The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  "Do you have the results of the autopsy yet, Inspector?" Rafael asked. He needed information.

  "Yes and no. Yes, we have them, and, no, I'm not an inspector. Your friend was badly beaten and injected with cyanide. A quick death."

  As they descended some iron stairs, their heavy shoes made them ring with every step.

  "Any suspects?"

  "No, no one. Everything's clean. Not even a hair fi ber. Everything else is shit, I'd say. Whoever did this chose the place well."

  "You're not going to find anything," Rafael said.

  "Father Rafael," he heard a voice call out. There was a woman at the door of the warehouse.

  Rafael looked.

  "Inspector Gavache would like a word with you, if you don't mind."

  Rafael went up three steps and entered what was formerly an offi ce.

  Gavache was busy discussing something with two of his men. His nasal voice rose above those of the others. He caught sight of the Italian priest.

  "Ah, Father. Do you mind if I call you that?" He handed him some photographs. "Do you know him?"

  Rafael looked at the three photographs. Each was of the corpse of a male, on the floor, who was not a friend of his. He was darker, dirty also. A wooden chair fallen to the side. He couldn't see the face.

  "This is not Zafer," he said with certainty.

  "So far we're in agreement."

  Gavache gave him another photograph. The corpse was on a

  gurney in the body bag of a mortuary. Rafael looked at the face and recognized it.

  "There was no identification with him. What name are we going to give him?" Gavache inquired expectantly.

  Rafael didn't know how the inspector had related the two cases, but he wasn't going to hold back. He needed him to get access to the case or cases.

  "Sigfried Hammal. Professor of theology. When did this happen?"

  "Today."

  "Here in Paris?"

  Gavache shook his head. "In Marseille."

  He looked at his subordinates. He didn't need to say a word for them to step out and leave them alone. Gavache gave Rafael a prosecu torial stare.

  "What's going on here?" he asked suddenly. "An archaeologist, a theologian. Two people tied to the church, dead in the same manner, in the same country."

  "I have no idea," Rafael responded without lowering his gaze. To do so would suggest withholding something.

  "Some scam. Was he also a friend of the German?"

  "I saw him only once."

  "For what reason?"

  "I don't remember. It was a long time ago."

  "How long?"

  "Maybe twenty years."

  "And the archaeologist was English?"

  "Turkish, but he he'd lived in London almost since birth."

  "Don't you think it's curious you knew both of them?"

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Two deaths, one after the other, of two people you knew."

  "Are you telling me I'm a suspect?"

  "Of course. We all are. Only they"—he pointed to the photos— "are not suspects."

  Death frees everyone of guilt and suffering. The true salvation.

  "Do you believe in life after death?" the Frenchman asked.

  "Excuse me?" What kind of question was that?

  "Just curious," Gavache added.

  Rafael was speechless. He'd have to respond carefully to avoid being misunderstood.

  "I believe there is a world after death where we'll be in communion with God and . . ."

  "In heaven?"

  "Yes."

  "Or hell?"

  "For whoever hasn't saved his soul," Rafael explained. Where were these questions leading?

  "Do you think the Turk and the Englishman went to heaven or hell?"

  Gavache had a gift for leaving him speechless.

  "Uh . . . I'd say to heaven." What a strange person.

  "Then you think they lived a life worthy of heaven opening its gates to them," Gavache insisted.

  "Without doubt."

  "So what had they done for someone to so meticulously plan their murders? What did they do . . . or what did they know?" Gavache left the question hanging in the air.

  Rafael sensed where the inspector was going. He had no doubt why he held this position. He was sharp.

  "There's something else," Gavache continued.

  Rafael waited.

  "You told me you came for personal reasons, and not in the name of the pope, right?"

  "Correct," Rafael confi rmed.

  "But these crimes have not yet been made public, Father. No jour nalists know about them. We informed the Holy See for very specifi c reasons, which makes your presence here very strange, don't you agree?" Gavache didn't wait for a reply. He looked directly at him. "I understand you are a friend of one of the victims, but you have to explain to me why you took the last flight of the day to get here, for personal reasons, to assist in an investigation of a crime that no one knew had occurred. Your friend's body wasn't even cold yet." Having asked the question, he turned his back. A habit of his. "Take your time preparing your answer."

  What the fuck was the first thought that crossed his mind, and the second and third. The fourth was a less serious obscenity. Shit.

  Jacopo came up at this moment, as if nothing was happening. "So? What did the guy want?"

  Rafael grabbed him by the collar and lifted him in the air a few inches, lacking a wall to shove him against.

  "You bastard," he cursed.

  Jacopo grabbed Rafael's hands to get loose, but they were like claws holding on. "What did I do?" he managed to ask.

  "Who told you about Zafer's death?" He still couldn't connect the name to the group of dead men. It seemed unreal. "Who?"

  "The secretary of state," Jacopo managed to spit out.

  Rafael set him down. Things hadn't been right since the beginning. It wasn't what was expected of him. His eyes blazed with fury. He was angry with himself.

  "You told me it was Irene."

  "Who told me he'd taken a flight to Paris to look at a parchment. I didn't say it was Irene who told me the news." Jacopo fi nished explain ing. "What's going on?" he asked, composing himself.

  "Who told you to inform me?" Rafael turned his back to think.

  "Trevor, at the request of the secretary," Jacopo explained. "The orders were to go to Paris on the fi rst flight. Isn't that why you came?"

  Rafael didn't reply.

  "You're completely crazy," Jacopo accused."I didn't want to come here. I came because they paid me to. I was just fine in Rome screwing my wife."

  Rafael remained silent, immobile.

  "You came for friendship, didn't you? You thought I would give you news and Irene asked you to come to see what was going on? They hadn't been together for years. Did you think I was here for the plea sure of your company?"

  Rafael looked at the photographs of Sigfried's body again. Gavache came up at that precise moment.

  "Have we reached a conclusion?" he asked nasally.

  "The inspector said he informed the Vatican for very specifi c rea sons. What are they?"

  "Welcome, Father Rafael," Gavache greeted him with a half smile. He opened a silver cigarette case and took another from inside. He raised it to his lips and searched for his lighter. He felt his pockets. "Jean-Paul," he shouted.

  "Here, Inspector," the assistant replied, stretching out his hand and lighting the cigarette.

  Then Gavache handed a cell phone to Rafael.

  "For this," he said.

  Rafael took the cell phone and looked at it, then at Gavache with a puzzled expression.

  "Your friend had great presence of mind, let us say. He was able to turn on the recorder and record a part of what happened. Maybe because the phone has a special button for that. Your friend used it from time to time to record thoughts and ideas. The part that interests us is not easy to understand, but the lab is working on the recording. Anyway, there is something explicit enough here. He t
ook the phone from Rafael's hand and found the recording he wanted.

  The sound filled the room. What is the code [static noise] they gave you? a voice asked. I know the Vatican ordered the codes given.

  HT, responded a voice Rafael recognized as his friend.

  In what order?

  I have no idea. Zafer seemed to be in great pain.

  This is over now. You were a great help, Yaman Zafer. May the Lord have mercy on you and Ben Isaac. The pope will pray for your soul, the other voice said.

  The rest were disconnected sounds that could be anything, but Rafael knew. Zafer dying. He heard the death rattle that had occurred in this very place. Finally, silence. He heard some steps and a word of farewell. Ad maiorem Dei gloriam.

  Gavache turned off the phone and looked at Rafael.

  "Does this shit tell you anything?"

  Rafael looked at him with icy coolness and a dead expression. The devil is in the details. "He's a Jesuit."

  15

  It's said the night is always a good counselor, but under cover of night, crimes are committed, secrets told, and mysteries perpetrated.

  They dined at table 205 on deck 14. Myriam wanted them to go see what was playing in the theater—a review called Broadway Hits, some of the principal scenes and music from Cats, West Side Story, and Phantom of the Opera. It wasn't unforgettable, but pleasant, a kind of easily consumable pastiche.

  They returned to their room after eleven. Myriam was happy, and that was the objective.

  "Are you okay, my love?" she asked him. "You seem very distant today. Do you feel all right?"

  "I'm fine, Myr. Don't worry."

  "Did you talk to Ben tonight?"

  "I did," he lied. "I'm going to call him again at midnight, if you don't mind. Today was an important day for him."

  "So late? And even later in Jerusalem?" she objected, wrinkling her brow.

  "Yes. He asked me to."

  "Okay, but don't stay on the phone an hour. You know I'm cold at night."

  "Relax, dear. I'll be quick," his voice rose a little.

  He hadn't been able to reach little Ben. The phone was always busy. His assistant wasn't able to locate him anywhere. He wasn't at the property Isaac had in Tel Aviv, or at the office at work. Isaac feared the message he'd received at breakfast was related to his son's disappear ance. He had no idea who had sent it, nor who would know the latest about the Status Quo. He'd know in a little while.

  He spent the day suspecting everything and everyone: the smil ing employees, the other tourists—only Myriam escaped suspicion. He asked himself hundreds of times whether the sender of the message was on the ship, if he were watching him, if, if, if. This in a man who always avoided ifs. After lunch, they'd made port in Livorno, and it could very well have been there the intruder boarded, in time to leave the following day, in Naples, taking advantage of the coming and going from port to port on the western coast of Italy. He was a needle in a haystack of three thousand people.

  He kissed Myriam tenderly on the forehead and left for the pool.

  "Don't be late," she reminded him as he closed the door gently.

  He didn't know what reply to give except an "I'll be quick." The truth was he didn't know what he was going to find. He normally assigned a time frame to everything—a meeting, a telephone call, a lunch, buying a present, flowers for Myriam—but for this appointment, nine minutes before midnight, there was a blank.

  He walked through the corridor of deck 14 toward the elevator. Going up a ramp and from there to the pool would not take more than two or three minutes at his slow, nervous pace. His legs trembled as if an abyss were opening before him. He passed some tourists stum bling to regain enough balance to return to rooms whose location they couldn't remember. The employees tidied up the disorder of the day or cleaned up trash thrown on the floor without regard—cigarette butts, plastic cups, bits of food.

  Strangely, or maybe not, there was little movement near the pool. Ben Isaac was panting. It wasn't a difficult walk, no steep up-and downs. No one was around. The water undulated to the motion of the giant ship. The pool water was illuminated by vivid blue underwater lighting, and transformed in appearance to a living organism by its undulation. He didn't see a living thing. Strange. But nothing today was normal. He looked at his watch: 11:57. In his mind, seconds were turning over, or was it his heart pumping into his veins that marked the rhythm? The three minutes seemed six, then twelve, until mid night arrived and . . . nothing happened. True, it was midnight only on his watch, maybe it still wasn't midnight on the other person's watch, whoever he, or she, was.

  He looked around and saw no movement. The night was cold and unpleasant. The ship floated slowly toward the south, opening up the waters to the Mediterranean. Two minutes past the hour, according to his watch. He heard the echo of a gunshot. He couldn't pinpoint where it had come from, but wherever it was, it wasn't nearby. Moments after the mysterious shot he saw something slowly descending from the sky. It was about a hundred feet up, descending toward the pool. At fi rst he couldn't figure out what it was. An unidentifi ed fl ying object. At fifty feet he could give it a name. A parachute. Oblivious to Ben Isaac's attentive observation, the parachute maintained its serene descent. It was about two feet long and another object, black, was secured to its cords. Seconds later it fell silently into the pool and remained fl oating.

  Ben Isaac kept looking at the parachute that now seemed more like a small sheet in the middle of the pool.

  What now? Ben Isaac was cautious. There was no brilliant solution, and he was a pragmatic man. He went to the closest ladder; took off his shoes, socks, and jacket; and slipped into the water. The temperature was pleasant, but swimming was not something he liked to do, espe cially at that hour of the night. In a few strokes, he reached the para chute. He dragged it over to the ladder and sat on the edge of the pool. It carried a package wrapped in plastic. Frantically, he tore it open. Inside he found a box, and in the box an electronic apparatus. It was a viewfinder the size of a hardcover book. He tried to figure out how to turn it on. It only had an on-off button. With his heart beating like a hammer inside his chest, he pressed it. The viewer turned on. A signal to play appeared in the middle of the screen, apparently touch acti vated. Ben Isaac took a deep breath and pressed it.

  He didn't know how long it took him to get to his room, whether he ran or walked, if he took the elevator or went down stairs, but some how he found himself in front of the door to his room. He hugged the apparatus to his breast as if it were a sacred object. He was completely wet and left a trail of water. If someone saw him, he saw no one. He entered the room and looked for Myriam, who was sleeping on her stomach like a baby, her face turned toward Ben Isaac. He tripped on a chair and almost fell, just enough to wake his angel.

  "Are you okay, dear?"

  She didn't see at fi rst with her sleepy glance that he was drenched with water and conflicting feelings. He wasn't the same Ben she knew, but a weak, old, disoriented man. He paced from side to side, soaked, holding on to something. Now, yes, Myriam saw it. She turned on the light, blinking her eyes in the contrast, and confronted Ben.

  "What's the matter, Ben? Tell me right now."

  Ben Isaac kept his head down, not daring to look at her directly.

  "Our son, Myr. Our son," and he began to cry.

  16

  History never lies. Books that record it can relate what they understand: truths, lies, half-truths equivalent to whole lies, specula tion, eulogies, heroic acts that never happened. Glorious acts last because someone was paid to extol them. There's no better example than Rome, the Eternal City, the glory of God on earth, where He chose to dwell, without doubt.

  Rome is a whore of a city with a palazzo on every corner.

  They entered one of these palazzi, which in this case belonged to the wealthy family of the Medicis. Two famous cousins lived there before they moved to other, more sumptuous palaces, Giovanni and Giuliano, who became Leo X and Clement VII, respect
ively, the most powerful men in the world—by their own estimation, at least. The celebrated Catherine, the niece of Clement, who married Henry II of France, also resided there. Curiously, none of them gave his or her name or the family's name to the palazzo, which, in an era when infl u ential cardinals or Supreme Pontiffs engraved their names on every place they ordered built or reconstructed for posterity, did not escape notice. So Madama Margherita of Austria baptized a palace that to this day is called the Madam palace in her honor. The Medicis are long gone—Margaret, too—but the Palazzo Madama today houses the Sen ate of the Italian Republic.