The Angel of Milan (3 page)

             
“Well, I am pleased that you have returned. I am having difficulties with a Sumerian translation, and would be most grateful if you could assist me.”

             
His blue eyes danced in anticipation, expecting me to offer myself up immediately to whatever enlightenment he was seeking today. Surely it would prove mundane, and be a waste of his time and mine. Even after two years of study in the libraries, he hadn’t figured out yet that the scripts of a more sensational nature were locked away and inaccessible to him. Luckily, I had an out.

             
“Why, of course, Father, it would be my pleasure. However, right now I have an appointment that I must keep with the cardinal. Please excuse me. You may call me at the residence tomorrow, and we can arrange to meet in the library.”

             
I was turning away as the words left my mouth, leaving the young priest to stare blankly. I made a mental note to avoid any overtures tomorrow or any other day if possible. However, I hadn’t misled him. I was on my way to Cardinal Burtuchi’s offices.

             
Entering the East Hall, I couldn’t help contemplating O’Malley. The young man seemed to cling to me whenever I was in residence at the Vatican. He had been a member of a group of young scholars that I gave an impromptu lesson to one day in the library.

     I was sitting at an adjacent reading table, and able to overhear their moans and groans while attempting to decipher early Minoan hieroglyphic script. Their assignment came from Professor Monsignor Gilespi. The old man liked nothing better than to have his students wrestle with the difficulties of Minoan so that they would get the answers wrong, and he could then browbeat them. I never liked Gilespi, the old shit, and decided to relieve their distress. I assisted them and provided explanations of the translation so that they would be able to amaze and thwart Gilespi’s sadistic rebuttal of their findings. The condition of my help was subject to them not revealing that it was I or anyone else that had helped them. They all agreed at once, the sinful little bastards! However, it was a mistake. From that moment on, the pious Irish O’Malley was up my ass whenever I was about the Vatican.

             
I had to hurry now. It would not due to keep Burtuchi waiting. As always, I was permitted to pass security without question, a feat that always tugged at my pride, for I was only a lowly priest. Very few were permitted an audience with Burtuchi, no matter their position in the Church. I often wondered if the Pontiff himself could approach with impunity. The cardinal rarely left his apartments, and then only to descend to the private vaults below.

     Burtuci—was he just another secret within a secret that not even His Holiness was completely aware of? His official responsibility was the maintenance and security of the archive; his other activities were not titled, some of which I am sure even I am unaware of. The one thing I am sure of is that only the Holy Father rivaled Burtuci’s authority within these walls, and then…maybe not.

             
Passing the Swiss Guards at the cardinal’s vestibule, I knocked twice before softly entering. Old Bishop Marconni sat at the large secretary’s desk that barred access to the inner office door.
The man must be as old as dirt
,
I thought. The man had not changed
in the fifteen years since I had first entered this room. He was frail with short white hair combed forward to cover his head. Tufts of more white hair sprang from inside his ears, which would have given him an elfin appearance if it were not for the thick glasses he wore on the end of his nose. 

             
“Ah, my dear Father Adama, it is always good to see you return to us. The cardinal is expecting you; please go right in.”

             
“Thank you, your Excellency,” I replied. “It is good to see you again, also.” The old man laughed quietly while looking over his glasses at me.

             
“Yes, Father, you and I share a mutual surprise each time we find each other still here. It is difficult to know which of us will fulfill his earthy mission first,” he said, laughing a little louder this time. But his laughter ended as quickly as it had begun, and his face turned back to that of a bored bureaucrat.

             
“Please, Father, go in. His Eminence does not like to wait!” he said, dropping his gaze to the papers on his desk.

     I knocked and entered the inner office. The thick carpet and wall tapestries captured all sound, as if I were entering a coffin. And to my surprise, Burtuchi was not alone. Our discussions had always been private. At first I was surprised to have not received a warning from Marconni that the cardinal was not alone, but I knew that the old man had a slightly strange sense of humor. Certainly, he had gleaned some bit of pleasure by the omission. Perhaps his nose had remained too long on the papers on his desk. I made another mental note to get the old man out for a turn around the city if the opportunity ever presented itself.

             
They sat surrounding Burtuchi’s desk in high-backed armchairs, reminding me of the circle of monoliths at Stonehenge. I recognized them as part of Burtuchi’s inner circle, but had never had direct dealings with any of them. Their faces were drawn and gray in contrast to the red collars and hats they wore, reminding me of the dead worrier kings I had seen in some move or other.

             
“Your Eminence,” I said, as the cardinal’s stare met mine.

             
“Father, please sit down. May I have the book?”

             
“Of course, Eminence,” I said with surprise, fumbling in the pouch to retrieve the book. I had not expected Burtuchi to get to the point of the meeting so quickly. Usually there would be some gesture of welcome, and small talk about current events in the city state. Looking suspiciously to the others in the room, I handed the book across the desk to the cardinal.

             
“Thank you, Father, I trust you had little trouble in
Ethiopia.” Before I could respond, Burtuchi began introducing the others present while casually placing the book in the top drawer of his desk. So simple for him, I thought. Men had died for the simple act of placing that book in his desk drawer.

             
“I think you know the cardinals, their Eminences Batist, Montifore, and Decessi,” he said as he nodded to each. 

             
“I know who they are,” I said, rising to kiss each ring. “But we have never been introduced formally.”

     Burtuchi cleared his throat, gesturing to me with his hand.

             
“Eminences, I present Father Adama Salvatore, the author of our present dilemma.”

             
I felt myself stiffen in the chair at his words, as I looked up in dismay. My mind raced to identify the infraction I was being accused of.

             
“Be at ease, Father,” Burtuchi said, quietly. “You are not directly to blame for the situation we find ourselves in at the moment.” The cardinals looked to one another as if some sort of agreement had been reached. Burtuchi turned to Montifore.

             
“Eminence, will you explain the situation to Father Adama?”

             
“Yes, of course, your Eminence.” Monifore took a deep breath before turning toward me.

     “Last week, Father Crochi, the Duomo
2
Curator in Milan that you worked with last month, was found in the street, murdered most cruelly. From the method of his death, it is obvious that he was the target of an assassin who kills for pleasure as well as gain. At the same time, the Atonement Lot
3
that you identified in the Duomo
Treasury last month has gone missing. We fear that in the wrong hands, it could be used for purposes not within the conscience of the Church. It must be recovered, and brought to Rome without delay.

             
“It is suspected with good reason that Father Crochi and the thief are one in the same, even though the object was not found on his person when the body as discovered. It is unclear whether the murderer was to be the recipient of the Atonement Lot, or if Father Crochi was intercepted on his way to deliver the Atonement Lot to someone else.” 

             
Involuntarily, I raised an eyebrow while studying the cardinal’s face, looking for signs to indicate a lie or half-truth. The fact that Burtuchi had delegated the task to Monifore made me very suspicious. It was unlike him to give the floor to another. 

             
Monifore paused, looking to the others for concurrence thus far before continuing. They deferred to Burtuchi, and after his nod gave positive facial gestures to Montifori, who only then continued.
             
Something wasn’t kosher. They all sat like statues, unwilling participants in the tale’s account. Someone was lying, I just couldn’t be sure if it was Montifori or Burtuchi, playing the puppeteer. I have always found Arabs much easier to discern. If they are moving their mouths, you already know they are lying. With renewed confidence, Montifore continued.   

             
“Others are aware of the theft, and they are actively seeking the object as we speak.” 

             
“Others, Eminence?” I questioned.

             
“Yes, there are those with political interest, and those with personal interest. Some of their identities are suspected and others are not entirely clear, but their inquiries, some of which have been forceful, have been reported. Possession of the Atonement Lot is of great consequence to a number of factions. With the exception of Rome, they will all use it to advance their agendas, none of which are favored by the Church.”

             
Montifore ended his monologue with almost a sigh of relief. Although no vocal sound was heard, he couldn’t control the shift of his clothing as his body relaxed in the chair. His forehead had a slight glisten, assuring me that a bead of sweat would have materialized if he spoke a moment longer. Burtuchi stood and began to pace the floor slowly, then turned to me.

             
“Father, you will go to Milan and bring me that Lot. It is dangerous on many levels, and cannot fall into the wrong hands. It must be brought back to Rome without delay.”

             
“It is not to be returned to the Duomo Treasury then, your Eminence?” Bertuchi flashed a threatening glance at me before looking up to the ceiling. I thought I saw rage in the cardinal’s eyes, and I was right.

             
“Father, the Duomo has already proven that it is not capable of securing the object. Do I seem the fool to entrust it to them a second time? It will be brought to Rome, Father, am I clear?” I nodded in concurrence. I had never experienced Burtuchi’s temper before, although I had heard rumors of it. Burtuchi’s tone with me had always been that of a teacher speaking to a pupil. However, the rumors of his temper were apparently true. I hesitated while the cardinal recomposed himself, reverting to his usual calm, calculating self.

  
             
“Your Eminence surely understands the difficulties involved in this matter. You are telling me that the likely thief has been murdered by an unknown assassin, the possessor of the object is undetermined, and that these events are known to others who are already actively pursuing the object.”

             
“Father Adama!” Burtuchi was on the verge of rage again. “Do not tell me of difficulties! It is the property of Rome, and it has been kept safe for almost one thousand years. The conclave wishes the Atonement Lot returned from whoever is in possession of it now. The Vatican will then assure the objects safe keeping here in Rome. You have a habit of speaking of other parties as if it were a contest. There is no winning or losing in these matters. If
there were, I would not be sending a Paladin Priest.
To have anyone other than Rome in possession of the object would be catastrophic. You must find out who stole the object, secure its location, and retrieve it, Father, by any means necessary for its safe return to Rome.”