Shout in the Dark (10 page)

The men working on the bike had given him an
idea. With transport of his own he could get from place to place,
discovering where the German troops had been quartered, seeing for
himself where the Nazis had been the imperial power in the heart of
Rome. Possibly too much was made of past leaders. The future
leaders would be stronger. After all, the Third Reich had not
exactly been a major success.

The moped by the jeweler's would be
useless, still leaking oil. But there must be others around, in
perfect working order, just waiting to be requisitioned.

According to Herr Kessel, local Communists
and radical left wingers had used bicycles down this very street to
intimidate crack Nazi forces with home-made bombs. Feeble attempts
to harass highly trained and organized troops. Bombs flung
carelessly, doubtless missing their targets more often than not,
and occasionally even landing back in the surprised cyclist's
basket! Karl looked around, allowing himself a laugh at the idea of
such incompetence.

His Göring dagger was tucked in his belt
and hidden under his shirt. It would be fun finding Sartini and
eliminating him. Disposing of the enemy would make the trip to this
decaying city worth the trouble. It would also help redress the
balance for screwing up the attack at the television studios last
night, and destroying Herr Kessel's stupid relic. The priest had
annoyed him, the way he'd stood there watching.

The plan was good -- and it would be
poetic justice. The Italians had used bicycles to taunt the Nazis.
Well, they probably did more than taunt them, because Herr Kessel
said bicycles were quickly banned in Rome. Anyway, whatever they
did, this time it would be a German on the bike, and he'd be
assassinating an Italian -- an Italian priest.

To test the idea he needed a moped with
the key still in it. A busy shopping area was the most likely place
to look. At the bottom of a long flight of crowded steps, below an
old church, the McDonald's restaurant came in sight at last, with
tourists flocking in and out.

CARLO CARINI WAS just eighteen and
considered himself better than
moderately handsome. His girlfriend, his moped and his good looks
were a source of pride -- though perhaps not in that order. In
spite of being nearly twenty years old and having pedal assistance,
the moped still looked almost new: a Piaggio Ciao, smart and black.
He'd been saving for six months to get it, his first ever bike. It
might be the basic model, long discontinued and second-hand, but it
satisfied his one passion -- a passion for motion.

Marisa complained that he thought more of
the bike than he did of her, but Carlo knew it was just the sort of
thing Marisa would say. Now he had a way to impress her,
and
show off his prowess with the
Ciao.

Marisa said she felt hungry. He bet her he
could be on his bike, down the Via Barberini to the Piazza di
Spagna, buy two hamburgers at McDonald's, and be back within ten
minutes.

Marisa said she was bored with all this
talk of two-stroke engines and automatic clutches, and hamburgers
were definitely preferable to more chatter about mopeds. So she let
him go. Carlo noted that Marisa even told him, being a generous and
considerate girl, not to hurry.

KARL OBSERVED
a dark haired teenager park an old black moped
amongst a row of bikes, leaving the engine still running, and hurry
into the crowded hamburger restaurant. He could eat later. He
stepped forward and swung himself onto the broad saddle, pushing
the bike off the stand while twisting the throttle fully open.
Acceleration, even with pedal assistance from this underpowered
machine, was hardly dramatic. But the wheels suited him
admirably.

For a few minutes he cruised around the
busy narrow streets, getting used to the balance of the machine. He
had once seen a film were a man was killed by a rider on a bike.
Karl felt impatient to try it out for himself. One street looked
narrow and dark. Few people came down here. Wonderful. The fewer
the better.

Trained by the ADR to observe and to
react, he spotted a suitable target ahead. It was that skinny idiot
with the shorts and brown socks. With the throttle wide, he cruised
down the narrow alley.

DAVID SIMPSON still needed to find cheap
food. Silently he cursed the guidebooks that never mentioned where
to buy it. They seemed to assume that everyone wanted to waste
money in high-class establishments. He examined the creased street
map, left on the hall table by a previous resident at the
hostel.

H
e glanced round at the rider in the blue shirt and red
baseball cap. There was plenty of room for him to pass. He pulled
the backpack closer to his feet, just to be sure.

Somewhere there must be an
alimentari
selling bread rolls and fatty
but inexpensive
prosciutto
.
Preferably a shop a little bit away from this high-priced tourist
area. Yes, he could see one ahead.

The moped rider hit him hard in the back,
sending him sprawling onto the uneven stones that made up the
street. The blow was hard. It was also sharp. The pain went right
through to his chest.

KARL SHOUTED ALOUD in delight. His
strategy had worked. The English tourist had been so obliging, and
the only witnesses were a party of women at the end of the street.
As he reached them he realized that they had not even noticed what
he
'd done. He turned the
bike and rode slowly back to the sprawling body. Blood was already
oozing across the alley, like dark oil meandering through the
dust.

He reached down and deftly retrieved his
knife. He would wipe the handlebars of fingerprints and leave the
bike a few streets away. When he was ready to kill the
Priester
, it
would be easy to get another.

IN THE VIA Barberini, a dejected Carlo
Carini was wandering slowly back to his apartment, wondering if
life could possibly go on without a Piaggio Ciao. He knew he would
be no company for Marisa this afternoon. And she hated cold
hamburgers.

Chapter
10

Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore

"
I THINK YOU went a little far with our senior clerics." The
old priest spoke the words with what might almost be a smile.
"However, at your age, Marco, I think I might have been tempted to
do the same. If you can take advice from a friend, slightly more
respect to Cardinal Amendola would not come amiss in
future."

"
He annoyed me. He was..."

Father Josef raised a finger, and Marco
could see a definite smile on the wrinkled face. "You are probably
wondering why I asked you to stay behind. Let me get you a
coffee."

At that moment one of the sisters appeared
with a tray, allowing Marco to relax. The old priest must have sent
a signal to the kitchen. Amendola and his entourage would be well
on their way back to the Vatican, and Father Josef Reinhardt was
obviously friendly. Marco smiled wryly as he recalled the New
Testament letter to the Christian Hebrews.
No discipline seems pleasant at the
time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of
righteousness and peace.
The first part, at any rate, seemed to be true.

The sister disappeared with a brief wink for
Marco, leaving Father Josef to pour the coffee.

"
I already know something of your background, young Marco,"
the old priest said. "I have some work planned for you."

As Marco looked up in surprise, Father
Josef held up a hand.
"Drink your coffee, while I read what Eusebius of Caesarea
has to tell us in his seventh book about his trip to Caesarea
Philippi, just north of the Sea of Galilee. I have here a
translation of chapter eighteen. I see no reason for us to struggle
with the original Greek."

Father Josef pushed his half-moon glasses to
the end of his nose as he turned the large book towards the light
from the tall windows. He began to read.

"
For the sake of those who come after us, I do not
think it right to leave out a story that is worth telling. The
people here say that the woman who had an issue of blood
--
and who as we learn from the Gospels
found healing at the hands of our Savior
--
came from this place. In the city they showed us her house
where there are still some wonderful reminders of the good act that
the Savior did to her.
"
Father Josef paused to raise the gold-rimmed cup of espresso to his
thin lips. "This was, I believe, written in 325 AD," he added,
taking a hushed sip.

"
And it's reliable?" Marco hardly needed confirmation. The
Church generally regarded the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius as
trustworthy. Certainly Sister Maria, who had taught him the
catechism and ecclesiastical history at school, gave the man a good
name for accuracy -- although she had definitely called some of his
theology into question.

"
I will read on." Father Josef replaced the small cup in its
saucer, without the slightest tremor from his hand.

"
On a high stone at the gates of her house we saw a
bronze statue of a woman. She was bending on one knee, and
stretching out with her hands. Opposite her was another figure made
of the same metal, a standing figure of a man wearing a double
cloak. He was reaching out to the woman. At his feet, on the
monument itself, a strange species of plant was growing. It climbed
up to the border of the double cloak of bronze, and acted as an
antidote to all kinds of diseases. This statue, the people told us,
was the likeness of Jesus. We saw it with our own eyes when we
stayed in the city. It is not surprising that those people, who
long ago had good things done to them by our Savior, should have
made these objects. We also saw the likenesses of Christ's
apostles, of Paul and Peter, and indeed of Christ himself,
preserved in pictures painted in colors.
"

Father Josef removed his glasses and
placed the book on the dark oak table. "It is a reference to the
account told in the New Testament gospels by Matthew, Mark and
Luke. You will remember how in Luke chapter eight the woman thought
she merely had to touch the hem of Jesus' cloak to be cured?
Eusebius is telling us the statue was built by the people who had
actually seen Jesus heal this woman."

"
I know the story," said Marco. "She was one brave
woman."

"
Well said, Father Marco. According to Jewish law anyone in
contact with the dead or with blood was ceremonially unclean. This
woman was treated as an outcast, ceremonially unclean with internal
bleeding for twelve years, yet she dared reach out and touch a
man."

"
No wonder she tried to do it without anyone
knowing."

Father Josef nodded. "Those people also
saw Jesus bring the synagogue ruler's daughter back to life. They
heard him claim to be the Son of God. We can be certain they would
have made a fair likeness."

Marco looked up quickly. "And you really
believe some of those things are still around?"

"
I am sure the paintings have perished, but the statue...?"
Father Josef shrugged. "The official Vatican line today is that no
part of it still exists, which I find strange in the
circumstances."

"
I can't see it would tell us much about Jesus. Ancient art
is very stylized," Marco protested. "Look at the Russian icons. The
figure of Christ always has a long, distinctive face that bears no
relationship to nature."

"
The Orthodox style has been going with little change for
over a thousand years, Marco. It is full of symbolism, but no one
believes it to be an accurate portrayal."

"
Right," he agreed. "And what about our early western art?
At the time everyone told Giotto he painted in an incredibly
realistic style. Realistic? It doesn't look very realistic today.
So how could people make a good likeness of a human face two
thousand years ago?"

"
Are the statues of the Caesars accurate?"

Marco laughed. "How would I
know?"

"
Well, you must have noticed that there is a remarkable
similarity between statues of the same Caesar found in different
places," said the old priest. "Surely that demonstrates the ability
of ancient craftsmen to achieve a precise likeness, time after
time. The faces of the Caesars look lifelike so, yes, they are
probably a true likeness."

"
The ancient Egyptians weren't so clever at art. They
painted the heads and legs sideways, and the bodies front on. And
such big eyes. Very lifelike!"

"
You are confusing style and symbolism with reality, Marco.
The Greeks and Romans at the time of Christ went for extreme
accuracy. We call it Classical art. It was revived in the
Renaissance."

"
There are Roman mosaics in the church here in the Piazza di
Santa Maria Maggiore. They're not lifelike."

"
They are from the fifth century, Marco. Roman art developed
into a type of impressionism. The early popes exerted a strong
influence on style. There was no such thing as Biblical art in the
time of Christ."