‘And I repeat I know nothing of any papers. Frankly, I think you may be making a mystery where there is none. You say Father De Faoite spoke of Passover to you. He was dying. Like yourself, he was an expert in Semitic languages. No doubt he had some papers referring to the Jewish festival of that name. Or to the Book of Exodus perhaps. His death was the work of a madman. If you were there, you will not need me to tell you that. I can understand that you are disturbed. But I cannot let your personal distress do damage to the Church. Do I make myself clear?’
Patrick knew the Archbishop was lying. He could see it in his eyes and in his manner. His assurance had turned to bluster. He knew something, something that he and others wanted to remain a secret.
From his pocket Patrick drew out a small slip of paper. He had drawn a circle on it, and in the circle inscribed a menorah and a cross. Gently, he laid it on the nuncio’s desk.
Will you please tell me if this means anything to you?’
Balzarin switched on a green-shaded desk lamp and reached for a pair of wire-framed spectacles on his blotter. Patrick noticed that his hands shook as he put the spectacles on. He watched him narrowly as he bent to look at the paper. In the corner, he could see Makonnen watching as well.
The colour drained from the nuncio’s face. His lips moved, whispering something inaudible. He looked up. In his eyes Patrick could see a haunted expression.
‘Please leave, Signor Canavan. You are meddling in things you have no knowledge of. Please do not come again or try to contact me. Forget about this business. It is essential for you to forget about it. Otherwise...’
Balzarin stood abruptly.
‘Father Makonnen will see you out. Goodbye, signore.’
Pausing only to remove his spectacles, the nuncio turned and left the room through a side door. His footsteps echoed briefly in the room beyond.
On the lawn, a peacock cried out. Suddenly, there was silence. And in the silence darkness ruffled the leafless trees.
FOURTEEN
Midnight. The world suspended, lightless, blind. Dawn was hours away, almost unbelievable in its remoteness. Assefa Makonnen woke out of an uneasy sleep. Had there been a sound? Above his bed, a red light flickered beneath a painting of the Sacred Heart. He lay listening to the wind as it circled the building, creeping in and out among the trees. It was very cold.
The priest switched on his bedside light. Out of the darkness, a stark white room emerged. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. What had woken him? The cold? The mental unease he had felt ever since the American’s visit? Or had it been a sound after all? He listened intently, but there was only the wind.
He turned out the light and tried to go back to sleep, but sleep would not come. His mind was troubled. Over his head, the red light flickered incessantly. He would open his eyes and see it, like a red eye glaring at him. As a child in Asmara he had taken comfort from it in the cold hours before dawn. It had watched over him throughout his years at the Ethiopian Seminary in the Vatican, and later at the Accademia Pontificia, where he had trained to be a papal diplomat. But tonight it seemed angry, almost accusing. He switched on the bedside light again.
Something was wrong. Why had Balzarin lied to the American? Makonnen knew he should tackle his superior about the matter. But he also knew that he did not possess the courage to do so. The archbishop was a powerful man. It was only a matter of time before the Holy Father elevated him to the rank of cardinal. Back in Rome, Balzarin would be in a position to make or break lesser men. To make matters worse, the nuncio’s father had been murdered in 1940 while serving as a provincial governor in Italian East Africa - in northern Ethiopia, to be precise. From his first day in Dublin, Makonnen had been aware that his presence was barely tolerated.
But a priest had died under dreadful circumstances and someone was trying to cover it up. Makonnen knew that not even the local police had been notified of a murder. As far as the Irish authorities knew, De Faoite’s death had been entirely natural. The bishop had gone directly to Balzarin, and the nuncio had taken the matter entirely into his own hands.
There had been papers. Makonnen had handled them: after De Faoite’s death, he had been instructed to take them to Rome in the diplomatic pouch. He had flown straight to Fiumicino airport on 25 January and headed directly to the Holy See. There he had handed them over personally to Cardinal Fazzini in the Secretariat of State. Fazzini had dismissed him with a wave of the hand and told him to take the next flight back to Dublin.
He had come back troubled. But until today, his training had retained the upper hand over his emotions. They had taught him obedience: at school, at the seminary, at the Pontifical Academy. Obedience had never irked or shamed him before this. But tonight he felt it like a gag across his mouth, choking him.
The American had spoken of interest on the part of a ‘national intelligence bureau’. In all likelihood he meant the CIA. The man at the US embassy who had arranged Canavan’s audience was reputed to be their chief intelligence officer. And the Agency had co-operated with the Holy See often enough in the past. Why, then, had Balzarin reacted as he had? Just what did the archbishop know? Makonnen thought he might find the answer in Balzarin’s office.
He took his spectacles from the bedside table and slipped them on. The bed was warm, and he was reluctant to venture out. The climate here was the only thing on which he saw eye to eye with Balzarin. He steeled himself and swung his feet out of the covers onto the cold floor. He slept in socks, a woollen vest, and a thick jumper given him in November by a Sacred Heart of Mary Sister from Tallaght. Sometimes he thought the only thing between him and abandoning his vocation was Sister Nuala’s jumper. That and the socks.
His soutane hung on the back of the door. Shivering, he pulled it over his head. This was the stupidest thing he had ever done.
As he opened the door, he glanced round. On the wall facing the bed hung a plain wooden crucifix he had brought from Ethiopia. The black Christ stared at him with burning eyes. Makonnen returned his gaze.
‘What would you do?’ he asked beneath his breath as he closed the door behind him.
The nunciature was plunged in darkness. The building was almost empty. Most of the staff had gone up to Armagh the day before to consult with Cardinal O’Fiaich on the latest Anglo-Irish debacle. The charge d’affaires, Father Rennealy, was attending a conference in Cork. Only the nuncio, Makonnen himself, and a visiting Jesuit from the Holy Office were sleeping on the premises tonight. The visitor was in a guest room near Makonnen’s.
Dublin’s Vatican outpost was a two-storey building constructed at the end of the 1970s, when the nuncio had moved out of his old residence in Phoenix Park. The style was conventional, but the fittings had been designed for comfort.
Balzarin’s study was at the other side of the long house, near the nuncio’s private apartment. Makonnen hesitated in the corridor, listening carefully. He wondered again if he had been woken by a sound. It was highly unlikely that someone would have broken in: the nunciature, situated just off the Navan Road in the north of Dublin, had been well protected by the Gardai ever since Balzarin’s arrival. Perhaps the wind had disturbed something in the grounds.
The carpeted passage muffled his footsteps. On the wall to his left, the portraits of former nuncios hung like a row of judges, their massive gilded frames barely visible in the darkness. Makonnen thought of his tiny home on the outskirts of Asmara, the ancient churches cut into the rock at Lalibela, the tattered vestments of the priests, God’s poverty, Christ’s poverty, the world’s poverty. And all around him in the dark, endless riches jostling for space. For the first time in years, he felt out of touch with the world and with himself. Did God walk in such silent corridors? He shuddered and continued along the passage.
There was a light under the door of the nuncio’s study. Balzarin must be working late, something he normally never did. Makonnen hesitated. Now he had come so far, he did not like to turn back.
His feelings in the passage had somehow ha
rdened him. He remembered his arrival in Rome, fresh out of Africa, dark-skinned and alien, trying to find his way in a universal church run by white men. At first, the glamour of the place, its symbols of imperial and ecclesiastical might, its gilded cupolas and icy prelates had disturbed and compromised his faith. With time, he had grown a skin against such things. But underneath, close to his flesh, they were an irritation.
He would confront Balzarin and be damned. What was the worst they could do? Send him to some backwater without hope of promotion? There were worse things in life. He stepped up to the door and knocked hard.
There was no answer. He waited half a minute and knocked again. Still no reply. Hesitantly, he took hold of the handle and pressed it down. The door was unlocked. It swung open without a sound.
The nuncio was seated at his desk, his face partly hidden in shadow, eyes fixed on the door. Makonnen hesitated.
‘Your Excellency ... I ...’
Balzarin did not move.
‘I thought I ... heard ...’
Makonnen took a couple of steps into the room. Something was wrong. The nuncio’s face was twisted in a grimace, whether of pain or terror he could not tell. The eyes were wide open, unblinking, drained of life.
The addetto stepped up to the desk. Balzarin was unquestionably dead, a small glass phial clutched in his right hand. The desk lamp lay shattered on the floor. That must have been the noise that had woken Makonnen. He bent forward and felt the nuncio’s cheek. The flesh was still warm.
He closed the nuncio’s staring eyes and reached for his hand in order to take the phial. The hand was resting on the desk, on top of a pile of papers. Makonnen glanced down. A mauve-coloured file lay open, its papers scattered. Without thinking what he was doing, he began to gather them together. Carefully, he inserted them into the file and closed it. On the cover were two words: La Fratellanza, The
Brotherhood. Beside the word someone had drawn a circle, and in the circle a seven-branched candlestick. A candlestick whose stem formed the base of a cross.
FIFTEEN
He used the direct line. It would be almost two o’clock in Rome. The phone rang at the other end, giving no indication of the caller’s urgency. It was several minutes before anyone answered.
‘Pronto? Parlo col Vaticano?’
‘Si. Che cosa desidera?’
‘Sono padre Makonnen, l’addetto dalla nunziatura di Dublino. Vorrei parlare con il Cardinale Fazzini, per favore, interno 69.’
‘Ma guardi che a quest’ ora? Il cardinale dorme.’
‘E molto urgente. Per favore, provi.’
‘Mah, se proprio vuole. Attenda un momento.’
69 was the number for Fazzini’s private line, only to be used in extreme emergencies. Just as he thought the operator would cut in to tell him to try again in the morning, there was a click and a terse voice answered.
‘Pronto. Qui parla Fazzini.’
He hesitated for only a moment. This was important. Important enough to get a cardinal out of bed for.
Tour Eminence, this is Father Makonnen, addetto at the Dublin nunciature. I ... I’m sorry to disturb Your Eminence at this hour, but ... there has been a terrible tragedy.’
In spite of himself, he found his voice fading away. He glanced round at the still figure of Balzarin, stiffening in his chair. For the moment he had left aside his private worries. He was a diplomat again, his only wish to avoid a scandal that might harm the Church. The irony of his situation could wait till later.
‘It is two o’clock in the morning, Father.’ Fazzini’s voice was sharp, edged with sleep. ‘Whatever your tragedy, surely Archbishop Balzarin is capable of dealing with it until a more suitable hour.’
Makonnen took a deep breath.
‘I regret ... to tell Your Eminence ... that Archbishop Balzarin is dead. He ... I think he took his own life. Si e suicidato. I...’
‘Are you alone, Father?’
‘Yes, I ... The other staff are away. The present housekeeper chooses not to sleep in the nunciature. She is not expected until ten o’clock. The only other person here is Father Diotavelli from the Holy Office. He’s still asleep. If...’
‘Listen to me carefully, Father ... what did you say your name was?’
‘Makonnen.’
‘Listen carefully, Father Makonnen. If you are correct and the archbishop has indeed taken his own life, I am sure you understand the need for ... discretion. I take it you have informed no one else of this ... unfortunate discovery.’
‘Yes, Eminence.’
‘Fa bene. See to it that Father Diotavelli is kept in the dark. The last thing we want is those bastards from the Congregation for Doctrine getting wind of this. They poke their noses into everything and find excuses for endless investigations. Keep Diotavelli out of this at all costs.
‘Now, this is important. I do not wish to distress you further, Father, but you must tell me how the archbishop ... managed things.’
‘He ... I think he took poison, Eminence. There was a small container.’
‘Feleno? Bene. There is no blood, the body is not marked in any way? Nessun segno sul corpo?
‘No.’
‘Very good. The archbishop: you found him in bed?’
‘No, Eminence. In his study. I’m phoning from there.’
There was a pause. Makonnen glanced up. On the wall above the desk a crucifix hung on a single nail. The figure of Christ was small and pale and wounded, his body slumped in the resignation of death. In the chair beneath sat Balzarin, red-faced and irresolute, mocking the pale image.
‘Father Makonnen, you must somehow get the body of the archbishop to his bed. It is the best way. Remove all traces of the poison. When everything is straightened, telephone a private doctor, someone who has helped us avoid some ... scandals in the past. I will already have spoken to him: he will understand. There must be no autopsy. The certificate will say Archbishop Balzarin died in his sleep of natural causes. Morte naturale. Capisce?
‘I understand.’ It was standard procedure. Bishops did not commit suicide. Nuncios, like popes, died in their beds. Peacefully.
‘One thing more, Father. Did the archbishop leave a note of any kind? A letter, anything?’
Makonnen hesitated.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in his study. Perhaps in his bedroom, I’ll take a look. But...’
He paused.
‘Yes?’
‘Eminence, there was a file. It was lying open on his desk when I found him.’
‘A file, yes. What sort of file?’
‘It...’ He remembered the papers he had couriered to Fazzini the previous month. The cardinal must know. He would explain everything. ‘It has a symbol on the front, Your Eminence. A Jewish candlestick, a ...’ He thought for a moment. ‘A menorah, but with a cross in the centre. Your Eminence - someone visited the archbishop today. An American. He asked about that symbol. About the papers that came from Father De Faoite. At the time I thought Archbishop Balzarin seemed distressed.’
There was a long silence at the other end. When Fazzini spoke again, his voice had changed.
‘Father Makonnen, I must tell you that this is not a matter to be discussed over the telephone. I am very grateful for this information. Until I see you in person, however, I cannot give you any details. All I will say is that the archbishop had become involved in ... certain matters not in keeping with his position. You must make sure the file is secure. The Church could be gravely damaged if any of this leaked out.
‘Wait where you are and I will send someone to help you. Do not telephone the doctor until they come. There may be other documents, we must be extremely careful. Do not touch anything else until help comes. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Your Eminence.’
‘I shall wish to see you tomorrow in my office in Rome. Take the first flight. In the morning you will summon the other staff members back to Dublin. Do not contact them yet.’ There was a brief pause. ‘This American, Father. Did he give his name?’
‘His name? Yes, Eminence. It was Canavan. Patrick Canavan.’
‘Very good. He may have to be contacted as well. His life may be in danger. Did he leave an address?’
‘I’m not sure. Just a moment, Eminence, I’ll check.’ What did the cardinal mean, ‘His life may be in danger’?
Addresses were kept in a small filing cabinet in one corner. Makonnen opened it and started looking under ‘C. There it was: ‘Patrick Canavan,
104 Pembroke Road, Ballsbridge.’ He returned to the phone and gave the address to the Cardinal.
‘You have done very well, Father. Sono molto contento di te. Please be patient. Try not to worry, everything is being taken care of. Wait for help to arrive. And pray for the soul of Archbishop Balzarin. Try not to judge him. We are all human. We are all tempted. Satan is powerful.’
‘I understand, Your Eminence. I’ll do my best. Thank you for your help.’
‘Goodbye, Father Makonnen. Thank you for calling me.’
The phone went dead. Makonnen replaced the receiver with a shaking hand. Against his will, he was being drawn into dangerous waters.
Moving the archbishop’s body was not easy. With a shock, he realized that this was the first time he had ever handled a corpse. It took all his strength to drag Balzarin across the corridor into his private apartment. They were cheek to cheek, like lovers in a silent dance. The nuncio’s flesh lay cold and clammy against his skin, intimate and nauseating.
He lifted the body into bed and arranged the sheets. But try as he might, nothing could dispel the impression of unnatural death. Balzarin’s lips were curled back from his teeth in a tortured grimace. And Makonnen could not banish his fear that, at any moment, the dead eyes would open again in horror and outrage.
Makonnen looked in all the obvious places for a note, but there was nothing, not even a sign that the nuncio had started to write one. To avoid thinking of the silent bedroom, he busied himself checking that all was in order in the study. He pocketed the phial that had held the poison. The file he slipped into a large brown envelope, ready to take to Rome. He went carefully over the other papers on the desk, to be sure that there was nothing else that seemed out of place. As far as he could tell, all was in order.
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