A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  “Has he done something?” she said. “Is he a suspect?”

  “No,” said Rossi, playing it down. “But he is in this country on false papers, and for his own good and his own safety it would be better if he were to turn himself in.”

  Olivia looked him in the eye, and Rossi held her gaze, unperturbed, serious but not detached.

  “You think he’s a terrorist, don’t you?” she said with more than a hint of accusation. She’d heard what some police could do to those who dared to question their authority or protest their innocence. Jibril had told her of the beatings they had dealt him in Africa as he had made his way across the desert and into Libya. She had felt the scars’ ridges too, as she had run her fingers across his back in the dark as he slept.

  This officer seemed decent, kind even, but there were good cops and bad cops. And if your face was black, or if Islam was your religion, you might not always get the same chances.

  “We have to exercise extreme caution,” said Rossi. “These are difficult times, for all of us.”

  Olivia’s momentary outburst of anger, more the product of repressed stress than any real rancour, had subsided as quickly as it had arisen; but there were the beginnings of tears in her eyes now and her expression had lost a little of its firmness.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she said. “He’s not a monster. He’s not evil. I know he isn’t. Promise me they won’t hurt him.”

  Rossi had assured her as best he could. Regaining her composure, Olivia had shown them to the door.

  “I think you should go home to your parents or stay with some friends for a few days, if you can,” said Rossi. “It’s not that you are in any danger at this stage but it might be wise, at least as a precaution.”

  “But my job?”

  “Perhaps you should try to get your school to find you something else for now. I’ll have a word,” said Rossi, knowing that they would have a financial skeleton or two in the cupboard that they would rather remained undisturbed. He was sure they would see reason and do the decent thing.

  Fifty-Five

  “So?” said Rossi. “What’s the story. I don’t know if I can take any more good luck.”

  They were back in the Questura and holed up in the office with the plan to see Gab and his CCTV images temporarily on hold. Carrara had been keeping Rossi on tenterhooks since he had got a call and was now staring at the fax machine and chewing on his pen.

  “It’s a record of an anonymous phone call. I think it could be worth waiting for.”

  The machine suddenly sprang into life, spewing forth the couple of pages he had been waiting for. Carrara tore out the sheets. “Male, Eastern European accent, according to the officer who took the call, probably intoxicated, makes wild accusations against, wait for it, the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church before the Prenestina fire.”

  “A drunken rant then,” said Rossi. “We’ve all seen that before, on a Saturday night. Probably done it myself.”

  “Right,” said Carrara, “But he says, and I quote, ‘they killed Victor. The bastards killed him’. And then the line goes dead.”

  Rossi mused for a moment.

  “Nothing else.”

  “No,” said Carrara. “It was the only relevant match. Put it all together and what do you get? Has to be one hell of a coincidence.”

  “Ivan, the fire, the priest in the hospital, and V for Victor,” said Rossi, turning it over in his own mind. “And the officer didn’t take it seriously?”

  “He took it down in writing. Everyone knows anonymous calls are inadmissible as evidence.”

  “But are always kept on record in the event of their proving relevant to an investigation,” said Rossi, finishing the line from the crime-detection manual.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s adding more fuel to a fire,” said Rossi, “and if we can corroborate it further we’ll have the makings of something that they can’t ignore. Can we find the officer?”

  “I’ll get on to that now,” said Carrara.

  “And then put it all together: Marciano and his rent boys serving the city’s clergy, at least some of them; the Borgia painting, Father Brell’s murder, the mutilation of the corpse; the name Victor or something close to it – from three different sources now. That can’t be coincidence. That’s a story with a beginning a middle and an end.”

  “So, our next move is? Do we go to Maroni?”

  Rossi was slumped in his chair, his chin in his chest.

  “I say we go for the jackpot,” he said, raising his head to look straight at Carrara still standing by the fax machine, the pages held in his hand. “Let’s take it to the limit. We’re one step away from seeing what could be the whole picture.”

  “It’s the sleepover, isn’t it?” said Carrara.

  “Yes,” said Rossi. “And I say we move tonight.”

  Fifty-Six

  When Rossi got back to his apartment it was almost seven o’clock. He had sent Carrara on a mission to find the officer who had taken the anonymous call about Victor earlier in the summer. He had also charged him with putting together a detailed reconnaissance of the suspect cardinal’s final resting place, the Church of San Lorenzo in Lucina. There was no post for him and, as the beginning of a tentative fitness drive, he climbed the stairs instead of taking the lift. The key turned in the door. Had he forgotten to double lock it? He pushed it open as silently as he could and with his other hand reached inside his jacket for his Beretta. No breaking and entering. But someone was inside. He heard a chair move in the kitchen.

  “Michael.”

  It was Yana.

  “You had me a little worried,” he said, replacing the weapon in its holster as he approached her. She never came unannounced.

  “I called several times,” she said, wiping her hands with the tea towel and putting it down. She’d been tidying, he noticed. “But I suppose you were more busy than usual.”

  He took a beer from the fridge, and went for a glass, offering her one but knowing she would decline. Then he sat down at the opposite end of the breakfast bar. She looked good. She’d cut her hair, was wearing some new clothes.

  “So,” he said, “it’s been a while. What’s up?”

  She gave a little laugh.

  “I could say the same to you.”

  “I didn’t go off for a week.”

  “You’re always off, Michael.”

  “It’s my work,” he shot back. “The case doesn’t wear a watch, as we say.”

  She nodded. She’d heard the spiel before, and there was a time when it was very romantic and exciting and she’d felt the buzz coming off him when he was chasing the bad guys. And she knew at first-hand. After all, he’d saved her all those years ago. So she owed him a lot, she supposed. Or did she? He was only doing his job. No. That was unkind. He’d gone beyond the call of duty and she of all people knew that. But now?

  “I have to go away, Michael. For work.”

  “How long?” he asked, looking straight into her eyes as he took another, longer, draught of beer.

  “I’m going to have to move, to Milan. I’ve decided to expand the business and open another salon. I’ll need to be there if I’m going to make it work.”

  “And your place here?”

  “I’ll be able to let it out, to cover my rent in Milan. That’s the plan anyway.”

  Rossi finished his beer.

  “So, it’s all worked out. Congratulations,” he said and went back to the fridge for another 33 cc lager. The small ones hardly counted.

  “It’s early days but I’m optimistic. I’m taking out a loan but the forecasts are good and the business in Rome is looking after itself, so there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work in Milan too.”

  Rossi sat down again.

  “I’m no businessman,” he said, “but it’s a risk, isn’t it? A loan, with a mortgage already.”

  “It’s now or never, Michael. The loan’s almost interest free. I have a client who’s been very helpf
ul. And anyway, I’m not getting any younger. And if I want to have a different life someday, well.”

  A different life. A client.

  “What do you mean, different?”

  “Children, Michael. A family. Wouldn’t you like us to have a family one day? It can’t wait for ever you know.”

  Who was he to get in the way of her dreams, if he even featured in them? But his mind was elsewhere, as much as this was turning him inside out. Something had to give.

  “I came here to let you know, in person. Nothing is definite, nothing is over if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, reaching out now to take his hand. “There isn’t anyone else, Michael. It’s me. It’s what happened to me. The coma. It’s made me realize there’s no time to lose. Life is a breath. E’ uno soffio,” she said. “And you are always a part of it, but I have to take this chance.”

  He held her hand in his. She held his hand in hers. They had been through a lot. They would be through more, he was sure, if he wanted to. But he had to let her go without guilt.

  “I’d like you to stay tonight but—”

  “But you can’t,” she said taking the well-trodden path again. “I understand. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  She kissed him affectionately but without passion, as if honouring their bond, and then he closed the door behind her.

  ***

  There was no plan. There never had been one, yet something was unravelling. She was slipping away, further this time, like a boat loosed from its moorings, and he on the bank, the rope running through his fingers when he knew all he had to do was grip. Then something made him remember the e-mail he had forgotten to send to the organization, The List of Shame. He would do it now. And he’d get back to Gigi about the details of the cardinal’s final resting place. And then do some more of his own research. It might help take his mind off things.

  Fifty-Seven

  He had begun to assemble what they would need and took a holdall from the cupboard next to the kitchen. He threw in a hammer, a mallet, the closest thing he had to a mason’s chisel and, after a concerted search, found what he knew he had somewhere: a crowbar. He found some blocks of wood too. They’d need those for leverage. A torch, of course, better two. Spare batteries. A rope. Then he grabbed a sleeping bag. Better to be prepared and comfortable. Water. A half bottle of whiskey, half full. A packet of biscuits.

  He called Carrara. It was engaged. He’d have to get back to his place to prepare too. He stuffed in another sleeping bag. That would do. He tried again. This time it rang.

  “Gigi, what’s the story?”

  “Got what you wanted about opening times but there’s no clear indication on the website of where the tomb is located. We’ll have to search around a bit.”

  “And the rest? Did you speak to the cop who took the anonymous call?”

  “Yes, he was a bit hazy but he came up with something once I showed him the transcript.”

  “Did he say he was Russian?”

  “Maybe, but definitely Eastern European. And definitely drunk.”

  “So maybe the booze had loosened his tongue,” said Rossi. “In vino veritas.”

  “Hope so,” said Carrara.

  “I’ve got the lot. I’ll pick you up there. Seen anyone around? Anyone asking for us?”

  “No. Quiet enough.”

  “OK.”

  “But what about Gab’s CCTV? Are we getting our priorities right?” said Carrara.

  “I still say it can wait. We go for this now and then see the lie of the land. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Carrara even if he only had half a clue what exactly he was agreeing to.

  “OK,” said Rossi then gave a final look around the flat. It was cleaner, for sure. The woman’s touch was no myth. She was not a myth either, though he sometimes treated her like one. She was real. A pang of something close to guilt or anxiety or both cut through his stomach. He checked his watch. He had to leave now if they were going to gain access to the church by normal means. Then they’d be able to prove what he had been fearing and believing at the same time – that there was an unholy alliance behind at least some of what had been happening in the city, and a conspiracy to keep it all under wraps.

  Fifty-Eight

  Iannelli got up and stretched then walked over to the window, being careful not to let himself be seen. He didn’t pull back the linen curtains. He couldn’t, so his view of the world was like that of a blind man, a partially blind man. He thought sometimes he was close to going mad. The only thing that kept him sane was that she was coming to visit him. It kept his spirits up for sure. He looked in the mirror and wondered again whether to rethink the beard. He was starting to look like a fundamentalist, he laughed to himself.

  He went back to the computer. He was trying to finish an article for an American magazine. “Life Under Escort.” He was not the only one but perhaps one of the best-known because of the dramatic nature of his particular story. He had continued to wonder who had saved his life back then in Sicily, who had called to tell him to jump from his car seconds before the roadside bomb had obliterated it. But he still didn’t know the truth. Perhaps it was an agent who had penetrated Cosa Nostra. It could even have been the owner of the guest house where he had stayed while investigating the collusion between high-level politicians and crime syndicates. But who could set him free now? The cursor was flashing. He was stuck. He didn’t have anymore ideas to push it across the page. He flicked over to the Internet. See what was going on. Not much. Then he opened his e-mails. A few new entries, one looked interesting.

  To: D.Iannelli@thefacet.it

  From: a friend.

  Subject: Rome

  Keep this channel of communication open.

  Tennessee.

  Fifty-Nine

  “Right,” said Rossi, “we do it like this. We go in and assess the situation. It’s a bit of a tourist place but there shouldn’t be any cameras or serious alarms. If there are, it’s your job to take them out.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Carrara.

  “I’ll leave the bag somewhere safe and then we wander around until we’ve found the tomb. Then we hide and wait until closing time. Keep your phone on silent.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any signal anyway,” said Carrara. “Walls are five feet thick down in the crypt.”

  “Okay, but we wait until it’s closed and empty.”

  “Escape route?”

  “We identify the path of least resistance. Either a side door or a window. Something with a lock we can spring. We can try that first, if you like, while one of us gets on with the other job.”

  “‘The other job’. The grave robbing.”

  “It’s not grave robbing, Gigi. It’s establishing the facts. Is there a body there or not? As I told you, I have grave doubts. Forgive the pun.”

  Carrara did not appear overly placated, however.

  “Park over there,” said Rossi, indicating a space between a large overhanging tree and some recycling bins, “it’s discreet enough.”

  “Something less suspicious?” said Carrara as Rossi heaved the holdall out of the boot.

  “Its my old kitbag. Saying I look past it?”

  “No comment,” said Carrara, accepting it and swinging it over his shoulder.

  “No metal detectors, at least,” said Rossi as they made towards the entrance of the relatively modest-looking church with its classical columns and Romanic bell tower.

  There was a trickle of hardcore ecclesiastical tourists in and out of its doors.

  “Think we can blend in?” said Rossi. “Perhaps we should have brought a guidebook.”

  “You know one of the Magliana gang had his funeral here, don’t you?” said Carrara.

  “I did know that,” said Rossi, “and I’m hoping it’s only a coincidence. Like San Lorenzo in Lucina and the 1994 Lucina massacre is too.”

  ***

  There were no security guards or se
xtons to worry about, and a quick reconnoitre allowed Rossi to find a recess behind the organ where he could drop the bag. Carrara was coming back down the nave, admiring the vaulted ceiling like a natural and then blessing himself on one knee as he crossed in front of the altar.

  “Only one camera,” he whispered and half-mimed to Rossi, “On the main entrance. A couple of movement sensors but I can neutralize them before the alarm’s set.”

  He waved some compact electronic device and mentioned something about jamming a signal, something about which Rossi was quite happy not to ask any further questions.

  “And an exit?” said Rossi.

  “Next job.”

  Rossi looked at his watch.

  “Time to find somewhere to secrete ourselves. Meet you at the Lady Chapel in five,” he said, as he laid a hand on Carrara’s arm to draw his attention to some finer detail of the baldacchino. A black-frocked and sombre priest appeared from the direction of the sacristy. He began to make his rounds, extinguishing candles, straightening chairs and indicating to the remaining visitors that it was time to leave. It was earlier than expected.

  “Find yourself a spot now,” Rossi whispered. “It’s chucking out time.” They sauntered off in their respective directions.

  Rossi slipped behind a pillar and squinted around it to follow the priest as he shepherded a last few strays towards the exit. Rossi moved backwards to the roped-off area near the altar, stepped across and found a dark space between a stone sarcophagus and the wall. He made himself as small as possible, crouched, and waited. If he were found, it would be embarrassing to say the least. His shaky defence would have to be that it was a stake-out, but that would be useless if this priest was a custodian of the secret he felt this church might jealously possess.

  He heard the priest’s footsteps going this way and that. Some of the lights went out. So far so good. Then he heard the main entrance door opening and banging shut. There was a rattling of keys, a clunking sound, more footsteps. Of course. It would be closed from the inside, and the priest would retreat through the nave and leave through the sacristy, which gave onto his private quarters. Whether he would return or not was a risk they would have to take. Another door was closed with a key then all was plunged into darkness. A little faint light filtered through some high windows but it would be pitch-dark soon.