by Diego Marani
‘Well, if it isn’t Salazar! So you’re here too! Well, of course you are! We wouldn’t miss this for anything!’
The guarantor of faith was coming towards him, all dressed in white, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
‘That’s an odd get-up you’re wearing! Were you thinking of running the marathon? Actually, sporting gear isn’t a bad wheeze. I’m already boiling in this gabardine,’ he added, loosening his tie. His eyes on the basilica, Salazar sought desperately for an excuse to get away. But the doctor rambled on, nodding and winking in the direction of the podium.
‘You’ll see, we’ve done a grand job,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Papal medicine is in the vanguard when it comes to the preservation of corpses,’ he continued. ‘Of course modern refrigeration techniques are crucial here. My predecessors completely dehydrated Ratzinger’s body after his death; we did the rest. We kept nature well away from that coffin. Basically, inspector, that is the essence of every miracle: the suspension of the laws of nature. As you see, we’re getting there! You might say that the Kingdom of Heaven will come when man has succeeded in suspending the laws of nature altogether. It’s all much simpler than you think!’ Squinting against the sun, the doctor continued dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief. He raised his sweat-drenched eyebrows and carried on talking, despite the effort that it seemed to cost him, even giving a faintly gleeful smile.
‘Do you know, inspector, I was thinking of you as I was getting ready to come out this morning. I was also thinking about angels: I was thinking that all the angelic orders are probably here at this very moment. If the pope’s body is found to be intact, it will be a portentous event, a miracle such as has not occurred for centuries. The angelic orders could not miss out on such an occasion, so here they’ll all be, from the Powers to the Dominions and the Principalities. The archangels will be here too, probably the odd Seraph. I don’t know about the Thrones, they’re rather busy, particularly at Easter; I’m not sure about the Cherubim, either, that would be too dangerous. As you know, Cherubim are referred to as the ‘burning ones’; the heat produced by such a high concentration of burning angels would be unbearable for us humans, we’d all end up fried! The ones who’ll be here in force are the Virtues, the angels who inspire men to excel in art and science. So why not try to make contact with them? It shouldn’t be difficult. All you need is to locate the lightning flashes they produce. We are in no doubt about the ways that angels reveal themselves. The Bible is quite clear in this respect: the Powers are surrounded by coloured auras and misty vapours, the Principalities by rays of light and the Virtues by lightning. Do you know what I think, Salazar? I think that not enough is made of these possibilities of contact between humanity and the celestial sphere. We must not let this chance slip through our fingers; such opportunities occur just a few times in a millennium, it will be centuries before another such occurs. One mustn’t overdo it with miracles; they tend to lose their allure. But we are men of science and have little to do with such mass events; we should have prepared ourselves for this one by establishing contact with the angelic world in order to organise a human-angelic meeting in tandem with the ceremony. Times have changed, mankind is no longer sunk in barbarism; we are now sufficiently mature to engage in dialogue with these first offshoots of divinity. Think of the good that could come of it! The Eternal Father Himself would benefit; people would have greater faith in the coming of the Kingdom of Heaven. How could the curia not have thought of that? What about the angelic hierarchies themselves? Has it not occurred to anyone that here on earth, after more than two thousand years, we are beginning to need some pretty powerful signs? The Archangel Michael should have given the matter some thought…’ The doctor shook his head; a drop of sweat had fallen on to his lip, and then on to the white hairs of his goatee beard. Salazar looked at him with something verging on distaste, then turned his gaze towards the crowd in front of him, seeking a way through.
‘Excuse me, I really don’t have time…’ he said, then pushed his way into the throng.
‘Whoa there, inspector, you’re always in such a rush! Now, shall I tell you what I think? In my view, angels themselves aren’t big on communication, one department doesn’t know what the other is doing! Besides, if you were one of the Cherubim, would you be bothered with an angel from the third sphere? You mark my words, they’re just like us in the curia, all busy feathering their own nests! I tell you, it’s “I’m all right Jack” up there too. And if they can’t be bothered, why should we? Where are you dashing off to now, inspector? Come with me, I’ve got a place on the podium, we’ll be more comfortable there. I’ve even brought my binoculars!’ he shouted, waving a black case he wore around his neck. But Salazar was out of earshot; now he was struggling forward through the crowd, shoving, apologising, squeezing himself into the slightest gap in his effort to reach the barrier.
Ivan was hurrying down Borgo Santo Spirito, picking his way amidst a swarm of children. He was already in the square, all he had to do now was follow the crowd. Seeing an opening, he broke out of the queue and came up against the guards with their metal detectors. He had to find a way of concealing his pistol from them; he felt for it in his jacket, then looked around. A group of pilgrims was clustering around their leader’s brightly-coloured umbrella; a group of nuns was lining up for the safety check. Seated pedlars were selling drinks and souvenirs; one had a variety of toy animals on a string, Mickey Mouse, Pluto and Minnie. Ivan selected a Minnie; for good measure, he also purchased a tee-shirt with a portrait of Benedict XVI and the words ‘Canonise him pronto’ beneath it. He went into a doorway and slipped it on, then tore open the cloth on Minnie’s back and slipped his Glock down into the foam rubber. He scrutinised the crowd around him and settled on a father with a small girl on his shoulders.
‘I found this on the ground. Is it yours?’ The man shook his head, but the child held out her hand.
‘Would you like it?’ Ivan asked, smiling invitingly. The little girl nodded, burying her face in her father’s shoulder. Again, the man shook his head.
‘Well then, I’ll just have to throw it away!’ said Ivan with mock regret. The father gave the child a kindly grin of surrender, then finally nodded himself. Ivan tenderly handed her the toy, then took his place in the queue behind the man. The guard smiled at the child, drawing the metal detector down her back as he did so, then pinched her cheek and said ‘Ciao’ to her as he walked away. Once in the square, Ivan followed the pair, keeping an eye on the child’s red dress. When he saw the man stop on the left-hand side of the colonnade, he approached him cautiously, until he was right behind him. At that moment a sudden cry went up in the square. The pope had gone on to the podium and was taking his place on the throne. All eyes were on the big screens, and thunderous applause broke out. Ivan took advantage of it to grab the toy and drop it on the ground. Bending down to pick it up, he thrust his hand into the foam rubber, extracted the pistol and put it in his belt.
‘You dropped her again!’ he said, proffering Minnie to the child, who hugged the creature to her with a look of outrage. The father turned to thank him, his expression conveying apologies for his child’s excesses. Ivan walked off, elbowing his way firmly through the crowd, which parted at his approach, clearly offended by his rough and ready manner.
Crushed against the barrier, Marta peered constantly over her shoulder. She had been one of the first to take her place, shortly after daybreak. Tired, thirsty, her face burned by the sun, she was still hoping to intercept Ivan and dissuade him from that act of madness. She inspected the podium: Novak was there, wearing his cardinal’s mozetta and damask mitre. In front of him, the servers had just lit the wicks of the four great candles on the altar. Now they were coming down from the podium in an orderly file and taking their places to either side of it. Marta was quite aware that staying put was tantamount to allowing herself to become trapped, but it was the only way to meet up with Ivan. This was the best place from whi
ch to fire. The crowd was separated from the podium by a cordon of Swiss Guards. Two prelates in cardinals’ robes had taken their places beside the pope. On the façade of the basilica, the cloth covering the giant portrait of Joseph Ratzinger, smiling benignly on the crowd, had now been lifted. The ceremony was beginning. The procession bearing the coffin of Benedict XVI arrived at the foot of the podium. Four altar-boys hoisted it on to their shoulders and laid it at the foot of the altar. The deacon opened the Evangeliary on the lectern and stood back to receive the censer. Clouds of incense swirled around the coffin, and a choir of white-clad choristers intoned a chant. When they fell silent, the pope rose to his feet and raised his arms. The crowd fell suddenly silent. By now the sun was high in the Roman sky.
At last Salazar had reached the barrier in front of the right side of the podium. He started to wave his hands, hoping to attract the attention of the Swiss Guards, but they seemed impervious to his efforts, unwilling to pay him any attention. He was not helped by the fact that a thousand other people were gesticulating in the direction of the television cameras on their revolving stands and waving their white and yellow flags. Salazar tied himself into knots in his efforts to make himself seen, but to no avail. Then he had the idea of throwing empty plastic bottles at the podium, and that seemed to be more effective. The Swiss Guards gave each other worried looks and appeared to be on the point of taking action. But then an eager-beaver of a plainclothes policeman crept up behind him, seized him by the collar of his track-suit and dragged him backwards, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Salazar shook him off but made no effort to run away, indeed he stood there making deferential gestures. The plainclothes man did not seem reassured, but seized him by the shoulders and started to drag him off towards the guard post. Not wishing to arouse attention, Salazar allowed himself to be manhandled, attempted to reason with the man, apologised, tried to explain that he absolutely had to talk to one of the Swiss Guards. But the plainclothes man didn’t want to hear any explanations from such a grubby, unshaven, swarthy and evil-smelling individual; indeed, he gestured to his colleagues to come and give him a hand. At this point Salazar lost his temper. He kneed the man in the stomach, causing him to fall forwards, then hit him in the face. All around, people were now shouting in alarm; a small space opened up in the crowd, dense though it was, and for a short time the two men slugged it out. Then the plainclothes man fell to the ground and Salazar once more slipped off into the throng. Behind him, other plainclothes men were jumping up into the air in their efforts to keep track of him.
Now they were converging, though they couldn’t see each other. Marta Quinz, Ivan Zago and Salazar were all pushing their way forward towards the same point in the square; Ivan had his hand on the pistol in his pocket, scanning the podium for his quarry. He would have to take aim fast and fire instantly; if anyone saw him taking the weapon out of his pocket, the slightest nudge would cause him to miss his target. Ideally, he should be up at the barrier, but he was afraid that would take too long. The shots would spread panic, and Novak might get away. Marta was peering around her desperately, trying to locate him, looking anxiously at her watch. There were only a few minutes to go. Salazar was making his way purposefully forward, determined to jump the barrier; he knew the marksmen would fire, but he might just have time to save himself by throwing himself at the feet of the Swiss Guards, thus ensuring himself a possibility of protection.
The pope had stood up on the podium and was walking towards the coffin; four servers stood at the four sides, ready to lift the lid. The tele-cameras were now all trained on the august inlaid table; the crowd were holding their breath, eyes glued to the big screens. A child let out a wail. Pigeons cooed in the eerie silence. Then the pope raised his arms, and a roar went through the square. The prelates on the podium fell to their knees, the choir launched into an Alleluia and images of Benedict XVI’s body, intact on the faded velvet quilt, were beamed throughout the world. There on the big screens the sallow face, thin lips and goggle eyes caused children to wail and adults to exult. A wave of emotion swept through the square. People hugged one another, someone fainted and was promptly attended to, borne aloft like a hero; nuns with their eyes raised skywards prayed silently, clutching their crucifixes; banners fluttered, thousands of clapping hands sent a burst of applause rippling through the square. Ivan lifted his pistol, took aim between the heads of two friars, and fired. Marta had turned round just in time to see him, right behind her, before she was swallowed again up by the roaring crowd. A few metres away, Salazar had climbed over the barrier and was zigzagging towards the podium. Four Swiss Guards threw themselves on him amidst the marksmen’s shots.
At that same moment, on the embankment of the Lungotevere, Mirko took his mobile out of his pocket and looked up towards the gleaming dome of Saint Peter’s towering above the line of other buildings. His hands were trembling as he pressed the re-dial key. The screen lit up, and a few seconds later a thunderous roar tore through the air.
Anyone observing the shrieking, jostling crowd from the basilica would have seen snarling faces crushed up against barriers, bodies slowly suffocated by the sheer weight of the mass behind them; some of the more ruthless were fighting their way out of the sea of heads and shoulders and throwing themselves over the barriers, over the trampled bodies of the dead, the hands outstretched in search of some handhold that would enable them to extricate themselves from that tangle of bodies. Black smoke was rising from the burning podium, bits of charred paper floating through the air. The pope’s body, wrapped in a purple cloak, was being dragged up the flight of steps by the Swiss Guards. Prelates were propping one other up, gesturing to the first stretcher-bearers who were now running down the steps of the sacristy. Survivors were staggering amongst upturned chairs, shoes, mitres and bloodstained tunics. Benedict XVI’s bier had shattered and the body had rolled on to the paving, where it now lay: contorted, his arms strangely raised, his chasuble riding up above his tunic, Joseph Ratzinger looked like a manikin dressed as a bride. Salazar got up from his kneeling position and peered through the smoke. Immediately after the explosion, the guards had let go of him and rushed towards the podium, leaving him in the hands of a stunned-looking soldier. Salazar had then fainted; as he came to, he ran his hands cautiously over his body; his head was spinning, his vision blurred, but no serious damage seemed to have been done. Scrabbling on the ground as he tried to get to his feet, he came upon something hard; looking at it more closely, he saw a glass eye with a blue iris.
EPILOGUE
It was a sombre moon that rose above the rooftops of Rome that night. Helicopters were no longer flying over the city, but sirens were still blaring in the streets. Guards were posted on bridges and outside government offices and churches. Police at road-blocks pointed their sub-machineguns at every car that passed. In their homes, people were glued to their televisions where a series of grave faces were engaging in speeches of condolence in front of images of apparently endless scenes of massacre. Salazar sat down on a bench under the palm trees in Piazza del Risorgimento. He was tired and hungry, aching in every limb. The din of the explosion, the shouts, the bloodied faces had brought back buried memories of the day when Port-au-Prince had toppled in the quake. He smelt the same stench of scorched flesh, sweat and excrement. He felt again that ancient fear, which came not from within, but had been unleashed upon him by the boundless sky. He felt at last that he was free, that now he could go anywhere he wanted. No one was now his master, no one would look for him. A new life opened up before him, as on the day he had emerged, weeping, from the rubble of his home. The papal policeman Domingo Salazar was no more. He was dead, he’d vanished, along with old Bonardi, his own friend Guntur, the Vicar with the glass eye and indeed Pope Benedict XVIII himself. But he didn’t know what to do with all that freedom. He had no home to go to, no kith or kin, no ties. He had been reared and trained to defend the Holy Mother Church and that was all he knew how to do. Away from his army, far from his battlefield, his li
fe would make no sense. He was a domini canis, a hound of God, God’s dog, and all he could do was serve his master. And what is a dog without a master? Salazar looked up at the dome of Saint Peter’s in the moonlight, stood up unsteadily and limped towards the gate of the Porta Angelica. He stood to attention and gave the military salute to the Swiss Guard in the sentry box beyond the gate.
‘I am the missing agent Domingo Salazar, registration number 18246592NLA, and I’ve come to give myself up for an identity check.’ Pointing his halberd at his back, the soldier escorted his quarry into the building.