The Mazovia Legacy (21 page)

Delaney was still leaning toward UOP, but he was less sure this sort of action would have been ordered by Walesa himself or even by his own office. If a small CSIS operation could go badly out of control, so, quite easily, could a small Polish operation. And, as the Americans in particular could attest from bitter experience, operatives often go far beyond their brief in the heat of the moment, or when things get more interesting or more lucrative for them in their own right. As for the Vatican, Delaney was not naïve enough to think that side would take the soft option either, depending on what was at stake.

He had Natalia tell him once more, and then again, exactly what Zbigniew had told her the day he died and what the letters indicated was in the secret Polish cache still somewhere in Quebec. And then he came no closer to even an educated guess about the content or the value of the cache or about what those seeking it would want it for.

Money? Probably a fair bit of money, or something convertible to money. But which of the possible players would need it that bad? Walesa, possibly, to finance his faltering election campaign? Or maybe a nice little retirement fund for himself? Walesa's own people, just out of greed? His security service people, for similar reasons? Polish Communists, or former Communists as they now liked to be called? Maybe the Vatican? Not penniless by any stretch of the imagination. But maybe very interested in keeping whatever it was out of the hands of those in Poland who needed it more than they did.

Or maybe, and this was the thought that troubled Delaney most, maybe everyone was desperately seeking this so-called treasure without knowing quite what it was at all.

“Zbigniew said it probably has everything that motivates people,” Natalia said as they made the final approach to Rome. “Money, power, and symbolism.”

“What if it's none of the above?” Delaney said.

“Then it is still a symbol. Then the joke is on us,” Natalia said with a dark laugh. “Then the joke's on us.”

This thought seemed to cheer her in some way. She gave another little manic laugh. Delaney wondered if she really was all right.

“You know, I've never been to Rome,” she said suddenly. “Jungians have a thing about Rome.”

“How do you mean?”

“Jung himself never even made it to Rome. He was probably the best psychologist of religion ever. He travelled all over the world to speak to holy people and see sacred sites, but he could never get himself to Rome. Every time he went to the Zurich train station to buy a ticket he'd have an anxiety attack and faint dead away. He said the archetypal intensity of the place was just too much for his psyche to deal with.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. “The stress was just too much for him, poor dear.”

This sent Natalia into another short burst of dark laughter.

The other obvious problem they now faced was how to do anything at all in Rome or anywhere else without CSIS and possibly several other intelligence services on to their every move. Hilferty was nowhere obvious at Fiumicino airport, but that didn't mean his people, and others, were not there. As Delaney and Natalia came out through the customs area, a dark-suited man with a chauffeur's cap stepped forward without hesitation and called out to them by name. They were known here, apparently. Hilferty had told them to expect a ride.

The accent was Italian, but their man did not look much like a chauffeur to Delaney.

“I am to bring you to your hotel,” the man said. He didn't offer them a name. He picked up their small bags and walked fast to the curb outside, where a large black Lancia was idling. The driver looked quickly, expertly, from side to side as he shepherded them into the car and Delaney saw him give a sign to someone standing by another Lancia nearby.

Another dark-suited man in sunglasses was waiting in the front passenger seat of the car Delaney and Natalia were to ride in. This man only nodded, and he didn't bother talking at all.

The two cars pulled off together. This made for a very secure ride through Roman traffic to the hotel Delaney had chosen. Hilferty had wanted to book them in somewhere approved, but Delaney had insisted on making the choice: the Hotel Roma near the Spanish Steps. He had been there many times and now, more than ever, he wanted at least the semblance of familiar turf.

It was to be a late-afternoon meeting, or so the handwritten message on Vatican stationery told them after they checked in, with one Monsignor Rafael Fiorentino, Prefect of the Pontifical Household. It would be in the papal apartments themselves. A car was to come for them at four o'clock. If he had had any doubts, Delaney knew now that the Vatican was seeing this as very serious business indeed. But CSIS was still nowhere in evidence. Delaney wondered at what point Hilferty and Company would make their presence felt, if they were going to be allowed to have any presence here at all.

Natalia did not want to go out, even though it was wonderfully warm and sunny, as afternoons in Rome in early March can be. The weather was much warmer than in Paris and the streets around the hotel were full of well-dressed people enjoying the spring. Instead of going out, they ordered a room service lunch and ate together on the balcony of Natalia's room, which overlooked an elegant inner courtyard with fountains and gravel paths. It was still adjoining rooms for them on this trip. Delaney allowed himself, briefly, to wonder how much longer that might last.

They talked quietly about what was in store for them, squinting at each other in the bright sunlight on the balcony. Neither wanted to drink wine with lunch, to the surprise of the room service clerk: Delaney because he wanted to have wits about him for the meeting that was to come; Natalia for some complex penitent reasons of her own. But in the sunlight and the spring air even a bottle of mineral water in brilliant crystal glasses seemed a small celebration.

Delaney had thought, briefly, about contacting an American journalist he knew to be working at the local AP office, to check things out, to find out at least a little bit about Monsignor Fiorentino if he could. But he realized that his old ways of doing things, his constant checking in and checking out, his briefings and debriefings and scanning of clippings, were not useful anymore. Not on this assignment in any case. So he just let things flow, sipping his mineral water in the Roman sunlight and willing, as perhaps never before in his life, to simply see where things led. His reactions would look after themselves. They would have to.

The telephone in Delaney's room rang precisely at four o'clock. The car was downstairs. Same driver, different car. No second man in the front seat this time, but another car for back-up, as before. The desk clerks looked keenly interested. Was it so obvious that they were being ferried around Rome by agents, that they were on the way to the Vatican for a meeting with the Papal Prefect?

The ride was silent.There was nothing for any of them to say. The car eventually rolled up beside the high walls of the Vatican, past St. Peter's Square, where even on a weekday afternoon there were crowds of tourists, photographers, and hawkers of souvenirs. At a giant iron gate in a back wall they drove onto the grounds and pulled up on a cobbled parking area. A small squad of Swiss guards, ridiculous in their ballooning uniforms, marched past.

The real security here was much more discreet. The driver and a man in a dark suit, who came out to the car, politely helped them through a checkpoint just inside some double oak doors. The entrance was dim and slightly damp. There was an airport-style metal detector, and an X-ray machine for the bags.

No Browning pistols to be discovered on this visit, so they were through and following their two escorts up wide ancient stairs to a first-floor landing that was covered in what looked to Delaney like Persian carpet. Tapestries lined the walls. Yet another man in a Vatican-issue dark-blue suit rose from behind a tiny table to greet them. They would find that Monsignor Fiorentino was the first of their hosts to be in clerical robes.

Fiorentino came down the wide hallway after a few minutes. He was in a very black, very priestly cassock, with purple sash and purple skullcap. He was also wearing what looked suspiciously like a pair of Gucci loafers, but the long robe allowed just glimpses. He appeared to be in his late fifties. He was of medium height, but was clearly vigorous, with broad shoulders, leathery skin, and a very pronounced hook in his nose. It could have been broken years ago, or maybe it was just an unfortunate family trait; Delaney wasn't sure.

Fiorentino's eyes and teeth, however, were his most striking features.The eyes were grey. Not bluegrey or blue, but pearl grey, and a little too reptilian for comfort. He had a row of tiny prehistoric teeth, quite yellow, which he bared occasionally, not so much in a smile but as a display to any other predators in the immediate area. Delaney could see that he was a survivor: of Catholic Church bureaucracies, of Vatican
realpolitik,
of God knows what intrigues that had made him Prefect of the Pontifical Household for a Polish Pope.

“Thank-you, thank-you. Welcome, thank-you for coming,” Fiorentino said. His English was Italian-accented but excellent. “Signora Janovski, Signore Delaney, welcome. Please. Come inside.”

He ushered them into a cramped but elegant office just off the hallway. His small desk was something antique dealers in any major city would kill for, as were the fixtures and bookshelves and assorted other Vatican trappings. The effect was spoiled by the three too-large Italian telephones on his desk, with wires trailing down into too-large wall plugs. An assistant materialized with a tray of coffee and some plates of hard sugary biscuits. Fiorentino was Italian enough to fail to ask them if they drank coffee.The door was closed.Their host watched intently as they fiddled briefly with tiny cups and spoons. An intricate gilded clock ticked steadily on a sideboard. But not much time was wasted after that.

“Your government tells us that you are involved in some matters that are of interest to us,” Fiorentino said. “A fascinating story, apparently, concerning the war and the country where His Holiness was born. You as a journalist, Signore Delaney. And you, Signora Janovski, because of a family connection.”

Fiorentino looked at Natalia and waited for her to reply. But she had the faraway look in her eyes that Delaney now knew came when she had been listening to two conversations at once — one outer, the other inner.

“That's right,” Natalia said. She looked over at Delaney.

Fiorentino could not miss this conspirator's glance. He now looked at Delaney and waited for a reply from him.

“I'm surprised, Monsignor Fiorentino,” Delaney said, “that my country is taking such a keen interest in our activities.”

He very much doubted Fiorentino's version of who had first told what to whom.

“Your work is well known in Canada, Mr. Delaney,” Fiorentino said. “And elsewhere. Signora Janovski's, I'm afraid, somewhat less so.”

“I'm also surprised that my government would go to the trouble of informing other governments what a Canadian journalist or another Canadian citizen are doing with their time,” Delaney said. “Some other governments might do that, perhaps. But not ours. Not usually.”

Fiorentino looked closely at Delaney, seeking signs.

“Oh, we all do little services for each other from time to time, as you know,” he said. “That is what governments are supposed to do. Little services for their people, and, from time to time, for other governments. I am sure you would be familiar with all of that. I have had a look at your list of publications, Mr. Delaney. You are no stranger to international diplomacy.”

International games-playing,
Delaney thought. “I take it this matter is quite important to you, Monsignor Fiorentino,” Delaney said, “or you would not have flown us down here for this little conversation.”

“Quite important to some of us here, yes. To me personally, perhaps not. But then we have had to put our personal interests aside, many of us here, as you can imagine. Could you do that for us as well, Signore Delaney, do you think? Signora Janovski?” The reptilian teeth were bared briefly. “That depends,” Delaney said. “Why would we have to do that in this case?”

“You do not have to do anything, Mr. Delaney. We were simply wondering, many of us here, and people at the highest possible levels, if you understand my implication, if in the course of your investigation of what I am told is a fascinating story you may not have come across some information or some items that may be of interest to us here in the Vatican.”

“What story do you think I'm working on, Monsignor Fiorentino?” Delaney asked.

“You surprise me, a little, Mr. Delaney. I was led to expect I would not have to play such games with you in our discussions. That you are experienced enough and intelligent enough to spare us this toand-fro.”

The rows of teeth.

“Well, Monsignor Fiorentino, how would this be?” Delaney said. “Why don't you ask me directly what you want to know and we will see, Ms. Janovski and I, if we can help you. How would that be?”

Delaney suspected Fiorentino was a man who was accustomed to posing very direct questions, but only among his own people. For outsiders, questions would usually be indirect.

Natalia sat quietly watching them both. She showed no sign of wanting to do anything other than observe the interaction at this point.