The Concordat

by Sean Heary

  “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

  “No cops. I’ve done nothing wrong. I found the document in my father’s apartment and now it’s mine to sell,” Wolf said in a furious tone, standing to leave.

  “Inspector General Rossi is the head of the Vatican Gendarmerie, but he’s not here in that capacity. He’s here to help us agree terms.”

  “Wouldn’t an accountant or a lawyer be more appropriate?”

  Bishop Muellenbach stuttered as he searched for the right words, not wanting to inflame the situation further. “Inspector General Rossi and I are jointly accountable for determining what risk your forgery poses to…”

  “Forgery!” Wolf snarled. “On the telephone you told me you were interested in acquiring the Concordat. Now you’re telling me it’s a fake?”

  “With due respect, Herr Wolf, you misunderstood me. It’s beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Concordat is a counterfeit. No such document ever existed. The question is, how good is the forgery and what risk does it pose to the Church? The answer will determine the price.”

  “I guess that’s what I’d expect you to say. Call it a counterfeit if that makes you feel virtuous. But you’re not getting it, unless you pay.”

  “That goes without saying, Herr Wolf. You must protect what is supposedly yours.”

  “Where’s your Inspector General, anyway? Why isn’t he already here?”

  “His flight from Rome was delayed,” the bishop said, glancing across at the clock on the wall. “He shouldn’t be much longer.”

  Wolf sighed angrily. “Can’t we start without him?”

  “The examination of the document? That’s up to you.”

  Wolf retrieved a loosely rolled manila envelope from his overcoat pocket and handed it to the bishop.

  “I’ll need to wash my hands,” the bishop said, rising from his seat.

  After a few minutes the bishop returned from the kitchen carrying a suede briefcase. He cleared the writing desk and laid down a white cotton cloth. Switching on the lamp, he carefully removed the seven-page document from the envelope. “Now, let’s see what we have.”

  Wolf held his breath. But the bishop’s countenance gave nothing away.

  The bishop pulled the fluorescent lamp closer. His thinning fuzzy hair was accentuated in the light. “What do you know about the document?”

  “My father was a colonel in the Stasi. He was killed last week in a hit-and-run accident in Berlin…”

  “Deepest condolences. May God rest his soul,” the bishop interrupted.

  “My father was not one of God’s biggest fans. He despised religion and all it stands for. But, if by chance he was wrong, God would have banished him straight to hell.”

  “Only God can judge such matters,” the bishop said vaguely.

  “That’s funny. My father used to say something similar. ‘Only I can judge such matters.’ Then he’d have some poor innocent Scheißer shot dead, often for no reason. His death couldn’t have come soon enough.”

  “I’m sorry, I have a call,” the bishop said, taking his mobile phone from his pocket. “Good evening, Inspector General… yes he’s already here… good… good… God bless you.”

  “Is he coming?”

  “He’ll be another ten minutes. So please continue.”

  “I was saying that my father was killed, and as the only living relative it fell on me to arrange his funeral and deal with his estate. Ha, such a grand word, estate. He died with nothing. I had to fork out eight hundred euros of my own money for his funeral.”

  “Where did you find it?” the bishop said, continuing to scrutinise the Concordat.

  “In my father’s study – well at least that’s what he called it. It was nothing more than an enclosed balcony. Only big enough for a desk and a filing cabinet.”

  “In the filing cabinet?”

  “No. It was lying open on the desk.”

  “Amongst the clutter.”

  Wolf hesitated. “Come to think of it, his desk was clear.”

  “Do you have any idea how the document came to be in his possession?”

  “The time leading up to the collapse of communist East Germany was chaotic. My father started to bring home boxes of secret Stasi files – I assumed at the time for insurance. The Concordat must’ve been amongst them.”

  “You said it was open on his desk. Why?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? My father must’ve been planning to blackmail someone.”

  “Do you intend to follow in his footsteps?”

  “Not at all,” Wolf stuttered with indignation. “I’m trying to prevent such a thing from ever happening.”

  The bishop raised an eyebrow. “By selling the document to the Church?”

  “If I was only interested in the money, I would have put it on eBay.”

  “And what if the Church refuses to buy it?”

  “I’ll find another buyer. Historical World War II documents are in great demand. Someone will be interested.”

  There was a long silence while the bishop finalised his initial review. “This is really superb,” the bishop said. “If I had to hazard a guess – it’s the work of Soviet master forger David Krotsky.”

  “How can you possibly tell that?”

  “Two things. First, because the document specifically mentions the annexing of the Soviet Union. That suggests to me that the USSR or Russia is behind this. Second, the document is superb. Which leads me to Krotsky. He’s the best the Soviets ever had.”

  “Perhaps it’s flawless because it’s genuine?”

  Wolf’s face turned pale with fear.

  “What’s wrong?” the bishop asked.

  “It’s possible my father’s death was no accident. Perhaps he was murdered to keep someone’s dark secret from seeing the light of day.”

  “Who on earth would do such a thing?” the bishop said in a dismissive tone.

  Wolf hesitated. “I can think of only one possibility… the Catholic Church.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” the bishop said, his voice losing its softness.

  “Am I next?” Wolf cried, pacing in small circles and mumbling to himself. Then with frightening suddenness he leapt forward and grabbed the Concordat, knocking the bishop backwards off his seat as he bolted.

  By the time Bishop Muellenbach grasped what had happened, Wolf, and the Concordat were nowhere to be seen.

  “That went well,” the bishop said, regaining his feet and dusting himself off.

  11

  Inspector General Rossi’s late model Mercedes taxi had not moved for five minutes.

  “How much longer?” Rossi asked, picking up his brown felt pork-pie hat that had fallen from his knee.

  “It could take some time. Looks like a fire.”

  As Rossi shifted in his seat trying to get his bearings, his gaze locked on to a partly obscured signpost. “Can you move forward?”

  “Where to?” the driver asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “Half a metre.”

  “If it will help.”

  “Münsterplatz one kilometre,” Rossi read softly to himself as the taxi inched forward.

  “Is that better?”

  “I thought the Bonner Basilica was on Münsterplatz?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “But the sign’s pointing to the right,” Rossi said, his tone growing more serious.

  “That’s the pedestrian precinct. The second largest in Germany,” the Iranian-born driver said proudly. “No vehicle access. Besides the streets are blocked with the Christmas markets.”

  “So by foot from here, it’s what – one kilometre?”

  “If you can believe the sign.”

  “Then what the hell am I doing sitting here?” Rossi said, buttoning up his beige cashmere duffle coat.
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  “Because you like chatting with me?”

  Rossi paid the driver, grabbed his overnight bag from the boot, and set off at a smart pace in the direction indicated by the signpost. He quickly learned that the narrow, twisting cobblestone lanes, lined with shops and restaurants, were not suited to a mad dash in Italian leather-soled shoes in search of a church unseen.

  As he moved deeper into the precinct, the sirens and the traffic noise were replaced by footsteps and voices. Rossi heard his mobile phone. He pulled it from his coat pocket, but it had already stopped ringing. Bishop Muellenbach. No point wasting time; almost there.

  Sensing he was heading in the wrong direction, Rossi skidded to a halt. The twisting, turning lanes seemed to be leading him in circles. He searched the evening sky between rooftops for one of the basilica’s five spires, but saw only Christmas lights hanging overhead.

  “Entschuldigung, can you help me?” Rossi asked a bearded old man wearing a dark grey homburg. “I’m looking for the Münster Basilica.”

  The old man took a firm puff on his pipe as he glanced about. “See the tobacco shop at the end of the lane?” Rossi did. “Hundred metres to the right is Münsterplatz. Diagonally opposite you’ll find the church. Can’t miss it.”

  With renewed confidence, Rossi hurried off, repeating the old man’s instructions in his head as he went.

  “Cavolo, the Christmas market,” Rossi mumbled, standing at the edge of Münsterplatz, gazing over a sea of heads and huts and carousels, towards the basilica.

  The Bonner Weihnachtsmarkt that runs through Advent each year, occupies every square centimetre of the pedestrian precinct between Friedensplatz and Münsterplatz. The fair’s offering of hot Glühwein, cold Kölsch, grilled sausages, reibekuchen and stewed mushrooms, guarantees shoulder to shoulder crowds every night. Unfortunately for Rossi, tonight was no exception.

  12

  The external door to the cloister opened. Bishop Muellenbach rose quickly from the Chesterfield. “Inspector General Rossi, thank God you’ve arrived. Oh! Herr Wolf, it’s you.”

  Wolf stood momentarily in the doorway, his eyes bulging with terror. “Not of my own accord.”

  “Stand over next to the bishop,” a husky accented woman’s voice ordered.

  The colour drained from Bishop Muellenbach’s face as Oksana Koroleva emerged from behind Wolf, holding a Glock 23 fitted with an Osprey 40 silencer.

  “Never trust a Catholic,” Wolf said.

  “This has nothing to do with me, I can assure you.”

  “Then who’s she, Mother Teresa?”

  “Monsieur Wolf, if you want to live, shut up and listen,” Oksana said, scanning the room for security cameras. There were none.

  The bishop held open his hands and took a tentative step forward. “My dear child, I really think…”

  “That goes for you too. And don’t call me ‘my dear child’,” Oksana said, training her gun at the bishop’s head.

  Bishop Muellenbach raised his eyes to meet hers. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Who I am is not important. What I want is the Concordat.”

  “It’s a forgery. It has no value.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” she said.

  “Bullshit it’s a forgery,” Wolf protested. “You’re in this together. You’re trying to scam me out of my money.”

  Oksana swung her pistol back towards Wolf. “I thought I told you to shut up.”

  Wolf stood, pale and delicate. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his lips.

  “That’s better,” Oksana said, turning to the bishop. “Now where’s the Concordat?”

  “Not with me.” The bishop sneaked a peek at his watch. Fifteen minutes since Rossi had phoned from the taxi.

  “So you prefer to play Russian roulette? Are you sure you have the stomach for it?”

  “I don’t know,” the bishop insisted.

  Oksana didn’t react. Instead she turned to Wolf and repeated the question. “Where’s the Concordat? Maybe you know, Monsieur Wolf?”

  Wolf appeared confused. “What’s a Concordat?”

  “Monsieur Wolf, you’re playing a dangerous game. I saw you walk in with it.”

  “Oh, the envelope! I had no idea. I was asked to drop it off by a friend.”

  “So where is it?”

  “I gave it to the bishop. That’s why I was leaving.”

  “You’re even more stupid than I imagined. Or maybe you’ve got big balls.”

  “Herr Wolf, I strongly recommend you cooperate. The lady is deadly serious.”

  “That’s good advice, Bishop Muellenbach,” Oksana said, glancing about. Her eyes paused on an old radio in the corner of the room. “Does that work?”

  The bishop shrugged. “I assume so.”

  “Now Monsieur Wolf, before I remove the first of your big balls, I’ll ask you one more time. Where’s the Concordat?”

  While Wolf considered his answer, Oksana moved over and switched on the radio. “Christian music. Now that’s a surprise. And wouldn’t you know it, one of my favourites – ‘Are You Washed in the Blood?’”

  “I assume the music is not for our benefit?” Bishop Muellenbach said.

  “We don’t want to scare the neighbours, do we? Having a testicle removed in such a crude manner can be painful.”

  “Killing us would be a terrible mistake,” the bishop said.

  “Who said anything about killing?”

  “You’ve made no attempt to hide your face.”

  Oksana looked surprised. “Most people like my face.”

  The bishop held out his hands, as if beseeching her. “I wonder whether there isn’t another way, Madame.”

  Oksana trained her pistol on Wolf’s groin.

  “Stop,” Wolf cried. “I know where the Concordat is. Make me an offer.”

  “Herr Wolf, please understand. Once the lady gets her hands on the document, she’ll have no further need of you.”

  Wolf scoffed. “You have a vivid imagination for someone who believes in the goodness of humankind.”

  Oksana moved back to the radio and turned up the volume. “I offer you your life, Monsieur Wolf, in return for the Concordat. That seems more than fair.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it – my father has even managed to bring me misfortune from the grave.”

  “Is that your answer?” Oksana said, straightening her aim.

  “Go to hell,” Wolf blurted out.

  “You’re an extremely stubborn man. It seems that a little encouragement is needed.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Is that so?”

  Wolf closed his eyes and hummed along with the soul-stirring music. But that didn’t stop Oksana from pulling the trigger. His eyes flew open wondering why he felt no pain. “Are you crazy?” Wolf cried out, throwing Bishop Muellenbach a sideways glance. But the bishop wasn’t there.

  Wolf did a double-take, finding the cleric slumped on the Chesterfield with a neat bullet hole in his forehead. He half turned to run, but his feet seemed to be glued to the floor.

  “For the last time Monsieur Wolf, where’s the Concordat?” Oksana said calmly.

  “Stop, stop – I’ll give you what you want. Just let me go,” Wolf said blubbering, tears running down his cheeks.

  “It’s a little late for that isn’t it, Monsieur Wolf? You’re now a witness to a murder.”

  “If you kill me, you’ll never find the Concordat.”

  Oksana smiled coldly. “I know exactly where it is. I saw you put it inside your coat when you tried to leave.”

  “But it’s a copy. Do you really think I would bring the original with me?”

  “That’s what I needed to find out. And you gave me the answer. Nobody risks their life over a worthless facsimile – do they?”


  “Okay, you win,” he said angrily, unbuttoning his coat and removing the document.

  “That’s better. Now pass it to me.”

  Wolf raised his arms, holding the Concordat tightly between his thumbs and forefingers. “Put down your gun or I’ll tear it to shreds.”

  Oksana didn’t argue. She simply pulled the trigger, then watched stone-faced as the .40-calibre S&W hollow point bullet ploughed through Wolf’s forehead and exited in a spray of grey and red.

  Oksana’s second victim for the evening dropped to his knees, as though he had finally found God. He then tipped slowly forward and came to rest face down in the plate of Schokoladen Printen.

  As Wolf dropped, the Concordat floated from his hands and landed at Oksana’s feet. Picking it up, she flicked through the pages. “A lot of fuss about nothing,” she murmured to herself.

  Assignment complete, Oksana turned off the radio and hurried outside. The temperature had continued to drop and a bitter cold wind swirled in the courtyard. Oksana turned up the collar of her mink coat and covered her face. Startled, she looked up. Someone had entered the cloister through the bronze portal. In the distance she saw the silhouette of a tall man moving tenaciously towards her.

  “Good evening,” Rossi said, throwing her a fleeting glance as he hurried past. Although Rossi had never visited Bonn, let alone the Münster Basilica, the bishop’s instructions were straightforward enough. He found the presbytery door without a false step. Keen to get inside he entered without knocking. Hopefully, this won’t take long.

  Oksana glanced over her shoulder as she opened the portal and slipped into the church. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the eastern portico return to darkness as the presbytery door closed.

  A chill ran through Rossi’s bones as he stood in the doorway staring down at Bishop Muellenbach and a man he assumed was Maximilian Wolf. He thought it was odd that he didn’t feel surprised. Then his mind promptly turned to the Concordat. He glanced over at the desk where they had been working. Nothing. Not a moment to lose, he turned in place and bolted for the exit.

  By the time Rossi flung open the basilica’s main door and burst onto Münsterplatz, the woman was gone. In front of him was the Christmas market and a wall of lively faces. He glanced right, then left. Which way to go?