A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  Rossi loosened himself from his position then took a penlight from his pocket and went to find Carrara.

  He located him by the glow of his phone.

  “OK,” said Rossi, in hushed tones. “We’re in.”

  “I’ve been trying to find a signal,” said Carrara. “Looks like this is just about the only place.”

  Rossi took out his own phone. Sure enough, there was a message, from Iannelli.

  Something odd has come up. “Tennessee” mean anything to you? Call me.

  Rossi pondered for a moment the cryptic note. “It’s hardly the time and the place,” he said out loud, showing it then to Carrara. “It’ll have to wait,” said Rossi. “Got a job to do. Which way?”

  Carrara indicated the gates that led down to the crypt as Rossi retrieved the holdall.

  “Fairly straightforward, don’t you think?” he said, sizing up the large keyhole. Carrara had already produced his own box of tricks, and with Rossi’s penlight steadied on the lock he set to work.

  “So far very good,” said Rossi as there was the decisive click. “Easy if it creaks.”

  They opened it enough to be able to slip through then descended the spiralling marble steps down to the crypt.

  “Should be one of the new ones,” said Rossi as he scoured the darkness with a more powerful torch.

  “Got it,” said Carrara who had turned his phone into a searchlight. “All present and correct. Name, freshly chiselled.”

  “And sealed,” said Rossi tracing a finger along the line of smooth white mortar running under the bevelled edge of the marble lid.

  He wrapped the head of the masonry chisel in a cloth to muffle the sound. Then he took the hammer and struck the first blow. Fragments shot out in all directions like a small explosion. He struck again and began working his way around. “I’ll do the first side then we swap and I’ll check the coast is clear,” he said as he continued to chip with a steady rhythm.

  Iannelli tried again. No answer. Rossi was proving even harder to get hold of than usual. He looked at the e-mail, trying to glean some further significance from it, its few spare details. “A friend.” What did that mean? Someone who wanted to help him? Could it be the same source that had tipped him off about the attempt on his life in Sicily or even the one who had sent him the photo of Father Brell? “Keep this channel open.” That implied further news, updates, even a certain urgency while the sender’s address was some gobbledygook made for the occasion.

  He wondered if he should pass it on to his own security. Maybe they could trace it and get a lead. Or maybe it was someone who wanted to use him as a conduit for a story. And then the name. “Tennessee.” He tried Rossi’s phone one more time. Nothing.

  Rossi had left Carrara on the job while he made his way through the pitch-black towards the main entrance. He had the lock-picking kit and was going to make a start. It wasn’t his speciality but he’d had the training and was no slouch. He tried a few different approaches but to no avail. Leave it to Carrara or try another door? There was the option of going via the sacristy and through the priest’s quarters but that was high-risk, even if the locks might be easier.

  He took out his phone and made for their reception hot spot. Three bars. Good enough. There were missed calls from Iannelli, who he’d almost forgotten about. He rang back and it had almost rung out when there was an answer.

  “Dario, what is it?” he whispered. “I’m in a tight spot right now.”

  Iannelli explained the e-mail, voicing his various concerns. Rossi began turning over the possibilities. It smacked of the imminent but if something big did come up and a call went out for operatives then they would be in serious trouble and they would have to leave the job half done and their intentions exposed.

  “OK,” said Rossi, “hold on to it for now. But if you get something else or if they up the stakes and you can’t get me, pass it straight on to the RSCS.” He reeled off a number for a direct line.

  Carrara had finished.

  “OK,” said Rossi. “The moment of truth.” He took out the crowbar and a couple of blocks. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready,” said Carrara positioning himself with a wedge. Rossi jammed in the bar and leant down hard. The lid lifted and Carrara shoved in another wedge. Rossi moved to the opposite side and they repeated the operation. They’d lifted it by a few inches on both long sides and they moved round to the head end.

  “One to go,” said Rossi when the sound of sirens made both of them freeze. “Keep going!” said Rossi, “we’ll bluff our way out if we have to.”

  He leant on the bar and with Carrara accompanying the lid sideways and exploiting the momentum, they glimpsed inside the casket at one corner. “A bit more,” said Rossi, and they shifted it another inch or two. Rossi shone his torch inside. It was empty.

  “Nothing. The empty tomb. Come on!” he said, throwing the tools into the bag and wiping the handles clean of prints as he did so. “And the lock and the gate,” he said over his shoulder as they climbed up the spiral staircase and back into the nave.

  “What now?” said Carrara, as the sirens came closer and then stopped. Rossi shone his torch around.

  “Try and open that side door!” he said, and indicating with the beam. “But stay inside.”

  Carrara dashed over and set to work as Rossi provided steady illumination.

  “Shit!” said Carrara as a slim precision tool slipped from his hand and on to the floor. He grabbed it up and began again.

  There were male voices now outside and the dull thuds of car doors closing one after another. A couple of cars, Rossi calculated. His eyes turned in the direction of the main door but the sound of footsteps came to where they were. The outer gate rattled slightly on its hinges as if being tried in a perfunctory manner and then the footsteps appeared to move away. A false alarm? Rossi looked down at the kneeling Carrara who had stopped for a few seconds but was now doggedly concentrating again on the lock willing the definitive click, his instruments in the silence making a delicate ticking sound like a small bird trying to open a nut. Then there was a clanking and rattling of metal as away to Rossi’s right and on the far side of the altar the door to the sacristy opened. He could hear a grumbling voice that had to belong to the parish priest they had seen earlier. Torches danced in all directions until the first dim lights in the side chapel flickered on.

  “We’re police,” Rossi called out striding away from Carrara to divert their attention. “It’s Rossi and Carrara. RSCS.”

  There were a few “what the fucks”, and other expressions of dismay as a group of plain clothes and uniforms ambled in, and the priest headed towards the panel where the main light switches were located just as Rossi heard the telltale click of lock opening behind him. At the front of the police group was Silvestre. It was not their lucky day.

  “Well, well, well,” said Silvestre. “This is going to take a bit of explaining, isn’t it?”

  Carrara emerged from the half-shadows, slipped his tools into his pocket, and made his way over with an air of relaxed detachment.

  “We saw a light on and that door behind us there was open,” said Rossi.

  “So you just happened to be in the area,” said Silvestre.

  “That’s right,” and it looks like someone’s been grave robbing, said Rossi, indicating the open gate leading to the crypt. “Care to see for yourself. Looks like they were going to make a night of it.”

  ***

  “All this will have to go back to Maroni of course,” said Silvestre as the still grumbling priest locked up the main entrance and the officers stood around smoking and chatting, leaning over the bonnets of the squad cars with their torches to complete the initial paperwork. “Very odd case indeed, isn’t it?” said Silvestre. “What with your car being parked up here for the last three hours as well.”

  “Like I told you before,” said Rossi, “in the vicinity. On foot. We left the car here for convenience.”

  “And someone’s made off with a
cardinal’s mortal remains. Looks like a ransom job, doesn’t it?”

  “Has all the hallmarks,” said Rossi.

  “And you wouldn’t happen to be in any way involved, would you, Rossi? I mean, you are above suspicion. Incorruptible.”

  “Which begs the question, how did you happen to be in the area yourself, Silvestre?”

  Silvestre laughed. “Don’t worry, Rossi. I won’t shop you. Not for this one. I’m sure we’ll be able to find a way out. It’ll be better for all concerned. I just didn’t think it was your style, that’s all. Thought you were squeaky clean.”

  Rossi ignored the facile provocation for what it was.

  “You still haven’t told me how you got here so fast,” said Rossi. “Just passing were, you?”

  “No,” he said. “We got a call, from Torrini at The Post, of all people. How he got wind I really couldn’t say but I don’t think he’ll be revealing his source. Anyway, I’d say he’ll be wanting to run a nice little story on all this. Check the morning papers.”

  ***

  “That was a good bit of work,” said Rossi as they sipped on cappuccinos in the first bar they could find open. Neither had felt like going home yet and besides, they would have to get their story straight in one way or another. The early hours clientele was a mix of stragglers, revellers and shift-workers. “At least it means our story is feasible if not credible.”

  “They’ll say it was locked and that’s why they had to come in through the priest’s quarters,” said Carrara.

  “Well maybe they didn’t push hard enough. As I said, it’s enough to muddy the waters.”

  “But Torrini? How the hell did they know we were there?”

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Rossi. “We’re being trailed. Phones monitored. Someone must have fed him. And he’d love to nail me.”

  “Because of Iannelli, right? Leaving The Post to wage his private war on its esteemed editor. Well at least now you know there’s nothing there.”

  “Which doesn’t prove anything but it strengthens the case that the murdered priest wasn’t Brell at all. That maybe no such person as Brell ever existed. That Brell could have been our cardinal instead.”

  ***

  The story hadn’t made that morning’s paper but the headline would be ready for the next. “Top Cop Implicated in Corpse Kidnap.” That very Italian of crimes. It was much easier to keep a corpse quiet while you waited for relatives to cough up the ransom.

  Rossi had arrived home at dawn and had tried to grab a few hours’ sleep. But there were any number of loose ends flailing about in his head. He woke up with a start. He was on the couch, in his clothes, and he felt another sharp pain in his chest. He sat up and tried to get a grip on his thoughts. The church, the empty tomb, Silvestre sneering with satisfaction at his misfortune. And Yana. The loan. The client, friend, financial adviser in Milan. She was moving to Milan. It was temporary. But it was always temporary, at first.

  He got to his feet and threw open the window and tried to breathe slowly, but the air felt thick and warm and nauseating. It was already nine o’clock in the morning and the city and its street life had begun without him. He needed peace. Silence. He headed for the drinks cabinet and poured himself some medicine. He drained the glass then leant on the table and waited for it to do its work. Something like calm began to spread through his body and limbs and up into his brain. He went into the bathroom and ran the tap for a whole minute until the water had become cold enough for him to freshen up. Then he brushed his teeth and gargled with the strongest mouthwash he could find. He ran his fingers through his hair, dressed again, grabbed his jacket and keys and headed back out.

  Sixty

  He hadn’t even got as far as the office. The press were there and shoving microphones in his face the moment he opened the car door.

  “What do you know about the disappearance of the cardinal’s body? Witnesses say you were on the scene. Is it true you’ve been suspended? Inspector Rossi! Do you deny the accusations concerning organized crime?”

  He was almost glad when a staff officer interposed himself between the marauding hordes and hissed in his ear that Maroni wanted to see him “now” and not to even open his mouth to the press before he had “got his arse over there”.

  “His words, not mine,” the officer added in his defence.

  He ducked through the gates and into the relative calm of the Questura. “Hard at work everyone?” he said as he breezed through the reception area followed by a legion of idle stares and headed for the second floor. A message had come through from Carrara.

  Advise you to use the back entrance. Press.

  Better late than never.

  “So,” said Maroni. “This is going to have to be good signori.”

  Rossi and Carrara sat opposite him, both in need of sleep and sustenance. Then he exploded.

  “What the hell were you two doing in that church! You’d better have an explanation. Torrini knows. He bloody well told us. Your car was seen! You were in there and then this cardinal’s corpse goes missing. And now there’s a ransom demand. It does not look good, gentlemen! Whatever way you dress it up, this does not constitute gilt-edged PR!”

  Rossi glanced at Carrara and then at Maroni.

  “Well, I suppose we’d better come clean. On everything.”

  Maroni had sat back in his chair, maintaining a studied silence as Rossi told him what they had been working on, linking the Brell murder with the missing painting, the Victor story, Jibril, Marciano and his rent boys, and the final crowning glory which was that the cardinal had never been buried in the church crypt at all. As far as they were concerned, there was every reason to believe he had engineered his own elaborate plan to disappear and fake his own death.

  “Then someone, we don’t know who,” said Rossi, concluding his version of events, “finally tracks down Brell, or the cardinal. What they did to his face could have been revenge or it could have been for reasons unknown, but as far as I’m concerned, the Islamist plot doesn’t fit. It was a crime, it was personal. We don’t have all the proof but what we found last night was enough to give us something approaching certainty.”

  Maroni sat up.

  “We can’t go with this. Even if it were true, which, despite the undoubted elegance of your reasoning, I seriously doubt it is, we would be going where angels fear to tread.”

  That was the abstract. Now for the rest.

  “If we went ahead with this, I couldn’t guarantee anything. If you want to pursue that line of enquiry, for starters you can wave bye-bye to this job. They will put everything in your way. Everything. They will drag up anything that can discredit you. They’ll bring pressure to bear on me and on my superiors – in a word, they will create a shitstorm of proportions you can’t even begin to imagine. Do you realize what you are saying? The levels of complicity and deceit and perverting the course of justice?”

  “And what if it were all true?” said Carrara.

  “That’s my point,” said Maroni. “If it is true, or even a part of it is true, you may as well forget about it. Because if that can happen, think what could happen to keep it all quiet. Think about your lives, your careers, your families. Nothing of any significance happens in this city without someone in the hierarchy having their say.”

  “And what if it were time that all that came to an end?” said Rossi.

  Maroni had his head in his hands, his chubby fingers digging into his smooth crown in a slow sadistic massage.

  “We could bury this, as it stands, if you cooperate. I can call in favours; we can pull together. But if not, if we don’t bury it here and now, they will bury you.”

  Rossi was still holding Maroni with his unbroken stare.

  “Torrini’s got a hard-on over the whole thing, Rossi – you’re not his favourite cop, in case you didn’t know. Iannelli’s chums are his de facto enemies it seems. They’ll throw the book at you over this. But if we work as a team on this, we can ride it out.”

  �
�How?” said Rossi. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Right. The tools and kit were there. Easy, they were left behind. You acted on a tip-off. You went alone and without informing anyone as you didn’t want to divert resources from the counter-terror ops, time was of the essence. And you’re a maverick, we all know that, and you’ve got some results over the years, so we can get a few friends to big you up in the other papers. You know the way it works. Sometimes in our favour, sometimes against. Anyway, it peters out. No ransom is paid. No one gets any return on their investment, it all fades from memory, Christmas comes and goes and it’s all forgotten.”

  Rossi gave a shrug as if to say it stank to high heaven but what other option was there?

  “But if you insist on going after the Church you’re on a hiding to nothing – it will drag on, for years, they’ll mobilize all their friends in high places, journalists, and you’ll end up bitter and twisted and heading for an early retirement and an ulcer.”

  “Like the cop in Sicily?” said Carrara remembering Tonino and his dossier on the large-scale corruption between the police and criminal gangs and which Iannelli had made his scoop.

  “He didn’t take on the Vatican. There’s a difference. Don’t forget they’ve got two thousand years of experience of this sort of thing. They burnt Giordano Bruno, for God’s sake, right here in Rome, in Campo de’ Fiori. They would have burnt Galileo.”

  “If he hadn’t retracted,” said Rossi. “Even though he was right.”

  “He made a wise move, if you ask me,” said Maroni. “There’s only one life. There’s no room for blind idealism. If you want to play into their hands, they’ll take pleasure in watching you squirm when you’re on the griddle. Then they’ll turn up the heat.”

  “You’re making a good case for our chucking it all in here and now,” said Rossi.