The Seville Communion

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "We have a matter suitable for you."

  Quart stood listening to his superior, conscious that the dark figure of Iwaszkicwicz was watching him from the window. For ten years, Monsignor Spada had always had a matter suitable for Father Lorenzo Quart. These all came with a place-name and a date - Central America, Latin America, the former Yugoslavia - and were listed in the black leather notebook Quart used as a travel diary. It was a kind of logbook where he had entered details, day by day, of the long journey taken since he had acquired Vatican nationality and joined the operations section of the Institute of External Affairs. "Take a look at this."

  The director of the IEA held out a sheet of computer paper. Quart went to take it from him, but at that moment the outline of Cardinal Iwaszkiewicz shifted uneasily at the window. Still holding the paper, Monsignor Spada gave a small smile.

  "His Eminence believes this to be a delicate matter," he said looking at Quart, though his words were obviously intended for the cardinal. "And he considers it unwise to involve anyone else."

  Quart drew his hand away without taking the document and looked calmly at his superior.

  "Naturally," added Spada, his smile almost gone, "His Eminence doesn't know you as I do."

  Quart nodded. He asked no questions and showed no impatience; he waited. Spada turned towards Cardinal Iwaszkiewicz.

  "I told you he was a good soldier," he said.

  There was silence. The cardinal stood against the cloud-filled sky and the rain falling on the Belvedere Gardens. Then he moved away from the window, and the grey light, cast diagonally, revealed a bony jaw, a cassock with a purple collar, and the gold cross on his chest. He extended the hand on which he wore his pastoral ring, took the document from Monsignor Spada, and handed it himself to Lorenzo Quart.

  "Read this."

  Quart obeyed the order, which was spoken in Italian with a guttural Polish accent. On the sheet of paper were these printed lines:

  Holy Father,

  My audacity is justified by the gravity of the matter. At times the Holy See seems very far away, beyond the reach of the voices of the humble.

  In Spain, in Seville, there is a place where merchants are threatening the house of God and where a small seventeenth-century church, neglected both by the power of the Church and the lay authorities, kills to defend itself I beg you, Your Holiness, as a pastor and priest, to cast your eyes upon the most humble sheep in your flock and demand an explanation from those who have abandoned them to their fate.

  I beg for your blessing, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

  "This appeared on the Pope's personal computer," explained Monsignor Spada when Quart had finished reading. "Anonymously."

  "Anonymously," echoed Quart. He was in the habit of repeating certain words aloud, like a helmsman or NCO repeating his superior's orders. As if he were giving himself, or others, the chance to think about what had been said. In his world, certain words, certain orders - sometimes no more than an inflection, a nuance, a smile - could turn out to be irreversible.

  "The intruder," the archbishop was saying, "cunningly hid his exact location. But our enquiries have confirmed that the message was sent from Seville, from a computer with a modem."

  Quart slowly reread the letter. "It mentions a church that. . ." He broke off, waiting for someone to finish the sentence for him. The part that followed sounded too ridiculous to speak aloud.

  "Yes," said Spada, "a church that kills to defend itself."

  "Appalling," said Iwaszkiewicz. He didn't specify whether he meant the notion or the church.

  The archbishop went on. "We've checked, and it does exist. The church." He glanced quickly at the cardinal and then ran his finger along the edge of the paperknife. "We've also found out about a couple of irregular and unpleasant occurrences."

  Quart put the document on the desk. The archbishop looked at it as if the thing was dangerous to touch. Cardinal Iwaszkiewicz picked up the paper, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. He turned to Quart.

  "We want you to go to Seville and find out who sent it."

  He was very close. Quart could almost smell his breath. The proximity was unpleasant, but he locked eyes with the cardinal for a few seconds. Then, making an effort not to take a step back, he glanced over the cardinal's shoulder at Spada who smiled briefly, grateful to Quart for indicating his loyalty in such a way.

  "When His Eminence says *we'," the archbishop explained, "he is referring not only to himself and me but also, of course, to the will of the Holy Father."

  "Which is God's will," added Iwaszkiewicz, almost provocatively. He was still standing very close to Quart, his hard black eyes staring.

  "Which is, indeed, God's will," said Monsignor Spada without allowing the slightest hint of irony into his voice. Despite his power, the director of the IEA knew he could only go so far, and his look contained a warning to his subordinate - they were both swimming in dangerous waters.

  "I understand," said Quart and, again meeting the cardinal's eye, nodded briefly. Iwaszkicwicz seemed to relax slightly. Behind him Spada inclined his head approvingly.

  "I told you that Father Quart. . ."

  The Pole raised his hand - the one that bore his cardinal's ring - to interrupt the archbishop. "Yes, I know." He gave Quart a final glance and then moved back to the window. "A good soldier." His tone was weary, ironic. He looked out at the rain as if the matter no longer concerned him.

  Spada put the paperknife on his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a thick blue folder.

  "Finding out who sent the message is only part of the job," he said. "What do you gather from reading it?"

  "It could have been written by a priest," answered Quart without hesitation. Then he paused before adding: "And he might very well be mad."

  "It's possible." Spada opened the folder and leafed through a file full of press cuttings. "But he's a computer expert, and what he says is true. That church does have problems. And causes them too. Two people have died there in the last three months. There's a whiff of scandal about the whole business."

  "It's more than that," said the cardinal without turning. Again he was a dark shape against the grey light of the window.

  "His Eminence," explained Spada, "believes that the Holy Office should intervene." He paused deliberately. "As in the old days."

  "The old days," repeated Quart. He'd never much liked the methods of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. For an instant he saw the face of Nelson Corona, a priest from the Brazilian favelas, a proponent of liberation theology. Quart had supplied the wood for his coffin.

  "The thing is," Spada was saying, "the Holy Father wants the investigation to be appropriate to the situation. He believes it would be excessive to involve the Holy Office. Like swatting a fly with a cannon." He paused and turned to Iwaszkiewicz. "Or a flame-thrower."

  "We don't burn people at the stake any more," the cardinal said, still looking out of the window. He seemed to regret it.

  "In any case," the archbishop went on, "it's been decided, for the time being" - he stressed these last words - "that the Institute of External Affairs is to carry out the investigation. You, in other words. And only if more serious evidence emerges is the matter to be referred to the official arm of the Inquisition."

  "I would remind you, brother in Christ, that the Inquisition hasn't existed for thirty years," the cardinal said.

  "You're right. Forgive me, Your Eminence. I meant to say the official arm of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith."

  Monsignor Spada fell silent a moment. His look at Quart seemed to say, Beware of this Pole. When he spoke again, he was reserved and formal. "You, Father Quart, are to spend a few days in Seville. You are to do everything possible to find out who sent the message. Maintain contact with the local church authority. And above all, conduct the investigation in a prudent, discreet manner." He placed another file on top of the first one. "This contains all the information we have. Do you have any questions?"<
br />
  "Only one, Monsignor."

  "Yes?"

  "The world is full of churches beset by problems and the threat of scandal. What's special about this one?"

  The archbishop glanced at Iwaszkiewicz, but the inquisitor said nothing. Spada scrutinised the folders on the desk as if searching for the right words. "I suppose," he said at last, "it's because the Holy Father appreciates that the hacker went to a lot of trouble."

  "I wouldn't say that he appreciates it," said Iwaszkiewicz distantly.

  Spada shrugged. "Then let's say His Holiness has decided to give the matter his personal attention."

  "Despite the hacker's insolence," added the Pole.

  "Yes," said the archbishop. "For some reason the message on his private computer has aroused his curiosity. He wants to be kept informed."

  "To be kept informed," repeated Quart.

  "Regularly."

  "Once I'm in Seville, am I to consult the local church authority as well?"

  "Your only authority in this matter is Monsignor Spada," said the cardinal. At that moment, the electricity came on. A large chandelier lit up the room, making the cardinal's diamond cross and ring glint as he pointed at the director of the IEA. "You report to him and only to him." The light softened the angles of his face slightly, blurring the obstinate line of his thin, hard lips. Lips that had kissed only vestments, stone, metal.

  Quart nodded. "Yes, Eminence. But the diocese of Seville has an ordinary: the archbishop. What are my instructions with regard to him?"

  Iwaszkiewicz linked his hands beneath his gold cross and looked at his thumbnails. "We are all brothers in Christ. Good relations, cooperation even, would be desirable. Once there, however, you will have a dispensation from your vow of obedience. The nunciature of Madrid and the local archbishopric have received instructions."

  Quart turned to Spada. "Perhaps His Eminence is unaware," he said, "that I don't enjoy the sympathies of the archbishop of Seville . . ."

  Two years ago, a disagreement over security measures during the Pope's visit to the Andalusian capital had caused a confrontation between Quart and His Grace Aquilino Corvo, archbishop of Seville.

  "We know of your problems with Monsignor Corvo," said Iwaszkiewicz. "But the archbishop is a man of the Church. He will be capable of putting the higher good before his personal dislikes."

  "We're all part of the Church of Peter," said Spada, and Quart realised that although Iwaszkiewicz was a dangerous player on the team, the IEA was in a strong position in this case. Help me to keep it that way, said his superior's expression.

  "The archbishop of Seville has been informed, out of courtesy," said the Pole. "But you have full rein to obtain the information you need, and you may use whatever means you think necessary."

  "Legitimate means, of course," said Spada.

  Quart forced himself not to smile.

  Iwaszkiewicz was watching them both. "That's right," he said after a moment. "Legitimate means, of course." He touched his eyebrow with a finger, as if to say, Take care with your little schoolboy games. One slip, and I'll get you both.

  "You must remember, Father Quart," the cardinal went on, "that the purpose of your mission is only to gather information. You are to remain strictly neutral. Later, depending on what you discover, we'll determine how to proceed. For the time being, whatever you find, you must avoid any publicity or scandal. With God's help, of course." He paused to look at the fresco of the Tyrrhenian Sea and moved his head from side to side as if reading some secret message there. "Remember that nowadays the truth doesn't always set us free. I refer to the truth that is made public."

  Imperiously, abruptly, he held out the hand that wore the ring. He stared at Quart with a taut mouth and dark, menacing eyes. But Quart was the kind of soldier who chose his own master, so he waited a second longer than necessary before dropping on one knee to kiss the ruby ring. The cardinal raised his hand and slowly made the sign of the Cross over him, which seemed more of a threat than a blessing. Then he left the room.

  Quart breathed out and stood up, brushing the trouser leg he'd knelt on. He looked enquiringly at Spada.

  "What do you think?" asked the director of the IEA. He'd picked up the paperknifc again and was smiling anxiously at the door through which Iwaszkiewicz had left.

  "Officially or unofficially, Monsignor?"

  "Unofficially."

  "I wouldn't have wanted to fall into his hands two or three hundred years ago," said Quart.

  Spada's smile widened. "Why not?" he asked.

  "He seems a very hard man."

  "Hard?" The archbishop glanced again at the door, and Quart saw the smile disappear slowly from his lips. "If it wasn't being uncharitable towards a brother in Christ, ‘I’d say His Eminence was an absolute bastard."

  Together they walked down the stone steps that led to the Via del Belvedere, where Monsignor Spada's official car was waiting. The archbishop had an appointment with Cavalleggeri and Sons, near where Quart lived. For a couple of centuries the Cavalleggeri had been tailors to the entire upper echelons of the Curia, including the Pope. The workshop was on the Via Sistina, near the Piazza di Spagna, and the archbishop offered Quart a lift. They drove out through St. Anne's Gate, and through the misted car windows they saw the Swiss Guards standing to attention as they passed. Quart smiled, amused - Spada wasn't popular with the Swiss in the Vatican. An IEA investigation into alleged cases of homosexuality in the Guard had resulted in half a dozen dismissals. And just to pass the time, the archbishop also occasionally dreamed up perverse schemes to test internal security. Such as slipping one of his agents into the Vatican palace, dressed as a member of the public and carrying a phial of mock sulphuric acid intended for the fresco of the Crucifixion of St. Peter in the Pauline Chapel. The intruder had himself photographed standing on a bench in front of the painting, grinning from ear to ear. Spada delivered the photo, together with a rather teasing note, to the colonel of the Swiss Guard. That was six weeks ago, and heads were still rolling.

  "He's been called Vespers," said Spada.

  The car turned right and then left after passing under the arches of the Porta Angelica. Quart stared at the chauffeur, who was separated from them by a glass partition.

  "Is that all the information you have about him?"

  "He could be a priest. And he has access to a computer with a modem."

  "Age?"

  "Unknown."

  "Your Reverence isn't giving me much to go on." "I'm telling you what I know."

  The Fiat made its way through the traffic on the Via della Conciliazione. The rain had stopped, and the sky was clearing slowly towards the east, over the Pincio Gardens. Quart adjusted the crease in his trousers and looked at his watch even though he didn't particularly care what time it was.

  "What's going on in Seville?"

  Spada took a few moments to answer. He was staring absendy at the street. "There's a baroque church, Our Lady of the Tears. It's old, small, dilapidated. It was being restored, but the money ran out. It seems it's situated in an area of great historical importance, Santa Cruz."

  "I know Santa Cruz. It's the old Jewish quarter, rebuilt at the turn of the century. Very near the cathedral and the archbishop's palace." Quart frowned at the thought of Monsignor Corvo. "A lovely district."

  "It must be, because the threat of the church falling into ruin and the halting of the work have stirred up rather passionate feelings. The city council wants to expropriate the site, and an aristocratic Andalusian family with links to one of the banks has also dug out age-old rights of some sort."

  They passed die Casde of Sant'Angelo, and the Fiat moved along the Lungotevere towards the Ponte Umberto I. Quart glanced at the dun-coloured walls which he felt symbolised the worldly side of the Church he served. He pictured Clement VII gathering up his cassock, running to take refuge there while Charles V’s soldiers plundered Rome. Memento mori. Remember you must die.

  "What about the archbishop of Seville? I'm surpri
sed he's not involved."

  The director of the IEA was looking at the grey waters of the Tiber through the rain-spattered window. "He's an interested party, so they don't trust him here. Our good Monsignor Corvo is trying to do some speculating of his own. His concern is, of course, only for the material benefit of Our Holy Mother the Church. Meanwhile, Our Lady of the Tears is falling to bits and nobody's repairing her. It seems she's worth more demolished than standing."

  "Does the church have a priest?"

  At this the archbishop sighed. "Yes, astonishingly. There's a fairly elderly priest in charge there. Apparendy he's a difficult character and, according to our information, all his appeals have been ignored by our good friend Corvo. Any suspicions about Vespers must point to him or his assistant, a young priest who's about to be transferred to another diocese." Spada smiled reluctantly. "It wouldn't be unreasonable to suspect that one of the two priests or both were responsible for this rather original method of reaching the Holy Father."

  "It must be them."

  "Maybe. But it has to be proved."

  "And if I get proof?"

  The director of the IEA frowned and lowered his voice. "Then they will bitterly regret their inopportune interest in computers." "What about the two who died?"