The Assassini (76 page)

“Yes, well. Pardon me if I skip about. I’m trying to hit the important points—

“Yes, I killed Father LeBecq in the graveyard. I hardly remember his face, it was so long ago. And he was such an utter swine. Killing him was an act of war, the battlefield execution of a traitor, a man who had betrayed us to the Nazis.” He looked up abruptly, his eyes heavy-lidded like a crocodile’s but still inquisitive. “Do you wait for the priest’s act of contrition? Then you wait in vain, I fear. As you have pieced together from all your varied sources, I—as Simon—had never been content with aiding the Nazis in any way … it was my job, I gave it my effort for a time—but it didn’t take me long to begin working primarily with the Resistance, maintaining only enough of a relationship with the Nazis to keep
them from coming down with their great hobbed boots on the Church. I was a terrible thorn in the side of Torricelli, poor fellow. He wanted to live and let live, survive, ignore reality. Everything I did and said seemed to frighten him. He was trapped among the Nazis, the Church as represented by me, and various American spooks who could drift in and out of Paris like dangerous viruses.” He looked at his watch, clasped his hands before him on the table. His fingers were swollen like a fat lady’s ankles.

“Yes, there was an attempted assassination of a great man, an
important
man. He was coming to Paris by train, yes. Father LeBecq knew about it, he’d been in on the planning, but he disapproved. It was not his decision, however. When the plan was betrayed and so many of us were killed there in the mountains, I felt sure it was LeBecq who had passed the word to the Nazis. So I executed him. In my own fashion.” He cracked his bulbous knuckles for emphasis. “And yes, Pius sent a man from Rome to investigate, to collect evidence and build a case against me—if indeed I were the man who had killed LeBecq and planned the assassination of the man on the train … and generally failed to carry out the wishes of Pius insofar as the Germans were concerned. The man sent by the Vatican knew the latter charge was true. The truth was, Pius had just about had his fill of me. The Nazis had complained to him of my reluctance to comply with their wishes. And yes, this man sent from Rome by Pius was known in some circles by the name ‘the Collector.’ He was collecting information, evidence, who knew what else he collected, and it was a difficult job for him because I had disbanded the
assassini
, the few of us left alive, and no one knew who they were, anyway. No one but me and the men themselves, and I was the only one who knew them
all
—except for one other man, that is, his code name was Archduke. And yes, there was a document dating back to the time of the Borgias, a roster of names of men who had forsaken all, risked everything in the service of the Church—men who had killed for the popes, for the Church. I sent the document north to Ireland with two of my people,
Brother Leo and my very best man, the most selfless, the man I trusted most … August Horstmann.

“Once they had left for Ireland, I heard no more from them. I had my own problems in Paris with the Collector, and when he was closing in on me—I sensed it, the hair in my ears stood on end, I knew he was meticulously building a case which would certainly have satisfied Pius, who might have done almost anything to me by way of punishment,
anything
 … then,
in extremis
, I turned to your father, Benjamin, my old comrade-in-arms, one of those OSS spooks who moved around Europe like ghosts in those days, doing what good he could, getting information out to the Allies by whatever means were at hand. And it was Hugh Driskill who used all his considerable magic to get me out of Paris with the Collector, frustrated, furious, nipping at my heels. And Hugh brought me to Princeton while he and his great friend Drew Summerhays began negotiating with Pius for my return to Rome. My safe return.”

He lit one of his black, gold-banded cigarettes, looked out tiredly from those hooded eyes which seemed to blink in slow motion. It was an extraordinary performance he was giving.

“Now, the manuscript. What was I doing all that time you and little Val wanted me to come out and play ball with you and work in the garden with you and your mother—why did I write it all down? I needed more than whatever your father and Summerhays could negotiate with Pius because Pius had a very personal reason to hate me, to fear me. I needed a very good insurance policy if I wanted to be sure of remaining in the Church and staying alive. So I was writing out my life insurance policy. Once I left it with the priest in the village I knew I was safe. I had a copy of it to show Pius—and I could tell him that in case of my death the world would be regaled with the story of his
assassini
, his determination to work with the Nazis in plundering the art treasures of Europe. Yes, I used code names in the manuscript because I had to guard against the old priest in New Prudence reading it and knowing too much, but the code names would not invalidate the details of the story. The
details were all there, they were the internal proof, they could be checked, they had happened.

“Once the pages were written and your father and Summerhays had prepared the way for my return—and make no mistake, it was a bitter, bitter pill for Pius to swallow—I returned to Rome and I held my club over them and I made my way, my career, safe and sound. Now”—he looked at our faces—“that takes care of the past, does it not?”

I’d been listening for a long time, trying to make it add up. When D’Ambrizzi paused to shift gears, I spoke. The room was stuffy, the heat had been turned on, and now it was too warm, and I could hear faint noises from the restaurant-kitchen overhead. My voice sounded stilted, unnaturally loud.

“Whatever you may have done in the past is no business of mine. Whatever the Church gets up to, there are no surprises for me. A Nazi-sympathizing pontiff fits right in. If you’re telling us the truth now, I say more power to you. Kill the bastard LeBecq. But that’s an old story. Nothing to do with me. I’m here because somebody killed my sister—”

“You’re here, Benjamin, because I sent for you. But do go on, son. I look at you and I see the little boy you were. Impatient, eager to play. The little boy still exists in you. You have not changed. You want to get things settled—”

“I want to know who killed my sister. Who was behind it. Horstmann pulled the trigger—your pal Horstmann, the best man you had—and he sliced my back open, but who sent him? You’re looking like the number one candidate, and to me you’re just a fat old man who’s bucking for pope. You’re not a great man, the fact that you’re a cardinal cuts no ice with me. And you’re sure as hell no Saint Jack!”

D’Ambrizzi was smiling, nodding gently, as if he were forgiving me. Dunn was studying a corner of the ceiling. Sister Elizabeth seemed hypnotized, staring at her hands in her lap. Waiting. Still.

“I realize,” D’Ambrizzi said, “how suspect I must
seem in your eyes. But remember this, I brought you here to talk to you, to explain what I am doing and what I have done … if I were the man you think I am, why not simply have you killed? If I have had so many people killed, why not a few more?”

“I can think of a million reasons,” I said.

“Only one matters—I’m not killing anyone, Benjamin. I
was
Simon. But I have not activated Horstmann after forty years. I have neither seen nor spoken to nor heard from him since I last saw him in Paris and gave him the Concordat of the Borgias that Pius had given to me.” He watched me through the drifting smoke, squinting like Jean Gabin in an old movie. “Which poses the great question, doesn’t it? The question we must answer … who has sent him back to work?” He leaned back. The chair squeaked. He folded his arms, still watching me through slitted eyes.

“Who?” I said. “Who are we looking for? Well, first, it would have to be someone who knew how the hell to find him. Second, it would have to be someone who knew he had been a killer in the service of the Church. And third, it would have to be someone from whom Horstmann would take orders. Horstmann would probably take orders only from Simon. So it sounds like Simon Verginius to me, reactivating the old-boy network—”

“Indeed it does,” D’Ambrizzi said. “You’re a lawyer, certainly, building a case of your own. But wouldn’t that be the point, counsellor? Making Simon seem the man in question? You may believe whatever you choose, Benjamin. You have always had an independent mind. But let me pursue for a moment another approach.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Someone is guiding Horstmann, instructing him. This unknown man is the real killer. We agree—”

“Horstmann is not exactly off the hook with me. He pressed a gun to my sister’s head—”

D’Ambrizzi nodded but went on. “Why are these people being killed? I’m predisposed to agree with Herr Kessler on this point. To remove people who knew the truth about what had happened in Paris during the war, anyone who knew the truth about the Church and the
Nazis and the
assassini
and the involvement of our villain … these people who pose a danger to this man, had to die. Now, who would be most hurt by all this history coming out?”

“Someone who was killing people in Paris,” I said. “Brings us back to Simon Verginius. Someone who had the most to lose now, like someone who wants to make a stop at the papacy on the way to canonization. No one fits the profile like you, Saint Jack—”

“But,” D’Ambrizzi said quietly, “is old Saint Jack the only suspect? What if there is yet another reason behind all this havoc? Think about the selection of a new pope. We are dealing with a very small electorate—the College of Cardinals. And the dying pope is a man of great personal influence. There are many ways of influencing this electorate. Money, of course, is one. The promise of power, access to the papal ear. And there is perhaps the oldest way of all—fear. Let me tell you what the curia and the Vatican and the Church establishment fear most, the ultimate anathema … the destruction of order. Give it another name. Chaos. There is nothing worse than chaos. They will respond to chaos, I assure you, and they are powerful men. They will want to stamp it out, crush it, and believe me, they will prevail. They will turn to a man with an iron fist, do you see? The Church will endure if it requires a journey backward into the darkness, back to repression of dissent, back even to another Inquisition—they will happily provide one. There are those who believe indeed that another Inquisition is long, long overdue. The dying pope hates chaos as much as any man alive—he, too, will look to the strongman, the brute, the grinding heel. We must ask ourselves, who will benefit most from fear and chaos and disorder? The answer, of course, is the man who is creating it. He is the answer to all of our questions.”

Sister Elizabeth finally spoke, her voice brimming with frustration. “Why are you playing games with us? How do we find out who it is? How much longer does this madness go on? What if it
is
you? What if you are the man to benefit? You are the man with access to the pope.… My God, you make it sound as if this is no
different from the Mafia, the KGB, the CIA—it’s the Church! The Church is better than this!”

D’Ambrizzi listened with closed eyes, his massive head nodding slowly in apparent agreement. He cleared his throat, a raspy sound. “The sad truth is this—when the stakes are sufficiently high and when it comes to a fight for control and power, there is less difference among the organizations you mentioned than you might think. History tells us this. Your friend Sister Valentine understood this as well as anyone on earth. She understood so well the side of the Church that was not good works. She also understood that the aims of the Church, what it means to us all, are very different from the organizations you named.

“As far as how long this will go on—not much longer, I can assure you of that. We are almost at the end.

“And there are no games being played here. You see, I
know
who is behind it. But if I told you, would you believe me? Perhaps not quite yet. But soon, very soon …

“First, however, there is the matter of Cardinal Indelicato’s very grand party. His sense of timing is audacious at the least. I urge you not to miss it.”

“Party?” I said, reacting a little tardily. “What are you talking about?”

“Why, Ben, Fredi’s parties are the stuff of legend. It’s slipped my mind what he’s celebrating this time, but it will be a splendid evening, I assure you. And I’m sure he’ll want you there.” The heavy lids lowered over his reptilian eyes. “Believe me, you don’t want to miss it. I have a surprise in store for you—but only at the party.” He scraped the chair back. “Now my driver awaits me. I must get back to business—”

“A question,” I interrupted. “Something you said—why did Pius have such a hatred of you?”

Sister Elizabeth was on her feet. “And who was the ‘great man’ on the train? And what was the Pius Plot? Was it the
assassini
, his plan to put them into operation again?”

D’Ambrizzi stopped, turned, squat and broad and powerful despite his years. He looked up at Sister Elizabeth,
surprise flashing across his heavy features. “Why, that was all tied together. Pius had—I readily admit—a good reason to look upon me with considerable disfavor. You see … it was Pope Pius who was supposed to be on that train.”

“You were going to kill him!” There was shock and disbelief in her voice.

“We intended to assassinate the pope, yes. Shocking, isn’t it? But a grand old tradition, let me add. And naturally our plot came to be known as the Pius Plot. The plot to kill Pius. It’s easy when you know the answers, isn’t it? Lots of explanations make sense but only one is correct. Remember that as we draw near the end.”

“Wait. Stop.” Sister Elizabeth was frowning as if she were unable to quite grasp the situation. “You intended to murder Pope Pius?”

“It was just what he needed, Sister.”

“And Father LeBecq blew the whistle, warned the Vatican, Pius didn’t make the trip, so you killed LeBecq—”

“I have told you, I did kill him. He had, I believed, caused the death of my fellows. But there’s a problem with that. I was told by a man who knew, some time later, that LeBecq wasn’t the one who warned the Vatican. I had killed the wrong man. No great loss, however—”