterned rug with the quick fluttering gait of a woman, all stiff knees and loose ankles, and subsided into a chair on the end wall.

‘Enrico is from Genoa,’ Sánchez-Valdés remarked to Zen. ‘On the other hand I seem to recall that you, dottore, are from Venice. The two cities were of course fierce trading rivals, and vied with each other to supply us with transportation for the Crusades. I came across rather a good comment on the subject just the other day, in a dispatch from our nuncio in Venice at the turn of the century – the thirteenth century, that is. He advises the Holy Father to treat with the Doge, exorbitant though his terms might seem, explaining that while both the Genoese and the Venetians will gladly offer to sell you their mothers, the crucial difference is that the Venetians will
deliver
.’

Although he was aware of being manipulated by a skilled operator, Zen could not help smiling.

‘I gather it was you who found poor Grimaldi’s body,’ the archbishop went on without a pause.

Zen’s smile faded.

‘What a terrible tragedy!’ sighed Sánchez-Valdés. ‘Those poor children! First they lose their mother to illness, and now …’

He broke off, seemingly overcome by emotion. Lamboglia was rubbing his hands together furiously, as though to warm or wash them.

‘I believe Enrico informed you that we had strong reason to suppose that Grimaldi was the author of that anonymous letter to the press,’ Sánchez-Valdés continued. ‘Needless to say that fact has now become one more of the many embarrassments which this case threatens to cause us. If it became known, one can easily imagine the sort of vicious insinuations and calumnies which would inevitably follow. No sooner is the identity of the “Vatican mole” discovered than he is found dead in the shower. How very convenient for those who wish to conceal the truth about the Ruspanti affair, etcetera, etcetera.

‘That’s why we’ve summoned you here this morning, dottore. Enrico has explained to me your unfortunate misunderstanding of our intentions with regard to the death of Ludovico Ruspanti. On this occasion I want to leave you in no doubt as to our position. Fortunately it is very simple. With Grimaldi’s death, this tragic sequence of events has reached its conclusion. Any mistakes or miscalculations which may have occurred are now a matter for future historians of Vatican affairs. As far as the present is concerned, we shall instruct the Apostolic Nuncio to convey our thanks to the Italian government for your, quote, discreet and invaluable intervention, unquote.’

The archbishop lifted the sheet of paper from the table and scanned it briefly.

‘Enrico!’ he called.

Lamboglia sashayed back across the carpet to his master’s side. Sánchez-Valdés handed him the paper.

‘There is just one remaining formality,’ he told Zen, ‘which is for you to sign an undertaking not to disclose any of the information which you may have come by in the course of your work for us.’

Lamboglia carried the paper over to Zen, who read through the six lines of typing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t sign this.’

‘What do you mean?’ snapped Lamboglia, who was waiting to convey the signed document back to Sánchez-Valdés.

‘To do so would risk placing me in an untenable position with regard to my official duties.’

Sánchez-Valdés hitched up the hem of his soutane to reveal a pair of magenta socks.

‘You didn’t display such exaggerated scruples the last time we spoke,’ he said dryly.

‘That was altogether different, Your Excellency. Ruspanti’s death occurred in the Vatican City State, and was therefore not subject to investigation by the Italian authorities. When I acted for you in that affair, I did so as a free agent. If Grimaldi had also died within the walls of the Vatican, I would have been happy to sign this undertaking. But he didn’t, he died in Rome. If I sign this, and Grimaldi’s death is subsequently made the subject of a judicial investigation, I would be unable to avoid perjuring myself whether I spoke or remained silent.’

Archbishop Sánchez-Valdés laughed urbanely.

‘But there’s no possibility of that happening! Grimaldi’s death was an accident.’

Zen nodded.

‘Of course. Just like Ruspanti’s was suicide.’

The two clerics stared at him intently. The archbishop was the first to break the silence.

‘Are you suggesting that Grimaldi did
not
die accidentally?’ he asked quietly.

‘That’s absurd!’ cried Lamboglia. ‘We’ve seen the Carabinieri report! There’s no question that Grimaldi was electrocuted by a faulty shower.’

Zen shook his head.

‘He was electrocuted
in
the shower, not
by
the shower.’

Sánchez-Valdés looked up at the ceiling, as though invoking divine assistance.

‘There’s no doubt about that?’ he murmured.

‘None at all.’

The archbishop nodded.

‘A pity.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Zen. ‘Nevertheless, although I am unable to sign this undertaking, I can assure you that I will honour it in practice. Your secrets will go no further.’

He smiled shyly.

‘As I mentioned the first time Your Excellency honoured me with an audience, whatever the Church decides is good enough for me.’

Sánchez-Valdés looked at Zen with amusement.

‘You’re a great loss to the Curia, dottore,’ he remarked, shaking his head. ‘A very great loss indeed! But then of course they already accuse us of creaming off the best administrators in the country.’

He got to his feet, sighing.

‘Thank you, Enrico, that will be all.’

After a momentary hesitation, Lamboglia left sullenly. When the door had closed behind him, Sánchez-Valdés walked over to the window. He pulled aside the screen of the net curtaining, allowing a beam of raw sunlight to enter.

‘What a lovely morning.’

He turned to Zen.

‘I think we should take a walk, dottore.’

Zen stared at him blankly.

‘A walk?’

‘That’s right. A walk in the woods.’

‘Have you heard the one about the whore and the Swiss Guard?’ asked the archbishop.

Zen, who was lighting a cigarette, promptly choked on the smoke. When the fit of coughing had subsided somewhat, he shook his head.

‘I don’t think I have.’

Sánchez-Valdés’s face beamed with expectation.

‘This new recruit has just arrived in Rome, fresh from the mountains. On his first evening off duty he decides to explore the city a little. He wanders out through the Sant’Anna gate and down into the Borgo, where he is accosted by a lady of the night.’