The Third Revelation (19 page)

“Did you meet him in Rome?”

“Now, Vincent, it was sudden but not in that way. I have known this man for ages. He is the art historian who catalogued my collection.”

“And screwed up your computer?”

“So you do remember.”

Zelda obviously didn't want him to think that she had married on a sudden impulse, but at the same time he was to understand how impossibly romantic the whole thing was.

“Gabriel Faust,” she answered when he asked her husband's name. “Dr. Gabriel Faust. But what were you doing in Rome?”

“Nothing so interesting as getting married. So what does Dr. Gabriel Faust do?”

She began to whisper. “Nothing is settled yet, but there is a possibility that he will become director of a new foundation being set up by Ignatius Hannan.”

“Tell me more.”

“That's all there is for now.” She was still whispering. “Nothing may come of it. Gabriel hates to be tied down.”

It's a small world. Smaller than Zelda knew. Faust was the one who had sold her a Delacroix that was actually hanging in a museum in Cincinnati, Traeger had learned from a man Dortmund put him onto. So he sought and found Gabriel Faust's web page and flicked through the pages of accomplishments and claims to greatness. He went back to the opening page and studied the pensive picture of the art historian. So he had gone back to Dortmund.

“What has art forgery got to do with those murders in the Vatican?”

“Nothing. It's just a little tangent.” He thought of telling Dortmund how the widow of their former colleague had been taken, but what the hell. Zelda loved the picture, and the one she had was real enough. He had continued to pursue the tangent, indirectly, calling in a few favors he had accumulated over the years. That is how he learned of Faust's connection with Inagaki. And there the matter might have rested if Zelda hadn't given him the surprising news of her marriage to the shady art historian. That was bad enough, but when she mentioned the possibility that Faust might be taken on by Hannan to run the new foundation, he realized he would have answered Dortmund's question differently. Maybe art forgery was connected with those murders in the Vatican, or would be.

Traeger flew home, drove to Empedocles, and, representing himself for what he was, a computer consultant, got past the guard, a phone call having been made. No doubt they had checked and found that he was indeed a customer. He was greeted by an affable type named Ray Sinclair who offered to show him around before Traeger went off to speak to the technical people. It was in the main building of the enterprise that they ran into Brendan Crowe.

“Hello, Father,” Traeger said, advancing on the priest with his hand out.

“You know one another?” Sinclair cried, delighted.

Crowe hesitated before taking Traeger's hand, as if he understood they were enacting a little scenario. No need to make a public fuss of the fact that Crowe had gotten out of Rome just when the third secret of Fatima showed up missing from the archives over which Crowe was now acting director.

“We go way back,” Traeger said heartily. “We have catching up to do.”

Sinclair seemed happy enough to be relieved of his guide duties and sailed off over the polished marble floor.

“Where can we catch up?” Traeger said to Crowe.

“There's a lovely garden.”

It was a lovely garden, filled with dozens of species of flowers whose names Traeger did not know. There was a magnolia tree that wasn't doing well in this climate. Crowe led him to a bench and sat.

“I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you found me.”

“You left a pretty obvious trail.”

“Have you solved your problem in Rome?”

“A new one has arisen. But of course you know that. The third secret of Fatima is missing from the archives.”

Crowe lit a cigarette, enjoyed it for a moment, and then said, “Yes, I know.”

“Where is it?”

Crowe turned to him. “I have it with me.”

Traeger sat back. “Can I have one of those?”

Crowe shook a cigarette free and Traeger took it. He had taken to drinking again in Rome, and now he was lighting his first cigarette in years. Crowe had surprised him. He surprised him more by being far more forthcoming than he had ever been before. The cigarette tasted awful, but it gave him something to do while Crowe told him of coming upon the famous document on a bedside table in Cardinal Maguire's suite.

“If that is what the assassin was after, he could have had it easily,” Crowe said.

“But you surprised him before he got inside the villa.”

“That's true.”

“Why didn't you return it to the archives?”

Crowe said, “I think you know why.”

“Tell me what I know.”

“The assassin must have had inside help. You spoke of a mole. I haven't told you this before, but the Russian ambassador said something to me that suggested he thought the same thing. He asked if I were the one or must he wait for another. The question was put to Jesus by the disciples of John the Baptist.”

“He thought you were the mole?” Traeger asked.

“You did, too, didn't you?” Crowe put out the cigarette.

Traeger said, “Chekovsky was interested in the file on the attempted assassination of John Paul II.”

“They're connected.”

“Through the third secret?”

“Yes. Would you care for another?”

Traeger shook his head. “I remember enjoying smoking.”

“It's like running. Painful at first, but it becomes pleasurable.”

“You run and smoke, too?”

“Not at the same time.”

“You say you have the file with you. Where?”

“In my briefcase,” Crowe said. “In my room.”

“Why not on the bedside table?”

“I've thought of that. Not that I was particularly worried until you showed up. I will ask Mr. Hannan to put it in a safe place. A safe.”

“Here you are!” someone cried.

It was Father John Burke, wearing a cassock. His smile slowly dimmed when he realized he was interrupting. Crowe stood and Traeger did, too.

“They're looking for you,” Father Burke said. To Crowe. “The art historian has arrived and Mr. Hannan wants your opinion of him.” He looked questioningly at Traeger.

“I'm in the computer business,” he said, and to Crowe, “Should I come along?”

“Of course.”

Crowe introduced Traeger as a friend from Rome, and Hannan asked him to come along to the conference room.

“Vincent!” Zelda cried when they came in, coming to Traeger and throwing her arms about him. Gabriel Faust watched this with an enigmatic expression. Hannan was delighted that Zelda knew Traeger.

“She's married,” he said, sounding almost as relieved by the news as Traeger himself had been.

“This is Gabriel,” Zelda said triumphantly, beckoning him forward.

“Hello, Doctor.”

“One uses academic titles as sparingly as possible.”

“Doctor,” Hannan repeated approvingly, and Laura directed his attention to the materials she had put on the table. “Good. That sounds impressive. Let's get started.” He pushed the materials toward Crowe. “Everybody seems to know everybody.”

“This is Heather Adams,” Laura said, indicating the third woman in the room. She smiled serenely and took her seat.

During the next half hour, Traeger decided that Crowe asked questions better than he answered them. Crowe went through Faust's credentials and asked about the various fellowships and commissions he had had.

“And some academic experience as well?”

“More than enough.”

Hannan liked that and gave an account of his own truncated college career. Faust seemed unsure that he appreciated the parallel. As the interview continued, Traeger felt like God, knowing so much more about Faust than the others were likely to find out. But when Hannan mentioned the list of paintings that Crowe had made for him, adding that he had been persuaded that he was unlikely to be able to buy them, he asked Faust what he thought of the idea of having copies made. Faust thought a moment before nodding.

“There are computer-made copies now. I wouldn't recommend that. There are artists who can make copies infinitely better than such mechanical ones.”

Traeger waited for Faust to mention Inagaki, but he didn't. This turn in the conversation put Traeger at ease. There was seemingly no need to make known to Crowe Faust's experience with the kind of copies he was recommending. He half expected Crowe to show that he somehow knew about Faust and Inagaki, but no allusion was made. It seemed merely a happy conjunction of a credentialed art historian and an art forger with a track record they needn't know about. When the interview was over and Hannan and Sinclair took Faust aside to talk money, Crowe came over to Traeger.

“I'll bring it here now,” he said.

Traeger stirred, but Crowe put his hand on his shoulder.

“It will only take a few minutes.”

 

 

Laura brought in coffee and she and Heather served it. “Laura tells me you and Father Crowe are saying Mass here,” she said when she handed John Burke his cup.

“That's right.”

“Would you mind if I attended?”

Struck by her manner, the young priest rose to talk with her. Traeger looked at his watch. The conference between Hannan and Sinclair and Gabriel Faust seemed to be going well. Zelda pretended not to be keeping an eye on the three of them. Ten minutes had gone by and still Crowe had not returned. Traeger interrupted Father Burke.

“Where are you and Father Crowe staying?”

“There is a residence for guests.”

“Show me where it is.”

Burke seemed surprised by the abruptness of the question. Heather said, “I'll show you.”

Traeger followed her along the path, through the garden, past the bench where he and Crowe had talked. The door of the residence building was unlocked. Heather, who had taken out some keys, seemed surprised. They went in.

“Father Crowe was assigned 2B.”

The door of 2B was open. Traeger looked in, put out an arm to prevent Heather from coming in, and went to the bed where Father Crowe lay on his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A knife was plunged into his chest.

Heather screamed.

Traeger turned. “Get Laura. Get Sinclair. Just bring them. Don't say why.”

She was staring with horror at the body. Then she composed herself and, surprisingly, made the sign of the cross over the body of Brendan Crowe.

The briefcase was on the desk.

It was empty.

PART II

CHAPTER ONE

He vamoosed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having sent Heather to spread the alarm and having discovered that Brendan Crowe's briefcase no longer contained Sister Lucia's handwritten account of the secrets of Fatima, Traeger did what both training and inclination prompted him to do. He vamoosed.

The situation was not one in which to become embroiled, not until he had some clearer notion as to what had happened.

He took Crowe's briefcase with him, on impulse, to make sure there wasn't some unzipped zipper that would refute his immediate judgment that the document was lost, and then he left.

When he came into the corridor, he realized that he had registered the layout of the residence building instinctively. If the one who killed Crowe had gone out of the building, it would have been onto the walkway he and Heather had just come along. No, he would have gone away from the main building where there were people who might see him fleeing.

Across the corridor from Crowe's suite was the door of another, and at the end of the corridor were the pale gray doors of an elevator. If an elevator, then a stairway. He ran toward the green exit sign beyond the elevator and pulled open the door. As it closed behind him, he stood very still. A stairway rose to the next floor, another descended. He looked up, he looked down. Then he began slowly to descend. He came to a metal door, put his hand on the stainless steel knob, and turned it slowly. He pulled. Locked. He turned and went up the stairs in great bounds, on up to the second floor. He came into a corridor like that below with an emergency exit at its end.

He emerged onto a balcony enclosed by a wrought iron railing. The rungs of a ladder were embedded in the walls of the building. He gripped the railing, looking over, and immediately pulled back his hand. It was sticky with blood. So this was the way the killer had escaped. He looked out over the luxuriant mown lawns, toward the road that led to the gate. He dropped the briefcase to the ground and went over the railing, handing himself down the rungs, conscious of his sticky hands, when he heard a car start. He stopped, still six feet above the ground, and turned.

His rental car was disappearing down the road toward the gate.

Traeger dropped to the ground and picked up the briefcase. Logic is an inexact science. The move from the known to the unknown is ever mysterious. Traeger was certain that it was the killer who was driving off in the car he had rented, in which he had driven here to Empedocles. The logical thing to do was to continue the pursuit. And now he knew what he was pursuing.

He came around the building, then stepped back when he saw a group running toward the residence hall. John Burke, Hannan, Sinclair, Laura. He gave them time to get inside the residence and then sprinted away toward the administration building. The parking lot was just in front of it. Once he got in among the parked cars, he could select a car and go after the killer. The killer and the missing third secret of Fatima.