Shout in the Dark (46 page)

"
We don't need it. We already got our tickets, and I've
enough money for food."

Laura felt cautiously at her forehead.
"The
zoticone
could
use the card to get a train ticket."

"
Here, don't touch that with your fingers. Use a tissue.
Don't worry, it's got your photo on it. I can't believe he'd try to
use a woman's credit card!"

KARL
REACHED the main road and ran into a side street. Quickly
he tipped the contents of the bag into a doorway. A small amount of
money, a TV Roma pass, and a credit card with the woman's picture
on the back. The money and the pass went into his pocket; the
credit card and the rest of the junk went into the bin. It wouldn't
do to be searched with all this rubbish on him.

He hurried back to the station. With Herr
Kessel's card invalid, and with insufficient cash to buy a ticket,
he would have to find another way to get on the train. At the
station entrance he could see signs of increased security. Bag
snatching should surely an everyday occurrence, but the railway
police
seemed to be
taking this one seriously. Sartini had turned out to be a nasty
surprise with the metal bar. He wasn't exactly the frightened
pushover Herr Kessel said he'd be. The man had totally the wrong
attitude for a priest.

After waiting for a few minutes he made
his way round to the station entrance where he checked the
timetable and his watch. The platform was empty. The train had
already left. He cursed himself for acting like a frightened
rabbit. Reluctantly he mounted the moped and rode down the station
approach to the main road. Erich and his gang would need him soon
at the Gare du Nord. Everything was going wrong. He had only slept
for a short time in the doorway last night. He was not the
Held
of
Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung
he had imagined himself to be.
Perhaps
Oberpriester
?
Even an ordinary
Priester
had
somehow got the better of him.

If the stupid knife hadn't broken it would
all be different.

"
I'M GOING to get the head out of the bag and have a good
look at it," said Marco, as the train pulled out of the Gare de
Lyon.

He already had the bag open on his lap. The
head was upside down, showing the hollow inside, black with age. A
piece of paper had been pushed into the space. The metal felt
rough, almost jagged as he reached in and withdrew what seemed to
be a piece of parchment.

"
It's some sort of deed," he announced. "I think it's in
Latin."

"
I thought priests learned Latin," said Laura.

"
I can't say I was exactly brilliant at it. Besides, the old
fashioned script is a bit of a pain to read. I can see the name
Donato Bramante. Good old Bramante, the vandal architect of Saint
Peter's. It says he's..." The lettering was too elaborate to
decipher with any certainty.

"
Yes?"

"
He's giving away a bronze sculpture to ... to an unnamed
monastery. It's to be a gift." He looked at Laura in surprise. "I'm
amazed Donato Bramante gave anything away. The man tried to sell
most of the statues and relics from the old Basilica of Saint
Peter's, and the rest ended up as hardcore for the new building. At
least, that's what I've always heard.
Il Ruinante
they called him. No wonder. That man squandered so
much of our Christian heritage. It was a case of out with the old
and in with the new. This document will need an expert to look at
it, but it seems to give provenance to our relic."

Laura was pulling impatiently at the bag.
"Get the thing out so we can see it."

A woman sat down heavily in the seat
opposite, followed by a breathless man carrying a large suitcase.
Marco carefully pulled the top of the bag closed. The head was
covered in too much white plaster for him to see any detail on the
face. A hasty attempt to remove it could wreck the surface
underneath. He closed his eyes and the pain felt worse than ever.
He hoped they'd still be awake when they had to change trains at
Lyon. Once they got to Rome he could take the relic to Father Josef
for expert attention. It would be interesting to hear what Amendola
had to say when he read the document.

THE NOISY GROUP arriving at the Gare du
Nord made Karl fee
l
excited, even optimistic, in spite of severe bruising on his
shoulders from the attack by Sartini with the iron bar. When Erich
and the gang heard what had happened, they clearly saw him in a new
light and were ready to take orders. There was no reason why he
should feel shame for his past failures. He smiled. Destiny again.
He certainly was not about to tell how he had let the prize be
carried away. He could manipulate the truth. Manipulation of the
truth was part of propaganda. His instructor was strong on the
value of propaganda.

"
We're taking the next train to Rome," he shouted, receiving
a great thrill from giving orders in German -- and knowing that for
once he would be understood. And obeyed. "Has anyone got enough
money to buy me a ticket?"

JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, Marco and Laura
alighted sleepily from the train at the Termini in Rome, to find
Monsignor Giorgio and three armed
carabinieri
waiting for them on the platform. Marco guessed
they had traced the use of Laura's card to buy train tickets to
Rome.

Chapter
40

Rome

RENATA BASTIANI had been drinking. She no
longer felt old. How could she
, when men were still turning their heads for her? The
sudden and violent death of her two boys in Rome, and their
funerals earlier this morning, had brought about a new birth. She
had lived with terrible memories for sixty years, and now they were
all gone. Wiped out.

She stood in the
ferramenta
, the hardware store, examining the pans. She
would cook a meal of celebration, making just the dishes she liked.
With no one else to care for, she could pamper herself. Poor Bruno,
he had never found the right girl.

After buying the utensils she would go to
the Via della Maddalena and choose her first colored clothing since
the start of the war. Then she would go home and have another
drink.

A crowd of young men, laughing and shouting,
pushed each other into the shop. They were Germans. Their noisy
voices sounded like the soldiers in the house of torture in the Via
Tasso. She tried to look inconspicuous. These Germans kept coming
to Rome, and still they thought they owned the city.

ALFREDO WAS SERVING alone. This was
normally a quiet time, when most of the shops were getting ready to
close for the afternoon. He wished he
'd pulled the shutters down early today. One large
German youth, the largest by far, pointed to the knives in the
glass cabinet. His friends, all with shaved heads and clearly all
part of the same gang, began to pick up goods in various parts of
the shop. Alfredo realized he needed eyes like a spider.

He did think twice before opening the knife
cabinet, but he should be safe. Access to it was from behind the
counter only. With some misgivings he removed the black handled
knife the gang leader had his eye on. The blade was long and
slender. It was a popular line. Many of his customers apparently
bought them for use as paper knives, in spite of the top quality
steel that was reflected in the high price tag.

The German skinhead indicated that he wanted
it. His friends were probably helping themselves to all sorts of
attractive items. Alfredo realized that the sooner he made the
sale, the sooner they would leave and he could attend to the old
woman.

"
Identity?"

The youth hesitated for a moment before
producing a credit card.

Alfredo read the name aloud. "Manfred
Kessel. This is you?"

The big skinhead nodded.

"
Passport?"

The skinhead shook his head.

The company insisted on name, age and
address for the records with youths like this. But this would have
to do. Only a fool would risk antagonizing this gang. The youth
smirked as he retrieved the card and paid cash.

RENATA LOOKED UP sharply from her
deliberations. Time was confusing and she found the voices
muddling. The noisy Germans intimidated her. That name. Who was
this man using the name of Manfred Kessel?

She knew she should have killed him that
first night in the Via Tasso with the knife from his desk. Then
Enzo would never have been born. Poor, unhappy Enzo. The
carabinieri
said her son Enzo was using the
name of Manfred Kessel when he died at the Colosseum. In God's
name, was her bastard son such a depraved being as to take his
father's identity? Perhaps Bruno knew the reason, but it was no use
asking Bruno. Bruno was dead.

That knife looked familiar. Bruno had one
like it at home, with the same ebony black handle. One of a pair, a
birthday present a long time ago. Knives could be dangerous; you
could kill someone with a knife. Bruno had been a bad boy.
The
carabinieri
were
keeping the knife he'd used in his foolish fight with Enzo. Nothing
was safe with the Germans around. Now Sturmbannführer Kessel was
back.

She must find Bruno's knife and keep it in
her bag in case the Germans came looking for her. The alcohol made
her fearless. On an impulse she reached forward and snatched the
long knife from the big German. She took the man by surprise and he
leapt back.

"
I kill you, Sturmbannführer Kessel!" she
screamed.

The assistant caught hold of her wrist and
the knife clattered across the wooden floor. "Not now, signora." He
sounded sympathetic. "You should be home. Come back when you're
sober."

The young man sneered at her before walking
out of the shop with the knife thrust down his belt, as if he
expected to need it in a hurry. The others followed, laughing and
exchanging wisecracks in their loud voices.

"
Stronzi!
" Renata screamed, but the Germans took no
notice.

MARCO CALLED AT the hospital to visit Laura
in the evening. She was already dressed, sitting in a chair while
waiting for a final check-up. She let him take hold of her hand,
but not with any detectable enthusiasm. It felt cold.

Marco smiled at her. "The
carabinieri
held me for hours this morning,
asking questions. They're not at all happy with what we did." He
let go of her hand and walked to the table, picked up a handful of
grapes and put some in his mouth. "These are good."

"
Have they caught the skinhead?"

He shook his head before emptying his
mouth. "Not yet, but at least the relic is safe with the
Vatican."

"
Thanks to your pigheaded Monsignor Augusto
Giorgio!"

He recognized bitterness in Laura's voice.
"Don't get worked up about that again."

"
It was mine more than the Vatican's. That parchment said
the Vatican was giving it away. My grandfather and then my father
had it once. We should have got out at Firenza and come to Rome on
a local train."

"
We left too many clues behind in Paris," said Marco
ruefully. "It was bound to go wrong for us when French
gendarmes
found our cases at the hotel,
and contacted the civil authorities in Rome."

"
My producer is furious. He says the least we could have
done was take a photograph."

Marco
shrugged. "Monsignor Giorgio was too quick. Anyway, there
was nothing to see. The coating was more like plaster than paint.
Perhaps the monks thought they were unworthy to see the face
underneath it."

Laura raised her voice. "That's
foolish.
Insensato
.
People
need
to see it.
You did the worst thing possible, handing it over at the railway
station."

"
I didn't have much option." The last of the grapes had
gone. "The
carabinieri
had
guns. Anyway, you told me there are fascist sympathizers on the
staff at TV Roma."

"
I know." Laura let out a long sigh. The patch on her
forehead looked as though it kept pulling at her skin. "I just
don't know who's on my side." She sighed again, deeply. "I wonder
if it was worth it, Marco. I once had other plans, but Riccardo
Fermi and Bruno Bastiani are dead."

He pulled a spare chair across the floor
and sat close to Laura. "What sort of plans?"

Laura looked down at the thin blanket
covering her bed. "Terrible plans. Punishing the Nazis. Not that
you'd understand."

"
What sort of punishing?" It seemed that Laura was keeping
something back.

"
Forget it, Marco. It wouldn't interest you."

He squeezed her cold hand gently. "Yes it
would. The Vatican betrayed me. I wanted a parish, not violence. I
could make changes to my life for you."