"Ah, yes, I have heard stories of their healings. Maybe I will get an opportunity to try out the French I learned to speak as a young man. It is a holy site is it not, Stephen?" The Holy Father's head was back on the pillow now, his eyes slowly closing. "I understand you are a churchman who believes in miracles."
Valdieri laughed. "I am certain that miracles did not cease with the end of the Apostolic Age. I would never dismiss the possibility of divine healing."
The Pope's eyes stayed closed but he was obviously paying attention. "I would appreciate your honesty, Stephen. Is my health beyond human help? I want your answer, not the answer you have been instructed to give me."
Valdieri decided not to put on a pretence of being offended. "I cannot possibly discuss medical matters with you, Holiness. I am not qualified in medicine."
"You are sounding stuffy again, Archbishop. You came from New York speaking impeccable English, Italian and French, able to eavesdrop on every conversation. I was hoping you could tell me what my staff are saying."
Valdieri shook his head. "I do not listen to gossip, Holiness."
"If that is true, then you are in the wrong job in security." The Holy Father's smile faltered. "But Avignon seems right to you?"
"Indeed it does."
The eyes stayed closed. "There is a way that seems right to a man..."
"...But the end is the way of death." Valdieri shook his head as he finished the quotation from the Old Testament Book of Proverbs. He had certainly walked right into that one.
The Pontiff sounded relaxed. "I believe the writer was referring to spiritual death, not physical. I wish to sleep again now, Stephen. Security, as you so rightly say, is your expertise, so I shall endeavor to sleep soundly." He opened his eyes again and smiled weakly. "I trust you will endeavor to keep the possibility of death by misadventure to an acceptable level."
Chapter Eight
Avignon
"ZOÉ, ARE you still awake?"
Matt was, and his mind had been running wild with crazy thoughts. Just finding a way to get the fax off to Ken Habgood had been enough to make him sleepless. Deceiving the public on a daily basis at work was nothing compared to fooling a woman. Realizing that the bar had a fax number on the heading of its menu had been a triumph.
The waiter who served their evening meal was ready enough to take a small backhander to let him stand in the office and send it off. Ken would find it on his machine tomorrow when he turned up at eight-thirty, half asleep, poking around at the mail.
"Do you like it here in Provence?" Zoé sounded surprisingly alert.
Matt turned towards her in the bed. "It's a good place for a holiday."
The narrow street outside was quiet now. The locals had gone indoors, leaving their cars parked tightly nose to tail for the night. The town was a maze of twisting streets and alleys where it was easy to get lost. He loved it already.
There was a long pause before Zoé spoke again. It was as though she was summoning up the courage. "Would you like to live in Avignon?"
"I want to stay with you, Zo." He put a hand gently across her shoulder.
"It's Zoé!" She did not respond to his touch.
He increased the firmness of his hold. "You have something in mind?"
"You could teach English here."
"Me? Teach? How could I teach?"
"And me, I could get a job nursing at the Clinic of the Little Sisters. That would be a job fantastique. Wealthy Americans go there in secret."
"How do you know, if it's secret?"
"Some of the patients, they do not mind the publicity. Film stars are torn between fame and privacy. You are right, most wealthy people dread the press making reports on their health. The papers make up the terrible stories even if you only come for a verruca."
"Or piles." Matt lay down again.
"Ah, there is perhaps good reason to keep that a secret from the press. But the clinic does a lot more than treat the piles."
"The Clinic of the Sisters of the Little Hemorrhoids."
"Or the Little Sisters of the Golden Piles," mused Zoé.
Matt shook his head. "Hasn't got the same ring to it somehow. Yes, I can see why they moved on to higher things. If they're so famous, how come they're out here in the sticks?"
"The sticks? Ah, le bled perdu. Leanne Corbin said the site of the clinic is like Lourdes. A miracle place. You cannot control where these things are going to be. Can you imagine someone having a holy vision in the middle of Harley Street in London?"
Matt plumped up his pillow. He felt more wide-awake than ever now. "It would be convenient."
"Too convenient. I would like to get the literature and read about Sister Angela."
"We're meeting Leanne next Sunday. She said she'd get a brochure for us."
"Sunday is a long time, Matt."
"I thought we were having a holiday."
"Perhaps I am interested because I am a nurse. It is what I call an intéret professionnel. The Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon is perhaps the most highly regarded medical organization, even though they have stayed small. There is a waiting list of people wanting to spend a fortune on their treatment."
"I still can't say I've heard of them."
"You would if you worked in medicine. They specialize in the early diagnosis and treatment of the cancers. Diagnosis and immediate treatment. Much of it is preventative. Brilliant, but not popular with some medical specialists of course. There is plenty of jealousy in the medical world. It is the same in most academic life. But me, I would love to work there."
The pillow felt hard and uncomfortable. Matt put his arm round Zoé. "I like England." Once again she seemed unsettled about their relationship.
"It would be a good excuse to get away from 'Abgood Securities. Even on holiday you do not forget your Ken."
"What do you mean?" He realized he had allowed his hold on Zoé to loosen; an involuntary action surely. "You're the one who's going on about Leanne Corbin and her suspicions, not me."
"Do you think Ken will be able to find out about K7 for you?"
He tried to sound sleepy. "What's that?"
"The fax you sent to Ken this evening. I think perhaps it was to ask him about the K7?"
He sat upright in the large wooden-framed bed. The springs creaked loudly. "Fax?"
"Matt Rider, I am talking about the fax you sent from the bar. You remember, when you said you were taking me out to the most romantic meal in town. Perhaps you think I am stupide."
"What are you talking about?"
"First you have the long talk with the waiter by the bar, and then you go with him to the back. He did not know what you sent on the fax, but he had the phone number." She picked up her pillow and hit him over the head. "Look, here is a lesson most important for you, Saint George. It will, I think, come in handy for your work one day."
"Tell me."
"Someone who can be bribed as easily as your waiter will also take a bribe to betray you."
"When I went to the men's room?"
"Uh-huh."
"How much did you pay him?"
"I gave him the kiss most passionate."
Matt groaned. Not that he believed her. "I told you the truth though. I didn't speak to Ken. Now then, how about a kiss most passionate for me?"
Zoé turned away. She sounded as though she was crying.
Chapter Nine
Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon
MARIO BERNETTI stood by the scrub room sink and peeled the bloodstained gloves from his hands. He could feel sweat standing on his forehead in spite of the air conditioning. The gloves slipped off with a snap, allowing a wave of air to brush over his fingers.
Four hours in the operating room, following the needle biopsy for a tissue sample. Tonight's craniotomy on Goldstein had turned into a major. The large tumor lay in a swab dish on the stainless steel table.
"Thank you, Nurse Corbin." Bernetti held his arms high while she untied the green gown from the rear. It a
lways paid to be on good terms with the staff; a lesson he had learned in Rome. Those had been good days, with wealthy Roman friends and good business contacts. Just one cloud had appeared, and the cloud had followed him here to Avignon. "You help me with my boots, nurse."
He braced himself as a feeling of exhaustion passed through his body. It must be close on midnight. Several letters needed attention. Money that was owing; a new client to be supplied. Jim Kappa's warning had been devastating. The Vatican had singled out the clinic for an investigation. It seemed that Avignon was still a dirty word with the papacy.
It had always been so, from the schisms of the Middle Ages. Surely the Church in Rome had forgiven Avignon by now. But Archbishop Valdieri had already been here twice, making everyone uneasy. The Holy Father's committees could be very thorough. Valdieri was unwelcome. Valdieri was a rat.
"Thank you, nurse." Bernetti sat on the low chair and raised his feet as the white surgery boots were gently removed. Jim insisted that everyone used English within the clinic, an instruction that made him irritable. English was a difficult language, and sometimes he suspected the nurses were smiling as he spoke.
"Nurse Corbin, I want you to put the tumor in the sample bag. Get it ready for an immediate biopsy. I arrange for it to be done quickly. Mr. Goldstein's specialist, he want to examine a section of it in America."
The malignant lesion in Goldstein's brain had been totally life threatening. Its existence had been there on the x-rays and CT scans for everyone to see, but its severity had not been apparent. He had only been able to make the conclusive diagnosis after opening the cranium with the drill and knife. It was often like this. Goldstein's specialist in the States understood the need for exploratory surgery, and he would willingly accept the reason for immediate operative work.
"Sorry, Nurse Corbin, what you say?"
The nurse had been hovering anxiously. "I was wondering, Dr. Bernetti, if the clinic's Medical Board were connected in any way with the Knights of Saint John."
He laughed at the unexpected question. "The Knights of Saint John? They all die a long time ago. Good men, but they all dead many years. Maybe many hundred years ago; who knows?" He opened the faucet lever on the huge white sink with his left forearm and let the water and liquid soap wash away the talcum powder and the smell of rubber from his delicate hands: hands like a musician's. "Why you ask?"
She seemed embarrassed. "Oh, it's nothing. I thought I heard Dr. Kappa talking about knights the other day."
Bernetti shook his head, sucking his tongue against the back of his teeth several times. "Maybe our work and theirs the same, eh? Knights of Saint John were good men. They care for wounded soldiers. Maybe he say that, Nurse Corbin." He watched her closely as she dropped his soiled gown into the large plastic bin ready for the laundry.
"Yes, Dr. Bernetti, I expect that's what it was."
"You have time to see to this sample before you go home?"
The nurse picked up the swab dish. "No problem. I'm on duty for the rest of the night."
"Maybe there is no end to work in this life. Always something to attend to." He walked towards the shower room, his mind on an urgent and highly confidential email he must send to a colleague in the Vatican.
Fifteen minutes later Bernetti walked down the corridor to the senior staff quarters and opened the door to his luxury suite. The first thing he did was switch on the CD player. The clear tones of a chorister filled the room. He smiled at the purity of the voice. Antonino Lepati singing in Napoli. Boys' voices as innocent as this were a rarity. Delightful.
He let his smile slip away. Nurse Corbin had been following him everywhere lately. Her casual question in the change room had hardly registered until now. The Knights of Saint John? Had she really overheard Jim talking about the Knights? If so, Jim had been careless. He must be told of Nurse Corbin's snooping. Bernetti tutted to himself.
If he couldn't keep his mouth shut, Jim Kappa was a danger to others.
*
STEVE MICHENER couldn't sleep. After the noise and bustle of his Santa Monica apartment, this hospital room seemed too quiet. The nurse had given him something to help him relax but it was having the opposite effect. Fancy being in France; it was all so sudden.
He'd known all along of course. The first doctor in Los Angeles hadn't taken him seriously, and the second had been no better. It was a good thing he could afford to ignore them and go to the best specialist his money could buy. The man had assured him that this facility in France was the greatest. Of course, it had been necessary to pay a few bucks to jump the waiting list, but that was what money was for.
A rising film star. The press were always ready to print his picture. He lay with his head propped on the pillow and stared into the night sky. He'd wanted to keep the window open but the nurse insisted on keeping it closed at night and let the air conditioning keep the temperature stable.
At first he had seen only blackness, but now he was aware of stars. Spots of light, really brilliant stars. Only in the hills outside Los Angeles was the night sky as bright as this.
Blackness.
But now intense dots of light were breaking up the gloom. Flickers of faith like the assurances he had been given by the surgeons here. First the crushing medical opinion -- then the pinpoints of hope.
Wave enough money at a problem and it usually goes away. He grinned to himself in spite of his anxiety. That was the Michener philosophy and it seemed to work well enough. He could thank the good Lord for money, and for his own insistence that the pain in his head was not merely related to stress from work, or even to the occasional drink.
He prodded the side of his head cautiously as though his inexpert fingers might discover some hideous lump that had escaped the medics. Or had they already found one but were not saying? The specialists had nodded wisely but revealed little. Tomorrow they would have their drills and knives deep in his brain before he knew it. Hell, it was probably better that way.
The stars now seemed even brighter. He put his hands behind his head. Since the diagnosis, the disturbing pain had become more distinct. The nurse might just as well have given him black coffee instead of white medicine. Hyperactivity, that's what he was suffering from. Maybe it was the change in time zones.
He sighed and tried to get comfortable. Brain surgery tomorrow. Life was a bummer.
That LA specialist had put the show on the road quickly enough. Was it only forty-eight hours ago that he was sitting in the consulting room waiting to hear the results of the tests? Waiting in hope, but knowing the worst -- and then hearing it officially. The man who had done the full examination had been adamant: urgent problems needed urgent action, and he knew just the place. A holy site of healing. The public never knew who'd been here for treatment because the press weren't allowed near. The staff could be trusted. All of them. So the consultant said.
He gazed out into the night sky. The stars were beginning to disappear one by one as a large cloud moved slowly across the sky. He fought back the feeling of panic. The stars had been telling him something encouraging. Now the cloud started to rub the message away, like a cleaning cloth sweeping across a blackboard, the shadowy blackness replacing the message of hope. Did the clowns running this clinic really know what they were doing? It was one frigging chance to take, lying unconscious under the lights while they sliced deep into your brain.
The last pinpoint of hope disappeared behind a high bank of cloud.
He felt sick.
Sick and scared.
Chapter Ten
MEMO FROM ARCHBISHOP STEPHEN VALDIERI
VATICAN SECURITY SERVICES
TO OTTORINO CARDINAL DELGARDO, CHIEF ADVISER, VATICAN MEDICAL ASSEMBLY
EXTREMELY CONFIDENTIAL
My Dear Ottorino,
I have now made two visits to the clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon at Avignon, and I can assure you that the strictest secrecy has been observed on each occasion concerning the nature and purpose of these visits.
&n
bsp; Although I consider any threat to the Pontiff's safety to be minimal, in the event that he should he be treated at the clinic, the French Premier has provisionally agreed that he will protect the site with a small team from the GIGN, the French Groupement d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. However, since receiving your last letter I have become aware of a significant shift in the attitude of your staff to the use of the Avignon clinic. Perhaps this is a suitable opportunity for me to place on record my confidence in the work of Dr. Kappa at the Clinic of the Little Sisters.
I enclose a detailed security schedule that can be put into operation at short notice. You may be sure that I join in your prayers for the Holy Father's full recovery.
Chapter Eleven
Tourvillon Village
"WE TOOK a wrong turning somewhere," Matt said with a dry smile.
He had seen Zoé glance deliberately at her watch as he drove the orange Austin Mini into the typically French village square. The journey had taken considerably more than the twenty minutes he'd reckoned on. It had already taken them nearly an hour since leaving the main road.
Bright orange with a black roof, the small car stood out like a currant bun in the window of a pâtisserie. Probably the previous owner had painted it orange to disguise the rust. He had wrecked his own car on a surveillance job a year ago, and the Mini was Ken's client's idea of gratitude. The black roof absorbed heat like a sponge, and the leaking sunshine roof had now been permanently sealed shut with silicone. The few parking spaces under the plane trees were already full.
Zoé had made the suggestion at breakfast that they go to see the clinic from the outside. Hopefully she wasn't about to apply for a nursing job at the place. Whatever had been upsetting her last night seemed to have gone onto the back burner this morning.
Two chattering women in black stood in a doorway against a background of peeling brown paint and deep cracks in the stonework. For a moment they looked up, but their gossip seemed to be more interesting than watching visitors.
"It is so quiet," whispered Zoé. Matt pointed to a huge white building on the hill above them. It reminded him of a ski center he knew near Morzine in the French Alps. The structure must have required advanced civil engineering to hold everything firmly in place. A large outcrop of rock in the field below the clinic was the only natural feature to break the smooth hillside. "I thought you said it was small."
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