“Temple activities?”
“My brother was a temple enthusiast. He belonged to an association that was devoted to rebuilding the temple in Jerusalem. I am a member as well, but not so involved as he was; I give money occasionally.” Toad was aware that Catriel Levine was now listening intently.
“May I have the contact information for this…association?” he asked. To his surprise, Catriel opened a pocketbook, touched her GeM, and beamed to him an address in Jerusalem, along with a phone number.
“I too support this group financially,” she shrugged, and added as if in explanation, “He was my uncle.”
“It must have been extremely important to him to visit this building yesterday, on Sabbath and the new year holy day.”
“We believe he was forced…abducted,” Catriel spoke up in a tone that seemed automated, rehearsed. “He would not violate the Sabbath of his own will. Nor would he violate my father’s confidence in him.”
Toad knew that this was the theory everyone had concluded on from the morning meeting. “Is there evidence of an abduction?”
“What do you mean?”
“As I understand it, his flat was undisturbed. There was no evidence of a struggle of any kind. Your uncle apparently came here in his car, which shows no trace of any passenger we have not already identified…passengers such as your father here. And yourself.”
“You’re suggesting what?” The young woman looked hard at him.
“Nothing.”
“I have been in that car many, many times,” the old man said, defensively.
“I know,” Toad responded. He didn’t want to upset them, didn’t want their defenses to get in the way of his data, but he had to ask the next logical question: “Did you come here with him yesterday?”
“I did not. I did not leave my flat yesterday except to go synagogue for the service.” He seemed ready to rise into a rage.
“I can vouch for that,” Catriel added quickly; she obviously didn’t want her father to spring out of control. “I was here with him all day, except when he went out for the morning service.”
“Was Emanuel Shor at synagogue yesterday?”
“Yes, he was,” Levinsky sighed. The anger dispersed as quickly as it came. “It was my last sight of him. We embraced; we wished each other le-shanah tovah, as we always did from the time we were boys. And now I must say Kaddish for him.”
Levinsky was close to tears now. Toad had to move him on; he pulled a printed photograph from his satchel and spread it before them.
“Professor Levinsky, do you know this person?”
“What is this?” Catriel Levine barked angrily. “A joke?”
The scientist looked baffled at her, “A joke? What joke? No, I do not know who this man is.”
“Father, it’s the man who is accused of assassinating the pope. His picture is everywhere,” she said soothingly to him. Then she looked up sharply at Toad.
“You have your answer. My father doesn’t know who he is. Why on earth…?”
“That I can’t tell you. But you’re not acquainted with him either.”
“Of course not!”
Toad returned the photograph to his satchel and sighed, adjusting the camera in his GeM. “Do you mind if I take your picture, Miss Levine, just for my record.”
“Go ahead,” she said, after a. He focused his GeM on her as she cocked her head and shook her hair back. “Beauty,” he thought, paused, and tried not to breathe.
Police Administration, Via San Vitale, Rome, 1450h
Antonio Bevo had not slept in thirty-two hours. His head felt like a brick, and his face looked the same. When he closed the door to his office and saw himself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door, he was shocked. He felt like collapsing, but instead went to his bureau and opened a small bottle of amaretto which he drank in one gulp. It scorched his throat.
Then he opened a bottle of water, drank it greedily, and felt in his desk drawer for the mints he needed to overpower the alcohol smell. He had to go back out there in a few minutes, and it would not do to carry that particular aroma into that meeting that looked as if it would never end.
He had excused himself, pretending that he had to take a private call—suddenly the pretense came true.
“It’s the Americans…a senator.”
“Send it to the chief.”
“He said to send it to you.”
“All right.” The wireless phone clicked in his ear. “Pronto. This is Bevo.” He listened for a few minutes. It was a pompous voice he barely understood, something about a strong Catholic constituency, shocked and horrified, wanting to help. He realized that the owner of the voice was merely making a gesture to be heard by people circling his Washington desk. Bevo concentrated on the tingle of the amaretto in his throat, willing the American to shut up. At last he thanked him, assured him that he was in touch with the American intelligence services, and that everything possible would be done to explain this tragedy. Then he rang off with the touch of his thumb. Almost as abruptly, there was a brief knock on his door and the commendatore of the Vatican Police walked in.
“I don’t blame you, Bevo,” he said, avoiding the two stiff chairs in front of the desk and settling heavily into an armchair across the room. “I’m going to excuse myself for calls too.”
“I did have a call. Just now. From an American senator.”
“I know. I have been putting him off all day, him and every other attention-hound on the planet. I guess they finally reached the end of the row—you.”
In his imposing black suit the commendatore looked stronger and younger than he was, although the strained face told the story of the last two days. “What do you have to drink in here?”
“I had a bottle of amaretto,” Bevo smiled thinly.
“I see.” He sat forward in his chair. “Do you think it’s coming together? The story?”
“Which story? The story of the demise of Zacharias? Or of the demise of you and me?”
His visitor shook his head and smiled. “No one could have anticipated this. There was literally no warning. The whole thing is fantastic—even now.”
“It makes no difference,” Bevo, the older of the two men, hoped that his own words were not true. Nevertheless, he knew better than anyone that his professional life, his entire and complete dedication to this service, would now be blackened forever by this inexplicable disaster. It was all anyone would ever remember of him. He could hear the whispers now. “Who was in charge when Zacharias died?” “I wonder who was supposed to be guarding him?” “Oh, that’s Bevo, he was the head of the detail when Zacharias was assassinated.”
Bevo looked up at an old picture of himself on the wall, a young, harsh-jawed police officer in white helmet standing in front of the flag of Italy. He would take that photo home. He did not want it to hang in the corridor with the photos of the heads of detail who had preceded him.
“No, I don’t think the story is coming together at all. The public story is just holding together, but the story in here is unraveling further each hour. And how long can we conceal that?”
“We must conceal it if only to resolve it.”
“If only to protect our necks, commendatore.”
“The suicide note helps.”
“Of course it does. Why else would we have released it? It will be the focus of the news conference tonight. It buys us some time, permits some explanation, allows us to dig further into these…marginal issues.”
The commendatore stood, yawned from lack of sleep, and stretched his arms. Every joint in his body clicked and rattled with fatigue. “What do you make of this Chandos?”
“Make of him? That one day he is the highly competent, highly respectable confidential secretary to the Pope, and the next he is the mad assassin of the Pope, who has also stolen the Vatican’s most treasured icon for w
ho knows what reason? And committed suicide? And now this?”
He tossed a printed text message across the desk onto the floor. The Vatican man picked it up and nodded.
“I’ve seen this. It’s no doubt a mistake. There’s no possible connection. Police labs make this sort of error all the time.”
“You did not get the job you have by doing that sort of wishful thinking.”
“That’s why I came to see you, Bevo. We’re at least going to get some help with this.” He held up the text message.
“Fantastic,” Bevo snorted, retrieving the message and burying it in his satchel. “What kind of help?”
“There was a telecon upstairs just now between Interpol, the Israelis, and myself. Shin Bet are sending a man here to look into it. There are implications.…”
Bevo glanced coldly at the back of the commendatore, who stood looking out at the afternoon through the freezing light of the window. He wished the man would go. Bevo desperately needed sleep if only to put back into balance his overturned mind. All his professional life he had dealt with the irrational—the religious crank who needed to tell the Pope about his dreams, the madwoman from the countryside who was going to shoot the Pope because the curate charged too much for her daughter’s wedding, the lice-ridden Sudanese terrorist gang who wanted to bring down the satanic West in the person of the Pope. Until now he had always been able to contain the irrational, to box it in, to keep it from overwhelming the rational. But not this time. Literally nothing about this event made any sense to him. Nor did it much matter now.
“Do you want to take the Israeli on?” the Vatican man asked.
“No,” Bevo said wearily. “He’s extra-national; give him to Interpol.”
“But…”
“Please. I just want to close my eyes for a moment.”
The commendatore nodded sympathetically and went out the door.
Ministry of Justice, Via Arenula, Rome, 1830h
Maryse watched from a glass-enclosed observation room as the briefing chamber filled with journalists and officials getting ready for a news conference on the assassination of the Pope. The cool blue lights of the chamber made it look bigger than it was, and it was soon jammed with people, some virtually sitting on each other, some grinding shoulders as they fought for space along the walls. A few younger men sprawled in the aisles. Maryse was grateful she didn’t have to face this crowd of media, a class of people who she thought capable of forgiving themselves everything and everyone else nothing.
The lights intensified over the dais. Behind a long, low paneled table the interviewees took their seats: the head of the Vatican police sat next to Signor Bevo, whom she had met; the little slug-like Neri from the Ministry, back in his sunglasses; and an elegant woman with suit and hair equally gray and tailored—Maryse guessed this must be the minister herself. Various police officers and one or two men in clerical black sat behind them. David Kane came in abruptly and sat down at the end of the table.
She took a pained breath. It was an involuntary reaction—she truly disliked this aspect of the work, the public briefings that were intended not so much to help the public understand the truth as to ensnare and embarrass people who were trying to do their jobs. She did not want to watch the press try to make David squirm under their interrogations, but then she also knew that he wouldn’t squirm for anyone.
She had not wanted to come to the newscon but had little choice. She was with Kane, and he had to come. The day had been overwhelming—massive downloads of information, thousands of slides, one pompous or diffident official presentation after another—she was no longer used to this and knew that she had lost some of the acuity she needed to do this work. It was too much, too fast. Now this day was over she could perhaps begin to focus again.
Absorbed in the assassination images projected on walls around the room, she didn’t hear much. It was amusing to watch the crowd holding up their GeMs with their right hands to record it all, as if they were casting a vote on something. At any rate, she had heard all the details and more.
Each person on the podium made a brief statement—thankfully brief. When the Chandos note was projected on the wall, shouts filled the room. But it was not question time yet.
Kane gave the briefest remarks. He simply stated in his deep voice that the resources of Interpol were at the disposal of the Vatican and of the Ministry and that he was anxious to bring closure to this terrible tragedy for the world and for the Roman Catholic Church. No one mentioned the missing Acheropita or the bizarre connection with a murder in the Middle East.
Finally the impressive Justice Minister gave the word and there was a deluge of questions. She admired the deftness of the Vatican policeman in answering them; his face remained serene. Bevo by contrast looked as if he were about to die.
“Why no security cameras?”
“Some of them were scheduled for replacement. Next?”
“Signor Bevo, why no security officers with the Pope in that chapel?”
“It has been the Pope’s private chapel for more than a thousand years,” he answered indignantly. “He went there to pray. The police detachment was immediately outside. Next?”
“Has there been any connection drawn to the attempt on the life of John Paul II?”
“That was nearly fifty years ago and probably the result of Soviet machinations. Obviously we are no longer concerned with that. Next?”
“What do you make of the content of the note found on Monsignor Chandos? Was this killing to protest the Pope’s work with Vatican III?”
A central question, of course. Intriguingly, thought Maryse, no one on the podium was qualified to answer it. There was no Vatican policy official, no theologian, no Church representation at all except for the commendatore of police. So he picked it up:
“We do not know the answer to that question,” he said honestly. “We have released the note. It consists of a Biblical citation that may or may not refer to some personal or policy difference between the assailant and the late Pope. If such a difference existed, no one seems to have known of it—at least, no one now living.”
“Following on that,” the questioner jumped in, “Monsignor Chandos was a protégé of Cardinal Tyrell. Has the Cardinal or the Holy Office had anything to say about that?”
The bespectacled little Neri chimed in. “We have spoken at length with Cardinal Tyrell. It is true he was a friend and mentor to Monsignor Chandos in connection with their assignments within the Church administration. But since the Monsignor’s reassignment some years ago, they have had little contact.”
“But everyone knows that the Cardinal is the chief opponent of Vatican III. Is it possible that Chandos was influenced in his thinking by the Cardinal?”
Maryse could imagine Tyrell, that marble block of an Irishman she had seen once or twice, fidgeting somewhere as he watched this.
The little ministry official answered: “We could not possibly say. We are not mind readers. We have evaluated the Monsignor’s private effects, his own records, his daily log, and have found nothing to indicate that he had any kind of prior quarrel with the Pope.”
Well, that was not true, thought Maryse. This was the first straightforward fabrication of the evening.
At this point a newswoman with huge quantities of gold hair, holding her GeM at what appeared to be the arm’s length of a tree branch, stood in the back of the room and, before being recognized, boomed out a question in a Germanic voice: “In your opinion, was the Pope murdered to stop Vatican III?”
The voice had been so loud, the question so piercing, the potential headlines so tempting, that the crowd noise dropped abruptly. A couple of the interviewees stirred and looked at each other, and the Vatican commendatore leant into his microphone.
“Again, we are still trying to evaluate the motive behind the murder-suicide that took place yesterday—if that’s what it was. We a
re awaiting the opinions of competent forensic psychiatrists and others who knew both men to try to reconstruct such a motive. In the meantime, it would not be proper for us to speculate. We have released the note that was found on the body. That action, this conference, are all done in the interests of keeping the public fully informed of our progress.”
Maryse was not interested in hearing more. “Keeping the public fully informed,” she smiled contemptuously to herself, and escaped out the observation room and then out the back of the ministry building into a large piazza facing the Roman sunset. The cold of the autumn evening sliced through her coat, but she felt like walking. She shut off her earphone and made her way through a maze of streets complicated by large official buildings. Not many people were out; only a couple of men buried in winter coats stood frozen in place at a bus stop as they watched the news conference on their GeMs.
Then she broke into a quiet street shining with wet square cobbles where she heard chanting voices. The sound drew her along, past the red facing and yellow-gray stones of old tenements that crumbled like colored chalk into the street, past tiny cafés with candles and two or three rusting tables inside. She turned what appeared to be a street corner, but was actually the entrance to a little alcove, and in the alcove a little church.
It was squeezed between two massive office buildings and looked weary from the pressure. A bulbous gray stone façade led up gracefully to a spire and a sculpture of Santa Barbara. She recognized the iconography of the martyred saint immediately: the tower her father had imprisoned her in, the bloom of lightning bolts that had consumed him for his cruelty. The golden-gray light within indicated that an evening mass was under way.
Maryse stepped toward the church, took her pale green scarf from her neck, and draped it over her head—a gesture she had not made since Ireland. She was never sure how a single woman would be received in an Italian church, and she also felt reluctant to be seen at all. But as she sat down in the back, she saw that this church was exquisite—black and gold marquetry decorated the altar; a flower in pastel stone resolved into a cross on its front; and a Late Medieval triptych of the Virgin and Child with St. Michael and John the Baptist glowed from above. Unusually, portentously, the Madonna was clothed in red with a black robe.
The Day of Atonement Page 11