The Thirteenth Apostle (29 page)

He kept this indirect testimony to the rebellion of the thirteenth apostle against the dominant Church as a precious addition to the Society's treasures.

67

The entrance hall was in fact the living room of a vast patrician residence. Just a skip and a jump from the buzz of the city centre, the Via Giulia offered to Rome the charm of its arcades covered with wisteria, and several old palaces transformed into hotels that were at once familiar, luxurious and convivial.

“Could you please tell Signor Barjona that I would like to see him?”

The receptionist, dressed with distinction in black, gazed at this early visitor. A middle-aged man, greying hair, non-descript clothes – an admirer, a foreign journalist? He pursed his lips.

“The
maestro
came back very late last night, we never disturb him before…”

As naturally as possible, the visitor pulled from his pocket a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the receptionist.

“He'll be delighted to see me, and if that were not the case I would make it up to you by the same amount again. Tell him that his old friend from the club is waiting for him: he'll understand.”

“What the hell's the idea, Ari, dragging me out of bed at this time, on the day before a concert? And to begin with, what are you doing in Rome? You ought to be enjoying your retirement in Jaffa in peace and quiet and leave me alone. I'm not under your command any more!”

“True, but nobody ever leaves Mossad, Lev, and you
are
under their command, still. Come on, relax! I was just passing through Europe, and I'm taking advantage of the opportunity to see you, that's all. How's your Roman tour going?”

“It's going well. But this evening I'm starting with Rachmaninov's Third – it's a terrifying monument, and I need to concentrate. So do you still have relatives in Europe?”

“A Jew always has relatives somewhere.
Your
family, well, they're really the service I trained you up in when you were still a teenager. And they're worried about you in Jerusalem. Whatever led you to follow that French monk onto the Rome
express after reserving his entire compartment? Who'd given you orders to do so? Did you want to do the previous operation all over again, but alone this time? Did I ever tell you to go solo in an operation?”

Lev pulled a face and lowered his eyes.

“I didn't have time to warn Jerusalem, it all went so quickly…”

Ari clenched his fists and interrupted him.

“Don't lie, not to me. You know perfectly well that, ever since your accident, you haven't been the same. You've been flirting with death for years now. There are times when you allow yourself to get overwhelmed by a hankering for danger – it has a perfume that arouses you like a drug. Then you don't think any more – just imagine what would have happened if Father Nil in turn had had an accident?”

“It would have been a real headache for the people in the Vatican. I hate them with all my soul, Ari: they were the ones who allowed the Nazis who had exterminated my family to escape to Argentina.”

Ari looked at him with tenderness.

“It's no longer the time for hatred, but for justice. And it's inconceivable, unacceptable, that you should take political decisions at such a level without getting permission. You've shown you're no longer able to control yourself: we need to protect you against yourself. From now on, you are absolutely forbidden to carry out any operations in the field. The little Lev who used to play with his life as if it were a musical score has grown up. You're a celebrity now: carry on with the mission we've entrusted you with, keep tabs on Mukhtar Al-Quraysh, and concentrate on the French monk. No more direct action as far as you're concerned.”

68

Nil was filled with excitement as he went into the Academy of Santa Cecilia. The last time he'd been to a concert was in Paris, just before he entered the monastery. That had been quite a while ago.

The auditorium is small and almost intimate in size. It was now humming with gossip and, in the middle of the gala costumes, the scarlet cassocks of several cardinals could be seen. Leeland held the two invitation cards to the usher, who led them to the twentieth row, slightly to the left.

“From here your view won't be interrupted by the lid of the piano, Monsignor; you'll be able to watch the soloist.”

They sat in silence. Ever since his arrival in Rome, Nil had sensed that something had snapped between himself and Leeland: the complete and absolute trust that had enabled them to remain so close to one another in spite of their physical distance and the years of separation had broken down. It seemed to him that he had lost his last and only friend.

The orchestra was already in its place. Suddenly the lights in the hall dimmed, and the conductor made his entrance, followed by the pianist. Thunderous applause broke out, and the American leant towards Nil.

“Lev Barjona has already given several recitals here, the audience know and admire him.”

The conductor bowed, but Lev Barjona went straight over to the piano and sat down, without looking at the audience. From his seat, Nil could see only the right side of his profile, crowned by a mane of blond hair. When the conductor climbed onto the podium, the pianist raised his eyes and smiled at him. Then he nodded, and the vibrant hum of the violins was heard, the steady beat of a deep pulse announcing the entry of the
piano. As soon as this repetitive, obsessive cadence reached him, the pianist's face became set like that of a robot.

Nil suddenly had a flashback: he had already seen that expression somewhere. But Lev's hands were now on the piano, and the first-movement theme rose up like the nostalgic reminder of a lost world, that of the happiness that had been lost since the October Revolution. Nil closed his eyes. Rachmaninov's music swept him away in a sled, across frozen wastes of snow, then along the road to exile, to the gates of death and abandonment.

By the end of the second movement, the audience was enraptured. Leeland again leant across to Nil.

“The third movement is one of the most difficult pieces in the whole repertoire.”

Lev Barjona was dazzling, but hardly acknowledged the audience, which had risen to its feet as one, before walking off into the wings. Flushed with pleasure, Leeland was clapping like mad. Then, suddenly, he stopped.

“I know Lev, he won't return to the stage, he never gives an encore. Come on, let's see if we can say hello to him.”

They pushed their way through the crowd that was stamping with enthusiasm and crying, “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!”

In the box reserved for the Vatican, Cardinal Catzinger was applauding with detachment. He had received a note labelled
molto confidenziale
from the Secretary of State, warning him about the Israeli pianist. “He may be a dodgy character, perhaps, but what a virtuoso!”

Suddenly he froze: he had just spotted, down among the audience, Leeland's elegant silhouette, followed by the grey head of Nil. They were heading towards the left of the stage, making for the wings – the artists' dressing rooms.

* * *

“Rembert!
Shalom
, what a pleasure to see you!”

Surrounded by pretty women, Lev Barjona embraced Leeland and then turned to Nil.

“And this must be your friend… Pleased to meet you. Do you like Rachmaninov?”

Nil, transfixed, did not return his greeting. The Israeli was now standing in the full light, and for the first time he could see his face clearly: there was a scar running from his left ear right into his mane of hair.

The man from the train!

Lev was completely at ease and pretended that he had not noticed his stupefaction. He leant towards Leeland and whispered, with a smile: “You've come at just the right time, I was trying to get away from this bevy of female admirers. After each concert, I need a few hours to come back down to earth, a little oasis of calm and silence.”

He turned to Nil.

“It would be a great pleasure for me if you would have dinner with me. We could go to a discreet trattoria – and with two monks, silence is absolutely guaranteed: you'll be the ideal dinner companions to help me emerge from the world of Rachmaninov. Wait for me at the artists' exit, I'll get away from these bothersome women, get changed and meet you there.”

Lev Barjona's smile and charm were irresistible, and he obviously knew it: he didn't wait for a reply, and headed off into the wings, leaving Nil rooted to the spot in amazement.

The man from the train! What had he been doing alone with Nil in a crowded Rome express, and what had he been about to do when the ticket collector had suddenly come into their compartment?

He was going to have dinner with him, face to face…

Part Three

69

Late that evening, the phone rang in the apartment at Castel Sant'Angelo: Alessandro Calfo jumped. He had just convinced Sonia (she was starting to put up with his demands less and less readily), and was putting the final touch to a complicated scenario which needed to run flawlessly.

At a time like this, it could only be the Cardinal.

It was indeed. He had only just got back to the Vatican – the Academy of Santa Cecilia is very near. From the tone of his voice, Calfo immediately realized that something was wrong.

“Monsignor, did you know about this?”

“About what, Your Eminence?”

“I've just this minute got back from a concert by the Israeli, Lev Barjona. A few days ago, our services alerted me about this man, and to my amazement I learnt that the Society of St Pius V had… how shall I put it… used his hidden talents. Who has authorized you to bring in foreign agents to act in the name of the Vatican?”

“Your Eminence, Lev Barjona has never been a Vatican agent! First and foremost, he's an eminent pianist, and the reason I accepted his collaboration was that he's a son of Abraham like us, and he understands a great many things. But I've never actually set eyes on him.”

“Well
I
have, just now, at Santa Cecilia. And guess who there was in the audience?”

Calfo sighed.

“Your two monks,” continued Catzinger, “the American and the Frenchman.”

“Your Eminence… what harm is there in going to listen to some nice music?”

“For one thing, a monk has no place going to a theatre. And above all, I spotted them heading for the wings at the end of the concert. They will doubtless have met Lev Barjona.”

“I very much hope,” thought Calfo, “that they have indeed met him.”

“Your Eminence,” he said aloud, “a long time ago in Jerusalem, Leeland made the acquaintance of Barjona, who was a pupil of Arthur Rubinstein. He shares a passion for music with him. It does not seem at all odd that…”

Catzinger interrupted him.

“May I remind you that Leeland works at the Vatican, and that it was
me
who authorized you to use him as a bait for Father Nil? It is highly dangerous to let them meet such a diabolical person as that Lev Barjona. You know just as well as I do that he's not just a talented musician. My patience is exhausted: during the week leading up to Christmas I have to celebrate mass every morning in my
titulum
of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, starting from tomorrow. Make sure Leeland is available to meet me tomorrow, in the early afternoon. I'll see him in my office and remind him of his responsibilities. As for you, don't forget that you are in the service of the Church, which rules out your taking certain… initiatives.”

As he hung up, Calfo smiled. He would not like to be in the American's shoes: the bait was about to be swallowed by His Eminence. This was of no importance: he had played his role
perfectly, first getting Nil to talk and then taking him to meet the Israeli. The bait was for the Cardinal.
He
was seeking to skitter the fish.

He returned to his bedroom and suppressed a gesture of exasperation: Sonia had removed her accoutrements and was sitting naked on the edge of the bed. Her face was stubborn, and tears were trickling down her cheeks.

“Come on, my pretty, it's not so terrible!”

He made her stand up and obliged her to put on a wimple, which masked her lovely hair, and to slip over it a starched cornet, the points of which fell onto her round shoulders. Thus attired as a nun from the olden days – “just her upper body, the rest is for me” – he made her kneel on a prie-dieu in red velvet, in front of a Byzantine icon. Always attentive, he had thought that an icon would allow the Romanian woman better to play the role he wanted her to play.

He took a step backwards: the tableau was perfect. Sonia was stripped bare, but her oval visage was nicely set off by the cornet, and her eyes were raised to the icon as she joined her delicate hands and seemed to be praying. “A virginal attitude in front of the Virgin's image. Very suggestive.”

Rome was plunged into the silence of night. Mgr Calfo, kneeling behind Sonia and pushing against the curve of her back, started to celebrate the divine service. His shins rested on the prie-dieu, and he was thankful for its velvety surface. His hands took a firm grip of the young woman's breasts. For a moment he was uncomfortably aware of the gaze of the Byzantine virgin staring at him in what looked like mute reproach. He closed his eyes: in his quest for mystical union, nothing within him would come between the human and the divine, the carnal and the spiritual.

As he started to murmur words that made no sense to her,
Sonia, her eyes fixed on the icon, uncrossed her hands and wiped the tears that were clouding her eyes.

70

At the very same moment, Lev was raising his glass before the eyes of his companions.

“A toast! Good to meet up!”

He'd taken the two monks to a trattoria in Trastevere, one of Rome's more populous districts. The clientele was entirely composed of Italians swallowing gigantic portions of pasta.

“I recommend the
penne all'arrabbiata
here. It's home cooking, I always come here after a concert: they close very late, and we'll have plenty of time to talk.”