God's Spy (21 page)

‘Father Fowler!’

The priest turned round. It was Cardinal Casey who was waving him over. Fowler retraced his steps.
‘Your Eminence, I hope you feel better now.’
The cardinal forced a smile. ‘We have no choice but to accept the trials the Lord sends us. My dear Fowler, I wanted to take the opportunity to thank you personally for your timely rescue.’
‘Your Eminence, you were already safe by the time we arrived.’
‘Who knows? Who knows what might have happened if that lunatic decided to pay me another visit? You have my whole-hearted appreciation. I will personally see to it that the Curia learns of your actions.’
‘It really isn’t necessary, Your Eminence.’
‘My son, you never know when you are going to need a favour, or when troubles may beset you. It’s important to have money in the bank, as they say.’
Fowler looked him, inscrutable.
‘Of course,’ Casey went on, ‘the Curia’s gratitude could go even further. It is possible that we may request your presence here at the Vatican. Camilo Cirin seems to be losing his lustre. Perhaps someone who could ensure that this scandal is utterly erased could fill his shoes. Someone who can make sure it all just disappears.’ Fowler was beginning to catch his drift. ‘Your Eminence, are you asking me to see to it that a certain dossier is lost?’
The cardinal smiled and shrugged his shoulders in a childish gesture that was completely incongruous, given the subject under discussion. He was close to getting what he wanted, or so he thought. ‘Precisely, my son: “A dead body revenges not injuries.”’ Fowler smiled maliciously. ‘Well, well. A quotation from Blake. I never thought I’d hear a cardinal reciting the Proverbs of Hell!’ Casey stiffened and his voice became more abrupt. He didn’t care for the priest’s tone. ‘The ways of the Lord are mysterious.’ ‘The ways of the Lord are contrary to those of the Adversary, Your Eminence. I learned that in school as a child, and it hasn’t lost its validity.’
‘A surgeon’s tools will sometimes be stained with blood. And you are a very sharp scalpel, my son. Let’s just say that I am aware that you represent more than one interest in this case.’
‘I’m a humble priest – nothing more,’ said Fowler, attempting to look stunned.
‘I don’t doubt it. But in certain circles they speak of your . . . abilities.’
‘And in those circles do they not also speak of my problem with authority, Your Eminence?’
‘Yes, that too. But I don’t doubt that, when the moment comes, you’ll behave as you ought. You won’t let the good name of the Church be dragged through the press, my son.’
The priest responded with a cold, hostile silence. The cardinal gave him a few paternal slaps on the shoulder, and then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘In times like these, who doesn’t have a secret or two? Who knows? – your name might turn up on other pieces of paper. For example, in the summons of the Sant’Uffizio. Once again.’ And without another word, the Cardinal turned and walked back into Saint Martha’s.
Fowler got into the car where his friends were waiting for him. The motor was running.
‘Are you all right, padre?’Dicanti asked, ‘– you look upset.’ ‘I’m perfectly fine.’
Paola studied him closely. It was a patent lie: Fowler was as white as a sheet. He looked as if he’d aged ten years in the space of a minute.
‘What did Cardinal Casey want?’
Fowler gave Paola an unconvincing smile, which only made things worse. ‘His Eminence? Nothing. He merely sent his regards to a mutual friend.’

Friday, 8 April 2005, 1.25 a.m.
‘I’m getting used to throwing open the doors for you in the middle of the night, Dicanti.’

Paola’s response a compromise between courtesy and shock. Fowler, Dante and the coroner stood to one side of the autopsy table, while Dicanti faced them from the other. All four donned the mortuary’s blue masks and latex gloves. Finding herself there for the third time in so few days made her remember something she had read when she was young, something about being sent back to Hell, and about how that consisted in doing the same thing over and over again. Maybe Hell wasn’t directly stretched out in front of her, but she was getting a close look at the proof of its existence.

On the autopsy table Cardoso’s body looked even more horrific than it had earlier. Just a few hours before, his body had been awash with blood; now it resembled a pale doll festooned with ugly, raw scars. The cardinal was on the svelte side and, drained of blood, his face seemed like a mask – sunken and accusatory.

‘What do we know about him, Dante?’ asked Dicanti.

The superintendent carried a small notebook in his jacket pocket at all times. He took it out and began reading. ‘Geraldo Claudio Cardoso, born 9, cardinal since 00. Well known as a defender of the working class, always on the side of the poor and the homeless. Before being named cardinal, he established his reputation in the diocese of San José. The largest factories in Latin America are found in that region, and Cardoso frequently acted as an intermediary between the workers and the owners. The workers loved him, called him the “union bishop”. He was a member of various congregations in the Roman Curia.’

This time even the coroner was quiet. He had cut up Robayra with a smile on his face, mocked Pontiero’s inability to stomach the sight of blood. A few hours later the man he had made fun of had been stretched out on his table. And the following day, another cardinal – a man who, on paper at least, had done a great deal of good in the world. He asked himself if the official version and the unofficial were in agreement, but it was Fowler who finally put the question to Dante.

‘Is there anything more besides the press clippings?’ ‘Don’t make the mistake, Fowler, of thinking that everyone in

Our Holy Mother Church leads a double life.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’ Fowler’s face was implacable. ‘And
now, how about answering my question?’
Dante pretended to think, stretching his neck again, first left then
right. Paola was sure he already knew the answer or at least was
ready for the question.
‘I made a few calls. Almost everyone confirms the official story.
He had two unimportant run-ins, but nothing of note. Played
around with marijuana as a young man, before he became a priest.
Dubious political affiliations at university, and that’s it. Since he
became a cardinal he’s had a few confrontations with colleagues
in the Curia, owing to his defence of a group the Curia doesn’t
care for: the Charismatics. The big picture is that he was a decent
man.’
‘As were the other two,’ Fowler said.
‘So it seems.’
‘Anything new on the murder weapon, doctor?’ Paola managed
to get a word in edgewise.
The coroner pointed to the victim’s neck and the cuts on his
chest. ‘A short, smooth blade, probably a small kitchen knife, but
very sharp. In the previous cases, I reserved my opinion, but now
that I’ve seen the moulds of the incisions, I believe he used the same
instrument on all three occasions.’
Paola made a mental note.
‘Dicanti,’ asked Fowler, ‘what do you think the chances are that
Karosky will try something during John Paul’s funeral?’ ‘Christ, I don’t know. No doubt the security around Saint Martha’s
has been reinforced by now.’
‘Of course it has,’ Dante crowed. ‘They’re locked up so tight, they
can’t even tell if it’s daytime without looking at a clock.’ ‘Though the security had already been stepped up, and that didn’t
help us much. Karosky has shown us his ability to adapt and his
unbelievable sangfroid. Truthfully, I don’t have the slightest idea. I
don’t know if he’s going to try something then, although I doubt it.
In this last incident, he wasn’t able to complete his ritual or leave us
a message written in blood, as he did on the first two occasions.’ ‘Which means we’ve lost another clue,’ Fowler grumbled. ‘Yes, but at the same time, it should make him feel nervous and
even a little vulnerable. Though with a son of a bitch like this, you
never know.’
‘We’ll have to pay close attention to protecting the cardinals,’ said
Dante.
‘Not only protecting them, but looking for him. Even if he doesn’t
try anything, he’ll be there, watching us and laughing. I’d stake my
neck on that.’

Friday, 8 April 2005, 10.15 a.m.

John Paul II’s funeral took place with tedious normality. Everything was as ordinary as it could be at the funeral of the religious leader of more than a billion people that was attended by royalty and some of the world’s most powerful heads of state. But they were not the only ones who took part. Hundreds of thousands of people flowed in and around Saint Peter’s Square, and every face told a story that burned behind its eyes like flames in a fireplace.

One of those faces belonged to Andrea Otero. She couldn’t see Robayra anywhere, but the journalist did notice three things as she stood on the rooftop terrace alongside colleagues from a German television team. One, that looking through binoculars for half an hour gives you a splitting headache. Two, that the backs of the necks of the assembled cardinals all looked alike. And three, that there were only one hundred and twelve red robes seated on those chairs. She counted them several times. And the printed list pressed against her knees clearly stated that there should have been one hundred and fifteen.

Camilo Cirin wouldn’t have felt in the least bit comfortable if he had known what Andrea Otero was thinking, but he had his own problems to deal with. Victor Karosky, the serial killer who specialised in cardinals, was one of them. But while Karosky didn’t cause Cirin any trouble during the funeral, an unidentified plane that invaded Vatican air space in the middle of the funeral did. The anguish that overwhelmed Cirin during those moments as he recalled the September terrorist attacks was no less than that of the three pilots who set off after the plane. Luckily for everyone, the situation resolved itself within a few minutes, when it became clear that the pilot of the unidentified plane was a Macedonian who had simply flown off course. The episode stretched Cirin’s nerves to the limit. A subordinate standing nearby later commented that it was the first time in fifteen years he had ever heard Cirin raise his voice to give orders.

Another of Cirin’s subordinates, Fabio Dante, was mingling in the crowd. He cursed his luck as people pressed in close in order to see John Paul’s casket as it was carried by, and many of them shouted, ‘Santo subito!’ – ‘Sainthood now!’ – right in his ears. Dante desperately tried to see over the tops of their heads and past the signs they were carrying; he kept searching for a Carmelite friar with a bushy beard. He didn’t lead the celebrations when the funeral was finally over, but he was next in line.

Anthony Fowler was one of many priests giving communion to the assembled crowd, and more than once he thought he saw Karosky’s face in that of the person who was about to receive the body of Christ from his hands. While hundreds of people filed up to him, Fowler prayed for two things: one concerned the reason he had come to Rome, and the other was that the All Powerful should give him the strength and illumination to face what he had found in the Eternal City.

Ignorant of the fact that Fowler was seeking the Creator’s help, in large part because of her, Paola scrutinised the faces on the steps of Saint Peter’s. She had taken up position in a corner of the square. She didn’t pray; she never did. Nor did she give the people parading past her any special attention, because their faces very quickly blurred into one. She spent her time contemplating what motivated a monster.

Carlo Troi sat behind a desk full of television monitors with Angelo, the UACV’s forensic sculptor. They were getting their feed directly from the RAI cameras in the square, before they went on the air. From this vantage point they staged their own hunt, for which they were rewarded with headaches almost as intense as Andrea Otero’s. Of the ‘engineer‘, as Angelo continued to call him, they saw not so much as a trace.

On the esplanade, the secret-service agents attached to George Bush came to blows with agents of the Vigilanza when they were denied permission to enter Saint Peter’s Square. For those familiar with the way the American secret service operates, if only through hearsay, what happened that day was remarkable. Nowhere before had they been denied entrance, yet the Vigilanza would not let them in. And no matter how much they insisted, outside they stayed.

Victor Karosky took part in John Paul’s funeral, devoutly praying aloud. He sang with a beautiful, deep voice at the appropriate moments. He shed a sincere tear and made plans for the future.

No one paid any attention to him.

Friday, 8 April 2005, 6.25 p.m.

Andrea Otero arrived at the press conference with her tongue hanging out. Not just on account of the heat, but because she had left her press card in the hotel and had had to yell at the dumbfounded taxi driver to make a U-turn in the middle of traffic to go back for it. Her carelessness wasn’t disastrous, as she’d left an hour early. She had wanted to arrive ahead of time so she could have a word with the Vatican spokesman, Joaquin Balcells, about Cardinal Robayra’s ‘evaporation’. She’d tried to track him down earlier, but without success.

The press room was an annexe to the large auditorium built during John Paul II’s papacy. Extremely modern, with room for more than six thousand, the latter was always filled to overflowing on Wednesdays, when the Holy Father gave his audiences. The door from the press room led directly on to the street, right next to the palace of the Sant’Uffizio.

The press room itself had room for 8 people. Andrea thought she’d get a good seat if she arrived fifteen minutes before the hour, but it was obvious that more than three hundred journalists had had the same thought. And it wasn’t so surprising that the press room was filled to capacity: ,0 accredited media outlets from ninety countries were there to cover the funeral and the Conclave. More than two billion human beings, half of them Catholic, had said farewell to the deceased Pope from the comfort of their living rooms that very morning. ‘And here I am: me – Andrea Otero.’ If only her professors at Journalism School could see her now.

Fine, she was at the press conference where they were going to explain how the Conclave worked, but she didn’t have a seat. She leaned against the wall near the entrance. It was the only way in, so when Balcells arrived, she would be able to make contact.