Pope's Assassin (24 page)

    Myriam, alone in London so often, watching the rain fall or freeze, or the weak sun rising, without her husband. A day or two, a week. A phone call from Tel Aviv, another from Amman, an unexpected nego tiation in Turin, a meeting in Bern, a meeting with the excavation team, who knows when and where, another with the team in a university in the States, to deepen his knowledge of something excavated, no big deal, he'd be back as soon as possible, a kiss.

    Myriam never lacked money, not a penny to buy anything she wanted. Ben made sure of that. Myriam sometimes thought that for him money was a more sacred bond than the one by which God united them. On bad days she wished Ben weren't so successful, that he'd fail, and on the worst days, that he'd go bankrupt.

    Their daughter, Magda, died on November 8, 1960. His hands were trembling when he called the house from hundreds of miles away to say he'd be home that night. He finally had an agreement in his pocket that Myriam never suspected or would suspect.

    Myriam didn't answer that phone call or the others that followed insistently. Ben would find her in a hospital bed at St. Bart's, sound asleep from the strong sedatives prescribed by the staff doctors. She remained that way for several days and nights, without regaining con sciousness, breathing quietly, her face as white as a corpse. The doctor on call explained nothing to Ben Isaac, deferring to his superiors. It was not his place to say what was happening to the patient; her own doctor had left this instruction.

    The young, prestigious banker, used to doing and undoing, order ing and contradicting both his subordinates and heads of state who clamored for the money he had and they didn't, waited by the bed for her personal physician to deign to appear.

    "Myriam tried to commit suicide," was the doctor's greeting. "I can't stay. I'm getting married," he explained.

    Ben Isaac was unable to say anything. He couldn't even make a ges ture. He stared silently at the doctor, subdued, disgusted, with a three days' growth of beard.

    "She didn't eat for days and filled her stomach with barbiturates. She repented and called an ambulance. While she was waiting for the para medics, she was probably anxious and inattentive, and she tripped on the stairs and fell. When she arrived here, she was crying out . . . for Magda."

    Tears ran down the face of young Ben Isaac, the multimillionaire whose wife was so unhappy to want to kill herself and the daughter she carried in her womb.

    "I'm very sorry, but we weren't able to save Magda."

    Ben Isaac covered his face in his hands and trembled with a smoth ered wail. Sorrow exploded in his chest and punished him with blows of agony and disgust.

    "When are you going to stop sedating her?" he managed to ask.

    "Myriam isn't under sedation now," the doctor informed him.

    "But she's still sleeping!"

    The doctor sighed and leaned toward Ben Isaac."Myriam will wake up when she understands . . . when she feels ready. Help her. She's going to need it."

    The doctor murmured "Good luck" before leaving the couple in the cold hospital room, on his way to church to a ceremony that would seal a sacred compact, not necessarily infallible, even if marriage were not a human invention.

    It took seven days for Myriam to wake up, and when she did, it was as if he were not there at all. She didn't say a word, didn't respond to his encouragement or questions, excuses or promises, or love. Ben Isaac would not hear her voice for the next nine years. The absences that he'd curtailed resumed, but it didn't bother Myriam, who was involved with her garden, her friends, her book club, exhibits, tea parties, the theater, the culture that London offered, faithfully, without fail. She didn't share any of this with Ben. It was as if she were living two lives and were two women, Ben's wife when he was home and Ben's wife when he was absent.

    One Saturday lunch Myriam said to Ben Isaac, "I'd like to get to know Israel, Ben." It was as if they'd been talking about it just yes terday, seconds ago, forever, without the hiatus of almost a decade in which Ben had not heard a syllable, an interjection, a complaint, or even a sob.

    Ben Isaac took her to Israel, Cyprus, Italy, Brazil, and Argentina, and they talked all day about the things normal couples who have a lot of money, and normal couples who don't, talk about. They smiled, laughed, made love again, kissed, felt their bodies breathing, felt the other's sweat—everything a couple feels or ought to feel, except Magda. They never once talked about her. She was a sealed subject, forbidden, taboo.

    Ben Isaac lived with silent bitterness, tied up with the strong cords of guilt, resigned to getting through the day, losing himself in his work, filling the hours, attending to Myriam. He didn't return to excavations. Magda served as warning, a punishment from the Almighty, a closed door he could not open again.

    All this went through his mind as he read the message he'd received on the cell phone. If
you want to see your son alive again, get rid of the
journalist.
Sarah and Myriam continued to look over the ancient docu ments, neglecting the papal agreements that held no interest for them, despite the fact that they were the only documents whose language they could understand. The rest exercised a hypnotic fascination on them. Ben Isaac had felt it several times. The characters, ornate, styl ized, but without pretensions or arrogance, unlike the papal blazons, which in those days didn't yet exist.

    He couldn't lose little Ben. He couldn't lose another child. Where was divine justice? Would he always be punished for sticking his nose into something he shouldn't have? No. He had paid an enormous price. Magda, Myriam, and nine years of sepulchral silence.

    How could they possibly know about the journalist? The leak had not come from his side. He was absolutely certain. He remembered when Cardinal William had introduced him to Sarah. The leak came from the Vatican at the highest level, and that was serious. He had to get Myriam to safety and put an end to the situation.

    "Myriam," Ben called. "A moment, please."

    Myriam returned to her husband, who showed her the phone

screen. She read the message and raised her hand to her mouth in shock. Sarah noticed.

    "No, Ben. We can't," stammered Myriam shakily, her legs weak. "It's not true."

    "We have to do it, Myr. Ben's life is at stake." Ben put both his hands on Myriam's shoulders. "We have to do it."

    Both of them looked apprehensively at Sarah. She realized some thing had happened that had to do with her.

    "What's going on?" she asked timidly.

    Ever since she'd entered the underground storage vault, her heart had been beating nervously. She knew what she had to do. William had been completely explicit in the Palazzo Madama. A sacrifice that would make all the difference for millions of the faithful.

    Myriam collapsed on the floor, sobbing. "No, Ben."

    "I'm sorry, Sarah," Ben said, approaching her slowly. "I have no alternative."

    Sarah backed up until she bumped against a showcase. It was now or never. Ben's threatening attitude helped her make up her mind. Ben clicked a number on the phone and said something in Hebrew. He was calling security.

    Sarah put her hand in her jacket pocket and took out the small, six shot revolver that William had given her. She aimed at Ben.

    "Not one more step."

    Ben looked at her, surprised. How was it possib . . . Cardinal Wil liam. Who would have suspected the cardinal?

    Myriam raised her head, analyzing the situation.

    "Give me the documents," Sarah ordered, her voice stronger than she felt.

    "Put away the gun, Sarah. You won't get out of here alive. Besides, you're not a killer," Ben warned. "You don't have what it takes to kill."

    "Myriam, get up and come over here." Another order.

    Myriam got up with difficulty and approached Sarah suspiciously.

As soon as she was within reach, Sarah grabbed hold of her, turned her around, and pushed the barrel of the gun into her right temple. Myriam closed her eyes.

    "Still don't think I have what it takes?" Sarah asked. She hated her self at this moment. "Now, give me the documents so Myriam and I can take a walk."

    "Do you really want to do this?" Ben asked very calmly.

    Sarah trembled with the gun at Myriam's head. She tried not to press too hard, to avoid hurting her. Myriam was actually calmer than she was.

    "Don't do something you'll regret," Ben pleaded in a low voice.

    "Give me the documents," Sarah insisted.

    "That's not going to happen, Sarah. Understand this very well. It's the life of my son at risk."

    Sarah was losing her options. She'd never pull the trigger. Her bluff was about to be called.

    "Lower the gun, Sarah. My men are almost here. They're pros and—"

    "Good evening," a male voice said in perfect English.

    "Hadrian," Ben called without looking for him. "Do me the favor of disarming the lady, who's beginning to annoy me."

    "I'm sorry, but Hadrian couldn't come," the voice returned.

    Ben Isaac looked at the man perplexedly. What was going on here? Who was he? One of the kidnappers? "Who are you?"

    "You can call me Garvis. I'm an inspector for the Metropolitan Police, and I'm here to help."

    "To . . . help with what?" Ben asked.

    Sarah and Myriam were just as perplexed. Sarah kept the gun rest ing lightly at Myriam's head.

    Two men came in the vault. No one recognized them.

    "Lower the gun, ma'am. I'm sick of killings," he said in heavily accented English.

    "Who are you? How dare you invade my property?" Ben Isaac was indignant and nervous.

    "Who am I?" The man was scandalized. "Who am I?" Then he looked at the second man. "Who am I, Jean-Paul?"

    "Inspector Gavache of the Police Nationale," Jean-Paul proclaimed like a herald.

    "And you can call this a surprise visit," Gavache added, taking a drag on his cigarette.

E
verything that exists is perfect and sacred because it was created by God in His great glory for the use of those who believe in Him, amen.

    He believed this blindly, so he needed nothing more than he already had. He met her at the same time for lunch, grilled dorado with sau téed vegetables and an original touch of two tiger shrimps, also grilled.

    She asked him about the verse of the day, which she almost chanted with respect and explained its meaning as he had done when he left the verses each week on her bedside table. I
t was the LORD who made
this, and it is marvelous in our eyes.
Everyone should be required to read the Bible, but that reading should never be done in private or independently. It should be done with the aid of a priest or theologian to understand what is not clear and to avoid bringing mistaken ideas to the Holy Scriptures. The unguided reading of the Word of the Lord was an evil that the church had always combated, not as severely as it should, in his opinion, and spread erroneous opinions about what God really had proclaimed. God wanted everyone to read the holy text without misunderstanding or diffi culty.

    He savored the dorado, vegetables, and shrimp frugally, along with a glass of white Frascati '98, with a slightly sweet aftertaste that went down well. She drank water, since the blood of Christ was exclusively for men and denied to women, whose obligation was to subordinate themselves to a man and do what he ordered, or so taught the great Saint Paul, the father of the church, on a par with Peter.

    After lunch she took the dishes from the table to the kitchen to wash them, as was her duty. He wasn't long in joining her and putting his arms around her as she ran the dishes through soapy water. He whispered in her ear, ordering her to go to the bedroom. She put down the plates, turned off the faucet, and went.

    The syringe expelled the sedative drug into her veins, and two min utes later she lost consciousness. He positioned himself over her inani mate body and enjoyed his carnal pleasure. It didn't take long, two or three minutes, to empty himself in a quick climax that left him feeling disgusted with himself and her. He bathed, scrubbed himself well to wash the stains from his body, the weakness of the flesh. He felt nausea. When he was finished, she was still sleeping. It was time to go back to work.

    A third of the order had been completed. Two names remained. Rafael Santini and the other. He wasn't interested in who they were or what they did. If God had called them, it was because their hour had come, and no one could escape his hour. The message said that Rafael's hour had come, so he would try him first. He always worked one name at a time.

    He decided to take the cell phone. He opened it, took out the bat tery and programming card, and inserted another. He put in the bat tery and started the phone. As soon as it was on, he entered a code: MONITASECRETA.

    The call was placed automatically without his doing anything. Sec onds later the screen showed a phrase:
Call completed.
He wrote,
Deus
vocat
.

    In a moment a word appeared: N
omini.

He entered,
Rafael Santini
.

    The reply did not take long: T
onight. Via dei Soldati. Wait for
instructions.

    He disconnected. He opened the Bible at random and put his fi n ger on a verse. He read it and smiled.

T
he cold penetrated his bones mercilessly, making his joints ache.

     He zipped up his jacket, raised his collar to protect his neck, and kept walking. The pain in his arm when the temperature dropped reminded him of an old fight with someone he'd forgotten, but his arm still remembered. There'd been so many fights that he'd lost count.