"It's Andrea," Donato said.
Lucia closed her eyes. "Hello," she said.
"I was thinking—I don't know about you, but I need some company tonight. I know what you must think of me, Lucia, but—perhaps things can change. Perhaps I can change. What do you say we meet for a drink and talk about the future?"
He sounded very nervous. "Where's your family?" she asked.
"Oh, Renata is visiting her sister. The housekeeper will keep an eye on the children."
"Andrea, I don't think this is such a good idea."
"But why not, Lucia? No one knows what I've gone through these past few years. I couldn't talk about it to anyone except Riccielli, and what good is he? I have to unburden my soul, and you are the only one—you've always been the only one. You know that. In your heart of hearts, you know that, Lucia."
She knew no such thing. But what could she say? Did she have a better offer for tonight, for any night? She had cast her lot with him, and there was nothing to do but see it through.
And besides, wasn't there at least a chance that he had changed, that he had been frightened enough by what had happened to come to believe the words he had always spoken so glibly to her? Could she deny herself that chance?
"Where?" she asked.
He mentioned a café where they had often met in the old days. "Thank you, Lucia," he said. "You don't know how grateful I am to you—for everything."
"You have every reason to be," she replied.
Lucia hung up and got ready. She took her time; she was determined not to arrive before he did and wait alone, sipping her wine and looking desperate and pathetic amid the lovers and revelers. What dress would he like? Which perfume? Nothing too fancy. Most of all, she didn't want to appear desperate and pathetic to him.
Finally she went downstairs and hailed a taxi. She had forgotten to bring an umbrella. Well, it didn't matter. Perhaps Andrea would drive her home later. Perhaps...
Anything was possible, she supposed.
She thought about Miranda and her lover, shuddered, and made herself think about something else. No harm would come to her—Andrea had promised. And besides, there was nothing Lucia could do about her now. Miranda had found her bead of happiness, and that would have to do.
The taxi pulled up across the street from the café. Lucia paid the driver, got out, and looked around. The street was quiet; the lights of the café looked warm and inviting. She didn't see Andrea's car, but it could have been on a side street; parking was difficult around here. She started to cross the street.
"Excuse me, please!" someone called out.
She turned around, wondering if she had left something in the cab. But the cab was already gone, and she saw no one. She turned again, and that was when she noticed the headlights bearing down on her out of the darkness. She stepped back, but the headlights veered towards her, they were almost upon her now, and she realized with a rush of terror that she was too far out in the street, and she wasn't going to be able to get out of their way.
And Lucia understood, in the last moment left to her, that she, too, had had her final bead of happiness, and it was time for the long, sad movie to end.
Chapter 33
"Holiness? Holiness?"
Pope John groggily forced his eyes open. His valet was standing next to his bed, looking worried. "What is it, Thomas?" he mumbled.
"I'm so very sorry, Holiness," Thomas said, "but there's some sort of emergency—something to do with the police. Cardinal Valli asked me to awaken you. I didn't want to do it, but he insisted, Holiness. He said he needs to speak to you immediately."
The pope glanced at the clock. Three-ten. Lord. He realized his first thought had been that the guards had come to hustle him off for another beating. No crisis of Valli's was likely to match that, he supposed. "It's all right, Thomas," he said. "Give me a moment."
Thomas would understand; he'd had his share of beatings in the middle of the night.
Pope John got up eventually, pulled on a cassock, and walked out into the sitting room, where Valli was waiting for him. Valli, like the pope, was wearing a simple cassock—the first time the pope could recall seeing him without his cardinal's robes. Thomas brought in a tray with coffee on it for Valli and milk and cookies for the pope, and then disappeared.
"I have some extremely troubling news, your Holiness," Valli said. "Representatives of the Rome police force contacted me earlier tonight. It seems that Monsignor Fieri is dead."
"Paolo? Dead? It can't be true."
"I'm afraid that it is. The identification is certain."
The pope still had difficulty believing it. Was he dreaming? Paolo had been in this very room not twelve hours ago. "May he rest in peace," he murmured. "What happened? Why are the police involved?"
Valli looked uncomfortable—again, unusual for him. "This is not easy news to convey, Holiness," he said. "Monsignor Fieri was found floating face-down in the Tiber. A young woman was discovered nearby, also drowned. The police believe it may have been a double suicide."
"Suicide? Impossible. Have they identified the woman?"
"She was a Vatican employee named Cromwell—British, I'm told. There is some suggestion that she was rather unstable."
"And the police believe that Paolo had a—a relationship with this woman?"
Valli grimaced. "That is the inference they are making, yes."
"But that's absurd. Fieri would never have done such a thing."
"As you say, Holiness," Valli replied with a small nod. He had a way of agreeing with you without really agreeing; the pope was used to it by now, although he was beginning to realize how much it irritated him. "There may be another explanation, of course. It may be a coincidence. Or, well, something else. The police believe it's possible that foul play was involved."
"They think he might have been murdered?"
"A definitive answer would apparently require an autopsy.
But, murder or suicide—it doesn't really matter; the effect on the Church is equally bad. The police understand this—we have a good relationship with them. They contacted us as soon as they saw his identification and realized who he was. They are happy to overlook the details, out of respect, and have offered to record the death as an accident. I have taken the liberty of accepting their offer with gratitude."
"But I see no reason to cover anything up," the pope responded, finding himself annoyed at what Valli had done. "If he was murdered, the police should bring the murderer to justice."
"The murderer," Valli pointed out, "is likely to be his girlfriend. Murder-suicides are unfortunately all too common, I'm told, as are liaisons between priests and younger women, alas."
"Nevertheless, I don't see why the police shouldn't do their duty."
"Perhaps," Valli said, "but one must consider not only the embarrassment to the Church but the embarrassment to the monsignor's family as well. Roman journalists like nothing better than to splash these matters all over their papers for days on end. It can be most unpleasant for all concerned."
"Perhaps the Church would be better off if we responded more openly to such matters," the pope pointed out, "rather than pretending that they never happened. Haven't we learned from the scandals?"
"Certainly, Holiness," Valli replied, agreeing as always. "But perhaps you will admit that this... scandal, let us call it... is coming at a very inopportune time. In a few days you will be traveling to America, and one of your goals is to start a discussion of the Church's views on sexuality. Well, I would suggest that doing so in the shadow of a sex scandal that, in a sense, reaches to the papal residence itself is not the best way to provoke a reasoned discussion of these very important issues. People may think you are simply reacting to the scandal, rather than offering a deeply held point of view. The media look for an angle, a simple-minded way to make sense of complex problems, and this will be their angle. Trust me, it will cause us problems."
The pope stared at the milk and cookies, which he had no desire to consume. Th
ey were good cookies, though; the nuns had finally found a suitable recipe. His brain was still half-asleep, he supposed, because he found that he couldn't focus on Valli's arguments. He could think only of Paolo, lying dead in a morgue. So hard to believe. And the manner of his death. Was he really capable of some tawdry romance? The pope recalled what he had said—was it just yesterday afternoon? This world holds many temptations, Holiness. Not everyone is strong enough to resist them. We all have our flaws, and the pope was not about to condemn Fieri for his.
"Tell me about the woman," he said. "You say she was British?"
"That's what I was told," Valli replied. "Much younger than Fieri. She was a clerk of some sort at the Vatican Bank."
The pope's brain woke up with a start. "At the Bank?"
"Yes, in payroll, I believe."
"But you see, there is a connection here," the pope said. "Fieri was investigating the Vatican Bank, at my request. We suspected there might be problems at it. He told me he was going to have information about these problems soon. So that may explain what happened. This woman could have been his source. Perhaps they were both murdered to prevent her from giving the information to him."
The pope felt some measure of relief. This wasn't going to bring Paolo back to life, but it made him feel much better about the manner of his secretary's death.
Valli did not seem to share the pope's excitement—he never did. He merely nodded and steepled his hands in front of his chin. "Holiness, it would be nice to believe this, for Monsignor Fieri's sake," he said. "And you could very well be right. But I don't see how it solves our fundamental problem. In fact, it only adds to it. Do you want to publicize your investigation of the bank? This may not be a good idea, particularly if you have no evidence of wrongdoing. The media will still interpret these deaths as they wish, and they will wish to find a scandal. What you'll end up with are lurid headlines about sex, murder, and corruption in the Vatican, at the same time you are embarking on the first important mission of your pontificate. Your message will be entirely lost in all those headlines. Is it worth it, Holiness?"
Valli had a relentlessness about him that was exhausting, especially at three in the morning. The pope decided to ignore the cardinal's question. "You say you've already told the police to proceed with their cover-up," he said.
"I have acquiesced in their offer to treat the case as an accident," Valli replied. "He was taking a walk in the rain, as he often did, lost his footing in the darkness, and fell into the river. The drowning of the British woman was a totally separate incident."
"So the wheels are already in motion."
Valli shrugged. "I am truly sorry if I overstepped my authority and my actions don't meet with your approval, Holiness. I had to make the judgment quickly, and I did what I thought best."
"Can we say we've changed our minds?"
"We can always change our minds, Holiness," Valli replied "but it would cause considerable embarrassment, as well as engendering a certain amount of ill will with the police. They have already informed the next of kin and issued a statement to reporters, and the Vatican press office has also issued a brief statement of condolence. They would have to admit they were lying, which would cause a media scandal of its own. So you see—"
The pope nodded. "I'm sure you did what you thought best. I have no wish to besmirch Paolo's reputation. But we must get to the truth here. If in fact his death had something to do with the Vatican Bank—"
"Indeed, I agree completely. We must certainly continue the investigation he began. If you would like me to take that on, there are some avenues I can pursue."
"That would be helpful, Marcello. Let's talk more in the morning."
Valli arose, kissed the pope's ring, and departed. Thomas looked in, and the pope signaled that he could enter and clear away the untouched food and drink. "Monsignor Fieri has died, Thomas," he said.
"Yes, Holiness. One of Cardinal Valli's aides mentioned it just now."
"Did you like him?"
Thomas shrugged. "A bit too ambitious, perhaps. But then, everyone seems ambitious around here."
"I'm afraid you're right. Do you still miss home, Thomas?"
Holding the tray, Thomas paused to consider. "Home was hell on earth," he said. "And I miss it every day."
The pope smiled. "Sometimes the Vatican feels like home," he said.
"Hell on earth, Holiness?"
The pope struggled to his feet; his back had stiffened. "Not that bad, Thomas," he said. "But bad enough at times, I think. I'll be in the chapel."
"Please get your sleep, Holiness."
"In a while, Thomas. In a while."
Pope John made his way into the chapel. His heart was heavy, and his spirit was uneasy. He didn't want to go to America. He didn't want to be in the Vatican. In his homeland, the evil had been clear, palpable. Here, amid so much holiness and beauty, evil seemed to lurk in the shadows, unseen but always somehow present. He could not wish to go back home, but, like Thomas, he still could not feel comfortable here. And America? What did he know of America? How was he supposed to convince that nation to love him, to love the Church?
Well, he thought, the last thing he should be doing now was feeling sorry for himself. As always, there were others who had suffered far more than he. He knelt before the altar and prayed for the repose of the soul of Paolo Fieri, as well as the Englishwoman, whose name he had already forgotten. Ultimately it didn't matter how they died, of course, whether they were heroes or sinners, whether they were part of the evil or victims of it; they, like all of us, needed God's mercy, and the pope beseeched God to bestow it upon them.
Chapter 34
The elegant restaurant was deserted. Dominic DiStefano sat alone at a banquette in the back, sipping a cup of coffee that he had poured for himself from an urn in the kitchen. The room was so quiet he could hear the hum of the large refrigerator beyond the swinging doors. He was an impatient man, but he knew that sometimes you have to wait, and this was one of those times. And so he waited, without resentment, without annoyance, until the door to the restaurant opened and his guest entered, backlit by the afternoon sun. The man was wearing an ill-fitting blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He looked around, caught sight of DiStefano, and strode toward him.
"Good afternoon, your Eminence," DiStefano said. "Care for some espresso?"
Cardinal Valli shook his head. "Is this place secure?" he demanded, sitting down opposite DiStefano.
"We're quite alone," DiStefano replied. "And one of my very fine associates has now locked the door through which you just entered. We won't be disturbed."
Valli looked around, then nodded, apparently satisfied. He looked extremely uncomfortable in his secular clothes; no one was likely to mistake this man for a petty bureaucrat or a salesman, even if he dressed like one. DiStefano had never actually seen him in his priestly regalia. They had met only once or twice in person over the years; Valli was far too smart to allow himself to be compromised by a relationship with the notorious crime lord. DiStefano supposed that there might be people who suspected that such a relationship existed—Riccielli, for example—but they would be hard-pressed to prove it.
But now the risk had to be taken one more time. Too much had happened; too much was at stake. They had to take the measure of each other yet again. They had to make a decision.
"Tell me what's going on," Valli demanded in his usual tone, like a prince giving orders to a peasant. "It looks like a total mess. This was not at all how it was supposed to happen."
DiStefano inclined his head in agreement. "Certainly we have had to improvise, but unfortunately that is the nature of this kind of business." Valli despised him, he knew, just like Riccielli and the rest. But DiStefano knew—and he sensed that Valli knew as well, in some primitive recess of his brain—that they were equals. So he was not about to lie to him or try to bully him, strategies that worked so well with fellows like Riccielli. "The complications with that monsignor and the people from the Vatican Bank�
��"
"I understand the situation there," Valli interrupted. "It is now under control, although just barely. I'm not interested in that at the moment. I'm interested in Robert Coulter."
DiStefano shrugged. "All right," he said. "In retrospect, trying to use him was a mistake. But it made sense at the time. We had access to Coulter, so to speak, and he was easy to manipulate, after a fashion. Having him take care of the business would almost totally insulate us from it—blame it on just another crazy, violent American. And it seemed easier to use a fanatic—someone who was willing to give up his own life to accomplish the deed. It would eliminate complications."
Valli gestured impatiently. "Again, I'm not interested. You admit it was a mistake."
"Yes," DiStefano said patiently, willing himself to ignore the cardinal's tone. "Planting the idea in Coulter was easy enough, but he turned out to be too unstable, too difficult to manage. He bragged about what he was going to do almost immediately, and that has been the cause of all our problems." DiStefano could see that Valli was on the verge of interrupting yet again, so he hurried along. "But I wasn't so foolish as to rely entirely on Coulter. I sent my own representative to monitor the situation. A highly skilled professional. We found out who Coulter was talking to and eliminated him, but even that wasn't sufficient to solve the problem, it turned out. So now—" DiStefano shrugged again. "—now we have eliminated Coulter."
"And where do you plan to go from here?" Valli asked.
The question lay between them in the empty restaurant. DiStefano stared at Valli's aristocratic face—bred to command, bred to rule, while he'd had to scratch and claw for everything he'd gotten in life. Valli had devoted his life to God; some would say that DiStefano had devoted his life to the Devil. But here they were, sitting across from one another, and the decision was both of theirs to make. DiStefano took out his cell phone and laid it on the table. "All it takes is a phone call," he murmured.
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