The Devil Will Come

by Glenn Cooper

‘Then we must help him,’ Cecil had said. ‘But it must be done carefully. The Queen likes his plays. Still, I hear this new man, Shakespeare, while not one of us, is the better writer of plays. The Queen will soon enough be distracted by another bard.’

  Marlowe poured strong liquor from a flask into Poley’s mug. They were at a small private table. ‘What occupies you these days, Poley?’

  ‘There are plans afoot,’ the other man said cryptically. ‘Foul winds blow from Flanders. Cecil aims to send us there before too long.’

  ‘Will he pay well?’ Marlowe grumbled.

  ‘He says he will pay exceedingly well. The matter is serious and if it is handled to perfection, Cecil believes it will strengthen his position with the Queen. Further, this venture could make all of us rich.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ Marlowe said, suddenly interested.

  ‘In a fortnight or so the plan will be ripe for discourse. When Cecil passes the word, we’ll meet at Widow Bull’s house in Deptford.’

  ‘Let me know,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’ve conducted a good fill of business there and it has a further advantage. Mrs Bull is a most excellent cook.’

  Marlowe knew trouble was brewing when a week later a venomous letter was posted on the wall of a London church that was frequented by Dutch Protestants. It was a diatribe in blank verse aimed at stirring mob violence against these immigrants and their multitudinous vile ways. The missive evoked passages from Marlowe’s Jew of Malta and The Massacre at Paris and was provocatively signed ‘Tamburlaine’.

  Marlowe hadn’t written the letter but the general assumption at Court was that he had.

  To Marlowe’s horror, Thomas Kyd was arrested by the Royal Commissioners at Cecil’s command and under extreme torture at Bridewell Prison attested that he had seen Marlowe composing the letter.

  The Queen was informed and the Privy Council, with Burghley and Cecil sitting in attendance, authorized a warrant for Marlowe’s arrest.

  He was hauled off to Bridewell but was treated gently enough with nary an interrogation. In two days Poley arrived to bail him out.

  ‘Why is this happening, Poley?’ Marlowe demanded angrily when they were out on the streets. ‘You and Cecil know I had nothing to do with this Dutch letter.’

  ‘Someone is doing you mischief,’ Poley said, shaking his head. ‘Let’s find a tavern.’

  ‘Damn the taverns! What’s happened to Kyd?’

  ‘He’s being held. You were likely close to him these past days. He says you were the culprit.’

  ‘Under torture?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Poley said. ‘At least you weren’t touched. Cecil made sure of that.’

  ‘To protect me or the knowledge of the existence of my nether parts?’ Marlowe whispered.

  ‘Both, I’m sure.’

  Marlowe suddenly stopped in his tracks. ‘I know who did this, Poley! By the stars, I know!’

  Poley took a small step back as if expecting a blow.

  ‘I’m certain it was Will Shakespeare, that jealous worm, that sorry excuse for a playwright.’

  Poley smiled because he had written the letter himself and was rather proud of the effort. ‘I’m sure you’re right about that. Before you’re off to Flanders you should kill the wretch.’

  The Widow Bull laid on a fine meal in one of her upstairs rooms: a feast of neat’s tongue, lamb, capon and stag.

  Marlowe was uncharacteristically anorectic. His appetite had been failing since the business of the Dutch letter and furthermore he had to suffer the daily indignity of reporting his whereabouts to the Privy Council while they continued their investigations.

  Poley ate heartily, as did the other two men, Nicholas Skeres and Ingram Frizer, two Lemures hooligans and swindlers whom Marlowe knew well enough. Yet just because they were his kind didn’t mean he had to like them. He had no problem with killers but little time for uncultured ones.

  Marlowe fidgeted and drank his wine. ‘What of Flanders?’ he asked.

  Poley spoke through a mouthful of meat. ‘King Phillip of Spain is preparing an invasion force.’

  ‘He already lost one armada to Elizabeth,’ Marlowe said. ‘He’s itching to have another joust with the Lady?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ Poley said.

  ‘Well, I’m keen to go,’ Marlowe said. ‘Can you have Cecil give the word and let me away from these damnable shores?’

  ‘He’s preparing the ground,’ Poley said.

  ‘And what of you two?’ Marlowe said, pointing his dining knife in the direction of Skeres and Frizer. ‘Are you also to Flanders?’

  The men looked to Poley who nodded at them.

  Frizer rose. ‘Are you pointing a knife at me?’ he demanded huskily.

  Marlowe rolled his eyes at him. ‘What of it?’

  ‘No one points a knife at me.’

  ‘Apparently you’re mistaken,’ Marlowe said sarcastically. ‘I just did. Perhaps I mistook you for a plump ox testicle, ripe for the skewer.’

  Suddenly Frizer had a dagger in his hand.

  Marlowe had never backed off from a fight in his life and now all his pent-up frustrations came to a satisfying boil. He was an able brawler and this wiry scoundrel would go down hard. Marlowe’s eating knife wasn’t very long or very sharp but it would do.

  He started to stand.

  But suddenly there were arms around his chest and shoulders, pinning him to his chair.

  Nicholas Skeres had stolen around behind him and was holding him immobile.

  Frizer was coming around the table fast.

  Marlowe heard Poley say, ‘Do it!’

  He saw the dagger streaking toward his eye.

  He wouldn’t yell and he wouldn’t beg.

  Like Faustus, about to be dragged to Hell, Marlowe reckoned he’d made his bargain.

  The three men stood over Marlowe, waiting for his twitching body to become still. The flow of blood from his eye had receded to a trickle.

  ‘That’s that,’ Skeres said. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘Let’s divide the money, then,’ Frizer demanded.

  Poley grunted and took a purse from his belt. It was heavy with gold.

  ‘An equal split?’ Skeres asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Poley said.

  Later, in his chambers, Cecil asked Poley, ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He died well. A proper Lemures death. Violent. Quick. Quiet.’

  ‘Well, it’s over then. The Queen will soon enough be pleased he’s dead. I’m already pleased he’s dead. Make sure that no one examines the body beyond the wound to his head. Bury him in an unmarked grave. Make sure that Kyd dies, too. Let Marlowe’s legacy be his plays and his codes, not his tail. Hail Lemures, I say. Hail Marlowe.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ELISABETTA AWOKE TO the sound of the door creaking open. She called to her sister and both of them threw back their blankets.

  The first person through the door was a mountain of a man in a black suit. The other was smaller, older, handsome and dapper in a tight blue cashmere sweater, dark trousers and tasseled loafers.

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ the older man said in heavily accented English. ‘I know you had an uncomfortable night but I didn’t want you to sleep through the big day.’

  Elisabetta stood, smoothed her habit and stepped into her shoes.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  The man ignored her question.

  Micaela was standing, adjusting her blouse. ‘My sister asked you who you were, asshole. You’re going to wish you hadn’t messed with us.’

  Mulej pulled a large pistol from under his jacket and swore at her.

  ‘Fat men with small dicks like to threaten women,’ Micaela snarled.

  ‘Micaela, please,’ Elisabetta pleaded. ‘Don’t make the situation worse.’

  The older man laughed. ‘Put the gun away, Mulej. There’s no need. My name is Krek. Damjan Krek.’

  Krek. Could this be K?

  ‘Where are we?’ Elisabetta asked.

  �
�Slovenia,’ Krek replied. ‘You are in my home. Come upstairs with me.’

  ‘What about Micaela?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. You and I need to discuss some things. And we need to watch a little television, too.’

  ‘Television?’ Elisabetta asked.

  ‘The whole world is watching the Vatican and we must watch as well,’ Krek said. ‘The Conclave is about to start.’

  Zazo hadn’t wanted to sleep but his body had shut itself down in agitated exhaustion as the sun rose over the Tiber. When he awoke it was ten o’clock and the apartment was quiet. Mad at himself, he jumped off the sofa and rushed to his sisters’ room in the vain hope that they had tiptoed in while he was napping.

  As he feared, the room was empty.

  He peeked in on his father. Carlo was asleep on top of his bed, fully clothed. Zazo let him be.

  He rang Arturo again. The man sounded as rough as he did. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  There was nothing.

  Zazo had spent the long night waking neighbors, calling casualty departments, calling Sister Marilena, driving to Micaela’s flat, walking the streets of the neighborhood. Just before he’d decided to wait for daylight he’d left an angry message on Inspector Leone’s voicemail telling him that his, Zazo’s, sisters hadn’t come home and asking how missing someone needed to be for the Polizia to start a missing-person investigation.

  Zazo parted the sitting-room curtains and sunlight streamed in. He paced. He swore. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He reached for his jacket. He’d get some fresh air, get a coffee.

  At the café he picked up his coffee at the bar and went to a window table. When he sat he was aware of something stiff in his inside jacket pocket. He reached in and pulled out the folded papers.

  There were twenty pages of phone numbers, a couple of years of Bruno Ottinger’s outgoing calls from his home. Zazo slurped his espresso, flicked through the pages and stopped, muttering to himself about wasting his time. He looked out the window, hoping he’d see a nun’s black habit floating past.

  He looked at the pages again. The great majority showed numbers within Germany, mostly local ones in Ulm. He picked up the phone and rang the most-called number. An operator at the University of Ulm answered; he hung up on her without speaking.

  Scattered through the pages was a number with a country code that he didn’t recognize – 386. He tried it. A man’s voice answered, ‘Da? 929295.’

  Zazo tried Italian first. ‘Hello. Who am I calling please?’

  ‘Kaj?’

  He shifted to English and asked again.

  The voice responded in English. ‘This is private line. Who do you try to reach?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Bruno Ottinger,’ Zazo said.

  There was silence and a muffled sound as if someone had a hand over the mouthpiece. The voice came back on. ‘I can’t help you.’ The line disconnected.

  Zazo wearily rubbed his eyes and made a mental note to look up the 386 code. He began folding the pages.

  Something caught his eye and he stopped. He smoothed the pages and stared. A single number was leaping out at him.

  It was Italian – a Vatican exchange.

  He punched in the number as fast as he could. A woman answered in Italian but with a German accent: ‘Pronto.’

  Zazo spoke to her in Italian. ‘This is Major Celestino of the Vatican Gendarmerie. Who am I speaking with?’

  ‘This is Frieda Shuker.’

  ‘Ah, Corporal Shuker’s wife?’

  ‘That’s right. Klaus is on duty today, of course. How can I help you, Major?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Zazo said. ‘Just a simple question. This number is one of the Swiss Guard’s residences, correct?’

  ‘Yes, it’s our flat.’

  ‘And how long have you been assigned to it?’

  ‘We moved here in 2006.’

  ‘Do you know who lived there before you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Sorry. Shall I have Klaus ring you?’

  ‘Not to worry, it’s okay. Thanks for your time.’

  Zazo couldn’t stay seated. His mind was too unsettled for him to stay inside. He was on his feet and out the café door. He scrolled through the contact list on his phone and speed-dialed Omar Savio at the Vatican City IT department.

  Omar, a pizza-and-beer buddy, seemed surprised that he was calling. ‘This must be important,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because the Conclave’s about to start. You must be up to your ass in it.’

  Omar, it seemed, hadn’t heard about his suspension. ‘Yeah, it’s important. I need you to look something up for me.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Who lived in Klaus Shuker’s flat in the Guard’s Residence before him? Shuker moved there in 2006.’

  ‘Give me a second.’ Zazo heard Omar’s fingers on a keyboard.

  ‘Okay, Flat 18, almost got it … It was Matthias Hackel. He had it from 2000 until 2006. He’s in the Oberstleutnant Apartment now. He must’ve moved out when he got promoted.’

  ‘Hackel, eh?’ Zazo said, trying to think. He stopped to wait for a street light to change.

  ‘Why’s it so noisy?’ Omar asked. ‘Aren’t you at the Vatican?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m nearby. Look, Omar, what I’ve got to ask you to do is time-sensitive and extremely delicate. I need you to email me Hackel’s telephone logs for his residential and cellular numbers going back to 2006.’

  His friend sounded incredulous. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘No, I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘I’d need a written authorization from Hackel’s boss to do that. If I didn’t have it, the Guards would run me through with their pikes.’

  ‘Omar, I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t a matter of life and death. Please believe me. I can’t let the Guards know I’m looking into one of their own. I’ll never reveal you as a source. Send it to my private email address. You’re in IT. You know how to make these things invisible.’

  ‘Free pizza for life?’ Omar asked.

  ‘Yeah, for life.’

  Waiters hustled around the dining hall of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, serving the dessert course and pouring out coffees. The Cardinal Electors were taking care not to stain their cassocks. These days a good telephoto lens could pick up a splash of gravy from a hundred meters.

  The nine Cardinal Bishops sat at the raised dais overlooking tables where the other Cardinals dined with the conclavists, the small number of attendants who were entitled to accompany them into the Sistine Chapel. Cardinal Diaz sat in the central chair, befitting his position as Dean of the College of Cardinals. His old friends, Aspromonte and Giaccone, flanked him.

  Diaz pushed a piece of pie around his plate and mumbled to Giaccone, ‘The sooner we have a new Holy Father, the sooner we get back to proper food.’

  Giaccone wasn’t as picky. He took a big forkful but agreed. ‘It’s not so much the food. For me it’s the bed. I want to sleep in my own bed.’

  Aspromonte leaned his big bald head in to listen. ‘The walls are too thin.’ He pointed his fork in the direction of an American cardinal. ‘All night I heard Kelley snoring.’

  Diaz snorted. ‘Well, in an hour we’ll be in the Chapel. We’ll do our duty and then life will go on.’

  Suddenly, Giaccone winced and put his silverware down.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Diaz asked him.

  Giaccone scrunched his fleshy face and pushed at his round belly. ‘Nothing. Maybe some gas.’ He winced again.

  Aspromonte looked concerned. ‘Maybe you should see the doctor. He’s right over there.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’

  Diaz patted him on the shoulder. ‘Go and lie down. There’s time for a little rest before we’re called.’

  ‘I don’t want to fall asleep,’ Giaccone protested.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Aspromonte said. ‘We won’t let you sleep through the Conclave!’

 
; TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE GREAT ROOM of Castle Krek made Elisabetta feel like a speck of dust. The huge hearth was blazing, the furniture was oversized, the gallery and wood-beamed ceiling were impossibly high.

  Krek had made her sit on a sofa. There were doors on three sides of the room, all shut. There was no sign of the fat man. They were alone.

  Elisabetta watched him closely, trembling and frozen like a rabbit trying to remain hidden from a prowling wolf.

  Krek was impeccably groomed, with barbershop-fresh silvering hair and a perfectly aligned posture. He poured himself coffee and with an afterthought offered her a cup. She declined with a single head shake.

  ‘I’ve never actually met a nun,’ he said suddenly. ‘Can you believe that? Particularly with my long interest in the Church. And no ordinary nun. A professional woman, an archeologist. An expert in the catacombs – which have always fascinated me. I’m also fascinated by the choices you’ve made. You see, I’m always learning. Do you nuns have the opportunity to keep learning too? Or do they stifle this when you join a convent?’

  Elisabetta stared mutely back at him, refusing to answer.

  Seemingly unperturbed by her snub, Krek checked his watch and said, ‘Look at the time!’ He picked up a remote control, turned on a large flat-screen TV which hung above a sideboard and put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The wall became alive with a bright helicopter’s view over St Peter’s Square where tens of thousands of pilgrims were so packed in that they could hardly move.

  Krek seemed gleeful.

  ‘Can you believe how many people are there? It’s going to be a big, big day for them. Some of them will tell their children and their children’s children: “I was there! I was at St Peter’s that day.”’

  Elisabetta finally spoke. ‘I know what you are.’

  ‘You know what I am,’ he spat back. ‘What am I?’

  ‘Lemures.’

  ‘So, I knew you were clever. This is just a confirmation.’

  ‘You killed Professor De Stefano. You killed Father Tremblay. You’re a monster.’

  ‘Labels. Always labels. A monster! Too glib, don’t you think? I define myself as a successful businessman who happens to be a member of a very old, very elite club.’

  ‘You must not do this.’