by David Perry
“But is it enough?” Don Bello wailed amid his tears, pushing his old friend until she fell backward onto the grassy knoll. Her grandson, Marco, bent to help her up but did not admonish the priest. For a moment, they all just sat in dewy silence, spokes of a broken wheel splayed around the Pastor of Orvieto’s oldest church, Vicky Lewis, La Donna Volsini, Marco, and Grigori. Finally, his weeping stopped and he crawled toward the only person with more years upon this Rock—more memories—than he. “Finally, Velzna. Is it enough? Now, is it enough?”
Velzna Volsini merely nodded, but did not cry. Her oldest friend knew that her tears had emptied themselves decades before. Don Bello knew that she had forgotten how—no, forbidden herself, to cry. “No, Reverend Father. It will never be enough. But it is done. It is done. And I…I am done.”
With that, she held out her hand to Don Bello. Marco on one side and Grigori on the other, the two oldest Orvietani were helped to their feet. As they rose, Vicky stepped forward and silently made the sign of the cross on each of their heads. Then, without another word, together, the pentagon of conspirators walked up the muddy ramp from the garden of San Giovanale and made their way to Orvieto’s tiny hospital in the shadow of the Duomo.
Behind them, at the foot of the cliff, at the door of the tiny Ciesa del Crocifisso del Tufo, at the spot sanctified by Floriano, at the spot where lay Andrea a year ago, was a new body. The mangled corpse of Cardinal Giorgio Maltoni. But not for long. A small cadre of men dressed as EMTs completed the final act of the passion play.
The sun rose on Christmas Eve.
CHAPTER LVIII
All the News that Fits…
Wednesday, December 25, 2013, Christmas Day, Vatican City
25 December, 2013 (AKI Newswire)—It is with great sadness this morning that the Holy See has announced the death His Eminence Cardinal Giorgio Maltoni following a car crash near Orvieto in the predawn hours of Christmas Day. Also seriously injured in the accident, including the blinding of his right eye, but expected to survive, was the Most Reverend Jean Claude Arnaud, Archbishop of Orvieto–Todi. Maltoni, who had traveled to Orvieto to spend Christmas Eve with his longtime friend and colleague, was driving back to Rome along with Arnaud to be together for the St. Peter’s Christmas Day Mass. His car hit a patch of ice, lost control, and went over a small embankment in the remote countryside outside Orvieto.
Maltoni, 57, head of the Vatican Press Office and a close advisor to Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, will be buried within Vatican City in the Teutonic Cemetery, in the shadow of St Peter’s Basilica. The cemetery is normally reserved for German-speaking clergy and members of German religious foundations in Rome, and its proximity to St Peter’s means that burial plots are highly prized. The funeral mass will be private.
During Archbishop Arnaud’s recuperation, the Reverend Father Nicolo Monaldeschi, known to his parishioners as “Don Bello,” will substitute for the Archbishop at Orvieto’s Christmas Week celebrations.
In unrelated news, three non-Italian men, suspected of being involved in a North African human trafficking ring and believed to also have been part of a recently uncovered terrorist cell operating near Gallipoli, were arrested at a security checkpoint near Civita di Bagnoregio. They are being held without bail in a Roman jail awaiting charges.
CHAPTER LIX
Deus Ex Magda
Wednesday, December 25, 2013, 11 a.m., Orvieto hospital
“Open it.”
Magda stood at the foot of, and exactly equidistant between, the matching hospital beds into which Adriano and Lee had been coerced—nay forced—following their ordeal. Dr. Luke was quite insistent, especially for Adriano, who was still sloughing off the system-depressant drugs pumped into him by the late Cardinal Maltoni. Lee, although he had not been drugged, nevertheless had cracked two ribs during the rapid and athletic ascent by rappel wire while pressed against Grigori’s chest. Swiss Guard to the rescue. It had almost been worth the pain, Lee thought with wicked enjoyment.
“Go ahead, open it,” Magda commanded in her usual tone, but said with a smile. “It is Christmas, after all.”
The couple looked at each other and shrugged—“Ouch”—an effort that caused Lee no little discomfort. They then set about opening the elaborately wrapped packages on their laps. Only Magda could coordinate a SWAT team and a holiday party, not to mention a runway-ready ensemble, as witnessed by the immaculate forest-green skirt, blazer, and ubiquitous heels in which she now presented herself. Her hair was upswept and pinned a la Carlotta from Vertigo. A Hermes scarf with jingle bells capped it all off in an expensive bit of whimsy. Ho ho ho.
“Magda! I love it!” Adriano practically squealed.
“I thought it was rather perfect,” she winked, leaning over Adriano for a thank-you kiss. In his lap, was a book titled Goddamn God: How Religion Is Destroying Mankind. “I didn’t know exactly how apt it would be given the circumstances of the last week.”
“Magda.” Lee spoke up. “Why and how did you—“
“Open your present, Lee,” Magda interrupted. “Questions after.”
“Ouch!” As Lee tore into the paper, he again pulled against his damaged torso.
“Here, let me,” said Magda, leaning over to assist. “Only you could manage to get injured while getting rescued,” she said with a smile.
Wow, Lee thought. I wish I had my iPhone to record this. I’ve never seen her this proactively perky.
“You need to get better. I need you back in San Francisco. You can’t stay on vacation forever!”
In a second, the wrapping had been undone and there on Lee’s blanket was something that only Magda could have produced, a book on the Titanic that Lee didn’t own—indeed, an event worth noting.
“Conspiracy on Ice: Who Really Sank the Titanic, and Why,” Lee read. “Wow. I can’t wait. A conspiracy theory about an iceberg. Now that’s a new one.”
Magda laughed, and pulled up a chair between her two friends and sat down, those impossibly long legs crossed in front of her. “Yes, well, again, I bought the books before the events of this past week. I imagine by now you’ve both had quite enough of conspiracies, theories, and facts. Oh, Adriano, I have something else for you.”
“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation.
Magda handed over a simple envelope, postmarked Madrid.
“What is this?” Adriano said coldly.
“It’s a letter. Open it.”
Lee started to speak, but Magda shushed him. “Don’t thank me. All I did was pick up your mail while you were traveling. I saw the postmark and thought maybe it would be something important.”
Adriano slit open the envelope with his fingernail, unfolded the one-page letter, and read silently. At the end of the sheet, he turned it over and inhaled, then turned with tears in his eyes toward Magda and Lee. “It’s from my parents. They want to see me—to see us, Lee. They said they’re sorry, ashamed, and want to know if I can ever forgive them.”
For a few minutes there was nothing to say. Adriano cried, something Lee had only seen once in ten years. Magda offered her Hermes scarf, and Adriano blew his nose. Finally, composed, he pulled himself up, and simply said, “Thank you, Magda.”
“Well, I guess next year, we’ll go to Spain,” said Lee. “Olé!”
Adriano just rolled his eyes. “Yes, we’ll go. Both of us.” He returned the dampened scarf. “Magda, what the hell is going on, and why and how are you here?”
Lee waited, but rather than bite his head off—Magda always did have a soft spot for Adriano—she breathed in, folded her Prada-gloved hands across her lap, and started.
“Two days ago, I got a call,” she said, not ready to be interrupted until she was quite done. “For some time, the Italian authorities and the US Department of Homeland Security have been tracking reports of connections between radical terrorists and the Roman Catholic Church. Without going into too much detail, last year, it was believed that the linchpin to how terrorists were getting their
assignments lay within the Vatican itself.”
“Gorgeous George. Cardinal Maltoni,” Lee interjected.
“Yes,” Magda answered curtly. “I was getting there. The Italian authorities, working closely with Homeland Security, Interpol, the State Department, various friendly governments—”
Wow, Lee thought, that phrase, “friendly governments,” hides a multitude of sins.
“—and others,” Magda continued, with a glare to Lee, as if she could read his mind. “All have been working quite tightly and quite in secret to prove the connection to the Holy See.”
“But they didn’t yet have direct knowledge of Cardinal Maltoni?” Again, it was Adriano who dove into the breech.
“Exactly,” Magda answered, with a wisp of a smile. “Until last year.”
“Deacon Andrea somehow figured it out.” This time, it was Lee who spoke. Fools rush in.
“Again, exactly right,” Magda said, but not unkindly. “And, we know what happened to Deacon Andrea.”
“Maltoni killed him, or had him killed.”
“For that, you’ll need to ask your friend, Don Bello,” Magda said with an inscrutable pursing of her perfectly tinted jungle-red lips.
“So…” Lee took a deep breath, a careful inhale calculated to guard against his painful ribs and a claw swipe from Magda in equal measure. “You’re a spy.”
For the first time in memory, Magda let out a peel of laughter, no, a snort, something between a fornicating pig and a mucus-clearing tissue attack. It was as ugly and amusing a juxtaposition to Magda’s carefully coiffed elegance and beauty as could possibly be imagined. After a few seconds, she composed herself, dabbed her nose on a Hermes jingle and said, “I work for the Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco.”
Adriano’s mouth opened. Lee’s followed.
“Close your mouths,” Magda said, rewrapping her scarf. “And never ask me that question again.”
They both nodded.
At painful risk, Lee ventured on. “You said you got a call. From whom?”
Just then, the door swung open and Dr. Luke walked in.
“How are my patients this morning? Ah, good morning, M—”
“Good morning, son,” Magda said. She stood up and offered her cheek to Luke.
“Luke, I am your mother” flashed through Lee’s brain like an upside down film track. Magda as Darth Vader and Luke clinging to the Cloud City railing like a Star Wars fan parody. Adriano giggled.
“Yes,” Magda said with the most genuine smile either Lee or Adriano had ever seen. “Luke is my son. Luca, you’ve done quite well for yourself. I’ll be flying home through Cologne to see Papa before he heads off to visit some old friend from the war. Shall I deliver your greetings?”
“Well, thank you, Mother.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek and was then once again all German efficiency. “That would be lovely.”
Lee looked on in rapt, if baffled, attention at the reality show playing out in front of them. Luke fumbled with his stethoscope and then bent to check first Lee’s and then Adriano’s vitals while Magda continued.
“Two days ago, Luca called me. He said that somehow you two had stumbled into the whole scenario and he was worried. He thought maybe I could be of help should things get dicey. So, I called Paulo, that handsome Italian ambassador—you remember, Lee, from the Consular Corps reception a few years ago in San Francisco.”
Lee just nodded.
“I told him I needed some help. So, he sent a plane and here I am.”
“Wow,” Adriano said, mouth once again agape. “Just wow.”
“It pays to have connections,” Magda said without irony. “And family. Of course.” She pinned Lee with a withering stare he knew well. “Little did I know you’d start playing detective and stumble into all of this when I recommended Orvieto for your sabbatical. Most people on vacation mind their own business. Events of the past year aside, normally, Orvieto is quite a quiet town.”
“Well,” Luke said with an awkward cough as he repocketed his stethoscope. “You’re both coming along nicely. I’d like to keep you here for at least another night, but then I see no reason why you both can’t go back home to your apartment. Mother.” Luke bowed quite formally, as did Magda.
“Luca.”
“I’ll be back later. I have several other patients to attend to.”
“Dawud’s sister!” Adriano suddenly spoke up. “How is she? How is the baby?”
“Maryam?” Luca’s demeanor transformed, for a second looking more like a proud father than a physician. “I’m delighted to say mother and daughter are doing fine. It was touch and go there for a bit, and I had to deliver the baby by Cesarean, but they are both in good health and resting comfortably. Thank God that procedure was complete before Grigori and his unit burst in here with you two and his body count.”
“Grigori saved our lives,” Adriano stated simply.
“Yes,” Luca said with a grudging twitch of his lip. “Grigori has many talents, and admittedly he was quite helpful here in the emergency room. His Swiss Guard emergency training was extremely useful, and appreciated, since I had no nurse and, obviously, we couldn’t call for assistance to the hospital outside of town. As I think my mother has made obvious, the last few days have required an unusual discretion. This tiny facility hasn’t been this busy, I am quite sure, since the fighting when Orvieto was liberated and the war—”
“Luca! Well!” Magda snapped, interrupting her son. “Enough of all this. They need rest, not a World War Two history lesson.” She turned back to the couple. “Lee, Adriano, now you know. And, of course, all of this must never leave Orvieto. What you have found out, and anything you might find out,” she added cryptically, “must stay here, upon this Rock.”
“State secrets and a smattering of out-and-out untruths,” Lee said, having read on his iPhone the AKI wire reports about Maltoni’s death and the cover story of Arnaud’s injuries. Being online was a disconcerting experience indeed, since he was able to peruse the news, but the ability to post, write an email, or otherwise send outgoing communications had been quite blocked. Ditto for Adriano. They had been discussing this very “Great Fire Wall of Orvieto” when Magda had come in bearing gifts.
“Public relations,” said Magda, “not lies. Lee, I thought by now you’d understand the difference, and the important distinction therein. Luca, I’ll see you later for dinner, then I have to fly.”
With a final buss and a gentle hug, mother and son parted. Magda resumed her seated post.
“Magda,” said Adriano. “What happens now? Certainly, Bishop Arnaud will be arrested for his part in all of this. And, you really don’t think that Maltoni’s crimes and death can be kept secret, do you?”
With that, the hospital door opened again and an elderly figure dressed all in white stepped in. Outside, several young- and fierce-looking military guards, including Grigori, could be seen standing at rigid attention. The old man walked in slowly and deliberately. Magda immediately dropped to her knees.
“Your Holiness!”
CHAPTER LX
Befana
Monday, January 6, 2014, sunset, Orvieto
As he mounted his broomstick, the truth was clear. Don Bello made for a singularly ugly woman.
“Befana! Befana!”
A hundred feet below the tower of Sant’Andrea, scores of children and their families crammed into the Piazza della Repubblica and screamed in fanatical anticipation. Soon candy, like manna, would rain from the skies. From his perch next to Don Bello, Adriano could just make out Lee, standing stiffly bandaged, flanked by La Donna Volsini and Marco in the crowd scanning upward. Even from this distance, Adriano could translate the trio’s faces: I’ve got a bad feeling about this, he thought.
“Befana! Befana!”
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Adriano asked, helping the old man up onto the medieval ramparts.
“Of course, dear boy,” Don Bello said, smiling and touching up his rouge. “I am La
Vecciarella, the Good Witch Epifania. I’ve been performing this particular Christmas miracle for decades, now give me a push.”
With that, Don Bello stepped into the air, and flew.
Later, having exited the Italian fire brigade’s extendable cherry picker that had provided his miraculous flight, makeup removed, broomstick stowed for another annum, and returned to clericals, Don Bello was again in his usual drag: Pastor of San Giovanale.
“That was fun.” He chuckled.
Lee removed an errant eyelash from his face.
Don Bello chuckled. “I look forward to it every year.”
“So, explain the tradition to me,” Lee said, always one for a new historical anecdote.
“According to legend,” said Don Bello. “when the Magi, the Three Kings, saw the star in the East and were headed to find Baby Jesus, they stopped along the road one night for food and shelter. An old woman took them in.”
“The Befana,” said Lee.
“Yes,” said Don Bello. “That night, the Three Kings regaled their hostess with the prophecy of Jesus and the reason for their journey. They encouraged her to join them on their quest, but she declined. She was too busy, she had to finish her sweeping.”
“Hence the broom,” Adriano said.
“Exactly. Later, when the story of Jesus was revealed to the world, she regretted her choice deeply, and went in search of the young Messiah, but never found him. So, for the rest of her life, and into eternity, she devoted herself to giving candy and presents to children on Epiphany, January sixth, today, the day the Magi found Our Lord.”
“And, in Spain,” said Adriano, “the tradition is similar. It isn’t Santa Claus who brings gifts. It is Los Tres Reyes, the Three Kings, Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar, and not on Christmas Eve. That’s the day Jesus was born. Spanish children get their gifts today, the day that the Magi arrived at the manger with gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”
“Hmm,” Lee said with a teasing grin. “Not a bad Bible story from an apostate.”
“I’ya remember the first-a time I saw Befana fly when I was-a leetle, I was-a so excited,” said Marco, hugging tight La Donna Volsini as they made their way slowly through the sea of people in front of Sant’Andrea, all heading to San Giovanale for the final event of the Christmas season, the living Nativity and the arrival of the Three Wise Men. “You remember, Nonna?”