Stealing God (19 page)

Ricci sounded doubtful.

‘I'll try. It's got about fifty ring tones but I don't think it does just a ring. Look, I'll sort out something before you go.'

‘If it doesn't just ring then no Verdi either.'

‘OK, I'll sort it.'

‘In fact no opera of any sort.'

‘For God's sake, I said I'd bloody well sort it out before you go. Now, how do we find out who knew Cheng was a cardinal?'

Jimmy took a sip. It was a snotty bar but this beer was all right.

‘He has to be right, your China-watcher? You think he really knows how the cardinal thing was all done?'

‘If you mean, is it official, is he quoting some official record, then no, he's guessing. But it makes sense. So how do we find out who knew?'

‘We don't yet.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because that wouldn't give us motive, and what we need is a motive. The best way in for us would be if he wasn't the only one. If there were others we get a connection and that might give us our reason. Either we're looking at Cheng on his own, in which case end of story, or we're looking at Cheng as one of …'

Jimmy stopped, then took a slow sip.

‘Got something?'

‘Listen, if Cheng is a one-off we're stuck. Even if we find out who knew he was a cardinal that won't lead us anywhere. The only ones who might have cared were the Chinese and we can't say “it was the Chinese”, not again.'

‘So?'

‘So we stick with what we can do.'

‘Which is?'

‘The “more than one” theory. If it's wrong, it's wrong and we tell your minister, sorry, we got nowhere. You get well and go back to being a copper and I get on with,' he paused. When this finished there was nothing to get on with. ‘I get on with whatever I get on with.'

‘OK, so what if there's more than Cheng? Who would want to kill some cardinals and why?'

‘That's what I was thinking about this morning.'

‘And you came up with?'

‘As I understand it cardinals do one thing no one else does: they choose the pope. Right?'

‘So?'

‘So say someone, a government maybe, wanted to be sure to get the right kind of pope next time round, a pope who would see things their way.'

‘The right kind of pope? What the hell is the right kind of pope?'

‘A pope who's, well, one who's on your side, one who's … Look, I don't know what sort of pope but it's what cardinals do so let's just say, for the sake of argument, somebody wants to fix a papal election.'

‘Are you being serious?'

‘I'm trying to be.'

Ricci shrugged and took a sip.

‘OK, it's your bright idea. Carry on.'

‘You want to control that choice, but you can't get at the cardinals when they're actually doing the election; they meet in conclave locked away in the Vatican. So, before they get locked away, you get as many as you can thinking your way and then you take out a few key players so your men on the inside can influence the likely outcome.'

‘Brilliant! There's only one small flaw. It's rubbish, total, bloody rubbish.'

‘Go on, why is it rubbish?'

‘First, it doesn't even come close to giving anyone a result worth killing for. Let's say you could get a few cardinals thinking your way, which probably does happen, you might have an influence on the outcome but that's all, just an influence. And if someone's prepared to kill cardinals they'll want to be absolutely sure of getting what they want, not just a possibility. Then there's the timing. If you kill a few selected cardinals, and I don't see how you can risk killing more than a few, it doesn't get you anywhere because it doesn't get you an election. You have to wait until the pope dies to get an election and that could be years and by that time there would be new cardinals, things would have changed, and it would be back to square one. Like I say, it's rubbish.' Jimmy agreed but he said nothing. When you only had one avenue to explore you didn't give it up easily. ‘I don't know how many cardinals there are, there's plenty here in Rome and I guess more scattered across the world so how do you get at enough of them to make your idea come even close to working? You couldn't do it. A big enough outfit might be able to buy a few but that's all and you'd still not be close to getting the pope you wanted, even if the sitting tenant conveniently died when you wanted him to so you got your election.' He paused. ‘Or are you suggesting that they're going to kill the present pope as well?'

Jimmy was silent.

Ricci waited for him to say he agreed the idea was rubbish and took another sip of his drink.

He hadn't meant it seriously, killing the pope.

‘It's been tried.'

They both thought about it.

Ricci surfaced first. He was angry; this wasn't anywhere near where they should be going.

‘No, it doesn't work. I don't care who you are, you don't kill the pope. For one thing he's too well protected, ever since that Turkish bloke had a go at John Paul II. But even if you did pull it off and got the election, that still doesn't mean you get it to go the way you want. It's still all too chancy. No, it's got more holes than a Swiss cheese. Fix some cardinals, kill some others, then take out the pope and run a fixed papal election, and all for what, a sympathetic pope? It's just bloody fantasy. It makes
Alice in Wonderland
look like grim fucking realism.'

‘Call it what you like but if whoever McBride sends says that it may not be Cheng on his own, if there are others, it's something and it's all we've got. It may be rubbish, but it's the only thing we can follow up on. Unless you want to pack it in right now?'

Ricci looked at him. So this was the great detective, the one who took the lead. He didn't know whether to laugh or weep. The man was following a fairy story.

‘Come on, Jimmy, don't tell me you're serious about this; it's just wasting time.'

‘If the man I talk to at lunch today says Cheng had company then I'm serious.'

‘You're wrong, Jimmy. It could never happen.'

‘The Twin Towers attack could never happen but that didn't stop it. These days it not just governments who can make big things happen, there's others out there who are organised, funded, and dedicated enough to do things so that everyone has to sit up and take notice. And they're crazy enough to try something nobody else would even dream of trying.'

‘Oh yes, like killing the pope? What would that get anybody?'

‘What if there was a chance, only a chance but still a chance, it could get them a pope who was really sympathetic to the Palestinians, prepared to side with them and with Islam against Israel and the Americans?'

God, thought Ricci, his mind just keeps on going until he comes up with an answer. But then he thought, why not that answer? Was it really a fairy story? It was all about terrorism these days. Everyone's a player in that game one way or another and no one plays by any rules except do what has to be done. If terrorism was involved then anything became possible. Ricci rallied himself.

‘No, you're wrong, Jimmy. Definitely off beam.'

Jimmy shrugged.

‘If you say so.'

They sat for a moment. The chance of a pro-Palestinian pope, a pope who believed the Catholic Church should put a higher price on justice than American dollars? The chance of a Muslim-Catholic alliance? Was it possible?

‘But if you're not …' Jimmy waited. ‘Well, I just hope it's Cheng's on his own, that's all.'

TWENTY-FIVE

‘No,

really, Mr Costello, not pasta.' Jimmy looked at him. Why not pasta? This was a restaurant and this was bloody Italy, so why not pasta? ‘If you will be recommended by me try the saltimbocca. I assure you, you will find it the best in Rome.'

Jimmy shrugged. He didn't care, he wasn't paying and he wasn't that hungry.

‘What is it?'

The monsignor smiled a bland smile, but though the blandness was perfectly practised he couldn't altogether hide the sneer.

‘It is veal beaten very thinly with a layer of Parma ham spread over it and then fried in butter. Simple and, like all simple dishes, the outcome is primarily dependent on the quality of the ingredients rather than the talents of the chef. Like people, don't you think?'

‘What?'

‘Like people. The outcomes individuals are capable of achieving are primarily the result of the quality of person rather than of the skills they have acquired. A good man can achieve good things, a great man, great things.'

‘I'm not with you. I thought we were talking about food, about what we were going to have for lunch.'

The bland monsignor switched off the charm at the plug and spoke to the waiter who had been silently standing by the table waiting for their order.

‘Two saltimbocca and a bottle of the Pecorino.' The waiter nodded, removed the menus and some redundant cutlery from the table, and left. The monsignor decided he should, as host, fill the silence while they waited. ‘I hope my choice of wine is satisfactory for you, Mr Costello. You mustn't be put off by the name,' he held up his hand as if Jimmy was about to say something; he wasn't, ‘it is indeed called Pecorino but it is
not
, I assure you, anything to do with the cheese. It is a little-known, rare grape variety from the Abruzzo which, under the right conditions and in the right hands, can produce a very acceptable wine. I am a personal friend of the producer and when he has a drinkable vintage he lets me know and I ask the proprietor here to buy a few cases. I find it an excellent lunch-time wine and very inexpensive. To live modestly is to live well, don't you think?'

While the monsignor was holding forth about his choice of wine Jimmy noted that, as the waiter had taken the order and gone, it actually didn't matter a toss whether the wine was what he wanted or not.

‘No, not really.'

That got in amongst you, thought Jimmy, as the bland monsignor's eyebrows went up.

‘Really! You do not think that to live modestly is to live well? I'm surprised, you didn't strike me as someone who would approve of excess.'

‘Not that, the wine.'

‘The Pecorino? You do not like my choice?'

‘No. But not because it's got the same name as a cheese, it's because I don't like any wine much. I'd prefer a beer.'

He could see that what his appearance had begun when they had met, his lack of taste for wine had cemented. He had now gone so far down in the opinion of the monsignor that a dredger couldn't find him. But as far as Jimmy was concerned, with blokes like him, that was the best place to be.

‘I'll mention it to the waiter when he brings our order.' The monsignor busied himself with his napkin. Finally he surfaced. ‘Is there any particular brand of beer you would like? Please say, I'm not a drinker of beer.'

‘Just what comes to hand.'

‘I see.'

The monsignor took in the other tables and smiled to one or two of the diners. Jimmy watched him; this was the man that Professor McBride had sent to tell him about cardinals. He was obviously a see and be seen sort of bloke, a mixer, but if he moved in a gin-and-tonic world Jimmy's guess was that he was the tonic and not the gin. He was another minister's aide type, right-hand man to someone who hadn't got his brains but hadn't, like him, lost his balls. Jimmy also looked around. It was a calm and elegant place. The tables, of which there were many and all in use, were spaced so that a low voice at your table meant your conversation stayed at your table. It was all white linen, bentwood chairs, and restrained décor. A place of understated elegance for quiet money. The monsignor, having scouted the tables, was ready to return to Jimmy.

‘The only drawback here is that the Jesuits regard it as home ground. Still, it might have been worse, it might have been the Dominicans.' He waited for the smile of appreciation at his little joke. It didn't come so he went on. ‘I come here quite often. It's not far from the Gregorian and the Ministry and, on occasion, the Quirinale. Thankfully it's just too far from the Trevi Fountain to get tourists.' He was making a last-ditch effort at charm so that Jimmy could acknowledge how very fortunate he felt to be sitting here at the same table.

‘How do you know which ones are the Jesuits?'

The bland monsignor gave up.

‘So, Mr Costello, I have been asked if I would help you by giving you certain information concerning cardinals.' You weren't asked, mate, thought Jimmy, you were sent. You were given no choice. ‘I'm sorry I had to squeeze you in like this and ask you to meet me here. But lunch today was my only window and I understood that what you wanted had a degree of urgency.'

‘This place is fine.'

‘Good, the people I deal with are not the sort whom you can cancel on at short notice. Their time is extremely valuable, mine of course is at the disposal of …'

‘You speak very good English. You did say you were Italian, didn't you?'

The monsignor almost certainly resented the interruption, but it didn't show, not even in his eyes. He was smooth, thought Jimmy, smooth like oil.

‘Yes, Mr Costello, I am Italian, Roman in fact, and as you say I speak excellent English. I also speak excellent French and Spanish. I am only passable at Russian and German. Sadly, my Mandarin Chinese is barely suitable for anything more than polite conversation.'

‘I only speak English so we'll stick to that.'

The monsignor sat back. This objectionable peasant of a man had something he wanted to ask. Let him ask it. He would tell him what he wanted and then be rid of him. The waiter arrived with their food. He put it on the table and was about to leave when Jimmy spoke.

‘And a beer.'

‘A beer, sir?' It was another waiter who spoke. He had arrived with the wine in an ice bucket on a stand. He put it beside the table. ‘Which brand, sir?'