by Jon Cleary
Once inside the great basilica he had been amazed at the size and splendour of it. He was not to know it, but a philosopher, Giovanni Papini, had once written, “It is like the hall of an imperial palace designed for splendid gathering, rather than the mausoleum of a martyr intended for the public appearance of the Vicar of Christ.” Russ Clements’s old Congregationalist mum would have sneered at it and retreated to her tin-roofed chapel, but Malone, against the grain of his nature, found himself impressed.
The Pope had made a modest entrance; if popes, surrounded by a regiment of cardinals, archbishops, bishops, liveried laity and Swiss Guards, could ever move modestly in the huge basilica. He had not been carried in on the sedia gestatoria, the chair usually used during his public appearances; perhaps he, too, was suffering from jet lag and did not want a reminder of his long flight from Beijing. Newspapers had reported that, crossing the Muslim countries, the Alitalia flight had been subjected to intense air buffeting. The sedia gestatoria was rarely on an even keel: carried by Italians, it always tended to list to the right or left, depending on the current government in power outside the Vatican. Popes never looked more uneasy than when in the shoulder-borne chair.
“I’m glad you came,” Monsignor Lindwall had said when Malone had presented himself back at the Department for the Defence Against Subversive Religions. “A lot of people may sneer at all the panoply of a papal Mass, but honest human nature needs panoply occasionally. The Communists go in for it on May Day. The Presbyterians are dour in church, but they get carried away by their pipe bands at the Edinburgh Tattoo—so do I, I must confess. I missed all the panoply during those years in Africa. I made up for it by going to watch the tribal dances, dreadfully pagan occasions, and enjoying them. A papal Mass is extravagant and I sometimes wonder what Christ would have thought of it, but the soul needs the occasional circus, even if it’s a solemn one. It doesn’t make one a better Christian to attend one, but it beats the hell out of self-flagellation.”
Malone had grinned at the little man. “Who hears your confession?”
“Oh, I have a friend, another retired missionary. We try to out-do each other in imaginary sins. How did you fare with our Archbishop?”
“I think he’s winning on points at the moment. But it’s a long way from over. I think he may retreat into the Vatican, but he can’t hide here for ever.”
“How much time have you got? There are over ten thousand rooms in the Vatican. There are nine hundred and ninety-seven staircases you may have to run up and down. Thirty of the staircases are secret—the Vatican has had more experience at hiding people than any other organization on earth. I sometimes think the CIA and the KGB and MI5 come here for instruction in safe houses, or whatever they call them. If Kerry goes to His Holiness or the Tardella—”
“What’s that?”
“The Pope’s inner cabinet. If he goes to one of the senior cardinals in the Tardella, you’ve had it, my son. You may just as well go back to the Colonies.”
“The Colonies? You’re eighty-seven years out of date as far as Australia is concerned. I didn’t think you’d be an imperialist Pom.”
“A figure of speech, Scobie. I was thinking in Roman terms. Everywhere outside of Rome is the Colonies.”
“How does a cynic like you last in a place like this?”
Monsignor Lindwall smiled. “Better to have me inside, shooting my mouth off, than outside. Shall we go to Mass?”
Despite his lack of liking for panoply, Malone was impressed by the papal Mass. He could see that this could be part of the Church’s seduction of converts; they expected Heaven to be even better. The basilica was packed; it seemed to him that people were even squeezed into niches in the walls, like flesh-coloured effigies. There was constant movement, even during the Consecration; Italian congregations evidently didn’t consider it rude to wander around in The Lord’s presence. One item did thrill Malone: the singing. This was real music: if The Lord could listen to guitars and banal hymns after this feast, He was straining His charity or had a tin ear. Then he found himself dozing off again.
Guy Lindwall woke him with a digging elbow. “It’s over. Do you see who is on the other side of the altar?”
Malone shook his head, opened his eyes wide to get them working again. During Mass there had been so many people between him and the opposite pews that he had been able to see no one. Now, amongst the chromatopsia of cardinals, he saw the two Hourigans, Zara Kersey and General della Porta standing together in a group. With them were two elderly cardinals, one white-headed, the other bald, both of them looking like the princes they knew they were.
“You see?” said Lindwall. “He’s already with the Tardella.”
“And the carabinieri, too, it seems,” said Malone and all at once wanted to give up, to fall into bed and wake up in Randwick with Lisa beside him and the case wiped from his memory.
But it wasn’t to be. As they began to move out of the basilica, Zara Kersey looked across and saw Malone. She smiled at him, then turned and said something to Fingal Hourigan. The old man shook his head, then he turned and stared across at Malone. He said something to his son, then the two of them pushed through the crowd to Malone and Monsignor Lindwall. Only when they had come through the throng did Archbishop Hourigan look down and see the little man.
“Hello, Guy, do you two know each other?”
“He’s my spiritual adviser,” said Malone.
“I’ve been explaining the difficult ways to Heaven,” said the Monsignor. “He’s a stubborn man.”
“Don’t we know it!” said the Archbishop.
“Inspector—” Fingal Hourigan had barely glanced at Lindwall. “Mrs. Kersey has suggested we get together for one last conference. She thinks we may be able to work something out. I doubt it, but I don’t pay her to give me advice I ignore. Can you have dinner with us?”
“I’m bushed, Mr. Hourigan—I have jet lag—”
“So have I,” said the old man. “How do you think I got here? By transubstantiation, changing one body for another?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Malone, dredging up some reserves that he thought he had lost; this old bastard acted like a battery charger on him. “Where will we have dinner?”
“The Hassler. Nine-thirty. Is that too late for you? These Eyeties evidently can’t cook anything before nine o’clock.”
That would give him time for at least an hour’s nap. “I’ll be there. Will General della Porta be there? He didn’t tell me he knew you.”
“He’s an old friend,” said Archbishop Hourigan.
“I might have guessed it. What about the Pope?”
He left them on that, clearing a way through the crowd, with Monsignor Lindwall following in his wake. He walked quickly, almost hurling people out of his way and Lindwall had to run to keep up with him. Once outside, however, in the cool air of the spring evening, he slowed down, took a deep breath.
“I’ll pray for you,” said the Monsignor as he said goodnight.
“Will it help?”
“I don’t know. I prayed every night in Africa, asking for something better of The Lord. Look where He landed me. But if we don’t keep hoping and praying, what’s the point of anything? Good luck.”
“Luck isn’t a Christian symbol, is it?”
Lindwall smiled. “I told you—I used to go to those pagan celebrations and enjoy them. Not all pagan things are bad.”
Malone went back to the pensione, asked Signor Pirelli to call him at nine o’clock, went up to his room and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. It seemed only a moment later that Pirelli was shaking him awake. He got up, had a quick shower, dressed and, after getting directions from Pirelli, walked up to the Hotel Hassler at the top of the Spanish Steps. He was ten minutes late, but, usually a most punctual man, it didn’t worry him. The Hourigan party had not arrived and he was shown to their reserved table. It was a window table with a view over the city. This was one of the perks of the rich, he guessed, and fe
lt the natural envy of a poorer man.
The Hourigans and Zara Kersey arrived fifteen minutes later. Fingal made no apology and his son and Zara Kersey said nothing about their tardiness. Perhaps they felt that in Italy one did not need to.
“I thought you might not have waited,” said Fingal.
Malone had had two cups of the strong Italian coffee, felt more awake. “General della Porta didn’t come with you? I only stayed because I wanted to talk to him.”
“We’ll keep the Eyetalians out of this,” said Fingal. “What do you want to eat?”
Malone had already glanced at the menu and was glad that he was not paying; eating out in Rome was expensive. He ordered fish; judging by its price it had been landed in a Bulgari gold-mesh net. While he was eating it he could taste money; but he enjoyed it. It was Fingal Hourigan’s money and it might be the only thing he would get out of the family. The Archbishop ate extravagantly; Malone tipped he might have asked for seconds at the Last Supper had he been there. Both Fingal and Zara Kersey ate sparingly. Nothing much was said during the meal, though Zara did try to keep some conversation going.
“You should have brought your wife to Rome with you, Inspector. Rome is a city for women.”
“Better than Paris?”
“Any city where they can spend money is a city for women,” said Fingal. “Do you want dessert?”
“Yes,” said Malone. “If you don’t mind spending the money.”
Fingal grinned. “It’s a pity you’re a cop, Malone. I could have found a place for you. I still could,” he added without the grin.
“Are you trying to bribe me? In front of your lawyer, an honest lady?”
“Let’s not get into that,” said Zara. “The bribery, I mean, not my honesty. If Mr. Hourigan meant it, it was meant only as a joke.” She gave Fingal a hard stare. “Right?”
He stared back at her, then retreated behind his menu. Kerry Hourigan said from behind his menu, “I’ll have the stuffed peaches. I think it’s time Mrs. Kersey put our case to you, Inspector.”
Zara put a cigarette in a holder and lit it. Fingal put down his menu and said, “I don’t like smoking at the table.” Zara put out the cigarette, made no apology and looked at Malone. This is like family, he thought. Fingal treats her as he does his daughter and he gets about as far with her as he does with Brigid.
“Inspector, the Archbishop tells me you have threatened to create a stink back in Sydney if he doesn’t return with you.”
“That’s about it,” said Malone. “It’s time I started playing dirty.”
“Where will you create the stink, exactly? Mr. Hourigan is a major shareholder in two of our biggest newspapers, through one of his subsidiary companies.”
“There’s the ABC—something like Four Corners or The 7.30 Report. You seem to forget, Mrs. Kersey. Most of the journos in Sydney are left-wing or that way inclined. And I don’t think any of them are particularly religious, probably the opposite. I don’t think we’d have any trouble creating a stink.”
“We?”
He almost said Me and the Commissioner, but he knew just how far he could go in taking the Commissioner’s name in vain. “The Police Department. We’re all pretty tired of people saying we’re corrupt—we’re looking for chances to show we’re not. What was it you wanted to put to me?”
“I don’t think this is the place.” She looked at Fingal. “Can we go back to your apartment, Mr. Hourigan?”
“I don’t like entertaining cops in my home.” But then he nodded. “Okay. We’ll have dessert and coffee first. We don’t want to disappoint my son.”
Kerry laughed. “Gluttony is my only constant sin.”
Malone forbore to ask him what his occasional sins were.
They rode back to the Hourigan apartment in a Mercedes limousine driven by the elderly butler, who evidently doubled as chauffeur. Once inside the apartment he did a quick change, appeared again in his black livery and white gloves and served them liqueurs and more coffee.
“This is a forty-year-old Grande Fine Champagne,” said Kerry, sniffing his brandy glass. “One of the best cognacs, another of my sinful indulgences. A religious war, or rather the end of one, was responsible for the creation of cognac. Did you know that, Inspector? Henri the Fourth of France stopped the war between the Huguenots and the Catholics in whenever-it-was, Fifteen—something. The Huguenots had learned about „burned wine’ from the Dutch . . .”
He trailed off when he saw his father looking stonily at him. He had drunk too much wine at dinner; but something else had undermined him. Is he afraid? Malone wondered.
When the butler had retired, Malone said, “Well, what do we have to talk about?”
Zara Kersey looked at Kerry Hourigan. “I think you’d better speak for yourself now, Your Grace.”
“Be careful,” warned Fingal.
The Archbishop, replete and seemingly at ease now, as if a full stomach were some sort of assurance, sat back in his chair, re-gathering himself. It was a high-backed chair covered in rich red velvet; he looked cardinalate in it, almost papal.
“I have the strongest possible alibi for myself and Señor Paredes for last Saturday night. We were in Moss Vale, some hundred and forty or hundred and fifty kilometres from Sydney. We didn’t leave there to return to Sydney by car till three-thirty in the morning.”
“Where were you? At Austarm?”
“You know about Austarm?” He seemed surprised.
“We’ve done some homework.”
“H’m.” Kerry Hourigan looked at his father. “Do I tell him everything?”
“I wouldn’t tell him anything. But now you’ve started . . .”
“Only as much as you have to,” Zara Kersey advised.
Fingal suddenly changed his mind. “Tell him everything. Otherwise we’ll never get rid of him.”
Malone, tiredness all at once hitting him like a bilious attack, grinned. “Thanks.”
“Well—” Kerry Hourigan seemed a little less assured now, as if he had expected to get away with telling much less. “Señor Paredes and I were there to buy arms. You must understand, this is in the strictest confidence. If this got out, it would be a bigger scandal than the Irangate affair in the United States. Do I have your word on that?”
“No,” said Malone. “This isn’t the confessional. You know I have to put in a report. I can see that it goes to the Commissioner and nobody else, but I can’t guarantee what he’ll do with it.”
The two Hourigans looked at each other again and Fingal said, “Leave that with me.”
I know the Commissioner isn’t in your pocket, thought Malone; but maybe the Premier was and the Premier was the Minister for Police. All at once he felt unutterably weary. The world was full of conspiracy, of connections, of payments made and favours done. Why did he think he could beat it all?
“The Vatican doesn’t know I’m involved in our programme in Nicaragua—the Contras’ programme, that is.”
“Some people in the Vatican know you’re involved. You mean the Pope doesn’t know.”
“Well, yes . . .”
Out of the corner of his eye Malone saw that Zara was disturbed by the Archbishop’s frankness, reluctant though it might be. Or perhaps she had been shocked by what she had been told beforehand, whatever it might have been.
“When it comes off, when it is successful—as it will be—” Again there was that glint of passion (of fanaticism?) in the eyes. “When it happens, I’ll be a hero. Not a public one, but here in the Vatican—yes. A success against the Communists—one that will wipe out that canker in Latin America—is what we want here in Rome. But there are ways it has to be done—well, ways Rome would rather not know about. The Lord understands, but Man sometimes doesn’t—”
“Don’t get too pious,” said the Archbishop’s father, who would never be that.
Kerry smiled, not offended: the zealot can never be insulted. Malone understood that. Archbishop Hourigan was no foam-mouthed raver, but he was a zealo
t or a fanatic, all right.
“Señor Paredes and I went to Moss Vale to buy arms—”
“On a Saturday night? In the middle of the night?”
“We didn’t want any of Austarm’s staff to know about us. We dealt only with their two top executives.”
“What was the order?”
“Ten thousand rifles—”
“What sort? Old ones or new?”
“Austarm’s newest—it’s based on the Belgian 7.62 rifle. Do you know it?”
“I’ve seen it.” He was surprised that the Archbishop should know one rifle from another; he was a Rambo, all right. “We confiscated half a dozen from a gang of bikies. They’re pretty lethal.”
“Rifles are supposed to be—you know that.” He could see himself at the head of an army, another Julius II, that most war-like of popes. “We also ordered a thousand machine guns and I’ve forgotten how many gross of grenades and landmines.”
Just something to fill up the shopping basket. Malone looked at Zara, seemingly the only sane one besides himself in the room. Fingal seemed unperturbed by his son’s bizarre militarism.
“Do you believe all this?”
“Yes.” But he recognized the reluctance in her voice; or was there a hint of outrage, of disgust? “It’s all true, Inspector. That’s why I didn’t want this conversation held in the restaurant.”
Malone looked back at the Archbishop. “An order like that—how are the Austarm executives going to explain that to the factory production manager? What would it be worth?”
“Including the ammunition, shipping, everything—just on ten million dollars.”
“And you expected nobody to ask questions about an order like that?”
“It was being arranged.”
“That’s not good enough. I want to know everything or I’m on my way back to Sydney, with or without you, and I’ll start work again on Paredes and Domecq.” He looked at Fingal. “You’d better tell him, Mr. Hourigan—I’m a bastard for persistence.” He just wished he were not so exhausted.
“The end justifies the means, Inspector.”