The Hand of Christ (45 page)

He had left his religion long ago.

“
With all due respect, Monsignor, this is not the business of the Church. This is not your business. These crimes happened outside of the Vatican’s walls. What concern is this of the Holy See that it sends the personal assistant to the Pope?”

“
Detective!” The Commandante, however, was a deeply religious man. To him, everything began and ended with the Church, “Monsignor, I apologize for my detective. It has been a truly difficult day.”

Geoffrey waved his hand and dismissed any slight bit of disrespect from the detective, “Commandante, I have not been offended. The detective has lost one of his men, I can understand his perspective and emotions; death is always a trying time for everyone that it touches.”

“
How did you know that we lost one of our men, we have not yet made that information public?” Dante asked.

Before Dante finished the question he knew the answer. The Vatican is everywhere; they have better technology than any military or police branch in Italy. No doubt they monitor every radio frequency and emergency call. More importantly, Dante knew that they have connections at every level of government service. All the Church would have to do is pick up a phone; any good Catholic in Italy will give the Vatican whatever they wanted.

Geoffrey ignored Dante’s question; instead, he referred to the formidable looking man that was standing next to him, “Detective, I would like you to welcome Colonel Camini, head of the Swiss Guard, and two of his finest detectives; they will be of immense help into your investigation. They will serve you well.”

I doubt they are here to serve me.

Dante was offended at the priest’s presumption and spat back, “These men have no jurisdiction outside of the Vatican and cannot possibly be allowed to be a part of this investigation. This matter is not an issue for the Church; even if were, protocol and law would not allow it.”

“
Oh, to the contrary detective; this is the most grave of issues for the Church. It is the sworn duty of the Swiss Guard to protect his Holiness and this man, this
killer
, has eradicated four men, one of them your own.”

“
But these have nothing to do with the Vatican, or the Pope!”

Geoffrey stepped forward and imposed his will on the detective. His demeanor shifted, and the once simple looking attractive man took on a persona that shouted power. His face contorted with an angry strength. With a formidable tone, he said to Dante, “Two men were killed and within minutes of the Pope’s doorstep. Hours later, and just before he killed two more men, the man you are looking for was seen in front of St. Peter’s square.”

“
What!? How could you possibly know this, we don’t even know what this man looks like?”

Geoffrey smiled coyly and flatly said, “We do.”

The three policemen looked at each other in stunned disbelief, saying nothing.

Colonel Camini opened the briefcase he was carrying and pulled out two paper sized black and white photos and handed them to Geoffrey.

Geoffrey looked at them and then handed the photos to Dante, informing the men, “These were taken by Vatican cameras. A tourist bus just outside of the Piazza that leads into the Vatican struck this man. One of the patrolmen from the local Vigili Urbani responded to the accident, but by the time he arrived the man was gone.”

The photo showed a quite large and dark haired man lying on his back in the middle of the street, “And this one,” Geoffrey held out the second photo for the men to see, “shows the man on his feet. As you can see from the photo he is injured. It is quite obvious that he is bleeding from the back of his head.”

Dante carefully studied the photo of the man. He was large and looked capable. His features were Middle Eastern; a dark brow and prominent nose, he looked like a version of pure hate. The photo had captured the assassin as he stared at the blood on his hand; a trickle of blood could be made out as it streaked down the side of his ear and neck. Even more important, the photo displayed a clear look at his face.

“
As you know detective,” Geoffrey continued, “there was blood found at the scene of your policeman’s murder that did not belong to the Persian victim or to your dead officer.”

“
Fernando Paulo Santorino!” Dante scowled. He would not allow the killed patrolman simply to be an unknown victim to the priest. The man had a face, and he had a name; the priest would hear that name, he would know it.

“
Excuse me, detective?”

Dante move a step closer to Geoffrey and through gritted teeth, he repeated, “His name was Fernando Paulo Santorino. He had a wife, Maria, and a three-year old son named Salvatore. He was my friend.”

Geoffrey contemplated for a moment, but understood what the detective was trying to say. He put a hand on Dante’s shoulder and apologized, “Detective, forgive my demeanor. I did not mean to sound so cold. I should have spoken differently. You must understand, I am charged with every aspect of the Holy Father’s personal life. These tragedies are of great concern. The bar where the Persian was killed is a short walk from the Hotel where the first two victims were found and from St. Peter’s Square, the place the killer was hit by the bus. The Swiss Guards were able to speak with the only other guests at Hotel Bramante; after looking at these photos they have confirmed that this is the man they saw at the Hotel. I am as desperate as you to find this man.”

“
What! You have questioned witnesses? You have no authority!” Dante was not the only officer in the room whose anger was growing as the Commissario screamed his protest at the priest.

“
Please, Commissario, there is no need to shout. It so happened that these people were visiting the Vatican today. We took the opportunity to discuss this matter with them while they were on Vatican property.”

Detective Dante knew the Vatican was skirting the laws. What else was new? Certainly, they used their vast connections to find out whatever they could about the killings, including the identities of the other guests at the hotel. Undoubtedly, their men had been in street clothes and stationed outside of Hotel Bramante. It was a certainty that they had been watching as Polizia and Carabinieri spoke with the guests of the hotel and then had followed those guests – coaxed them more like – to the Vatican.

“
Monsignor, these images are evidence and should be run through Interpol to try and find a match. If you allow me,” Dante’s hand was outstretched gesturing for the photos. “I can begin the process.”

Up until this point, Colonel Camini had stood stoically at Geoffrey’s side, but finally broke his silence. Stepping forward, his deep and gruff voice flatly stated, “We already have.”

Why am I not surprised
? Dante thought, as his own impatience grew.

Coldly he retorted, “Was there a match, Colonel?”

Reaching into his case once more, the head of the Swiss Guard removed a thin stack of papers, “This is the dossier compiled on the man in the photos. He has no known name or aliases, other than the one he used when he checked into the hotel, but what little we found indicates that he was a member of Vezarat-e Ettela'at va Amniat-e Keshvar, otherwise known as VEVAK.”

The Commandante of the Carabinieri jumped in, “Miguel, what is VEVAK?”

Referring to the revered man in such an informal fashion turned the attention of more than one man in the room. Unbeknownst to the other men in the room, the head of the Swiss Guard and the Commandante had grown up together and had attended the same school living only blocks apart. At one time the two men were best of friends, but are no longer amicable; a result of the Colonel holding a position that the Commandante once coveted. Referring to the Colonel in the familiar tense was a result of that history.

The Colonel’s response was without emotion and monotone, “VEVAK is the Ministry of Intelligence and Security in Iran.”

With an echoing yell detective Dante burst out, “Iran? What the hell is an Iranian Intelligence agent doing here?”

Dante’s slight sin was ignored by the young priest who replied, “That, detective is what we would like to know. As I said earlier, the Colonel and his two men are here to assist.”

The Commandante of the Carabinieri may be a fervent and devout Catholic but he was also charged with upholding the law, and, even more so, detested the idea of the man who stole his life’s dream becoming the fulcrum of this crisis. “Father, I cannot allow it. This would be highly unusual and outside of your jurisdiction; I do not have the authority to…”

Before the Commandante could finish, the telephone sitting atop the desk rang.

“
Commandante,” the priest’s devilish smile returned, “I believe that you should answer your phone, perhaps you will find that authority you need.”

Slowly the Commandante reached over and removed the handset from its place on the cradle his eyes not wavering from the priest. He answered, “This is Commandante Allesandro Romero.”

As he listened to the caller his eyes remained affixed on Geoffrey, the Commandante could see a bit of arrogance beginning to line the priest’s return-gaze. He gingerly hung up the phone after saying a simple, “Yes, sir, I understand, sir; of course, sir.”

“
It would seem that we have been asked to include the Colonel and his men into our investigation.”

The Commissario was furious and demanded, “On whose authority?”

“
The Office of the President, Commissario.”

“
If you will excuse me, the Dean of the Cardinal College is making an unexpected visit to the Vatican and is due to arrive soon; I must attend to him. Please extend all of the same courtesies to my men as you would your own; I expect any updates as soon as they become known. Commandante, you must find this man.”

Geoffrey spun around, nodded at the Colonel and left as abruptly as he had arrived.

“
Detective, I trust that you will do as our President asks. Please keep the Commissario and I informed of your progress as well.”

Dante was confused, “You are not coming with?”

“
No,” the Commandante looked deflated and turned his attention from Dante and spoke directly to the Commissario. “Our presence has been requested at Parliament, Commissario.”

Chapter Forty-Five

The Mosque of Rome

Rome, Italy

The assassin’s heart beat heavily and seemed to slam against the walls of his peritoneum like a demolition ball, working to bring down a condemned building. The resulting elevation in his blood pressure forced him to attempt – with futility – a defiance of Bernoulli’s Principle. His head pounded with each beat of his heart as too much blood forced its way through his veins and into the tiny vascular passageways that surrounded his brain, passageways that were too small for such pressure.

Grimacing at the throbbing, he had to stop; he needed to rest and calm himself.

The assassin was racing from Bar Tomas, from the site of his last bout of uncontrolled rage, in a disorganized manner; this bothered the professional killer.

Why am I losing my senses, my control!
He thought to himself,
I must regain them.

He didn’t know his way around Rome, nor to the mosque. He only knew the direction in which it was, east of the Tibor and of the Park. He was close, he knew it; he could feel Allah course through the pathways of his veins. He scanned his surroundings through the slight slit between his eyelids. The pain that throbbed rhythmically through his head, and with each beat of his heart, forced his eyes to be half-shut. Looking intensely at the landscape ahead of him he saw it; there, in the middle of a wooded setting, the sole minaret of the Grand Mosque of Rome broke the tree-lined horizon with a quiet ebullience.

He sighed heavily and thanked Allah; relieved, the assassin stole through the wooded seven-and-a-half acre gift from Rome to the mosque, and made his way there.

Viale de Moschea, the road off of which the mosque sits, was the antithesis of Rome’s ancient and seemingly endless beauty: non-descript, boring, and with no real history, but the assassin didn’t care. Staring upon the mosque he felt a quiet vestige of relief drape over him as if Allah himself was offering comfort.

From the one hundred and twenty-nine foot minaret, a beacon of new sanity drifted down upon the assassin; he imagined that it was calling to him, beckoning him home. The signature of his homeland’s skyline, the tall spire of light flanked the twenty-meter diameter large central dome, which was surrounded by sixteen smaller lead covered domes that had protruding and articulating, intersecting arches.

The assassin exhaled.

Lost upon the assassin, was the purported message of religious collaboration achieved by its designers: Paolo Portoghesi, its Italian architect, and Sami Mousawi, an architect from Iraq. The two men sought to blend the histories of Rome and Islam, and emphasized symmetry and centralization; a quiet message to the citizens many thought. The assassin only saw Islam and not the clearly Roman influenced tiles above the vast prayer hall.

As he entered it, he basked in the magnificence of the fifty million dollar structure whose construction had spanned twenty years and had been sponsored mostly by Saudi Arabia. He felt comforted by the Islamic curved pillars and the Arabic arches.