The Devil Will Come

TWELVE

ELISABETTA FELT LIKE she was on a boat that had slipped its mooring line and drifted from the protected waters of a harbor into a vast chartless sea. It was the middle of the afternoon and though she was physically in a place she knew well she found herself in an utterly strange mental and spiritual state.

The bedroom had stayed unaltered from the day when Micaela had left for university. Elisabetta’s own bed had the same pink ruffled spread and satin pillowcases, faded by years of sunlight. Her school books were still there, a precocious mix of French philosophers, theologians and serious novels. Micaela’s bookcase was, in contrast, filled with such light fare – romances, pop magazines, teen advice books – that it seemed it might float away. Over Micaela’s bed was a Bon Jovi poster. Over Elisabetta’s was a poster of a beautiful stag with giant antlers, cave art from Lascaux.

Elisabetta lay on top of her bed, fully dressed in her habit but with her shoes kicked off. She couldn’t go back to the school or the convent because Zazo had forbidden it and had enlisted Elisabetta’s father, Micaela and even Sister Marilena in his crusade. Elisabetta was finally convinced by the argument that she might be putting students and nuns in danger if she stayed there.

She couldn’t go back to the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archeology because, for the first time in her life, she’d been suspended from a job. Her skin danced with anger at the very idea that De Stefano thought she might bear some responsibility for the looting.

And she couldn’t even pray in peace without becoming distracted and getting dragged into restless thoughts.

Disgusted, Elisabetta pushed herself up off the bed and put her shoes on. Defiantly, she decided that if she couldn’t resume her teaching she would continue with her other job, whether or not she remained on De Stefano’s staff. She thrust her chin forward truculently. She would continue out of intellectual curiosity. But there was something more urgent, wasn’t there? A deep notion was forming that she needed to understand what had gone on in the columbarium of St Callixtus.

For her own survival.

‘God protect me,’ she said out loud, then went to the kitchen to make herself coffee before settling down in the dining room to peruse some reference works.

There was a sound of a key in the door.

She looked up from her books and heard her father calling her name.

‘I’m here, Papa, in the dining room.’

Her books and papers were strewn across the dining-room table. She had used her father’s desktop computer in the sitting room to send an email from her private account to Professor Harris in Cambridge – not to cancel their meeting but to change the venue.

B holds the key.

She was midway through a modern copy of both texts of Faustus that she’d obtained from a bookstore near the Institute, making notes on a pad about the A text. Then she would tackle the B text, using the paperback and Ottinger’s original, looking not only for textual differences but for any marginalia that she might have missed previously.

Her father had finished work for the day. Neither of them was used to the other’s presence outside of a Sunday lunch.

‘How are you?’ he asked, lighting his pipe.

‘Angry.’

‘Good. I like anger better than forgiveness.’

‘They’re not mutually exclusive,’ Elisabetta said.

He grunted. The pipe went out. He reached for his pipe tool, retracted the long spike and methodically aerated the bowl. ‘I’ve got some tinned soup. Want some?’

‘Maybe later. I’ll make a proper meal tonight. How would that be?’

Carlo didn’t answer. Instead his eyes were drawn to the thing he most loved in the world – numbers.

Elisabetta had copied out the numbers from the Ulm tattoo onto an index card.

63 128 99 128 51 132 162 56 70

32 56 52 103 132 128 56 99

99 39 63 38 120 39 70

‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up the card.

‘It’s something to do with the project I was working on. It’s like a puzzle.’

‘I thought they told you to stop.’

‘They did.’

‘But you haven’t.’

‘No.’

‘Good girl!’ Carlo said approvingly. ‘A grid of twenty-four numbers, nine by eight by seven,’ he went on. ‘A numerical pattern isn’t leaping to mind. Can you give me some context?’

‘I’m not allowed to, Papa.’

‘You’ve told Micaela things. She told me you had.’

‘She shouldn’t have said anything,’ Elisabetta said.

‘She only told me that she was permitted to have some information. What it was, she didn’t say.’

‘Good. Because, like me, she signed a confidentiality document with the Vatican.’

‘And last night you told Zazo some things. Did he sign a document too?’

Elisabetta looked up guiltily. ‘I shouldn’t have told him but I was scared. I suppose I did what they accused me of doing. Divulging Vatican secrets.’

‘Nonsense. Zazo is your brother and a Vatican policeman. It’s almost like talking to a doctor or a lawyer or even a priest. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Zazo is hardly a priest.’

‘Well, talking to your father is closer. There’s a sacred bond between a father and a daughter, don’t you think?’

‘In a way, yes,’ she agreed.

‘I know I wasn’t a substitute for your mother but I did my best. It wasn’t easy having a university job and raising the three of you.’

‘I know, Papa. We all know that.’

‘Tell me something. When you were young, were there things you wouldn’t tell me that you would’ve told your mother?’

‘I’m sure there were.’

‘Like what?’

‘Girl things, woman things, but never anything too important. You were always there for me and you were always strong. We felt your strength.’

‘Well, after the pounding they’ve been giving me at the University I’m not feeling so strong but I appreciate your saying that.’ Carlo frowned. ‘You know I didn’t want you to become a nun, don’t you?’

‘Of course. You weren’t shy about telling me.’

‘It seemed like you were retreating. A retreat from your life. You’d had a big trauma but I wanted you to be like the American cowboys who get back on their saddles and ride out to fight another day. But instead you ran to the Church and hid. Are you mad at me for saying it?’

‘I’m not mad, papa, but you’re wrong. In my mind it wasn’t a retreat. It was a bold step toward a better life.’

‘Look at the way you’re treated.’

‘I’m treated fine. I’m treated like the other Sisters.’

‘What about today?’

‘You don’t think this kind of thing can happen in academia? Look at how they’re treating you – like a pair of worn-out shoes.’

Carlo looked hurt and Elisabetta regretted the remark the moment it left her lips.

‘I’m sorry, Papa, I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. Injustices are everywhere. But if you must know, my biggest regret is not seeing you with children. You would have been a fantastic mother.’

She sighed. ‘If I tell you about these numbers, if I tell you everything, do you promise to speak to no one about it.’

‘What about Micaela and Zazo?’

Elisabetta laughed. ‘You’re negotiating with me. Okay, Micaela and Zazo, but only if I’m there too.’

‘All right,’ Carlo said. ‘Let’s try to solve your puzzle.’

Elisabetta had to admit that she took a good bit of pleasure in the intimacy of that evening, a father and daughter alone with one another for the first time in many years. She made his favorite dish, ravioli stuffed with goat’s cheese, and while she cooked, he smoked, read Marlowe and filled several lined pages with notes and mathematical ideas. As they dined, they happily discussed the pact that Faustus had made with the Devil. They drank wine – Elisabetta half a glass, Carlo the rest of the bottle.

She thought he’d drunk more than his limit but he insisted on bringing out a bottle of grappa and having two glasses while she cleared the table. For years she’d only seen him for Sunday lunches and she really had no idea whether he’d become a heavy drinker. When his speech slurred, Elisabetta moved him to the sitting room and when he dozed in his chair she woke him gently, saw him off to his bedroom and started on the dishes with a new set of worries on her mind.

The Gendarmerie operations center was a well-appointed modern room of video monitors providing real-time feeds of strategic locations around Vatican City. Zazo was huddled in one corner with the two other men of his rank, Lorenzo and a fellow a few years their senior named Capozzoli.

Zazo pointed at the monitor that showed the entrance to the Domus Sanctae Marthae. ‘What’s the current census? Do you know, Cappy?’

Capozzoli checked his small notebook. ‘As of six tonight there were twenty-six Cardinals checked in.’

Lorenzo’s men were in charge of airport pickup and delivery. ‘I’ve got seven more coming in tonight.’

Zazo nodded. ‘Tomorrow’s T-minus-two for the Conclave start. It’s going to be a ball-buster.’

‘We’ve got fifty-eight red-hats arriving tomorrow,’ Lorenzo said.

‘Christ …’ Capozzoli said.

‘Christ is right,’ Zazo agreed. ‘I’ve had a couple of minor skirmishes with the Guards. Either of you had any problems?’

‘They’ve been up my butt all day,’ Lorenzo said, ‘but nothing I can’t handle.’

‘We swept the Domus for bugs and bombs this afternoon and we’ll keep doing it daily until our final sweep the night before the Conclave,’ Zazo said. ‘Are the Guards on the same schedule for the Sistine Chapel, Cappy?’

‘That’s what I understand,’ he answered. ‘They’ve been cagey about it.’

Zazo swiped the air in disgust. ‘We already invited them to observe our last sweep of the Domus. I’ll be damned if I’m not going to participate in their last sweep of the Chapel.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Lorenzo said.

Micaela picked at her tray of food. The cafeteria wasn’t bad for a hospital but her boyfriend was blunting her normally exuberant appetite.

‘Why won’t you come with me?’ she asked Arturo.

Everything about Arturo was oversized: his hands, his nose, his girth and even, as Micaela liked to tease him, his ‘baby-maker’. There was a lot that she liked about him, including the way he could pick her up like a doll, but there were more than a few things she would have changed if she’d had half the chance.

‘I had a tough day. Three emergencies, a long clinic. I’m wrecked.’

‘All I want you to do is stop off with me to see Elisabetta at my father’s place. I’m worried about her. We won’t stay for more than a few minutes.’

‘I know how these things go,’ he moaned. ‘A few minutes turns into an hour.’

Micaela pursed her lips angrily and her fierce look made Arturo flinch. ‘You don’t like my sister, do you?’

‘I like her fine.’

‘No, you don’t. Why? What’s she ever done to you.’

Arturo moved some peas around his plate. ‘When I was in school, the nuns beat the crap out of me. I guess it’s transference.’

‘Oh come on!’ Micaela said. ‘A big strong man like you afraid of what my poor little sister represents to your fragile psyche!’

‘You’re not being sensitive,’ Arturo complained. ‘Where’s your bedside manner?’

Micaela stood up and grabbed her shoulder bag. ‘You’re coming with me or you’re sleeping by yourself for the next thirty years. There’s your bedside manner!’

Elisabetta was immersed in Faustus when her father’s phone rang. She would have let it go but didn’t want him to be awoken. To her surprise, it was for her.

‘Elisabetta, it’s Professor De Stefano.’ His voice sounded thin, squeezed.

‘Professor!’

‘I called over to the convent. They were reluctant to give out your contact number but I told your Sister Marilena that it was urgent.’

‘What’s wrong? You don’t sound yourself,’ she said.

There was a pause. ‘Stress of the day. Not to mention how badly I feel for dismissing you.’

‘It was tough being on the receiving end.’

‘Will you forgive me?’ Elisabetta was struck by his strange pleading tone.

‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘I’m good at that.’

‘I need you to come over to my apartment straight away,’ he said suddenly. ‘You’re back on the job. I have important new information to discuss. I think I know what the message means – B is the key.’

‘Tonight?’ she asked, looking through the dark windows.

‘Yes, tonight,’ De Stefano said hastily. There was another pause. ‘And bring your copy of the Faustus book.’ He gave her his address and hung up abruptly.

Micaela rang the apartment’s buzzer several times, then used her spare key to let herself in. Inside the apartment the lights were on but no one had been answering her calls. Elisabetta’s bedroom was empty, her father’s door shut.

She poked her head into her father’s room and heard snoring coming from the darkness.

Arturo tapped her on the shoulder and she shut the door behind her quietly.

‘There’s a note from Elisabetta on the dining-room table,’ he said.

It was on a piece of note paper, in Elisabetta’s neat handwriting:

I know Zazo told me not to leave the apartment but I had an urgent call to see Prof. De Stefano at his flat at 14 Via Premuda. I’ll be fine. Will be back before 11. Elisabetta.

‘I’m calling Zazo,’ Micaela said, fishing through her bag for her mobile phone.

Zazo flipped his phone shut and looked at his watch. ‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered.

‘What’s up?’ Lorenzo asked. They were walking together through one of the Vatican staff parking lots.

‘Besides my father, my sister Elisabetta’s the smartest Celestino but sometimes she’s so dumb. I’ve got to run over to the Via Premuda. It’ll take me five minutes to get there. I’ll be back in fifteen and we can finish up for the night.’

The taxi driver was held up by some road-repair works that doubled the duration of the ride. Despite carrying a nun as a fare, he insisted on cursing and making lewd gestures out the window most of the way.

He left Elisabetta in front of a smart apartment block clad in pink limestone with freshly painted green window shutters. De Stefano was listed on the first floor. She was quickly buzzed in and walked up one flight to his apartment. She used the small brass knocker and waited.

The door opened too rapidly for politeness.

A man stood there but it wasn’t De Stefano.

She recognized his blank face immediately. It was the telephone-booth man, her attacker from long ago, and, she realized in an instant, the man who’d broken into the convent. He had a gun.

Before Elisabetta could do more than let out a horrified gasp he grabbed a handful of her habit and pulled her inside.

Zazo pressed the buzzer for De Stefano’s apartment and when he didn’t get a reply he pressed all the apartments’ buzzers simultaneously until someone buzzed him through.

When he got to the top of the stairs there was the briefest vision down the hall of black cloth disappearing through a door. Then the door slammed hard.

Zazo drew his SIG from his holster, pulled back the slide to chamber a round and tried to steady his shaking hands.

Elisabetta was on her knees, thrown to the ground by the violent jerk of the man’s arm. The copy of the Faustus book fell from her bag onto the tiles.

She saw through to the sitting room. De Stefano was on the floor, blood oozing from an eye.

She looked up. The man was holding his arm out. He was aiming a pistol at the top of her head.

It was happening too fast – not even enough time to think the name of the Lord.

There was a loud crash.

Zazo’s boot crashed through the lock plate, splintering wood and throwing the door open.

The explosions were so thunderous that Elizabetta wouldn’t be able to hear properly for a week. Zazo fired eight rounds in five seconds. Years of simulator training kicked in automatically: aim for center mass. Keep firing until empty. Expel the spent magazine and slide in the spare.

Elisabetta’s pearly-white vest was stained red with the man’s arterial blood. Her ears rang so loudly that her own screams seemed far away.

The only thing she was able to focus on was an exceedingly small detail.

A glistening drop of blood clung to the cover of the Faustus book, then slowly soaked itself into the porous leather.