Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits

by Tavakoli, Janet M.

  Michael knew he shouldn't barge in; he had no jurisdiction. The Italian government and the Pope had signed the Lateran treaty in 1929, making the Vatican the smallest sovereign state in the world, less than half a square mile in area. This meant that either the Swiss guards or the Vatican guards should be handling this inquiry.

  But this was his wife and his son, and their safety was at stake. And it was the first big break he’d had in a seven-year long investigation. He headed it and was authorized to call the shots. He’d deal with the fallout later.

  Michael's apartment was only five minutes from the museum. He arrived at the crime scene eight minutes after he hung up with Helena.

  He knew he wouldn’t find out anything once the Vatican authorities arrived. The Vatican was under no obligation to file a report with the Roman police. They could quietly bury a priest without any autopsy, and that would be the end of it. There was no time for notes; he’d have to work quickly.

  He looked down at the corpse, twisted in the agonized death spasm of a man starved for air. The priest had apparently bled to death. Michael guessed the man had been dead for less than thirty minutes.

  He rested his palm on the priest’s black curly hair and gently tilted the head back. The slice through the neck looked like a Mafia-style garroting, clean and professional. Death would have come swiftly.

  The staring dark brown eyes looked almost alive. The face was surprisingly peaceful, which made the lump of flesh protruding between the lips all the more ghastly. The man's genitals had been cut off and stuffed in his mouth. Its corners turned up slightly, as if he were engaged in a pleasant conversation. As if the atrocities inflicted on his body had not touched his mind. Only that desecration and the whitish-grey pallor of his skin betrayed his horrible death.

  Michael walked around to the other side of the body. He didn’t flinch as he pulled back the cassock and examined the genital area. There was negligible bleeding around the excisions. The genitals must have been removed post-mortem.

  Three sets of hands grabbed him and pulled him roughly away from the body. Vatican guards, from the glimpse he got just before they smashed him down on the marble floor. His chest hit the ground so hard, it knocked the breath out of him. He heard a cracking sound as his nose and forehead struck the floor. His ears rang, and he felt disoriented.

  "What do you think you are doing?" one guard bellowed, pulling Michael’s head up by his hair. The guard’s other hand grasped Michael’s wrists in a vice-like grip, forcing his arms uncomfortably up his back. Another guard pulled out a cell phone and stepped to the side to make a call. He spoke quickly and then rejoined the others.

  Michael tried to shake his head to clear it, but the hand grasping him by the hair held him fast. Resisting would make the situation worse. Anger made him ache for combat, but he reminded himself that he was the trespasser. The guards were just doing their jobs.

  He took a breath and concentrated on speaking. “I'm a Specialist. I found this body.” He kept his voice calm, knowing that the guards were totally out of their element. As best he could from flat on the floor, he assessed the three men. They looked to be in their twenties and no doubt they were well trained. Individually, Michael could have taken any one of them, despite his 36 years. Possibly two. Three would have been difficult, but just last year Michael had faced down three men and came out the victor. He never should have let them sneak up on him.

  The oldest-looking guard, who was also the shortest, did most of the talking. “Why were you touching the body?”

  Michael kept his mouth shut.

  “Who are you?” the guard demanded.

  “If you free my arms, I’ll show you my ID.”

  The senior guard kept Michael on the floor and searched him for weapons. Finding none, he allowed Michael to stand up and extract his card.

  Even at six foot one, Michael had to look up at the Vatican guards. The shortest of them was easily six foot four. Michael handed over his ID, then pulled a white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and attempted to halt the flow of blood from his nose. Combined with the congestion from his cold, he felt miserable.

  The leader of the guards examined Michael’s ID. “Michael Visconte. I’ve heard of you. You head the Specialists.” His statement was part accusation, part admiration. He eyed Michael’s nose with a trace of apprehension.

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing here?” The guard glanced at the corpse, his expression grave and sad. This was apparently something beyond his experience, and Michael guessed he wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “I'm an art lover,” Michael said without a hint of sarcasm.

  “Why didn't you call for help as soon as you found the body?”

  “I was trying to figure out what happened to him.” Michael knew the guards had to be forceful, especially since he had disturbed the crime scene. Something he never would have done outside the Vatican, but here the rules didn’t apply.

  “You were looking up the man’s ass for clues?” another guard burst out. He sounded more nervous than angry.

  Michael nodded toward the body. “See for yourself.”

  The three guards studied the corpse in horrified fascination, gaping at the contents of the dead priest’s mouth as they just now took in the awful details.

  “Know him?” Michael asked.

  No one spoke for several seconds. Finally the senior guard said slowly, “I didn’t know him well, but he was a Jesuit.”

  An important piece of information to give away, though none of the guards appeared aware of that. Michael knew they were well trained, recruited from the best of the Italian army, but it was likely none of them had ever seen a murder victim before. This wasn’t the typical Vatican purse snatching they were used to dealing with. They kept looking to Michael as if for guidance.

  He addressed the senior guard. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  “We don't need your help.” The guard’s tentative tone betrayed his lack of confidence. He upped his volume: “We’ve had anti-terrorist training.”

  “What makes you think a terrorist did this?”

  The senior guard abruptly looked towards Michael. “Who else could have done it?” His voice wavered.

  Michael said nothing.

  The senior guard questioned him for a few more minutes and wrote down Michael’s ID information, but didn’t ask Michael to file a report. Michael was turning to leave when he felt an odd sensation, as if someone was staring at him from behind. A chill raced up his spine. Then someone spoke. A male voice, deep and resonant.

  “Is this the man?”

  Michael turned and saw a powerfully built man assessing him. He wore casual golf wear and carried a black bag. The short-sleeved shirt revealed muscular, hairy arms. The left one sported a diamond-studded Rolex. Michael knew this man must be the doctor, but he didn’t approach the body. Michael guessed the man’s question had been about him, not the corpse.

  “Who are you?” the doctor barked.

  Before Michael could answer, the senior guard spoke in a deferential tone. “Father Graf, he was here when we arrived. He’s with the Specialists. His name is Michael Visconte.”

  Father Graf looked Michael over as if he were a piece of furniture out of place.

  “Father Graf, are you a Jesuit?” Michael asked. For a doctor to be a priest as well was rare. Among holy orders, only the Jesuits commonly included members with training in prestigious lay professions.

  “You can go now,” Father Graf said.

  “I’d like to stay while you examine the body.”

  Graf moved toward him, pugnacious as a bulldog. “You are not needed.”

  His hostility made the hair rise on the back of Michael’s neck. Was Father Graf going to hit him?

  “A word of advice, Mr. Visconte,” Father Graf continued. “This is Vatican business. It's dangerous to forget that.”

  Michael met his gaze. “Thanks for the advice. Believe me; I’m in no danger of forgetti
ng anything.”

  He felt Father Graf’s eyes on his back as he retreated down the corridor to find Helena. By now the entire wing had been closed off. A petite woman with light reddish hair was trying to get through the barrier, claiming she was with the press. She looked familiar. He turned around, trying to get a better look at her, when a German tourist complained about not being let through and tried to push past the barrier. Two guards approached the German from behind and led the man away.

  Michael gave up on the red-haired woman and decided he’d better leave. He strode through the halls, noting the increased number of guards among the sightseers being allowed to finish their browsing everywhere but in the Chiaramonte Wing. More tourists milled around the museum’s entrance, glum-faced at being denied entry. As people exited, the guards examined their bags and purses. A few people were pulled aside and questioned, but Michael was certain the guards would learn nothing.

  He rushed back through the same courtyards the dead priest must have walked through two hours earlier. The sun had burned off the haze from the early morning rain, and it promised to be a hot day. Michael glanced at the dome of St. Peter’s, on his left as he hurried past. It was crowded with the distant, tiny doll-like figures of tourists.

  He walked straight ahead for a hundred yards, then turned left and went down the flight of stone stairs to the museum cafeteria. He found Helena and Luke sitting with a group of German tourists. A ragged smear of blood stained one side of Helena’s dress, its reddish-brown color stark against the yellow silk. The sight brought back his early morning nightmare, with a jolt of panic that he fought to control.

  Helena looked over at him then, and Michael motioned for her and Luke to follow him onto the terrace. Attached to the cafeteria, it overlooked the Vatican gardens and had a partial view of St. Peter’s. All of the tourists were busy getting a quick breakfast before their museum tour, so the terrace was empty.

  While Luke explored amid the tables and chairs, Helena put her arms around Michael. Her head came only up to his chest, and she buried her face there. He gazed down at the mass of fragrant hair curling down her back. She looked tiny and vulnerable.

  “What took you so long?” She looked up at him, a stricken expression in her almond-shaped, amber eyes. “Michael, your nose!”

  “I was detained for questioning. The Vatican guards were… a little enthusiastic. I got here as soon as I could. Are you and Luke all right?”

  She nodded. Luke came up close to her, and she took him by the hand. “We’re just shaken up. But what about you? The guards…did they hit you? Did you get into a fight?”

  “No, of course not. I’d never give them a hard time in their territory.” Michael attempted a reassuring smile. “It was just a misunderstanding. They were doing what they were trained to do.”

  “Is your nose broken again?” Helena persisted. “There’s blood on your collar.”

  “It will be fine. I’ll have someone look at it later.” The swelling and congestion was actually becoming painful, but it was just a temporary inconvenience. He wouldn’t see a doctor; he never did for anything this minor. “Helena, tell me again what you saw.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. While it’s still fresh in your mind.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a notebook and pen. He had learned long ago that human memory was notoriously unreliable. The Specialists had a rule, like physicians: if it wasn’t properly documented, it never happened. Michael would record his own notes after taking Helena’s.

  Helena took in a long breath. “Well, it’s odd. Luke and I ran into the priest minutes before I found his body. Or, rather, Luke ran into him.” Helena pulled the squirming three-year-old a little closer.

  “Where?”

  “Just off St. Peter’s square. I brought Luke to see it before our tour of the Sistine Chapel. That’s when Luke bumped into him. The priest gave us his blessing. He wasn't dead then, of course, and I got a good look at him. I knew it was the same man the instant I found his body.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “No. Just that he was in a hurry.”

  “Did you see anyone else, anyone at all?”

  “No one.”

  “What happened then?”

  “As soon as the museum opened, I bought our tickets and a map. I wanted to get inside before the tourists started arriving, because Luke can be a little hard to handle.”

  As if to prove her right, Luke broke free from her grasp. Helena lunged for him and pulled him back to her side. “Oh, no you don’t, I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

  “You were going to the Sistine Chapel?” Michael interrupted. “The Nuova Braccia isn’t on the way to the Chapel.”

  “I know.” Helena shot him a guilty look. “Luke ran away while I was buying the map. He made a beeline for the Chiaramonti Wing. I guess the long straight corridor attracted him. When he saw me trying to catch him, he ran to the end of the main hall and made a right into the Nuova Braccia. I couldn’t keep up. He’s too fast for me, and my high heels slowed me down. I was afraid I’d slip; those marble floors are so smooth.”

  Michael looked down at her shapely legs supported by stylish Italian leather shoes with three-inch heels. He smiled inwardly. Helena still surprised him. She was usually so sensible, but she was also fashionable enough to spend a day touring a museum in shoes like that.

  Helena followed his gaze and stopped at the stain on her dress. “I suppose you’ll want this for evidence. I got some blood on my hands and forearms, but I scrubbed them in the women’s room.” She shivered. “I couldn’t stand the blood on my skin.”

  “You did everything right,” he said soothingly, and kissed her cheek. “What happened then?”

  She drew a breath and sighed. “When I got to the entrance of the Nuova Braccia, I couldn’t find Luke. I called out for him. I walked into the center of the wing and looked behind the statue of the Nile. That’s when I saw the body.”

  “So Luke wasn’t with you?” Michael couldn’t suppress a worried frown.

  “No. Luke never saw the body, thank God. The Nile statue blocked it from view. I backed away from behind the statue, and suddenly Luke appeared further down the corridor.”

  “Was anyone else in the corridor?”

  She shook her head. “Luke and I were the only people in sight the whole time.”

  “I saw somebody!” At Luke’s unexpected shout, Michael and Helena exchanged a look of alarm.

  Michael bent down to Luke, who squirmed in Helena’s grasp. “Who did you see?”

  “A man. When I ran in the big room, he hid behind a statue. I thought he wanted to play hide and seek.”

  “Did the man see you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess maybe. I ran to where I saw him and looked behind the statues. Then Mommy called me, so I hid behind a statue just like the man did. I wanted her to find me, but she didn’t play.” Luke looked at her accusingly.

  “What did the man look like?” Michael asked.

  Luke’s face puckered as he thought about it. Then it smoothed out and Luke beamed. “Like a priest.”

  “What do you mean like a priest?”

  “You know. He had priest clothes.” Luke looked at Michael as if his father were a little slow.

  “Did you notice anything else about him?”

  “He had a briefcase. Like yours, but rounder.”

  Michael made his voice as calming as he could. “Luke, I want you to think hard. Take your time. Describe the man’s face.”

  Luke frowned as if in thought, but Michael could see his three-year-old was at a loss. Finally, something seemed to come to him, and he grinned. “He had a priest’s face, like them.” Luke proudly pointed toward a group of priests inside the museum cafeteria.

  Michael gave him a hug. “That’s fine, Luke. Now do Papà a favor, okay?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this. Don’t speak to anyone about it, except me. Not ev
en Anthony.”

  Luke nodded again.

  Michael released him and let him run to the far side of the terrace, then moved to block the exit door. Helena followed. Once Luke was out of earshot, Michael spoke. “Describe the body to me.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “He was young, probably in his late twenties. He seemed to be in very good shape, although it's hard to tell much with him wearing a cassock. He was about six feet tall, dark brown hair and eyes. He sounded like a native Italian.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Just briefly. We first saw him outside the museum, near the Papal Academy of Sciences. He gave us his blessing. He spoke Latin, but with an Italian accent. Then he went on his way.”

  “How long was it before you found him?” Fresh anxiety gripped Michael. If the killer had been tailing the priest, he would have followed Helena too.

  “Not long. He must have entered the museum just before it opened, a few minutes before Luke and me.”

  “And how did the body look when you found it?”

  “His neck had been cut. Right through the trachea and the carotid artery. There was a lot of blood everywhere.” A small sigh escaped her.

  “Are you sure he was dead when you found him?”

  “Don’t patronize me. I know a corpse when I see one.”

  Michael didn’t reply. Conversations with an edge were becoming a familiar pattern in their marriage.

  Helena continued more gently. “I checked a couple of pulse points just in case, but he was definitely dead.”

  Michael nodded. Helena had taken an emergency medical course before their first son, Anthony, was born and a refresher before Luke came, and she never flinched at the sight of blood. As a witness, she was reliable and competent. He felt a surge of admiration. Few people would have had the presence of mind to do that well in a crisis.

  “Did you notice anything else, anything unusual?”

  A flash of humor danced in her eyes. “Isn’t a corpse in the Vatican Museum unusual enough?”