The Chimera Sanction (8 page)

Lying naked in bed under the comfort of the duvet, Karen and Dulac watched the news on the hotel room’s TV. The raven-haired woman with the rectangular-rimmed glasses from France 2 went on impassively, as the camera focused on an ambulance near the entrance of a mosque … ‘there is fear of more reprisals for the Pope’s abduction, as in Bercy this evening eleven Islamic students were gunned down in the Al Fatih mosque. As of now, there are six confirmed dead, and two more are in critical condition. According to witnesses, four masked gunmen opened fire at the faithful while they prayed….’

The camera zoomed onto a white placard on the ground while she continued, ‘They left this warning at the entrance of the Mosque.’ The placard read: ‘For the Pope – we will return.’

‘Now it starts,’ said Dulac. Suddenly his cell rang. He leaned over the night table and grabbed it, recognizing the Questura’s number.

‘Dulac.’

‘Guadagni. The Italian border guards caught Aguar. He was trying to escape to Switzerland by train.’

Dulac sat up in the bed. ‘Guadagni, you’ve made my day. Where is he?’

‘He’s being shipped to the Questura Centrale as we speak. He should be here within the half-hour.’

‘Be there in a bit.’ Dulac hung up and turned to Karen. ‘They’ve caught Aguar.’

Dulac dressed quickly and put his laptop in the black, worn satchel. He turned to see the svelte honey-blonde stretch catlike in the bed, open her arms toward him, her eyes inviting, her lusting body bordering on the irresistible.

‘Wish I had time. Keep the engine running, Dr Dawson.’

‘Aren’t we a bit formal?’ said Karen, pouting slightly.

‘Surely you still enjoy the title.’

‘Not coming from you.’ She turned away and coiled up on her side in a prenatal curl. ‘Note taken.’

Dulac leaned over the bed, parted her hair slightly and kissed her on the back of the neck. He grabbed his laptop, headed for the lobby and ordered a taxi from the concierge. As he stood outside waiting, the crisp dusk air invaded his lungs briefly, reminding him of his craving for that delicious evening cigarette. ‘The Questura Centrale. On Piazza del Collegio Romano,’ he instructed the cabbie.

‘I know where it is,’ answered the driver, with an Italian hand gesture Dulac didn’t fully understand. Moments later, Dulac, laptop satchel slung over his shoulder, hustled up the worn limestone steps of Rome’s main police station, to see a smiling Guadagni standing proudly at the entrance. ‘One of the border guard dogs caught him just before he got to the triage yard fence. He’s in bad shape.’

Guadagni led Dulac past rows of cells, the recurring habitat of Rome’s finest, to the elevators at the end of the corridor. They took the elevator to the second floor and walked towards two guards standing in front of the door of a small cell. Upon seeing Guadagni, they snapped to attention. Guadagni acknowledged their salute with a curt nod.

Lying on his cot, the dark-complexioned man inside the cell sat up, his stare expressionless. Mecem Aguar was a short, heavyset man in his early forties. With his narrow brow, stubby nose, crew-cut graying hair and wide shoulders bursting out of his undersized brown sports jacket, he looked like an ageing football player turned sports commentator. His bloodied, bandaged hands and forearms bore testimony to the guard dog’s efficiency.

‘I’ve asked for the Vatican’s employee file on him,’ said Guadagni, as they stood in front of the cell.

‘Probably pretty thin, from what I’ve seen. I’ll work with Interpol’s.’

‘Well, there’s no need, since I’ll interrogate,’ said Guadagni peremptorily.

‘Don’t think so,’ said Dulac.

‘What do you mean? We have jurisdiction,’ said Guadagni, his tone rising to Dulac’s challenge.

Dulac smiled. ‘Not really. Read the Interpol-Italy Cooperation Agreement, section 23. Since the presumed crime is cross-border, Interpol has jurisdiction. You can witness my interrogation if you like.’

‘Listen, this is my jail, my turf. I do the questioning here.’ Guadagni stood four centimeters from Dulac’s face. The prison guards looked on, slightly embarrassed but ready to support Guadagni.

Dulac retreated slightly. ‘Fine. I’ll call my friend Paolo Nulti. You know, the Italian Minister of Justice. Haven’t talked to him in a while. Let’s see what he thinks.’ Dulac opened his cellphone.

Guadagni backed down. ‘Well, there’s no need to get all formal. We can work him together. Why don’t you loosen him up a little first, then I’ll go in for the kill.’

‘Good.’ Dulac smiled and closed his cell. Although he remembered hearing Nulti’s name in a recent Radio Roma interview criticizing the slowness and inefficiency of the Italian courts, he didn’t have the faintest idea what Paolo Nulti looked like.

Guadagni had one of the guards open the cell door and Dulac went in, followed by the guard.

The cell door closed behind them. Dulac pulled up the wooden chair next to the table, set his computer on it in front of Aguar and opened it. He scrolled down. ‘Ah. Here it is….’ After a moment, he raised his eyes to Aguar’s level. ‘Hello Mecem, or is it Hamir, or Dmitri, or Victor? You’re hard to keep up with, these days.’

Aguar sat expressionless on his cot, arms crossed, staring at Dulac from across the table. ‘How do you ass-fucking Turkish sons of whores get your jollies going after Popes? First it was John Paul II, and now this one?’

Aguar remained impassive, but from the corner of his eye Dulac saw Aguar’s right bandaged hand contract almost imperceptibly.

‘Just as I thought. You do understand English.’

Aguar brought his hands up and stretched. He reclined slightly and
reclosed his arms carefully over his barrel chest.

‘We know about the dobutamine, arbutamine and the gel. Quite imaginative, I must admit. And there’s the small matter of $200,000 USD you were carrying illegally across the border. What did you say that was for?’

Aguar remained expressionless and silent.

‘Of course, you didn’t say, did you?’ Dulac hardened his gaze and locked onto Aguar’s. ‘Next you’ll probably tell me you want to see your lawyer. Well, let me give you my take on this. It’s the only free legal opinion you’re ever going to get. The way I see it, assuming the Pope is still alive, you’re a conspirator to kidnapping. Not great, but it could get worse. If the Pope dies, you’re facing a murder charge in an Italian court.’

Dulac paused, his eyes still locked onto Aguar’s. ‘Not good, Mecem, definitely not good. You know the Italians. They can get pretty nasty when you attack their faith. Do you really want to play out that script?’

Aguar remained silent, impassive.

‘You cooperate with us now, give us your contacts, and you’ll save yourself a lot of prison pain, front and back, if you know what I mean. We get the judge onboard and the worst you’ll do is a couple of years in a cushy minimum security prison in Padua. Best deal you’ll ever get.’

Aguar stared, expressionless.

‘I see, still playing dumb. Up to you Mecem, but you know these people. You poisoned their Pope? Another Turk? Not a pretty picture. Yes, I know you’ll tell me you’re a dead man if you speak. I’ll admit it’s not an easy choice: rot away slowly in custody, or die quickly by the hand that hired you.’

Aguar’s head reclined in defiance. ‘You have no proof. I did nothing.’

‘Well, well. The dumb miraculously speaketh! But we do, you see, we do. Funny thing about latex gloves. Who would ever think we could pick up imprints on the inside? You did use latex gloves didn’t you, when handling the Pope’s glasses? Of course you did. You threw them away in the garbage can. You’ve got to give the Italian police credit for being meticulous. Dumb move, Mecem, dumb move. We have a 98% match on two of your fingers. But we have even better: there’s enough of your dried sweat on those latex gloves to do about 50 DNA tests. Any bets on the results?’

Aguar’s face reddened. ‘I admit nothing. I want to see a lawyer.’

‘Later. Later. You’ll be speaking to as many lawyers as you want. For the rest of your short life.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Dulac smiled and put his computer back into the satchel. He rose and signaled the guard to open the door. Looking at Guadagni he said, ‘Your turn.’

After a half hour of questioning before a bemused Dulac, Guadagni threw in the towel. Guadagni slammed the cell door behind him. ‘Thinks he’s tough. He hasn’t gone through a couple of all-night redeyes yet.’

‘Do I want to know what an all-night redeye is?’ said Dulac.

‘Probably not.’

They made their way down the corridor back toward the front desk. As they approached, loud voices could be heard coming from the front desk area. ‘That’ll be the bloody press,’ said Guadagni.’

‘Already?’

‘They saw the special escort vehicle outside. Like a pot of honey to a bear.’

‘Do they know he has anything to do with the Pope’s kidnapping?’

Guadagni glanced at Dulac. ‘Ha! Believe me, they know. Any bets?’

‘No bets. Your turf, remember?’ said Dulac, smiling. In an instant, the hungry horde had surrounded them.

‘What’s his name?’ asked a blonde woman reporter from Corriere Della Sera to Guadagni.

‘Dimitri. Or Victor. I forget,’ he answered.

‘Has he been charged?’

‘Not as of now.’

‘What is his role in the Pope’s kidnapping?’

‘Who says he has anything to do with that?’ said Guadagni, smiling.

‘Come on, inspector, we’re only doing our job. Where is he from?’

‘The middle-east,’ said Guadagni.

‘Do you believe the Pope is still alive?’ said the reporter from Giorno Napoli.

‘We have no reason to think otherwise.’

‘Will the Vatican give in to the ransom demand?’ said the Corriere woman.

‘You’ll have to ask them.’

‘So you’re no further ahead than yesterday?’ she replied.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘You don’t have to.’

Guadagni put up his right hand, indicating closure. ‘Ladies,
gentlemen
, that will be all for today.’

Still unshaven, the man put aside his cup of tepid coffee, rose from the wicker chair and walked to the veranda. He stretched and, arms akimbo, began his twenty torso rotations. His daily ritual finished, he reached into the water basin beside the bamboo separator and aspersed his face.

He looked up just as the sun broke over the mountains’ horizon. He walked over to the edge of the veranda, put his hands on the wooden railing and gazed into the distance. Engulfed in the folds of the valley below, the river snaked lazily along, its meanders of dull silver weaving through the green of the lush, sub-tropical forest. Below and to the left of the veranda, two guards were patrolling inside the barbed-wire
perimeter
of the compound. Except for their short, muted exchanges and the occasional crowing of a macaw, the jungle was quiet.

He took in deep breaths, absorbing the fresh morning air. The man looked at his watch. He left the veranda, walked through the salon and went downstairs to the closed circuit video conference room.

It was time. Time to speak to his ‘guest’ again, then to Vespoli.

The Pope sat uneasily, hands crossed in his lap, waiting for signs of life from the TV monitor. Finally the shadow appeared.

‘You wish to speak to me?’ inquired the video voice in an
electronically altered monotone.

‘Yes,’ said the pontiff, his voice firm. ‘I have a right to know why I’ve been brought here.’

‘You’ll find out in due course.’

‘Is it about money?’

The shadow didn’t answer.

‘Is it about the Church? About me?’

‘Partially.’

‘What, specifically?’ said the pontiff, trying to hide his growing discomfort caused by the impersonality of the voice.

‘Your arrogance, your lack of openness, your rigidity, your lack of vision, but most of all your hypocrisy. You should never have been elected Pope.’

The pontiff felt a surge of anxiety, and fidgeted with his tunic. ‘Why?’

‘You preach against genocide. You constantly denounce the regimes practising it. Do you remember your last condemnation?’

‘You mean the Mugabe regime?’

‘What right do you have to condemn others? After what you did? I quote to you John 8:7: ‘And Jesus said unto them: he that is without sin … let him cast a stone….’

The Pope felt the blood rush to his face. A throbbing constriction began to tighten the muscles and skin over his temples. His mind went numb. He feared he knew the answer to the question he was about to ask, but had to utter it.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have the diary.’

‘
Mio Dio!
’ The Pope put a hand to his mouth and felt his hand begin to shake. After a moment, he said meekly, ‘And … and what do you intend to do with it?’

‘That depends on the Curia.’

The shadow’s image dissolved and the monitor went blank.

Vespoli had just finished escorting the Pope back to his room and had hurried back to the video conference room, this time alone. It was time for their prescheduled video conference, and as he sat down in one of the plush velvet seats, Vespoli fought back the increasing panic with every fiber of his body. Little droplets of sweat were forming on his upper lip
and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He tried to calm his frayed nerves by closing his eyes, drawing a blank in his mind, and holding it. He hated the impersonality of the electronically altered voice and shadowed outline format of the transmission, but recognized the need for utmost safety precautions to hide the identity of the parties.

The monitor flickered to life. At the sound of the static, Vespoli jumped.

Gathering his wits, he said to the shadowed outline on the screen, ‘We have a problem, sir.’

‘Problem?’ answered the electronically-altered voice.

‘They’ve arrested Aguar.’

A long silence. Vespoli felt the muscles of his throat tighten.

‘Where is he?’

‘According to our contact, they’ve taken him to Rome, to the Questura Centrale.’

‘I trust you have an immediate solution to this problem,’ said the voice, dispassionate.

‘He was crossing the Swiss border and—’

‘Where is Umberto?’

‘Ah. We … we don’t know. He was to meet Aguar at the train station. He hasn’t reported in.’

‘Then you have two problems.’ The voice’s tone changed, more forceful.

Vespoli could feel the sweat running down from his armpits. Another long, oppressive silence. Vespoli heard the shadow inhaling and exhaling breaths through the electronic voice modifier. It sounded like the last rasps of a dying man.

‘What does Aguar know? How far up?’ said the voice.

‘Only to Umberto.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I swear.’

‘You’d better be right. I want this resolved quickly, Vespoli. Before I arrive in Switzerland tomorrow. Get Tomaso on it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t need to remind you that we’re on a very tight schedule.’

‘No, sir.’

‘No more screw-ups Vespoli, is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, sir. I’ll get Tomaso on it right now.’

The screen went blank. Vespoli rose from his seat and felt the
numbness
in his legs slowly dissipate. Raw, deep fear overtook him. He knew the man didn’t have a high tolerance for error, sometimes exacting a heavy price from those who had ventured beyond those limits. Vespoli knew he was at that threshold. He was responsible for all men under his command. Their errors were his. Damn that Aguar. Vespoli thought for a moment, searching for options. No, Tomaso had to be called. There was no other way.

Yet Vespoli still hesitated, fearing the call to Tomaso would also trigger his own death.