God's Spy (9 page)

No, don’t thank me . . . just give me a raise!
By the way, the laboratory has received test results on the use of 789 with male patients, with the goal of repressing or eliminating their sexual response. In the practical test, dosages sufficient to effect chemical castration were administered. From the reports and analyses examined by this laboratory, increases in the volatility of the subject can be clearly seen in specific instances, as can particular anomalies in cerebral activity. Our recommendation is to extend the framework of the study in order to determine the percentage at which said side effects occur. It would be interesting to undertake tests with Omega subjects, such as patients who are psychiatrically beyond hope, or prisoners on death row.
I would be happy to be in charge of those tests.
So are we going out for lunch this Friday? I’ve found a great little restaurant in the Village that serves divine bass from Chile.

Regards,
Dr Lorna Barr Research Director

the information contained in this message is confidential. its contents are intended for the use of employees with a classification only. if the classification of the reader of this message does not correspond to that grade, please be aware that you are obligated to report said security violation to your immediate superior. dissemination of any of the information contained in any of the previous paragraphs is strictly prohibited. failure to comply carries severe legal penalties up to and including thirty-five years in prison or the maximum equivalent permitted by laws currently enforced in the united states.

Wednesday, 6 April 2005, 1.25 a.m.

Paola’s harsh words silenced the room. No one said a thing. The long day weighed heavily on the bodies and the early hour on the minds and eyes of all concerned.

Finally it was Troi who spoke up. ‘Tell us what to do, Dicanti.’ Paola took half a minute to reply. ‘I know it’s been a long day. Let’s all go home and sleep for a few hours. We’ll meet back here at 8.0 in the morning. Let’s begin with the places where the victims were killed. We’ll go back over the settings and hope that the agents Pontiero sent into the field come up with some new evidence, no matter how ridiculous that hope is. And Pontiero, call Dante and tell him when we’re meeting.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he answered caustically.
Acting as if she hadn’t heard a thing, Dicanti walked over to Troi and touched his arm. ‘I’d like to speak with you in private for a minute.’
‘Let’s step out to the hall.’
Paola exited the room in front of the older scientist, who, as always, played the part of the gallant, opening the door for her then closing it behind him. Dicanti detested her boss’s deferential manner.
‘So, tell me.’
‘What exactly is Fowler’s role in this investigation? I just don’t understand it, and I have no faith whatsoever in his vague explanations about why he’s here.’
‘Dicanti, to cut to the chase, I had a call from someone high up – right near the top – in US intelligence this morning, while we were with Robayra, and we had a very long conversation. This person informed me that Fowler was flying direct from Washington to join the investigation, and he gave me no choice in the matter. It’s not just a question of the fact that President Bush is in Rome himself and everyone is therefore on guard. These are the guy’s exact words: ‘I’m sending you one of my most trusted colleagues, and we’re lucky because he knows this case from top to bottom.’
‘How did they find out so fast?’ asked Paola, staring at the ground. She was dumbfounded by the magnitude of what she was hearing.
‘My dear Paola, never underestimate Camilo Cirin, not even for a moment. When the second victim turned up, he called a US intelligence chief himself. According to the person I spoke to, they didn’t have the remotest idea how Cirin had got his hands on a phone number that has only existed for the last two weeks.’
‘So how did they know who to send so quickly?’
‘That’s no mystery. Fowler’s friend in VICAP interpreted Karosky’s last words before he fled the Saint Matthew as an implicit threat against the Church, and as such they were communicated to the Vigilanza five years ago. When they found Robayra’s body this morning, Cirin broke his own rule about washing dirty laundry at home. He made some calls and pulled the threads together. He’s a well-connected son of a bitch, but I guess you’re finding that out for yourself, my dear.’
‘I had a vague inkling,’ Dicanti said, heavy on the irony.
‘He told me, over and over again, that there is a personal interest in this case at the very highest levels of government.’
‘Oh, God. We’re not going to have a support team this time, are we?’
‘You can answer that one on your own.’
Dicanti didn’t say anything. If the priority was to keep the matter secret, she would have to work with what she had – and only that.
‘You don’t think I’m in over my head with all this?’ Dicanti was extremely tired and overwhelmed by the whole situation surrounding the case. She’d never experienced anything like it, but for a long time afterwards she regretted letting those words slip out.
Troi’s fingers stroked her chin and he forced Dicanti to look at him. ‘We’re all in over our heads, bambina. But don’t let it get to you. Just focus on the fact that there’s a monster out there killing people, and spend your time hunting monsters.’
Paola smiled. She was grateful and for a moment she wanted him again – one last time, right there – even though she knew it would be a mistake and would break her heart. Luckily for her, the feeling was short-lived. She made an effort to recover her composure as quickly as she could, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
‘I worry that Fowler may stir things up during the investigation. He could be an obstacle.’
‘Could be. And he could also be very useful. The man was enlisted in the Air Force and he’s a consummate marksman – among his other . . . talents. Not to mention the fact that he has a thorough knowledge of our suspect and he’s a priest. He’ll help you move around in a world you’re not accustomed to, the same way Dante will. Think about it like this: our colleague from the Vatican will open the doors for you, and Fowler, their minds.’
‘Dante’s an insufferable asshole.’
‘I know. But he’s a necessary evil. All of our suspect’s potential victims are in his country. Although we’re only a few feet away from him, it’s his territory.’
‘It’s still Italy, which is ours. What they did with Portini was illegal – acting without our say so. It was an obstruction of justice.’
The cynic in Troi shrugged his shoulders. ‘What would we have gained by reporting them? We’d have made a new enemy, that’s all. Forget about politics and the fact that they might put their foot in it. Right now we need Dante. As you know, he’s part of your team.’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘And you’re my favourite ispettore. Anyway, I’m going home to rest. Tomorrow morning I’ll be in the laboratory, running tests on every last fibre they bring me. I’ll let you build your castles in the air.’
Troi was already walking down the hallway when he suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned round and gave her a piercing look. ‘One more thing: US intelligence wants us to catch this son of a bitch. Don’t for a second doubt that I’d be overjoyed if they owed us one.’

Wednesday, 6 April 2005, 1.59 a.m.

‘Keep the change.’
‘Molto generoso. Thanks for the huge tip.’
Paola ignored the driver’s attempt at humour. It was the kind of

crap you got used to in the city, where even the taxi drivers bitched if they thought their tip wasn’t big enough. In lira that would have been . . . enough. Definitely. And to top it off, the prick had his foot on the accelerator before she’d even got fully out of the car. A gentleman would have waited until she was safely inside the door. Two in the morning and the street was deserted, for God’s sake.

It was already warm by this time of the year, but Paola shivered as she opened the front door. Was that a shadow at the end of the street? No, just her imagination.

She quickly pulled the door closed behind her, feeling ridiculous for her sudden wave of fear. She hurried up the three flights to her apartment. The wooden stairs groaned with every step, but she barely registered the noise: the blood was pounding in her ears and she was gasping for air by the time she arrived at her door. Yet once she got there, she didn’t move. She stood, riveted to the spot.

The door to the apartment was half-open.
Slowly, carefully, she opened her jacket and slipped her right hand under the arm. She pulled the pistol out of its holster and went into a crouch, her elbow at a sharp angle to her body. She kicked the door open and stepped slowly into the apartment. The hallway light was on. She took one cautious step towards the interior and then moved away from the door, pointing the pistol at empty space. Nothing.
‘Paola?’
‘Mamma?’
‘Come on in. I’m in the kitchen.’
Paola took a deep breath and returned the gun to its holster. She’d never taken it out in a real situation before – at the FBI Academy, certainly, but . . . This case was definitely making her too nervous.
Lucrezia Dicanti was in the kitchen, spreading butter on digestive biscuits. The buzzer on the microwave went off and she removed two steaming cups of milk. She placed them on a small formica table. Paola took a look round the room. Her heart was still beating quickly. Everything was as it should be: the little plastic pig with the wooden spoons in its back, the brightly coloured walls they had painted themselves, the lingering odour of oregano in the air. She supposed her mother had made cannolis. She also suspected that her mother had eaten all of them, which was why she was now offering her biscuits.
‘Have a few. I can put more butter on if you want.’
‘Heavens, Mamma, you nearly scared me to death! Why did you leave the door open?’ Paola was almost shouting.
Her mother looked at her, concern written across her face. She removed a paper towel from the pocket of her dressing gown and used it to wipe the tips of her fingers, cleaning off the last traces of butter. ‘I was up, listening to the news on the terrace. All Rome is in a spin about the election of the next pope. They can talk of nothing else on the radio. I decided to wait up for you, and then I saw you get out of the taxi. I’m sorry.’
Paola instantly felt bad and apologised to her mother.
‘Don’t worry, young lady. Have a biscuit.’
‘Thanks, Mamma.’
The younger woman sat down next to her mother, who kept her eyes firmly on her daughter. From when Paola was a little girl, Lucrezia had become adept at perceiving her trials and tribulations and knowing how best to advise her. But now it was clear that the problem engulfing her was too heavy, too complex – simply too much.
‘Something’s happened at work?’
‘You know I can’t talk about it.’
‘I know, and I also know that when you have that face on, like someone’s stepped on your corns, you’re going to spend the whole night tossing and turning. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me anything?’
Paola stared at the cup of milk on the table, ladling spoonful after spoonful of sugar into it as she spoke.
‘It’s just . . . It’s another case, Mamma, but this one is crazy. I feel like this damned glass of milk that someone keeps spooning sugar into. The sugar isn’t dissolving; it’s just making the glass overflow.’
Lucrezia tenderly put her hand over the glass, palm up, and Paola poured a spoonful of sugar into it.
‘Sometimes it helps if you talk about it.’
‘I can’t, Mamma. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right, my dove – I understand. Do you want another biscuit? I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything.’ Her mother knew when it was wise to change the subject.
‘No, Mamma, this is more than enough. My backside is already bigger than the Coliseum.’
‘My daughter happens to have a very pretty rear.’
‘Right, and that’s why I’m still single.’
‘No, Paola. You’re still single because you have a bad temper. You’re pretty, you take care of yourself, you go to the gym . . . It’s just a matter of time before you meet a man you won’t scare off with your loud voice and scary faces.’
‘I don’t believe that’s ever going to happen, Mamma.’
‘And why not? What about your boss, the charming one?’
‘He’s married. And he’s old enough to be my father.’
‘You love to exaggerate. Bring him here – you’ll see I don’t disgust him. Besides, in today’s world, being married doesn’t seem to matter as much as it used to.’
If you only knew, Paola thought to herself. ‘You really believe that, Mamma?’
‘I’m convinced. Madonna, but he has such lovely hands! I’d like to jump between the sheets with that one . . .’
‘Mamma! Sometimes you really shock me!’
‘Since your father departed ten years ago there’s not a single day goes by that I don’t think of him. Still, I’m not like those Sicilian widows, dressed in black from head to toe, pouring out their hearts at their husbands’ graves. Go on, have another biscuit and then we’ll go to bed.’
Paola dipped the biscuit in her milk, mentally calculating the calories and feeling very guilty. Luckily for her, that feeling didn’t last long.

Correspondence between Cardinal Francis Casey and Mrs Edwina MacDougal
Boston, 23/02/1999

Dear Mrs MacDougal,
In response to your letter of February 7th of this year, I
want to show you [. . .] that I respect and regret the pain that
you and your son Harry are experiencing. I am conscious of the
tremendous anguish and suffering he has gone through. I agree
with you that when a man of God falls into sin, as Father Karosky
did, it shakes a person’s faith to its foundations. I acknowledge
my error. I should never have reassigned Father Karosky [. . .]
Perhaps on the third occasion when the faithful, such as yourself,
came to me with their complaints, I ought to have taken a
different road [. . .] I was poorly advised by the psychiatrists
who reviewed his case, such as Doctor Dressler, who put his
professional reputation on the line when he asserted that Karosky
was fit for the ministry. I conceded [. . .]
I hope that the generous compensation we have agreed to
with your lawyer has brought a measure of satisfaction to all
parties [. . .] as it is more than we were able to offer[. . .] without,
however, of course attempting to mitigate your pain with money,
if I may permit myself to advise you not to speak of the case,
for everyone’s good [. . .] our Holy Mother Church has already
suffered terrible calumnies at the hands of the wicked and the
Satanic media [. . .] For the good of our small community, for that
of your son and for yourself, let us go on as if this terrible thing
had never occurred.
I bestow blessings upon you.