by Izak Botha
‘The clothes we recovered were clean. …’
‘Absolutely.’
Weber mulled over Schreider’s hypothesis. It made perfect sense. He had seen the clothes the suspect had shed in donning the gendarme’s uniform. The cassock had not had a speck of blood on it. It could be the suspect had stabbed Yilmaz and sliced his throat without getting blood on him, and the Maggiore got soaked from trying to help the priest after he had been wounded, but since the Maggiore had the strongest motive to kill Yilmaz, that now seems unlikely. The Cardinal was after all, and by his own admission, trying to keep the stolen artefact secret. If the evidence and basic reasoning showed the suspect had not murdered Yilmaz, the blame could only fall on the Maggiore. Indeed, the fact that no one had suspected the cardinal sooner seemed absurd; it was only the priests’, gendarmes’ and Swiss guards’ blind faith in the Church’s infallibility that had kept them in ignorance.
‘Come,’ said Schreider.
He headed for the staircase, stopping briefly at the top to point out the bloody handprint on the side of the hearth where someone had braced himself; it was typical of an older man resting after struggling up the steps. They continued into Santori’s office, where, standing with their backs against the door to the reception area, the two officers had a full view of the office suite. The Maggiore must have found the vault standing open after Father Yilmaz and the suspect had entered it. There was no way to open or close it from inside.
Schreider lifted a gold scabbard with a Hospitallers emblem from Santori’s desk. He assumed the Maggiore had disposed of the dagger by now, but the implication of its emptiness was clear. Obviously, in his rage the cardinal had grabbed the dagger from his desk; he knew it was there and he had had a reason to take it. The Maggiore likely came upon Father Yilmaz at the altar. The suspect had returned during or after the murder, but finding he was too late to intervene, fled back up the steps, the Maggiore in pursuit.
Weber was convinced and joined Schreider at the desk. The front had bloody fingerprints across it, as if someone with bloody hands had turned to lean against it. From that position, the person would have a perfect view of the library behind the hearth. If it were the Maggiore, he would have been looking to see where the suspect had gone. Because Father Franco covered the reception exit, the suspect had had nowhere to go but the library behind the hearth.
With Weber, hard on his heels, Schreider crossed to the spiral staircase at the back of the library. As he expected, the rear exit had blood on the door handle where the Maggiore must have grabbed it while in pursuit. Schreider returned to the office. He stopped in front of the hearth. Though faint, there was a bloody handprint in the center of the marble lintel. Why had he not spotted it before?
‘Left-handed,’ he said, holding his hand over the print.
Weber gazed at Schreider. ‘Just like the coroner said.’
Schreider gave the captain time with his thoughts, and pulled out the first pike. There were bloodstains on one of the shafts, now barely visible. They were likely the last things the killer had touched. The colonel returned both pikes to their original positions against the wall, unintentionally revealing the last piece of evidence—it took two to open the passage but only one to close it.
He pushed the hearth over the vault’s entrance and, once the doorway was closed, turned back towards Weber. ‘There is one thing I’ve just remembered. When I arrived here this morning the dagger was still lying downstairs beside the body, and when I saw it, the Maggiore picked it up and wiped it with his handkerchief.’
‘To remove his prints,’ Weber said.
Schreider sighed deeply. If the Maggiore committed the murder, and it certainly looked that way, he and Weber were in one hell of a predicament. How do you charge a cardinal with murder? Not only did the Holy See abide by its own laws, but His Eminence Santori was one of their highest ranked leaders. Everyone knew of his aspiration to be the next Vicar of Christ, and no one until now doubted its inevitability.
Chapter 41
Verretti pulled out of the driveway, cursing. He fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief, and adjusting the rear-view mirror to reflect his face, lightly pressed against his bottom lip. The pain became unbearable and he pulled away. A mixture of thickened blood and spit had soaked into the white cotton cloth. Lioni was a good gendarme, but he made a lousy paramedic.
The inspector attempted to focus on the task of recovering the letter, but his mind insistently replayed the scene that had unfolded a half an hour earlier as he stood in the bedroom with Miss Jaine. He had circled her, then stopped behind her and, curling one arm around her shoulder, had slid his hand across her breast and stomach. Attempting to stop his hand from gliding further down she had leaned forward, and he had pulled her back, pinning her naked body against his chest. He recalled painfully how the bitch had jerked her head back, smashing it onto his bottom lip, crushing it against his teeth and bursting the skin, leaving a deep wound. For a second he had nearly lost consciousness. In his stupor, he had relaxed his grip and she had swung around, smashing her elbow into his chest, making him gasp for air. As he landed on the bed, she had kicked, aiming for his groin. He had just managed to roll over, narrowly averting a disaster for future generations of gendarmes throughout Italy. He had not afforded her another chance. As she kicked again, he had shot up and slapped her, flinging her across the room.
He had ordered her to stand and get dressed. She had refused, and he warned her that she would either put her clothes on in front of him or in front of all his men. He had loathed himself for this, but had only been doing his job. He had certainly not been trying to win her affection. He had holstered his pistol and sat down, arms folded. At first, she had remained defiant, but then had turned her back to him. She had stared at herself in the mirror, tears running down her cheeks. Seeing she had no choice, she had submitted, sliding the top over her head and shoulders, dropping it down to her waist so it almost covered her crotch. A gentle shake of her head and her hair had fallen over her shoulders.
Verretti had waited until she had slipped into her skirt and shoes before standing up. Then, he had seized a handful of her hair and pulled her head back. He remembered the smell of her freshly washed hair. Any other time, and it might have been different.
To avoid more of her devilry, he had taken her into the bathroom with him. He had needed to rinse the salty mix of spit and blood out of his mouth. Facing himself in the mirror, he had watched the wound swell while a throbbing pain set in. Hoping she had not cracked a tooth, he had leaned closer to the mirror and flipped his bottom lip inside out. Cazzo! She had done a damn fine job on his lip for sure. He had realized he needed at least three stitches, maybe four. His gaze shifted to her reflection in the mirror. As much as he loathed her for getting the better of him, he had always liked a woman with fight in her.
It had taken some time to stop the bleeding. Afterwards, he had wiped his chin with a wet towel. Fortunately, his dark jacket and turtleneck shirt would not stain too badly.
He had then pulled Miss Jaine into the living room, where Lioni and his men were holding Simon. They had escorted their captives to the ambulances parked in a bush outside the main gate. With Verretti’s lip stitched by a twitching Lioni, they had taken to the road again, half their mission accomplished. All they needed now was the damn letter.
To get his mind off his humiliation, Verretti decided he was driving. Some of the men sat in the cabin behind him. Cracking jokes, their laughter irked him. One could swear they were on their way to a football match. He turned from the dusty farm road onto the highway which led back to Antakya, spitting more blood-filled saliva out of the window. His men had strict orders not to speak out about what had happened there this night. He would hate to be the butt of Schreider’s reaction if he heard his adversary had been injured by a woman. Apart from that detail, he would return to Rome victorious. He imagined himself arriving in a horse-drawn chariot like Julius Caesar, spear in hand, head held proudly high.
Verretti stopped at the road below the Cave Church where a cool breeze drifted across the Hatay valley. He got out, directing Lioni to park the ambulance. In the back, Simon sat handcuffed to a handrail, while Jennifer lay strapped to the stretcher. The inspector ordered his men to retrieve Simon. After they lifted him from the ambulance, he told Lioni to sedate Jennifer. Having anticipated a hostile response, Verretti already had his pistol drawn. When Simon hurled himself at Verretti, the inspector swung hard towards Simon’s head, but the Turk ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow.
Simon surged back up, smashing his shoulder into Verretti’s midriff. The impact of the blow winded the inspector, making him gasp for air. Simon hurled himself again, pinning Verretti against the steel door, but before he had a chance to strike, the gendarmes wrestled him to the ground.
Verretti hunched over, wheezing, and leaning against the ambulance door. After what seemed an eternity, his diaphragm spasms eased, and he could draw air into his lungs. That the captives should demean him like this was outrageous. It should never have happened, especially in front of his men. The Turk could be glad they were not alone somewhere remote; Verretti would have shot him on the spot.
Verretti signaled to Lioni in the ambulance and shouted, ‘Now!’
As the rubber band around Jennifer’s arm tightened, she turned her head towards Verretti. ‘Please don’t. Please ...’ Lioni slapped the back of her hand, and she turned her head from side to side slowly. ‘Please don’t. I beg you, please don’t do this.’
As the cold needle pierced her swollen vein, she turned her gaze to Simon on the ground. She drifted off, tears dripping from her face.
His men had hardly lifted Simon to his feet when Verretti sank his fist into the Turk’s stomach. He did not allow Simon to catch his breath either, but hit him again as hard as he could. He then had two of his men escort their limp captive up the pathway to the archaeology site before slotting in behind them.
‘Move!’ he spat. ‘We don’t have all night.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Lioni who was closing the ambulance doors. ‘If we’re not back in a half an hour, you know what to do.’
Chapter 42
It was half past five in the morning on Wednesday, 21 March 2012. Schreider knelt before the altar of the Cappella Paolina for the final time. Needing a moment of solace with God, he had slipped into the Holy Pontiff’s private chapel. Together with the Sistine Chapel and the Regal Room—celebrated for their illustrious frescoes—the Pauline Chapel comprised an integral part of the Apostolic Palace. In the Vatican, where everything was immense, the Pauline Chapel seemed tiny.
No matter how hard Schreider had tried to rest, his thoughts had kept him awake. During the evening, he had considered taking a sleeping tablet but had not wanted to wake up sluggish. That he could ill afford.
After a night of anguish, he had finally made up his mind. As he bowed his head and closed his eyes in contemplation, he attempted to justify his plan to himself and to God. He remained there in stillness for some time. Then he rose to his feet.
Retrieving his metal morion with its trimmed heron feathers from the marble podium, he fitted it back on his head. To honour his final day at the Vatican, he had dressed in full military armor. The Oberst of the Guard only wore ceremonial gear during solemn occasions—on Good Friday and Christmas Eve, and during visits from major foreign dignitaries. And yet, Schreider did not care now. If his career or even life ended serving God over the papacy, he would do so with dignity.
With Christ on the cross gazing down at him, he prayed, ‘Lord, I beseech Thee to bestow upon your humble servant your divine clarity and wisdom. Forgive me my sins and do not hold my numerous trespasses against me in this dark hour of my soul. Amen.’
He stepped up to the altar, bending with reverence to kiss the cloth. Straightening up, he raised his eyes to the white reliefs in the ceiling and read the inscription on the far panel: ‘Vivere Christus est et mori lucrum.’ It was Philippians 1:21. He knew the verse well. Roughly translated it meant, ‘Christ is life and death is a boon.’ Rather than crossing himself again, he saluted. He did not know why. Perhaps it signaled his struggle with his faith, or perhaps it underlined the recurring premonition that death was imminent. He shivered with exhaustion but not with fear. His conscience was clear. If he died defending righteousness against a corrupt Church, he would happily meet Christ.
He turned to go, but halfway down the aisle he stopped. Standing in the center of the nave, he turned, looking at the room around him. On every wall were colorful frescos, while in the corners, marble sculptures of scantily clad young boys held lanterns to light the way of the faithful. On the coffered ceiling, naked figures framed frescoes of biblical scenes. Facing the exit his gaze lowered to the wall on his right and fell on the most famous fresco, Michelangelo’s The Conversion of Saul. It depicted Saul on the road to Damascus, after he had received authorization to slaughter Christ’s disciples. Schreider turned to face Michelangelo’s The Crucifixion of Saint Peter on the opposite wall. This painting depicted the several soldiers’ crucifying an elderly man.
‘The great Catholic paradox,’ thought Schreider.
The details in these frescoes were incorrect. In the conversion fresco, Michelangelo had depicted Saul dressed as a Roman, fallen from his horse, and with Jesus appearing from Heaven surrounded by angels. In the other, he had portrayed the Apostle Peter hanging naked from an upside down cross. While the first event was recorded in Acts, historically speaking, Saul was a Jew, not a Roman patrician, and he would not therefore have worn—or even been allowed to wear—a toga; as for the crucifixion of Saint Peter, the story appeared nowhere in the canonical Bible, but had been lifted from the apocrypha. Now, studying the works anew, Schreider saw something else: Saul’s spiritual rebirth occurred at the expense of his archrival, resulting in Peter’s relegation to shame and death. This could hardly be a coincidence, surely.
Pope Paul III who had commissioned the chapel and frescoes had dedicated the building on the Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul. Schreider recalled that Pope Paul III was a corrupt ruler. His birth name was Alessandro Farnese. During his long reign as pope, he had abused his authority to advance his own family’s wealth and power using unabashed nepotism. The Farnese family had prospered for centuries before, but Alessandro used his ascendancy to further the family’s interests. In his youth, he had fathered four illegitimate children. As pope, he had had the temerity to make all his grandchildren cardinals. At the time, they were still teenagers. The same pope had appointed Michelangelo to supervise the building of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Strangely, he had designed it in the shape of an eight-pointed sun-cross.
How could any sane person condone Paul III’s actions? Everything he touched should have been burnt to the ground. Schreider tried to imagine what would happen if current pontiffs were similarly corrupt.
This was a watershed moment for Schreider. For his whole life, he had thought of this chapel as the epitome of culture and art, but no longer. That which had aroused in him adoration and admiration now evoked disgust at the Church’s lies and deceit. He did not like feeling this way. It was not how his parents had raised him. They had brought him up to be obedient, respectful and honorable—traits which now represented his antithesis. Not only was he violating his family’s traditions, he was contradicting his own beliefs. He wished he had never come to the Vatican; he should not have made his religion his job. Like Martin Luther before him, he had arrived in Rome a naïve idealist and would leave it feeling bitter and betrayed. At this point, he was practically a Protestant. He wondered what kind he would be if he lived.
The colonel’s footsteps echoed off the chapel’s many reflective surfaces as he crossed its black- and white-checkered, marble floor. Marching into the Regal Room, he glanced at the pontiff’s gilded throne, from which His Holiness presided as monarch of the Roman Catholic Church. The permanent throne of the Bishop of Rome, the Cathedra Romana, stood in the apse of the Basilica of Sa
int John Lateran. A secondary throne, the Cathedra Petri, believed to have been that of Saint Peter himself, stood in the apse of Saint Peter’s Basilica. However, this throne was purely decorative. Other movable thrones, each with its own movable dais, were scattered throughout the Vatican. The Regal Room throne and dais served as the pontiff’s seat when entertaining heads of state and other dignitaries.
Schreider would honour his pledge to the Holy See one last time. He would have the pontiff decide his fate. Entering the command center minutes later, he strode straight to the surveillance room. He dismissed the stares of his men. This was not the time to explain his ceremonial gear. He halted by his communications officer.
‘What’s Verretti’s status?’ he asked.
The operator gazed up at his commander. ‘He is nearing Rome as we speak, Oberst.’
‘The suspects?’
‘They have them, Oberst,’ said a lieutenant, who had just hurried over from the surveillance desk. ‘They should land any minute now.’
Schreider set off towards his office, beckoning the lieutenant to join him. At the reception desk, he ordered a corporal to get him a triple espresso. In his office, he laid his helmet on the desk and pressed the intercom button. ‘Get me Captain Weber. If he’s still in bed, fetch him. I need him in my office ASAP.’ He turned to the lieutenant. ‘Get the bomber in here. Five minutes. You have five minutes.’