The Chimera Sanction (26 page)

‘You see, Mr Dulac, I already know the man in a coma is not the Pope.’

Dulac felt his lower jaw drop to his chest. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, staring at the cardinal in bewilderment.

‘You’ve just confirmed what I already suspected. Yesterday, after the meeting of the Curia with Dr Cavallo, the doctor pulled me aside and we spoke privately. She’s new to the hospital and she wanted some
information
concerning the Pope’s medical records. She assured me there was no breach of confidentiality, but that she was simply curious. She asked me if I knew why the plastic surgery operations on the Pope’s face had not been recorded in his medical history.’

‘Good God!’

‘Who knows about this voice analyzer test, Mr Dulac?’

‘To my knowledge, besides ourselves, only Gina Marino at Interpol forensics.’

Legnano rose, walked slowly to the window, hands clasped behind his back and looked outside. ‘Do you realize the scandal this will create if this information were to be made public?’

‘I’m beginning to.’

Still at the window, Legnano turned and faced Dulac. ‘For the moment, I must ask you to keep this information completely
confidential
, Mr Dulac.’

‘It’s bound to leak out.’

‘Perhaps, but not through us. You may not be aware of the seriousness of the crisis within the Curia. The recent announcements by the – let’s call him the Pope for the moment – have wreaked havoc within the Curia. It’s a complex situation. I must deal with this in the best interests of the Church. For the moment I need you and Miss Marino’s complete discretion.’

‘I understand. Yes, of course, your Eminence.’

‘Are you planning to stay in Rome?’

‘I hadn’t given it much thought.’

‘I would prefer it if you did. I’ll schedule a meeting with the Curia tomorrow. I’ll need you to corroborate this, this information.’

‘They know, I’m telling you, they know,’ said the panic-stricken voice over the phone.

‘Who, they?’

‘Dulac. He’s just advised Legnano. And someone else from Interpol knows. A Gina somebody at their forensics section. They did a voice analyzer test. If they go public, we’re finished—’

‘Calm down. They won’t go public with only a voice analyzer test. They’ll need more than that.’

‘Dulac said it was 98 per cent accurate. A mismatch of 92 per cent.’

‘Damn that Dulac. He’s becoming a major pain.’

‘They are going to trace this back to me!’

‘Don’t panic.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘You stay calm and keep your ear glued to that bug. I want you to keep me informed of Legnano’s every move. That’s what you’re going to do.’

‘Yes but if they give those test results to—’

‘I’ll take care of it. What hotel is Dulac staying at?’

‘As far as I know, he stays at the Hotel Dante.’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not here in the Vatican. If—’

‘I said I’ll take care of it.’

Leaving Legnano’s office, Dulac felt uneasy. Legnano’s decision to wait till the morning to advise the rest of the Curia did not sit well with his conscience. With such stupendous news, why hadn’t Legnano called an emergency meeting of the Curia?

He grabbed a cab back to the hotel. Inside the taxi, he called Gina.

‘Gina Marino.’

‘It’s me, Dulac. How many copies of the voice analyzer test do you usually keep?’

‘Well, normally I keep two copies on CDs. One for the file and one for myself. But since I didn’t log the use of the analyzer I’ve only kept one CD for myself.’

‘I’m going to ask that you keep that CD under wraps. Don’t let anybody see it, not even your cat.’

Back at the hotel, Dulac grabbed a copy of the Corriere Della Sera
from the front desk, crossed the lobby and sat himself down in one of the plump sofas. The headline read: Pope Clement XXI’s condition serious but stable. He went to the arts section and the striking face of Renée Fleming adorned the page reserved for concerts and recitals.
La
Traviata
was playing at the Teatro dell’Opera.

Dulac though for a moment. He needed to clear his mind, unload if only for a moment the oppressive burden weighing down his conscience. Nothing I can do tonight. I’ll see tomorrow how Legnano wants to play this. Dulac rose, went to the main desk and summoned the manager.

‘I want you to get me a ticket to this performance. Tonight.’ He pointed at the newspaper.

‘But sir, that’s impossible. That concert has been sold out for weeks,’ said the tall man with thick swept back hair, looking at Dulac with an air of reproach.

‘Do you have an envelope?’

‘Yes, of course.’ The manager handed Dulac an envelope bearing the hotel’s logo. Dulac took out his wallet, counted four hundred euros, and put them inside the envelope.

‘Put the envelope in my inbox. I’m sure a seat can be found at that price. Do we understand each other?’ Dulac smiled.

‘I’ll, I’ll see what I can do.’ The manager’s expression softened slightly.

‘Fine. I’ll be in the dining room.’

Dulac was finishing his scotch when the waiter came over with a small silver tray bearing a white envelope in the center. ‘With the
compliments
of the manager, Mr Dulac. Have an enjoyable concert.’

As his taxi headed for the Teatro dell’Opera, Dulac’s brain broiled with conflicting thoughts. Gina said it was a 92 per cent mismatch. What about the eight per cent? What if I’m wrong? No, the microsurgery. And the helicopter incident. And the monumental changes. There were too many coincidences. He had to be right. He could feel the burden of a secret growing, becoming heavier by the minute, till he thought it would burst, that he couldn’t contain it. He had to share it with someone. He thought of phoning Karen. After all, she knew his theory. Yet she didn’t know it had been confirmed. No, he promised Legnano to keep it secret. He had to wait.

‘Sir, we’ve arrived,’ said the perplexed cabbie as Dulac sat immobile
in the back seat of the stopped taxi.

‘Yes, yes of course. How much?’

‘Thirty-five euros.’

Dulac paid and got out. Inside the opera house, the rich golden rococo ornamentation of one of the world’s most acoustically perfect opera houses enveloped him, as he made his way to his seat under the soft light of the Louis XV style chandeliers.

Dulac sat down and perused the program. Verdi’s
La Traviata
. After an ill-received first performance in 1853 in Naples, it had taken many years before the public and critics recognized this opera as Verdi’s
ultimate
masterpiece. Dulac leaned back and let the opening chords of the orchestra engulf him in a world of ineffable delight.

Back at the hotel, Dulac went to the front desk. ‘Any messages for room 3416?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Well actually, no,’ said the clerk. ‘A gentleman was here earlier and left a message in your inbox.’

Dulac eyed the empty mailbox quizzically.

‘A few minutes later, he came back and retrieved his message,’ said the clerk. ‘He said he will contact you personally tomorrow morning.’

‘Really? What time was he here?’

‘Around 10, 10.15 p.m. or so.’

‘Did he leave his name?’

‘No.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘A short man, rather heavy set, dark hair, mid-forties I’d guess.’

‘Did he leave his name?’

‘No. I asked him and he didn’t answer.’

‘So he just left?’

‘As a matter of fact I remember him asking where the washroom was. I pointed to the ones near the elevator, over there.’

‘After, did you see him leave?’

‘Sorry sir, I didn’t notice. I was busy with the—’

‘All right,’ interrupted Dulac.

Dulac took the elevator to the third floor, turned right down the dimly lit corridor and stopped beside his room’s door. He pulled out his short-nosed .38 Benelli from his leg holster and cocked it. His heart
began pounding and he felt a mist of sweat form under his arms. Dulac inserted the electronic card into the slot and the light turned green. He kneeled beside the door, turned the door handle gently, then flung the door open as hard as he could. The inside door knob struck the wall with a resounding crash. Dulac, two hands on his pistol in front of him, panned from left to right in the darkness. Nothing. He waited a full minute, then turned on the light. He swept the room, his right eye peering down the Benelli’s gun sight. Clean. He cautiously approached the bathroom. He turned on the light, pointing the gun at the shower stall. Empty. He returned to the bedroom. It looked undisturbed: his bathrobe was on the chair where he’d left it, the courtesy slippers at the foot of the bed. He went around towards the desk. Shit, the computer. It’s on!

‘Drop the gun.’

Dulac felt the unmistakably large, round shape of a silencer on the back of his head. He dropped the Benelli onto the carpet. He started to turn around. The gun pressed harder on his head.

‘Don’t move.’ The voice was low, powerful.

Dulac stood, hands in the air. ‘What do you want?’

‘Your password.’

‘What do you mean?’

The gun pressed harder still against his head. ‘Don’t fuck with me. Your password.’

‘Has this got to do with the voice analyzer?’

‘Your password or you’re dead.’

‘Easy. Easy. OK, it’s THD 8507.’ Dulac thought fast. When he finds out the password is fake, I’m dead. If I unlock the computer, I’m also dead. ‘Actually, it has a triple password.’

‘Sit down and type it in.’

Dulac started towards the desk and for a split-second, felt no pressure on the back of his head. Instantly he twisted, and swung with his right fist. He heard a muffled crack of the silencer as the bullet bit into his right forearm. He grabbed the man’s gun arm with both hands, swung the gun upwards as two more bullets flew above his head. He hit the man in the groin with his right knee. The man gasped and recoiled slightly, both of them still hanging on desperately to the gun. They fell to the floor, and Dulac swung the gun downwards between them.
They stared at each other wildly, Dulac struggling to twist the gun away from his gut. The muffled sound of two more bullets erupted and Dulac cringed, waiting for the pain.

Dulac felt the hands around the gun go limp. They weren’t his hands. Dulac looked down and saw a dark spot starting to form on the man’s white shirt. He could feel the pumping of a heart, but he wasn’t sure if it was his. He could hear his own lungs screaming for more air.

Curiously, the man beside him, his eyes glazed over, had himself stopped breathing. Dulac rose slowly, and went to the bathroom. He started retching into the sink. After a moment he looked up and aspersed his face with cold water. Blood was dripping from his shirt-sleeve. He looked into the mirror and saw a deathly ghoul staring back, shaking slightly. Soon, his whole body was convulsing, letting out the stress. He breathed deeply, and after a moment the shaking decreased slightly. He raised his right sleeve and inspected the wound. The bullet had gashed the skin across his inner forearm. I am one lucky bastard, Dulac thought as he grabbed a small towel and wrapped it around. He returned to the bedroom, picked up the phone awkwardly, and pressed the Questura Centrale’s number.

‘Get me Inspector Guadagni.’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Tell him it’s Dulac.’ He breathed in and out forcibly, progressively regaining control of his frayed nerves. Finally, the shaking stopped. He tried but couldn’t stop looking at the bloody corpse sprawled grotesquely on the carpet.

‘Guadagni.’

‘It’s me, Dulac.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have a problem.’

‘What is it?’

‘There’s a man lying on my hotel-room carpet. He’s dead.’

‘How?’ said Guadagni, as a policewoman started taking photographs of the corpse, the man’s gun and Dulac’s Benelli.

‘I’ll give you the short version. He came up behind me, put a gun to my head. I dropped my gun. We had a scuffle, I went for his gun. We struggled, fell and the shots went off.’

‘And the long version?’

‘You’ll get that when you find out who this asshole was.’

‘I don’t suppose you have any idea?’ said Guadagni, scratching his wiry gray mane and looking warily at Dulac.

‘Probably some small-time hotel thief.’

‘We’ll see what we have on him. In the meantime, better have someone take a look at that arm.’

Dulac turned to the hotel manager, who had accompanied the police to his room. ‘Your man on duty at the desk. Was he on duty an hour ago?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Get him up here.’

‘There is no need to publicize this … this unfortunate incident.’

‘Now,’ growled Dulac.

‘Yes sir.’ The manager flipped open his cellphone and called the desk clerk.

‘
Mio Dio!
’ exclaimed the clerk as he looked at the inert body.

‘Is this the man who gave you the message for my inbox?’ said Dulac.

‘Yes that’s him.’

Dulac turned to Guadagni. ‘Oldest trick in the book. He gave the clerk a fake message, saw him put it in my inbox. He got my room number, waited a few minutes, then claimed the message back.’

‘And here is his door-card. We found it in his pocket,’ said a
policeman
, as he approached Guadagni.

‘Recognize it?’ said Guadagni as he showed the card to the hotel manager.

‘It’s not one of ours.’

‘Probably a Chinese multi-key job,’ said Guadagni. ‘They’re flooding the market these days.’ He turned towards Dulac. ‘I’ll need you to drop by the Questura Centrale to sign a deposition. In the meantime, I’ll have my man drop you off at the hospital.’

‘Much appreciated,’ said Dulac.

‘We’ll have your things transferred to another room, Mr Dulac,’ said the manager. ‘That’s the least we can do.’ He turned and eyed the clerk. ‘Bring Mr Dulac’s suitcase and computer to the presidential suite.’

‘Not the computer. It stays with me,’ said Dulac.

Dulac, his arm in a makeshift sling one of Guadagni’s men had improvised, waited in the emergency room of the Agostino Gemelli Clinic for the doctor to return. Suddenly the thought jolted him upright. Christ, Gina. He grabbed his cellphone and scrolled down the list of telephone numbers. He called her home. The line was busy. Busy? At this time of night? He tried again. Busy. He called her cell. No answer. He waited three minutes and called her home again. Still busy.

Something has happened to her, he thought. He called the Lyon operator. ‘I’m Inspector Thierry Dulac, Interpol. ID number 537-5672. I want to know if this number is really busy, or defective.’

‘I’m sorry sir, I—’

‘For God’s sake, this is an emergency. Someone’s life is at stake.’

‘Yes sir. One moment.’

After a seemingly interminable wait, the operator returned. ‘There seems to be something wrong with the line, sir. I am having—’

Dulac hung up and dialed Lescop’s number. After the fourth ring a drowsy voice answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Lescop, it’s me, Dulac.’

‘What … what time is it?’

‘Never mind. It’s Gina. I think she’s in trouble. Get some backup and get over to her place right away.’

‘What?’

‘Just do as I say. Her life may be in danger. There’s no time to explain. Call me when you get there.’

‘All right. All right. I’m going.’ Dulac hung up and called Harris.

‘Harris.’ His voice sounded as if he was already awake, almost as if he were expecting the call.

‘Thierry Dulac. I have an emergency.’ There was a pause.

‘Do you realize what time it is?’

‘Gina Marino is in trouble. I’ve sent Lescop and a backup over to her house.’

‘What the hell is this about?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in when I get back to Lyon.’

‘This had better be good, Dulac.’ Harris hung up.

Dulac could feel the local anesthetic the nurse had shot in his arm spreading to his fingers. He heard the insistent ring of his phone in his pocket.

‘Cellphones are not allowed in the hospital,’ said the buxom red-headed nurse.

‘It’s an emergency.’ Dulac flipped open his cell with his good hand.

‘Lescop. We’ve entered the house. There’s no sign of Gina. Somebody has definitely been here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’ve turned the place upside down. The house is trashed. I don’t think they found what they were looking for. Any idea what?’

‘Call the police. Have them send all-points on Gina. Call me when you get news.’ Dulac flipped his phone shut and slowly put it back in his pocket. Who the hell is behind this? Jesus. No. It can’t be. Legnano? How could that possibly be? Yet he’s the only other person who knows about the voice analyzer results.

Dulac sat waiting in the antechamber of Legnano’s office, trying to keep a grip on his temper. Legnano’s secretary was busy opening the morning mail, when Dulac’s cell rang.

‘Lescop. We’ve found Gina. Or rather, she found us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s fine. She walked in the office this morning. Apparently her sister had her fortieth birthday last night and Gina spent the night there.’

Dulac drew a deep breath. ‘Thank God she’s OK.’

‘Well, temporarily, yes.’

‘Explain.’

‘She hasn’t seen her house yet. Or what’s left of it.’ At that moment, Cardinal Legnano walked in.

‘Call you later.’ Dulac hung up.

‘Mr Dulac. What are you doing here?’ said Legnano.

Dulac jumped up and stood inches from the cardinal, blocking his way. ‘Surprised to see me, your Eminence?’

Legnano backed away. ‘Well, yes. But I’m glad—’

‘Let’s cut the crap, Cardinal, shall we?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Enough of your bullshit.’

The cardinal frowned and looked at Dulac’s bandaged arm.

‘That’s right. Your guy missed. He’s dead.’

Legnano, his look a mix of incomprehension and irritation, took another step back. ‘Mr Dulac, what in heaven’s name are you talking about?’

‘Apart from Gina and myself, you were the only person to know about the voice analyzer results. Last night, your man broke into my hotel room, tried to hack my computer, then tried to kill me.’

‘Mr Dulac, you’re talking complete nonsense. I swear to you on my cardinal’s oath that I have nothing to do with any theft, or attack on you or for that matter anybody else.’

‘Then who, Cardinal?’ Dulac thrust his face closer to the cardinal’s.

‘I am, I mean, I have no idea Mr Dulac.’ Legnano stepped back again.

‘And why should I believe you?’

‘Mr Dulac, I swear on my oath as a cardinal that I had nothing to do with this.’

Dulac and the cardinal stared at each other for a moment. Although the cardinal seemed truthful, Dulac reserved final judgment. ‘If what you are saying is true,’ Dulac continued, ‘then someone else must have overheard our conversation. Your secretary perhaps?’

‘Monsignor Patuelli? Impossible. He’s been with me for fifteen years. I have complete faith in his discretion.’

‘At the Vatican, I’m beginning to think nothing is impossible.’ Dulac pointed at different areas of the room. ‘Your office. Has it been swept clean?’

‘You mean for listening devices?’ said Legnano with an air of surprise.

‘It’s never been bugged before?’

Legnano became thoughtful. ‘Actually, yes. About seven years ago, before a synod of bishops. I’ll, I’ll have Haeflinger check again. In any case, Mr Dulac, I was going to call you. I’ve convened the Curia to inform them about this, this—’

‘Impostor, Cardinal. Impostor.’

‘Astounding,’ exclaimed Sforza, his bird-like eyes twinkling.

‘That’s preposterous, unbelievable,’ said Fouquet, staring at Dulac
stiffly. ‘I’m sure someone would have noticed. The doctors gave him a complete medical examination when they checked the Pope’s state of health upon his return from Libya.’

‘I asked that very question to Dr Cavallo,’ said Legnano. ‘She said that unless you were a plastic surgeon, you wouldn’t notice.’

‘That would explain why he was not interested in the reattachment of his ear,’ said Sforza.

‘That would explain a lot of things, your Eminence,’ said Dulac.

‘If Mr Dulac and the doctor are right, de Ségur has given us quite a ride for our money, as they say in America,’ said Legnano.

‘It’s all crystal clear, your Eminence,’ said Dulac. ‘De Ségur has substituted a Cathar ‘pope’ to effect changes within the Church and control the agenda. His puppet would progressively install Cathar doctrine, abolish archbishops, cardinals even.’ Dulac paused and looked at the members of the Curia. ‘De Ségur must have had collaborators inside the Vatican. I’m talking at the highest level. At the level of—’

Suddenly Dulac’s, then everyone else’s gaze turned towards where Cardinal Gonzales had sat. The chair was empty.

Legnano stood up and rushed to the Swiss Guards, on station at the room’s entrance. ‘Get Cardinal Gonzales and bring him here. He must not leave the Vatican.’ Legnano returned to the table and rejoined the bewildered prelates.

For a long moment, no one dared break the agonizing silence that had befallen them, a somber assembly of Christ’s most respected representatives.

Sitting calmly behind his desk, Legnano looked at the cardinals one by one and said, ‘Does anyone have any suggestions as to what we do next?’

The cardinals eyed each other timidly, blank expressions on their sullen faces.

Suddenly Fouquet blurted out, ‘We must simply tell the truth. The truth will carry us through. It always has.’

Legnano rose from his chair, went around to the front of his desk and leaned back slightly with his hands on the edge of the desk. ‘Cardinal, that is the most inane, absurd, ridiculous remark I have heard in a long time.’ Staring at Fouquet, Legnano stood away from the desk and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘So according to you, we should tell the
public that we have paid kidnappers $600 million in exchange for the Pope, that we didn’t check his identity before paying them the money, that an impostor has been sitting here in his place, making changes, and we have only now found out we’ve been duped. And to top it off, this false pope has announced major reforms, which to our surprise and embarrassment,’ – he looked about the room – ‘yes embarrassment, your Eminences, these reforms have been overwhelmingly approved by our faithful.’

Legnano started across the room towards the window, all the while talking. ‘Truth be told though, we have a slight problem. Our Pope, sorry, our impostor, is a Cathar, not even a Catholic priest. Shall I go on, Cardinals?’ He paused briefly, taking in the effect. ‘And we don’t know where the real Pope is, or even if he is alive for that matter.’ He stopped beside the window and looked outside, hands clasped behind his back.

Slowly, Legnano turned and eyed the cardinals one by one, leaving Fouquet until last. ‘Is this the truth you are suggesting we tell our 1.2 billion faithful and the rest of the world?’

Fouquet’s face had become the red color of his cassock’s fascia. ‘I only suggested we should eventually—’

‘Enough, Cardinal, enough. Anyone have a better idea?’ said Legnano.

At that moment, Haeflinger and two of his men burst into the room, escorting Cardinal Gonzales between them.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ said Gonzales, freeing his arm from the Swiss Guard.

‘You left the room rather precipitously, your Eminence.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We think you may have something to do with this, this false pope,’ said Legnano.

‘Absolutely ridiculous. I merely went outside to make a private call.’

‘And may we ask to whom?’

‘To the hospital. I was simply inquiring about the Pope’s health.’

‘You mean the impostor’s health,’ said Fouquet.

‘As far as I’m concerned, that still hasn’t been proven,’ said Gonzales.

Suddenly, the insistent ring of the telephone on the small desk broke the tension. Legnano reached for it. ‘Sì … sì…. Call me when you have news. Thank you, doctor.’ He turned to the assembly. ‘We won’t
get a confession soon. Dr Cavallo warns that his coma has deepened.’

‘Well, at least we won’t have to depose him,’ said Sforza.

‘Cardinal, your cynicism is a little out of place, don’t you think?’ said Legnano. ‘That man, whoever he is, is fighting for his life.’

‘You’re right,’ said Sforza, a look of apology on his face. He turned to the rest of the cardinals. ‘But in the name of God, what are we going to do?’

Dulac had felt more and more uncomfortable during the raucous squabbling of cardinals over a solution to their ‘problem’. Sforza wanted to set in motion the Conclave of cardinals, to elect a successor to the illegitimate Pope. As interim successor to the real Pope, the Camerlengo, Cardinal Fouquet asserted he had de facto full powers to act immediately. Legnano retorted that until it was proven beyond all reasonable doubt that the stricken man was an impostor, the man in the coma was still the Pope.

At around 10 a.m. Dulac left the discordant assembly and took a taxi back to the hotel. ‘Message for you, Mr Dulac,’ said the young raven-haired woman at the front desk. Dulac grabbed the envelope and started towards the elevator. As he reached it, he opened the envelope and read the short message. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, and hit the up button. He re-read the message which was addressed to Inspector Thierry Dulac, Interpol, Hotel Dante.

Dulac rushed out of the elevator, down the corridor. He fumbled with his room card and tried to open the door. ‘Damn. Can’t they get this low-tech junk to work?’ he mumbled. At the second try, the light turned green. He went to his desk, dialed the number and heard the distinctive buzz tone of a North American exchange.

‘Mr Dulac undoubtedly,’ said the voice after the fifth ring.

Dulac recognized the nasal, clipped accent of his compatriot. In an instant, Dulac felt all of the frustration and bottled-up anger he’d
accumulated over the three years of chasing down his enemy, his nemesis, come to the surface. Dulac sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached for his pack of Gitanes on the night table.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m quite surprised you returned the call. I wasn’t expecting such courtesy from the man trying to get rid of me.’

‘You’ve got it ass-backwards, de Ségur. It was your man who tried to kill me last night.’

‘Wrong again. I’m talking about Roquebrun. Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out about your silly plan to—’

‘What the hell is this about then?’

‘Dulac, your polemics won’t get us anywhere. Just so you know where I’m coming from, I have the latest news concerning the state of health of the Pope.’

‘You mean your impostor from Benghazi.’

‘As you wish. According to my informant, he won’t make it. That is why I decided to call you.’ There was a moment of silence. ‘It was going so well, until….’ De Ségur started to cough uncontrollably. ‘Sorry. I—’

‘Until your plan to control 1.6 billion Catholics went sour?’

‘As always you oversimplify, Dulac. But as much as I hate to admit it, I’ll give you credit for the voice analyzer. We thought the larynx operation had gone perfectly.’

‘It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure out what you’re up to with this impostor.’

‘We checked his medical records, but we hadn’t foreseen a stroke. Always risky, the business of impersonation. Everything was going according to plan, until then.’

Dulac lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘For how long did you think you could get away with this? A couple of months? A year? Someone else was bound to find out. The Vatican would surely—’

‘Attack his reforms? On what grounds? Merely because they would eventually doubt the Pope’s legitimacy? Look at it even now. The Curia doesn’t know what to do. They don’t dare reveal the truth.’

‘You seem well informed on the Curia. Gonzales?’

‘Of course.’

‘Beside Gonzales and Romer, who were the conspirators on the inside?’ said Dulac.