Pope's Assassin (18 page)

    After a few seconds of hesitation, he pressed the green key and brought the phone to his ear. It started to ring. One ring, two, three.
Pick up, pick up,
he said to himself. Four rings, five, six, and . . . some one answered.

    "Rafael?" he asked with a firm voice. He congratulated himself for having waited. It was he. "Hello. It's David."

    Rafael said something David listened to carefully. "Yeah, we haven't talked in a long time." More words neither Aris nor Samantha heard, since David hadn't activated the speaker. "I'm in Rome," he lied, "and I thought of you. Are you free for coffee?"

    A few seconds later Barry disconnected the call with a Perf
ect—I'll
see you there.
He looked at Aris and Samantha.

    "He's alive," Barry stated the obvious. "And he's lying, too."

    "What did he tell you?" Aris wanted to know. Curiosity was an occupational hazard.

    "He was about to hear confessions at six, but we could have dinner at eight," he said as he left the offi ce.

    The others followed him.

    "Sam, I want you to check flights leaving Paris for Rome around five and see if Rafael is on any of them."

    "He's on one," Samantha guessed and left them.

    "Are we certain Rafael was in Paris this morning?" Barry asked.

    "Absolutely. He's on the manifest for Alitalia. The French con firmed this. He used his own passport."

    They went into a room crowded with monitors and agents carrying out surveillance on them. The various images were from satellite or closed-circuit video, covering different points all over the world. Barry saw Staughton, who was manipulating a joystick while also looking at a screen.

    "Staughton," Barry called.

    "Hi, David. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

    "Are you busy with something important?"

    The monitor showed a woman talking on a cell phone on a busy street. She was carrying two shopping bags from Burberry. She was being filmed from above from a satellite four hundred miles high. Staughton zoomed out, and the monitor displayed the island of Britain.

    "Nothing that can't wait," he answered.

    "I need to find the location of this number." Barry showed him the screen of his cell phone.

    Staughton pressed a key that focused on the number. He rapidly dialed some keys and entered the number. He continued to send orders with impressive speed.

    "Are you kidding me?" Staughton asked as he read the information that appeared on another monitor, along with a photo of Rafael, aka Jack Payne.

    "Do you know him?" Aris asked.

    "Everyone knows Rafael. He gave me a lot of trouble." He also didn't want to say a few ugly bruises. "When Barnes died he was there, too. He's a tough son of a bitch."

    Barry knew the case. Rafael had nothing to do with the death of Geoffrey Barnes, Barry's predecessor.

    "I need you to tell me where he is now."

    Moments later a red blinking signal appeared over a map on one of the screens.

    "He's moving," Staughton informed him, continuing to strike the computer keys.

    "Where?"

    "In France. North of Paris, and taking off at high speed."

    The screen showed the red signal shifting toward the north on the map. Every time it blinked it shifted farther north.

    "Where is he? In a car?" Aris asked.

    "No. He's moving too fast."

    "In a plane?" Barry suggested.

    "We can't pick up cell phone signals in a plane. Wait a minute," Staughton said, concentrating on his operations. A few moments later he left the keyboard and pressed the joystick: the image that hovered over the British Isles defined itself more and shifted to the south to focus on a long, narrow object moving very fast.

    "What's that?" asked Aris, who couldn't see well.

    "The Eurostar," Staughton and Barry answered in unison.

T
he cherubim gave the room a kind of solemnity. There was one for every aesthetic taste, all probably commissioned to one artist, but produced by different pupils. There were the dandies, full of fl ow ery details, with a shiny luster; the mischievous, who didn't even try to hide their bad dispositions or, on closer analysis, their irritation; the indifferent, uncertain where they were looking, as if they could have been anywhere; others, with an austere expression, who confronted whoever looked at them; and then there was the one Hans Schmidt found most amusing, considering where it was placed. A small cherub, hovering over the prefect's chair, was winking his eye, laying a fi nger over his lips to demand silence or, as Schmidt preferred to think, to warn him not to say anything incriminating. He made a mental note to find out who the artist of that piece was.

    Hans Schmidt was calm, despite a sleepless night, thanks to the events that had tormented Tarcisio, which is to say that had tormented the Church, but would not be alluded to in this hearing. The business here was something else, delicate also, but more personal, between the Apostolic Roman Catholic Church and Father Hans Schmidt— nothing so alarming that it could place the Roman Catholic world in crisis and bring down the Vatican like a house of cards. No. Here, the only person who could be ruined, if they desired, would be the Aus trian iceman, though he appeared imperturbable.

    Schmidt rose when the prefect of the congregation, in the person of Cardinal William, entered the hearing room accompanied by his court of jurors, though that term was never used. Secretary Ladaria followed him with five more counselors, the preferred title as Schmidt well knew. They all carried files and piles of papers. The Austrian knew very well that those learned, circumspect men had read his writ ings line by line and analyzed his books word by word so that noth ing would escape. The congregation dedicated itself completely to its investigations.

    As soon as the prefect sat down, the others followed his example, including Schmidt, who cast a complicit glance at the angel hovering over William's chair.

    "Let us begin this hearing called by the prefect of the congregation in the name of the Holy Father Benedict XVI for the Reverend Father Hans Matthaus Schmidt regarding two of his publications, Je
sus Is Life
and
The Man Who Never Existed,"
Secretary Ladaria, also a cardinal, proclaimed in a solemn but weak voice.

    "It is important to know that this is not a trial. No accusation has been made at this time," Cardinal William clarifi ed. "The congregation has doubts about some of your writings and only wants to dispel these doubts. Understood?"

    "Perfectly, Most Reverend Prefect."

    "I ask you kindly to respond to our doubts as best as you can. After the hearing, the congregation will decide if the ideas you advocate are damaging to the church or not."

    The rules and procedures understood, the prefect gave the fl oor to Monsignor Scicluna, a man whose wizened face looked a century old. Obviously he would have to be twenty years or more younger, since the positions consecrated to His Holiness required retirement at seventy-five without loss of honor and privileges. Even the servants of God are attacked by old age and senility. All are equal in the eyes of the Lord.

    "Reverend Father Hans Matthaus Schmidt," Monsignor Scicluna began faintly. "Having read your works attentively, I confess I am struck primarily by the titles, which are certainly peculiar. The fi rst is
Jesus Is Life,
which I must say I agree with, though I'll ask you to explain certain ideas in it. The second is
The Man Who Never Existed
. In both books we are dealing with the same person." He sipped some water to moisten his dry throat. "My first question to you is how can Jesus be life if, in your own words, He never existed?"

    Schmidt had anticipated that this would be the first question. He hadn't wasted time thinking of hypothetical questions. If the roles were reversed, he would logically ask this same question.

    He straightened his back, not so much that he would show ner vousness or disquiet, but because he wanted to be comfortable. He took his time opening a bottle of water sitting on the desk in front of him and poured some in a glass. He wet his lips, put the glass down, and smiled.

    "Good Morning, Reverend Prefect, Mr. Secretary, and you other counselors. I understand your doubt perfectly, my dear Monsignor Scicluna. On the one hand Jesus is life, and on the other, He never existed. What an outlandish idea . . . at first glance." His voice reverber ated through the room. Everyone listened intently, and the cherub had closed his eyes, as if he didn't want to listen. "The message I want to convey is that one can live in two ways. There is no one right way with Jesus or another wrong way without Him, or, if you wish, with what ever other divinity." Schmidt noticed some red faces and a deepening irritation in Scicluna's. He wasn't there to be friendly. He wanted to start out forcefully. "What I intend by Je
sus Is Life
is to provide teach ings about how to live day by day in Jesus by abstracting the essence of His words, and in
The Man Who Never Existed
the same message without Jesus, because it is possible to live with Jesus or without Him, in God or without Him. However God is understood."

    "What are you saying?" Monsignor Scicluna protested, rising and bracing his hands on the table.

    "I have come to the conclusion that all forms of religion are true. The Jewish Bible is true, as is the Catholic, and all the others. The Torah is true, along with the Talmud and the Koran. We are neuro-divine." A clamor arose among the counselors, the prefect, and the secretary.

    "All forms of faith are true. Even believing in nothing is true," Schmidt concluded in the same reasonable manner.

    "That is heresy," Monsignor Scicluna accused, the veins in his neck protruding in fury.

    "That which in this room is a heresy," Schmidt returned, "would also be so in any synagogue or mosque, but that doesn't really matter . . . to me."

    William covered his face in his hands. Schmidt was a fool. He knew very well what he could and could not say in that room. He'd chosen something else . . . something more diffi cult.

    "Are you saying that the Word or the Mystery is of secondary or little importance?" the monsignor demanded.

    Schmidt shook his head no. "No, nothing like that. I'm saying that the Word or Mystery have the importance that the believer wants to give them." He let the idea sink in. "Great importance," he paused dra matically, "or nothing."

    "The gentleman is putting himself into a very delicate position," Monsignor Scicluna warned in a cold, dry voice.

    Schmidt got up and confronted the others with an attitude that some would consider disrespectful. "Everyone in this room knows I am right. Isn't that so?"

I
t's not a good sign when a ritual changes, especially if it's repeated, like a sacred act, without variation in content or feeling. The purpose of rituals is to evoke, venerate, and honor relevant events, whether historical, political, religious, or—no less important—personal.

    The year 2010 would be registered in Ben Isaac's storage safe, fi ve hundred feet from the main house, below the toolshed, as the year when it was opened twice, a unique occurrence in more than fi ve decades.

    He positioned his eyes in front of the visual reader so that the com puter could recognize him as the owner. Another change to the ritual was that this time Ben Isaac would not descend the twenty steps alone, but with two other people. The fluorescent lights came on as they advanced and went out behind them, creating a sensation of endless darkness in front of them and unknown secrets behind them.

    "I cannot believe that you've always had this here and I didn't know, Ben Isaac," Myriam complained, alert to every sound, her eyes wide open.

    "I couldn't tell you, Myr. The less you knew, the better," the Israeli argued. It was never a good sign when Myriam called him by both his first and last name.

    "I'm your wife, a part of you. You can't keep secrets to yourself."

    Myriam was visibly angry and disillusioned with him. Ben knew she was right, but this was how he was, he kept things to himself. It was an immense effort to bring them there.

    The mechanism opened the heavy door with a sigh and, for a few moments, they just looked inside without moving. Myriam took the fi rst step decisively. Sarah followed her, and Ben was the last to enter the room.

    Sarah had not imagined such a bare space. Three display cases, nothing more, and cold, unadorned walls. She thought she would fi nd shelves full of other singular things, of lesser significance certainly, but full of sacred relics with many stories to tell. She never thought that the large room would contain only three cases. She joined Myriam, who was examining the parchments displayed under glass. She couldn't understand a single word written there. Elaborate letters written in an ornate style, unintelligible to her.

    "Can you understand anything, Myriam?" she dared to ask, as if she were creating an explosion in the awkward silence.

    Myriam looked at the small document in the fi rst case and shook her head no.

    "No." Myriam looked at Ben Isaac. "Is it Latin?"

    Her husband affi rmed it.

    "I didn't study Latin, but it looked like it," Myriam offered, her eyes fixed on the parchment. "Yeshua ben Joseph. And it talks about Jesus in Rome," she said, more to herself than the others.

    She moved to the second case and frowned. Sarah looked at her but couldn't tell whether or not Myriam understood what was written there. For Sarah it was impossible. She couldn't begin to unravel what ever was written there. It was not in the Roman alphabet, like the other one, but in a series of strange letters.