God's Spy (11 page)

Wednesday, 6 April 2005, 10.41 a.m.

Pontiero knocked on the rear door of the church – the one that led into the sacristy – again and again. Following the police instructions, Brother Francesco had placed a sign on the door, written in an unsteady hand, which indicated that the church was closed for renovations. Beyond being obedient, the friar must also have been a little deaf, because Pontiero had now spent five minutes pounding away. Behind him, thousands of people crammed the Via dei Corridori, in ever growing, ever more disorderly numbers. There were more people on that small street than on the Via della Conciliazione.

At last Pontiero heard sounds coming from the other side of the door. The bolts were drawn back and Brother Francesco’s face appeared through a crack, squinting in the harsh sun.

‘Yes?’

‘Fratello, I’m Detective Pontiero. Remember me from yesterday?’
The monk nodded once, and then a second time. ‘So, why are you here? You’ve come to tell me that I can reopen my church now, praise the Lord? With so many pilgrims out there . . . See for yourself, look around you,’ he said as he gestured towards the thousands of people in the street.
‘No, brother. I need to ask you a few questions. Is it all right with you if I come in?’
‘Must it be now? I was just saying my prayers.’
‘I won’t take much of your time. Really, just a minute or two.’
Francesco shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘What times these are, what times. Death everywhere – death and people running around. I can’t even finish my prayers in peace.’
The door opened slowly and then closed behind Pontiero with a loud bang.
‘That’s one heavy door, padre.’
‘Yes, my son. At times it’s very hard for me to open it, most of all when I come back from the supermarket. These days nobody helps an old man carry his bags. What times these are, what times.’
‘You should get one of those shopping bags on wheels.’
Pontiero walked back and inspected the door from the inside, attentively checking the bolt and the heavy hinges that fastened it into the wall.
‘There’s no damage to the lock. It doesn’t seem to have been forced at all.’
‘No, my son. It’s a strong lock. The door was painted about a year ago by a parishioner, a friend of mine, good old Giuseppe. He has asthma, you know, and the fumes from the paint didn’t agree with him . . .’
‘I’m sure Giuseppe is a good Christian.’
‘He is, my son, he is.’
‘I’ve come to find out how the killer was able to get into the church, especially if there are no other means of access. Inspector Dicanti thinks it’s an important detail.’
‘He could have come through one of the windows, if he had a ladder. But I don’t think so, because none of them is broken. Madre, what a disaster; imagine if he’d broken one of the stained-glass windows . . .’
‘Would it bother you if I took a look at those windows?’
‘Not at all. Follow me.’
The friar limped from the sacristy towards the church, which was illuminated only by candles placed beneath the statues of saints and martyrs. Pontiero was surprised that so many of them were lit.
‘So many offerings, Brother Francesco.’
‘Ah, I lit all the candles you see here – a supplication to the saints to carry the soul of our Holy Father John Paul straight to the heart of heaven.’
Pontiero was amused by the friar’s simplicity. They were standing in the central aisle, from which point the sacristy door was visible, along with the main entrance and the windows at the front of the church, which were the only ones. He slid a finger along the back of one of the pews, an involuntary gesture he had repeated during thousands of Sunday masses. This was the House of God, and it had been profaned and defiled. Today, lit by the flickering glow of candles, the church took on a very different aspect from that of the day before. Pontiero couldn’t repress a chill. The interior was cold and damp, in stark contrast to the heat outside. He looked up towards the windows. Even the lowest one was some sixteen feet off the ground. The entire window was composed of intricate stained glass, and not one pane had suffered so much as a scratch.
‘There’s no way the killer could have come in through the windows carrying two hundred pounds on his back. He would have had to use a crane. And he would have been seen by thousands of pilgrims outside. No, it’s impossible.’
Both men heard the songs the young people were singing as they stood in line to say farewell to Pope John Paul. All of them sang of love and peace.
‘Ah, young people. Our hope for the future. Isn’t that so, detective?’
‘Right you are, brother.’
Pontiero scratched his head. He couldn’t think of any entrances to the building except for the doors and the windows. He took a few steps that echoed loudly through the empty church.
‘Listen, does anyone else have keys to the church? Perhaps the person who does the cleaning?’
‘No, absolutely not. A few of the more devout parishioners help me clean the church early on Saturday mornings and on Monday afternoons, but I’m always here when they come. In fact, I only have one set of keys and I always carry them with me. See?’ The priest put his left hand into an interior pocket of his white habit, and shook the key ring.
‘OK, padre, I give up. I can’t understand how he could have got in without being seen.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything, my son. I’m sorry I haven’t been of more help.’
‘Thank you.’
Pontiero spun round and started to walk towards the sacristy.
‘Unless . . .’ The Carmelite seemed to reflect for a moment, and then nodded his head. ‘No, it’s impossible. It can’t be.’
‘What is it? Tell me. Even the smallest thing could be helpful.’
The friar stroked his beard and brooded. ‘Well, there is an underground access. It’s an old passageway that dates from the time when the church was rebuilt.’
‘There was another church here?’
‘Yes, the original building was destroyed during the Sack of Rome in 7. It was in the line of fire of the cannons that were defending Castel Sant’Angelo. And at that time this church—’
‘Do you mind if we leave the history class for later? Let’s take a look at the passage now.’
‘Are you sure? You’re wearing a nice, clean suit—’
‘Sure I’m sure. Show me where it is.’
‘As you wish, detective,’ the friar said humbly.
He hobbled around to the entrance of the church, near the font of holy water, and pointed out a crack in between the stones in the floor. ‘Do you see that crack? Stick your fingers in there and pull hard.’
Pontiero got down on his knees and followed the friar’s instructions. Nothing happened.
‘Try again. Pull hard, to the left.’
Pontiero did as Francesco told him to, but to no avail. Short and skinny as he was, Pontiero was nonetheless strong. He wasn’t about to give up. On the third try he felt the stone shift. Then it came up easily. It was, in fact, a trapdoor. He held it up with one hand. Down below was a short, narrow stairway, some eight feet high. He found a small flashlight in his pocket and shone it into the darkness. Stone steps, and they looked solid enough.
‘Very nice. Now let’s see where this takes us.’
‘Detective, don’t go down there by yourself, I beg you.’
‘Take it easy, brother. There’s nothing to it. I’ll be careful.’
Pontiero imagined Dante and Dicanti’s faces when he told them what he’d found. He got to his feet and then took his first step down the stairway.
‘Wait. Let me get a candle.’
‘Don’t bother. I can see all right with this torch,’ Pontiero shouted.
At the bottom of the stairs was a short passageway with damp walls, which in turn gave way to a room about eighteen feet square. Pontiero ran his flashlight over every surface. It looked as if the basement stopped here. There were two truncated columns, each about six feet tall, both in the middle of the room. They looked very old. Pontiero couldn’t identify what period they dated from – he’d never paid much attention in history classes – but even so, on one of them he could see pieces of something that shouldn’t have been there. It looked like . . .
Duct tape.
This wasn’t a secret passage: it was an execution chamber.
Pontiero turned round just in time for the blow, which was intended to split his skull, but hit him on the right shoulder instead. He fell to the ground, shuddering with pain. The flashlight had rolled away, its beam now illuminating the base of one of the columns. He knew intuitively that a second blow was on its way, from the right, and it struck him on the left arm. He felt around for his pistol in the space between his arm and his side and managed to nudge it out with his left hand, in spite of the pain. The pistol felt as if it was made of lead. He had do feeling in his other arm.
An iron bar. He must have an iron bar or something like that . . .
He tried to aim, but couldn’t. He got to his feet and was hobbling towards the column when the third blow, square on the back this time, knocked him flat on the ground. He gripped the weapon even tighter, holding on for dear life.
A foot on top of his hand forced him to release the gun. The foot kept pushing down hard and the bones in his hand made a crunching noise. He heard a voice he vaguely recognised, a voice with a very distinct timbre. ‘Pontiero, Pontiero. As I was saying, the original church was in the line of fire of the cannons that were defending Castel Sant’Angelo. And that church had in turn replaced a pagan temple that was torn down by Pope Alexander VI. In the Middle Ages, it was believed to be the tomb of the Romulus himself.’
The iron bar descended once again, striking Pontiero on his back as he lay on the ground, stunned.
‘But its exciting history doesn’t end there. The two columns you see here are the very ones to which Saints Peter and Paul were bound before being martyred by the Romans. You Romans, always so attentive to our saints.’
Once more the iron bar struck a blow, this time on his left thigh. Pontiero howled in pain.
‘You would have learned all of this up there, if you hadn’t interrupted me. But don’t worry: you’re going to get to know these columns extremely well. Yes, you will become very well acquainted with them.’
Pontiero tried to move but he discovered to his horror that he couldn’t. He didn’t know how badly he was hurt but he couldn’t feel his extremities. He was aware only of powerful hands carrying him into the darkness, and of acute pain. He screamed in agony.
‘I don’t recommend you shout. No one will hear you. No one heard the other two either. I took plenty of precautions, you know? I don’t like being interrupted.’
Pontiero felt his consciousness falling away into a deep black hole, like someone slipping little by little into a dream. And just as in a dream, he heard far off the sounds of young people in the street, just a few feet above him. He thought he recognised the hymn they were singing. It was a memory from when he was a child, a million years in the past: ‘If you’re saved and you know it, clap your hands.’
‘In fact, I really can’t stand it when people interrupt me,’ Karosky said.

Wednesday, 6 April 2005, 1.31 p.m.

Paola showed the photo of Robayra to Dante and Fowler. A close-up, the cardinal laughing affectionately, eyes glittering behind his thick tortoiseshell glasses. At first Dante just stared at the photograph. He didn’t see anything special about it.

‘The glasses, Dante. The ones that disappeared.’

Paola looked for her mobile, dialing frantically as she headed towards the door and flew out of the office of the astonished chamberlain.
‘The glasses! The Carmelite’s glasses!’ she shouted from the hallway.
Finally Dante understood. ‘Let’s go, padre!’
Dante hastily apologised to the chamberlain and left with Fowler in pursuit of Paola.
Paola was furious: Pontiero wasn’t answering his phone. He must have switched it off. She raced down the stairs towards the street. She’d have to run the whole length of Via del Governatorato. At that second a small car with SCV on the licence plate appeared from the opposite direction. Three nuns were sitting inside. Paola frantically waved her arms at them and then jumped in front of the car. The bumper jerked to a stop an inch or so from her knees.
‘Santa Madonna! Are you insane, miss?’
Paola hurried over to the driver’s side, holding out her badge. ‘Please, I don’t have time to explain. I have to get to the Santa Ana Gate.’
The nuns stared at her as if she were mad. Paola climbed into the back seat on the driver’s side.
‘You can’t get there from here; you’d have to cross the Cortile de Belvedere on foot,’ the nun who was driving said. ‘If you want, I can get you as close as the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio. It’s the quickest way to get out of the city right now. The Swiss Guards are putting up barriers on account of the Conclave.’
‘Whatever, but let’s get there quickly.’
The nun put the car into gear and was accelerating quickly when the car came to a halt a second time.
‘Has the entire world lost its mind?’ one of the nuns blurted out.
Fowler and Dante were standing directly in front of the car, both of them with their hands on the hood. They ran around and squeezed into the rear. The nuns crossed themselves.
‘Anything you say, but for Christ’s sake hurry up!’
It took barely twenty seconds for the little car to cover the quarter-mile that separated them from their goal. The nun with her hands on the wheel seemed to want to get away from her strange and troublesome cargo as quickly as possible. She hadn’t even hit the brakes in the Piazza de Sant’Uffizio before Paola was out and running towards the black iron gates that guarded that entrance to Vatican City, her mobile phone in her hand. She dialled the number for police headquarters. The operator came on the line.
‘Inspector Paola Dicanti, security code 897. Agent in danger, I repeat, agent in danger. Detective Pontiero is on site at Via della Conciliazione – the Church of Santa Maria in Traspontina. Send as many units as you can. Possible murder suspect inside the building. Proceed with extreme caution.’
Paola was still running, her jacket flapping in the wind, the gun peeking out of its holster, as she shouted into her phone like a maniac. The two Swiss Guards at the gate took one look at her and prepared to block her escape. One of them grabbed her by her jacket and she thrust her arms out violently, losing her grip on the phone, which flew out of her hand. The Swiss Guard was left holding two empty arms on a jacket pulled inside out. He was just starting after Dicanti when Dante arrived at full speed, his Corpo di Vigilanza ID thrust out in front of him.
‘Let her go. She’s one of us.’
Fowler was close behind, clutching his case. He lost a few valuable seconds stooping down to retrieve Paola’s phone. She’d decided on the shortest route, straight through Saint Peter’s Square. The crowds were smaller there, owing to the fact that the police had set up one line crossing the square, in contrast to the incredible masses of humanity on the earlier stages of the route. Paola ran with her ID out so to avoid any further trouble if she encountered police along the way. They crossed the esplanade and passed Bernini’s colonnade without too much trouble, arriving at the Via del Corridori completely out of breath. From there on, the mass of pilgrims was menacingly tight. Paola plastered her left arm across her chest to lessen the chances of her pistol being seen. She moved in close to the buildings and tried to make headway as quickly as she could. Dante was now a few steps ahead and he served as an effective battering ram, all arms and elbows. Fowler was immediately behind.
It took them ten excruciating minutes to arrive at the door that led into the sacristy. Two agents were already there waiting for them, knocking on the door non-stop. Dicanti was in a state, panting and covered in sweat; nevertheless the two police officers greeted her respectfully as soon as they saw her UACV identification.
‘We received your message but there’s no answer from inside. We’ve got four officers at the other entrance.’
‘Can you tell me why the hell you haven’t gone in yet? Don’t you know a fellow officer could be trapped inside . . .?’
The two agents stared at their shoes.‘Director Troi called. He told us to proceed with caution. There are a lot of people watching us,ispettore.’
Dicanti leaned against the wall and took five seconds to gather herself. Shit, she thought, let’s hope we’re not too late.
‘You’ve brought the “master key” ?’
One of the policemen pointed to his thigh, where, cleverly concealed from view in an extra pocket, he carried a steel bar with two teeth on the end. People in the street were beginning to pay attention to the drama unfolding around this group at the church door. Paola gestured to the officer who had shown her the iron bar.
‘Give me your walkie-talkie.’
The policeman handed her the device, which was hooked by a cable to the holder on his belt. Paola dictated a few short, precise instructions to the team on the other side of the church: no one to make a move until she got there, and of course no one to go in or out.
‘Could someone explain to me where all of this is leading?’ Fowler asked, gasping for breath.
‘Our best guess is that the suspect is inside. I’ll go over it a little more slowly now. For a start, I want you to stay outside and wait here,’ said Paola.
The priest handed her the phone she had dropped. ‘This is yours.‘
‘Thanks, padre.’ She gestured in the direction of the human tide surrounding them. ‘Do what you can to distract them while we force the door. Let’s hope we get there in time.’
Fowler nodded. He looked around for a place to perch himself above the crowd. There weren’t any cars in the vicinity, as the street had been closed off, and there was no time to waste. The only thing he had at his disposal was people, so he’d have to use them to gain a little height. A tall, rugged-looking pilgrim stood out from the crowd close by. He must have been six feet tall.
Fowler went up to him and said, ‘Do you think you could lift me on to your shoulders?’
The young man held up his hands to say that he didn’t understand, so Fowler used the same language of gestures to indicate what he wanted. After several tries, the pilgrim understood. He put one knee on the ground and lifted the priest up, a large smile on his face. Surveying the crowd from above, Fowler began to sing the communion chant from the Requiem Mass: