The Caravaggio Conspiracy (8 page)

‘The Father General and I must agree to disagree.’

‘He says you are a heretic.’

‘That is not a view shared by the Holy Father.’

Battista’s stare turned to ice. ‘So in both instances, the critics are wrong and you are right, is that it?’

Caravaggio felt his mouth go dry. ‘We each have our point of view, Eminence.’

Before the cardinal could respond further, the young priest, obviously his private secretary, appeared unannounced through a different door and whispered something in his master’s ear. Battista nodded. ‘There is something I must attend to,’ he said, ‘but I have not finished with you. You will wait for me in the hallway. Oblige me by not murdering anyone in my absence.’

Caravaggio bowed and went out to resume his seat in the main reception area. After five fretful minutes, he could sit still no longer. Getting up from his chair, he examined Battista’s portrait, recently completed, by the look of it. If anything, Carracci had been generous to his subject. He had captured the power, but not the cruelty of the man – except, perhaps, in the eyes. No doubt that was
deliberate
. To the right of the portrait was a table on which sat a series of carvings by Ottoman artists, which Battista must have brought back with him from his time in Constantinople. Wasn’t that where he’d been? He wasn’t sure. These led the way to the framed maps, showing each of Europe’s great powers, from England in the west to Turkey in the east. Caravaggio followed the frames along an oak-panelled corridor until he reached the door of what was obviously, given the cross and coat of arms carved into the panelling, the cardinal’s private chapel. After the briefest of debates with himself, he opened the door, expecting to find there the usual range of religious art. Instead, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that there were no paintings whatsoever and that, for some reason, the cross on the altar had been laid flat.

That was when he heard the voices – which startled him, for the chapel had appeared to be empty. He listened, keeping perfectly still so as not to reveal his presence. They didn’t sound like priests at a sung Mass. What he heard was much more soaring and rhythmic. He was intrigued. Edging forward, but still careful to remain hidden from view behind a pillar, he let his eyes search out the source of the incantation. What he saw made him draw breath. The Camerlengo and his secretary were on their knees, prostrating themselves on mats rolled out across the stone floor. It was they who were reciting the strange prayers. Caravaggio felt a chill came over him. What in God’s name were they up to? They weren’t even facing the altar, but were bent in the direction of the south-east. Both had their backs to him and gave no sign that they knew he was there. Only after several seconds did he realize, with a start, that the language they were using was Arabic.

He drew back, swallowing hard, feeling his stomach start to heave. As he did so, he caught sight of a third figure, standing at the rear of the chapel. A young priest, with dirty-fair hair. He didn’t appear to have noticed Caravaggio. What clearly transfixed him was the bizarre sight of the Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church apparently worshipping Allah. As Caravaggio watched, the man’s mouth fell open and his eyes bulged. For several seconds, as his mind struggled to take in the scene being played out in front of him, he looked on in silence, as if
hypnotized
. Then, as the full significance hit him, he gasped. The sound was surprisingly loud and the heads of Battista and his secretary instantly came up from the floor and spun round towards the source of the interruption. For a brief moment, the two sides met each other’s gaze, then Battista’s voice roared out: ‘Stop! Stand where you are!’ For once, the prelate’s command fell on deaf ears. The priest panicked. Turning quickly on his heels, he ran back the way he had come, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing along the stone passage.

Battista and his secretary scrambled to their feet. The secretary reached beneath his cassock and produced a curved dagger. The Camerlengo, suffused with a cold fury, nodded. ‘Quickly! He mustn’t get away. If the Pope should hear of this, our plans will be in ruins. You must stop him. Go, Ciro! Hurry!’ Both men surged towards the chapel’s rear door.

Unseen, on the near side of the aisle, Caravaggio retreated, clicking the side door shut behind him and hastening back to the hallway. He was shaking uncontrollably. Only with a supreme effort of will did he restore some outward semblance of calm. This was something he should not have seen – should very definitely not have seen. It was dangerous; quite possibly fatal. As he ran back along the corridor, his mind tried to make sense of it – hoping to reveal some harmless explanation of the events in the chapel unconnected with heresy. But there was only one, inescapable conclusion. The Camerlengo was not the man he purported to be, but something else, something alien – a traitor to the Christian cause. There was a plan – no doubt a plot. This much Caravaggio knew. Yet he also knew, with total clarity, that if he were to say so, no one would believe him. Battista would have him arrested and tortured, then beheaded. The one available course, if he was to avoid his fate, was to say nothing and do nothing – not until he had had time to think. He stumbled on, regaining his chair in the
corridoio di ingresso
only just in time. Seconds later, looking red-faced and flustered, Battista burst through a set of double doors. Striding over to the window by the front door, minus his pectoral cross, he stared up and down the street outside.

Caravaggio’s legs had turned to water. He coughed. Battista looked round.

‘
You
!’

‘Yes, Eminence. You asked me to wait.’

‘So I did. Tell me, did a priest come through here a minute or so ago?’

‘No, Eminence.’

‘So you saw nothing?’

‘No, Eminence.’

‘Then get out!’ came the reply, laced with vitriol. ‘Get out now!’ Caravaggio rose, bowed and leaned his head forward. Without thinking, the prelate extended his right hand to receive the
baciamano
– the kiss of fealty – except that, as he suddenly realized, his ring finger was bare. Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand beneath the sleeve of his scarlet cassock and turned away. Caravaggio, not daring to lift his gaze, was left to wonder if Battista had registered the sweat on his brow or the sound of his heart thumping in his chest.

That night, he got hopelessly drunk in the Turk’s Head, ignoring the whores and the hustlers, reliving over and over again in his mind the terrifying scene he had witnessed. He had stumbled upon a terrible secret – one that he wanted to proclaim to the rooftops but dared not mention, not even to his closest friends, on pain of death. He felt cursed. It was inconceivable to him that the Camerlengo – the man charged by the Pope with funding the war against the Turks – could actually
be
a Muslim. But he couldn’t deny the evidence of his eyes. His first impulse had been to run to the Apostolic Palace to warn the Pope that he had been betrayed. But that would only have played into Battista’s hands. What proof did he have? None. Battista would counter that he had summoned the artist to warn him that if he didn’t mend his ways, he could end up before the Inquistion. Who would the Pope believe, the prince or the pauper? It would be he, not Battista, would be put to the question. Perhaps if the priest, his co-witness, were to step forward, things would be different. He might then have the semblance of a chance. But the man had fled and must surely now be in hiding, in fear of his life. His next thought had been to confide in Del Monte. The cardinal was his friend and had been a member of the Sacred College for fifteen years. Everyone knew him as a man of probity and rectitude – though also a reckless homosexual! But what could even he do without evidence of the crime? Del Monte always thought the best of people and would probably conclude that his favourite painter had gone quite mad. In any case, the Pope owed a debt of loyalty to Battista. It was an open secret that it was because of funding from the Camerlengo that the Aldobrandini – unknowns from the poorer reaches of Florence – had grown so rich so quickly. It was Battista, acting for His Holiness, who had brokered a series of advantageous marriages for the family, with the Pamphilj and the Doria. He had also ensured that the cardinal-nephews were granted the most lucrative benefices in Rome.

No. It shamed him deeply to acknowledge it, but if he wished to live, silence was his only option.

It was a hot, sticky night, yet he was shivering. He hadn’t eaten, he realized. All he had done was drink. Well, why not? At least wine helped dull the senses. He called for another jug of red. At the sound of his voice, a young whore he knew slightly tugged on his sleeve and asked him if he was looking for a good time. This was not what he needed to hear. Enraged beyond reason, he twisted round, wrenched her hand from his clothing and propelled her across the cobbles into a neighbouring table.

A young man with a wispy beard jumped up. There was wine spilled down his doublet. ‘You’re that fucking painter, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘The one they call Caravaggio! Well, what the hell do you think you’re playing at? If you know what’s good for you, you’ll apologize to me
and
the girl.’

Caravaggio snorted. He couldn’t explain how, but his dagger had appeared in his hand and, jumping up, he now thrust the point of the blade against the young man’s throat. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he whispered into his ear. ‘My advice to you on an evening such as this, facing a man such as I, is to turn round, say nothing and fuck off.’

The youth drew back, his face white with fear. His right hand hovered
nervously
over the pommel of his sword. In a flash, Caravaggio reached out and cut clean through the belt that held the sword in its scabbard. The weapon clattered to the floor. ‘Go home, boy,’ he breathed, his face flushed with rage and shame. ‘Go home and pray for Rome.’

Two of the youth’s friends, seated at the same table, looked for a moment as if they might intervene. They were, after all, three to one. But a stern look from a couple of
bravi
seated opposite made them change their mind.

Caravaggio wiped his nose and face with the back of his hand and swayed off into the night, still talking to himself. It was as he made his way, tortuously, towards the Piazza Navona, his limbs suddenly drained of their strength, that he heard the sound of running feet.
Not that bloody boy!
he thought, turning round in the direction from which he had come.
Spare me that
. Before he could turn round, a stranger, his breath heavy and laboured, lurched into him from behind,
practically
knocking him off his feet, sending the knife flying. He struggled to regain his footing, cursing loudly. ‘Who the fuck ..?’ he began. But then he halted. There was a full moon overhead, and as the other man recovered his balance Caravaggio recognized, with a start, who it was. Mother of God! It was the priest from Battista’s chapel – the one who could help him save the Catholic Church from treachery. He reached out unsteadily in an effort to restrain the fellow. This was the very person who could help him make sense of the afternoon’s events. But his lunge was too slow and too awkward. The man, with wine on his breath, his eyes bright with fear, pulled away and staggered off into the darkness.

‘Father! Wait! Hold on there! We need to talk!’

But he was too late.

As he stooped to recover his dagger, the drink he had taken finally caught up with him and he fell over. This was the moment when a second man appeared out of the shadows – tall and broad-shouldered, with a monk’s tonsure, brandishing a heavy, two-edged sword. The newcomer glanced at Caravaggio, who stared back at him, almost as if he knew him, before moving off in pursuit of his quarry. Three minutes later, filled with a premonition of what he would find, Caravaggio came upon the the priest’s body sprawled on the cobbles, arms outstretched. A step or so beyond the body lay the head. The eyes stared wildly, the mouth gaped, as if still calling out to God for mercy. For a moment, Caravaggio didn’t know what to do or think. Then, instinctively, he pulled out the small sketch pad and chalk he always kept in one or other of his capacious pockets and began to draw the victim’s face. The terror in the man’s eyes would, like the frozen gaze of Beatrice Cenci, haunt him forever.

Franco Lucchese, from La Spezia, spent five years in Italy’s
Reggimento d’Assalto Paracadutisti
, where he attained the rank of sergeant and was his unit’s finest markman. Blonde-haired, just five feet, nine inches tall, he was built like a boxer, with the stamina and fighting skills to match. He had joined the army at the behest of his local Mafia
capo
, Renzo Giacconi, who wanted his
sgarriste
, or ‘soldiers’, to have the skills necessary to remain competitive in the post-9/11 world. But after serving six months in a military prison for breaking an officer’s jaw, he was discharged and returned to general gangland duties. It was in 2009 that he was introduced by his boss to Cardinal Bosani, also from La Spezia –
Spèsa
in the local dialect – and finally discovered his true calling: assassination.

Lucchese was an intelligent man, entirely uninterested in ideas. This was his strength. He asked from life no more than a comfortable apartment, money in his pocket, women who understood his needs and someone to tell him where to go and whom to kill. He and his master were a perfect match. Bosani had a killer he could depend on. The fact that Franco believed he was doing God’s work, however odd it sometimes seemed, only added to the satisfaction he derived from his work. As he told his confessor, Father Giacomo, who had ministered to the Mafia in Spèsa for more than thirty years, his role was to remove God’s enemies and bring forward their appearance before the Seat of Judgment.

‘And the Camerlengo has told you this?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Very well.
Ego te absolvo
.’

Even so, when he was instructed by Bosani to ‘silence’ Cardinal Rüttgers, he had to admit it was unsettling. It was not right, surely, to murder a prince of the Church.

‘Do not distress yourself, my son,’ the Camerlengo had assured him. ‘His Eminence is not an evil man. You will be sending him to God. But his politics, which are of the far left, mean, regrettably, that he has become a danger to the Church he serves. Next week, the cardinal electors must find a pope who can restore the purity of the Christian message in our divided continent. Rüttgers has said that he would work against this sacred mission and help install a pontiff who would offer hope to the Muslims. Is that what we want, Franco?’

‘No, Eminence.’

‘Very well. So take this and do what I ask of you.’ He handed the Mafia soldier an envelope stuffed with euros and a tiny bottle, labelled as a throat spray. ‘God will watch over you and guide your hand.’

‘Thank you, Eminence. May I now have your blessing? And I should like it in the old form.’

‘Of course, my son.’ Bosani kissed the assassin on both cheeks, then raised his right hand in benediction. ‘
Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen
. Almighty God have mercy on you and, having forgiven you your sins, bring you to life everlasting. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

Next day, as darkness fell, Franco hid in the courtyard of the Collegio Teutonico di Santa Maria dell’Anima, known as the Anima, due south of the old Tor di Nona. The college and hospice, centred on Germany’s national church, was founded in 1350 and contained the bones of the first German-born Pope, Adrian VI.

Wearing a clerical collar and soutane beneath his jacket, the Italian betrayed no sign of his true calling. Once he was sure that he was alone, he scaled the walls of the hospice and, using a floorplan given him by Father Visco, concealed himself on a ledge outside Rüttgers’ bathroom. It was midsummer and the hinged window was open, so there was no need for him to break in. It was also big enough to allow him to gain entry without having to contort himself. His feet would land on a small matt placed next to the basin. All he had to do was oil the hinges, using a tiny can of 3-in-One, to ensure they didn’t squeak. The bathtub, he noted with
satisfaction
, was located at the opposite end of the room, half concealed by an alcove that housed the toilet.

Rüttgers, he had been assured, liked to conclude each day with a bath, which he much preferred to the more usual shower. This evening, the cardinal was attending a function at the secretariat of the German Bishops Conference, on the Via della Conciliazione. He was expected home no later than eleven.

Franco sat down on the ledge outside the window and waited.

At nine minutes past eleven, he heard the bedroom door open. A minute after that, the cardinal – at least he assumed it was the cardinal – entered the bathroom, used the toilet and began to run the bath. Then he left again, – presumably to get undressed.

Franco listened. Another five minutes went by until Rüttgers re-entered the bathroom and, in gingerly fashion, lowered himself into the bath. The Italian said a quiet prayer and stood up. Pushing slightly at the window, he was able to look in and see the German prelate lying back, eyes closed, totally relaxed.

I hope you are in communion with God
, Franco thought.
You will be meeting him soon
.

Checking that the ‘throat spray’ was in his pocket, the Mafia soldier removed his shoes, pushed open the window to its full extent and, one after the other, slid his legs over the sill. Seconds later, his feet touched down on the mat next to the basin. He had to move quickly now. If Rüttgers happened to turn round for any reason and call out, the result could be disastrous. He reached into his pocket and removed the spray. Reaching the bathtub in two measured strides, he reached down with his right forearm and caught his victim in a simple headlock.

The German’s eyes opened wide in shock and his mouth gaped. It was the work of a moment for the killer to direct the fast-acting poison down his throat that he had been told would precisely mimic the symptoms of a stroke. Rüttgers shook violently for several seconds. His faced reddened, then, abruptly, he slid down into the water and expired without a word, his face etched with pain. Franco released him, blessed himself and made his way back to the window and onto the college roof. Ten minutes later, as dusk fell, he lowered himself back down into the college courtyard and made his way via a side gate into the Via della Pace.

Closing the gate behind him, he turned round and walked headlong into a young man making his way thoughtfully in the direction of the Vatican.

‘
Mi scusi
,’ said Franco, extending a steadying hand. ‘I should watch where I’m going.’

‘
Prego, Padre
,’ said Liam Dempsey, on his way to see his uncle. ‘Don’t give it another thought.
Buona sera
.’

Franco smiled back warmly. ‘
Buona sera
, my son. And God bless you!’

It was all a question of organization. Seated in his private office in the Governorate, the Camerlengo ran his eyes once more down the list of names in front of him. The
papabile
were the cardinals deemed most likely to form the short list from which the next Pope would be chosen. There was an African, an American from Philadelphia, a Philippino and three from Latin America – a Brazilian, a Peruvian and a Mexican. The rest, inevitably, were European, half of them Italian. These were the ones that interested Bosani.

The trick, once the conclave began, was to see to it that his own inner core of candidates, just three in number, were kept constantly in the forefront of voters’ minds. This required that his associates – cardinals not themselves papabile but looking for preferment within the Curia – should know whom to nominate, whom to support and when to move on.

Bosani himself, acting alongside the former dean of the Sacred College, could not be seen to intervene directly on the day. Most of his work would be carried out in the run-up to the conclave. He had already ‘interviewed’ the three cardinals he judged most suitable and most likely to initiate conflict and was satisfied that all three would act under his direction. To this end, he had coached his various
associates
, including conservatives from Africa and the new Archbishop of Jakarta, about the signals he would give as voting got underway, involving mainly the way he raised his hand, or his eyebrow, or smiled or frowned. But it was mainly up to the Europeans, acting as a bloc, to ensure that the also-rans remained just that and that the radical challenge from Latin America was deflected. He had been preparing his people for months and was sure they would not let him down. An hour ago, Visco had informed him that the tally of cardinals on whose support he could count had risen to forty-seven. Just fourteen more names were required to ensure victory and he had no doubt that, one way or the other, these would be forthcoming.

The beauty of his case was that he was preaching overwhelmingly to the converted. European churchmen were deeply worried about the explosive growth of the Muslim population across the Continent. Every year that passed saw another rise in the percentage of Islamic voters. The number of mosques had increased by leaps and bounds, often at the expense of disused churches. At the same time, Muslims were more and more assertive, some even calling for the local imposition of sharia law and the establishment, in the fullness of time, of a continental
caliphate
. Priests felt themselves under pressure in the streets and exerted pressure in their turn on their bishops and archbishops to do something. Bosani was pressing at an open door.

He said a silent prayer, touching his fingertips to his forehead, mouth and heart. He had been a Muslim now for more than forty years, and until Rüttgers, no one had suspected him. It had been hard. Only a tiny handful within the faith knew of his true allegiance, which had meant long, lonely years without honours or recognition of his role. Only rarely had he been able to worship in a mosque. Not once had he been able to declare his faith in the open; never had he been free to take a bride. But soon,
insh’Allah,
he would gain his reward: nothing less than the beginning of the end of the Christian heresy. Concealed in the top drawer of his desk, next to a copy of the Bible, was a leather-bound volume of the Holy Qu’ran. Bosani opened the drawer, drew the book to his lips and kissed it. As he did so, his eyes met those of his illustrious predecessor, Cardinal Orazio Battista, whose portrait, by the artist Guido Reni, rescued from the Vatican’s secret archive, hung on the opposite wall. ‘I will not fail you, old friend,’ he whispered. ‘Your death will be avenged long before I join you in Paradise.’

A complex of thoughts swirled around his skull. Not everything was in place. His final incentive to the cardinal-electors to elect a militant Pope had yet to be agreed. It was for this reason that he had met secretly in the central mosque with Yilmaz Hakura, of Hizb ut-Tahrir, the banned Islamic Freedom Party. Hakura was an experienced operator, previously identified with Al-Qaeda. Until now, the actions he had organized in Europe were small in scale, intended as much to alert Muslims to their strength as to frighten Christians. But that would soon change.

It was because of Rüttgers’ mention of Hakura that Bosani had confirmed his instructions to Franco. The German was already a thorn in his side and an almost certain opponent in the conclave. But his suggestion, amounting almost to an accusation, that he, the Camerlengo, was in contact with a known terrorist was something that could not be tolerated. Too much was at stake. The era of
transformation
was at hand.

With Rüttgers out of the picture, a potent threat to his position would be removed and the electoral pieces could be left to tumble into place. He replaced the Qu’ran on the side table and picked up instead a well-thumbed copy of the Hadith. The Prophet – peace be upon him – could not have been more clear. The unbelievers in the new order would be given every opportunity to turn to the true faith. If Europe heeded Allah’s message, they could choose to embrace Islam and enter eternity. Alternatively, they could pay the
jizya
tax and continue to worship in their own way. But should they refuse to accept the primacy of Islam, then they would pay with their lives and achieve only damnation. This was not his will, it was the will of God.

Bosani did not regard himself as an extremist. He believed himself to be a realist, assisting Europe to achieve its salvation. It was his most sincere wish that the unbelievers should repent their sins and commit themselves to Islam, in which case a way would be opened for them – for prayer and charity,
salat
and
zakat
, were among the Five Pillars. But as a realist, he knew that the revolution for which he had worked all his adult life would only be achieved by way of armed Jihad. Europeans prided themselves in their smug conviction that since the defeat of Hitler and the rise of the EU, they had risen above mass conflict. They were wrong. All that was needed was the right cause, the right man and the right sequence of events. To this end, a militant pope was essential – one who, under the direction of his faithful secretary of state, backed by the Curia, would urge European
governments
and the general population to drive out Muslims, or confine them to
ghettoes
, like the Jews of old. Such a pope, believing Catholicism to be the manifest will of God, would quickly incur the righteous wrath of Islam. Muslims across the Continent would rise up, to be struck down by sectarian mobs, supported by the police and the armed forces of thirty nations. In response, liberals would demand the pope’s abdication and a new policy of integration, thus playing into the hands of the extremists on both sides, neither of whom would embrace compromise. It would be at this point that Iran, Iraq and Saudi Arabia would declare
themselves
the protectors of Europe’s Muslim people, withholding oil from the EU and pouring money and volunteers into the cause. Finally, it would be the Turks, 90 million strong and guardians for 1200 years of Isamic power, who would come to the aid of their brothers and sisters. In the fighting that followed, many thousands would die. The result, however, was assured – ordained by Allah and proclaimed by His Prophet. America might wish to intervene, but would be deterred by its own internal unrest and the real threat of a nuclear response. Truly, it would be the end of history. The last pope – the Antichrist – would die in despair in the Castel Sant’Angelo, watching as his empire crumbled into dust.