The Devil Will Come

TWENTY-ONE

EVEN THOUGH IT was a full day before the Conclave and only six in the morning, St Peter’s Square was buzzing with eager pilgrims and an assemblage of international journalists setting up their first shots of the day.

Zazo made a detour from his usual route from the Gendarmerie parking lot to the Tribunal Palace so he could pass through the square and check his men who had been on the night shift. Except for a drunken tourist who’d wandered through at two AM making a ruckus, all was reportedly peaceful.

At 6:30 there was a joint meeting of officers of the Gendarmerie and Swiss Guards. For the sake of harmony the venue of these meetings had alternated between the Tribunal Palace and the Garrison of the Guards. At the podium were Inspector General Loreti and his counterpart, Oberst Franz Sonnenberg. Standing behind them, at ease, were their vice-commandants, Sergio Russo for the Gendarmerie and Mathias Hackel for the Guards.

Zazo and Lorenzo sat together. A row behind them, Major Glauser of the Guards deliberately bumped the back of Zazo’s chair with his boot. ‘It’s time for the big game, Celestino. Are you guys going to be ready?’ he said with his usual condescending tone.

Zazo glowered back and said nothing. ‘I’m ready to kick his ass,’ he whispered to Lorenzo.

‘Did you get a look at his suit?’ Lorenzo asked.

‘It was probably half-price because of his half-size,’ Zazo said.

Loreti tapped the microphone. ‘Okay, gentlemen, let’s begin. I welcome Oberst Sonnenberg and his men to our home for the final group briefing before the Conclave begins. You are all aware of our modus operandi: we leave nothing to chance. Nothing. Everything is planned to the minute and there will be no deviations. This morning we will review the order of events for tomorrow, Day One. After Day One, the final length of the Conclave is clearly out of our hands, but each day will have the same schedule until there is a new Pope. Then the post-Conclave program of events will begin and that too is planned to the minute, without any possible deviations. The security of the Cardinals, the new Pope, the Holy See, the employees and the world’s visitors to the Vatican depend on our strict observance of the joint security plan. Everything must run as precisely as Oberst Sonnenberg’s wristwatch.’

Amidst small guffaws at Loreti’s quip, Mathias Hackel took the microphone. He was a head taller than the others and as broad as the podium. From his stern look and his tight lips it was clear that he had no intention of warming up the audience with a joke.

He pressed the remote control and called up the first PowerPoint slide. ‘Here is the program for Day One,’ he began. ‘We will go over it now in detail. I will expect every officer to ensure that each of his men will have their precise assignments perfectly understood. The Swiss Guards will do their jobs. The Gendarmerie Corps will do their jobs. There will be faultless command and control. The entire world will be watching and we must be perfect.’

Zazo turned to his printed presentation and worked hard to concentrate. He knew the details by heart and Hackel’s monotone only made him aware how early he’d woken that morning.

8:45 AM. Buses arrive to transport Cardinal Electors from the Domus Sanctae Marthae to the Basilica for the Pro Eligendo Romano Pontifice, the Mass for the Election of the Roman Pontiff.

9:15 AM. Beginning of Mass.

10:15 AM. Conclusion of Mass.

10:30 AM. Buses back to Guest House.

12:00 PM. Private lunch for Cardinals at Guest House.

3:00 PM. Buses arrive to transport Cardinal Electors from Guest House to the Hall of Blessings in the Basilica.

3:30 PM. Procession from Hall of Blessings to Sistine Chapel.

4:00 PM. Doors of Sistine Chapel locked. Conclave begins.

7:00 PM. First ballot slips burned in chimney of Sistine Chapel.

7:15 PM. Buses from Sistine Chapel to Guest House.

With Hackel’s bloodless briefing done, Zazo and Lorenzo went for a quick coffee and headed to their office. They had only a few minutes before mustering their platoons but Zazo glanced at his inbox and clicked hopefully on an email from Interpol.

He was stunned that they had responded so quickly but when he began to read the message he understood.

Aldo Vani’s fingerprints had lit up Interpol’s computers like a Christmas tree.

Under the name Hugo Moreti – wanted in Switzerland for assault.

Under the name Luis Crea – wanted in Spain for rape.

Under the name Hans Beckmann – wanted in Germany for an explosives charge and murder.

Vani was quite the international criminal.

In the fax, Interpol asked for Vani’s Italian police file and death certificate to enable them to close the pending cases, and by attachment they were providing, with compliments, the requested German telephone records of Bruno Ottinger from 2005–6. The only item that gave Zazo pause was a query at the end of the message as to why the Vatican Gendarmerie Corps was involved in the case.

Before grabbing his cap and running off to meet with his men, Zazo sent the phone records to his printer, doubtful whether he’d have time to do more than run them off and take them with him before the Conclave was over. He stuffed the printed sheets into his leather jacket.

There was a steady stream of Cardinals coming and going from the Domus to various appointments around Vatican City. Ordinarily they’d have been allowed to roam freely, accompanied only by aides, but security was tight and each one required at least one Gendarme to shadow him. Zazo was at the Domus after lunch, adjusting to an ever-shifting appointment schedule, when his mobile rang. It was Inspector Loreti’s office. He needed to report immediately.

‘I’m up to my eyeballs,’ he told Loreti’s assistant. ‘This had better be important.’

Loreti saw him straight away; he didn’t look happy. He asked Zazo to sit. He did, his hat in his lap.

‘I got a call from Interpol,’ Loreti said flatly.

‘Look, Inspector …’

Loreti shut him up angrily. ‘I didn’t ask you to speak. Apparently you’ve been making inquiries on behalf of the Vatican about the man you shot. They wanted to know what business this was of our Corps. It’s a good question. Tell me, Major, what business is this of the Gendarmerie Corps? Now you may speak.’

‘My sister was almost killed,’ Zazo exclaimed. ‘She was a Vatican employee at the time, assigned to the Pontifical Commission of Sacred Archeology. And besides, the Polizia don’t have a clue. They’re bungling the case.’

Loreti took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly. Zazo looked like he pretty much knew what was going to come out of his mouth. ‘I’ve heard some ridiculous excuses for inappropriate behavior in my day, but coming from one of my top officers this is one for the record books. Here are some facts: number one, the crime took place outside Vatican City and is therefore not in our jurisdiction. Number two, the Polizia did not request our assistance. Number three, you were a principal at the crime scene. You shot and killed the assailant. One does not investigate one’s own involvement in a crime. And number four, in case you didn’t know it, the Conclave begins tomorrow. This kind of distraction from your duties in unacceptable.’

Zazo nodded like a chastened schoolboy. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. This involves my sister. Perhaps you would have done the same thing if your sister was attacked this way. But I should at least have talked to you and gotten your permission.’

‘I would have said no!’

‘That would have been the end of it, I suppose. I accept your criticisms and I’ll accept, of course, whatever sanctions you choose to impose.’

‘Well, that’s good. You’re not going to like it, your comrades are not going to like it and I don’t like it, but I have no choice. You’ll be taken before a tribunal to answer for your actions and until then you’re relieved of duty, effective immediately.’

‘But Inspector! The Conclave! My men!’

‘I’m going to give Lorenzo temporary command of your men. He’s going to have to work double and thank you for it. I can’t risk having a seriously distracted officer such as yourself responsible for the lives of the Cardinal Electors and the next Pope. You are dismissed, Major.’

Lorenzo found him sitting disconsolately at his desk, staring out the window.

‘Christ, Zazo,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry. I screwed up.’

‘I would have done the same thing if it were my sister. What are you going to do now?’

Zazo shrugged miserably. ‘Go home? Go to a bar? Watch you do my job on television? Hell, Lorenzo, I don’t know.’

Lorenzo patted him on the shoulder and walked him out.

Near the parking lot Zazo ran into Glauser who was looking particularly smug. ‘Hey, Zazo, I heard what happened,’ he called out. ‘Next time I see you, if they ever let you back, you’ll have to salute because we won’t be the same rank.’

‘Hey, Glauser,’ Zazo replied. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

A tall priest with ghostly skin accompanied by a pretty young nun entered the Tower through the Porta di Santa Anna. They were challenged instantly by two Swiss Guards.

Father Tremblay showed his identification card and when the Guards questioned Elisabetta he said, ‘The Sister is with me.’ The guards asked again and this time Tremblay said louder, ‘I said, the Sister is with me!’

The guards let them pass.

‘It’s the Conclave,’ Tremblay whispered to her. ‘Everyone’s on edge.’

They passed through an enormous pair of brass doors adorned with a bas-relief of Old Testament scenes.

They were in the Tower of the Winds.

‘Welcome to the Secret Archives,’ Tremblay said, leading Elisabetta up a narrow winding staircase.

She followed on his heels but had to pull up abruptly when he stopped partway up the staircase, breathing heavily and wheezing audibly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s my condition. I’m not very fit.’ He kept talking, apparently giving himself a chance to catch his breath. ‘The tower was built by Ottaviano Mascherino between 1578 and 1580 as an observatory. If we had more time I’d give you a tour. Higher up, the Hall of the Meridian is covered in frescoes depicting the four winds. There’s a tiny hole high in one of the walls. At midday the sun shines through the hole and falls along a white marble meridian line set into the floor. On either side of the line are various astrological and astronomical symbols once used to try to calculate the effect of the wind upon the stars.’

‘I’d very much like to see that one day,’ Elisabetta said.

Tremblay was composing himself and breathing more easily now. ‘In the seventeenth century, under the orders of Pope Paul V, the Secret Archives were separated from the Vatican Library and remained absolutely closed to outsiders until 1881, when Pope Leo XIII opened them to researchers. The Archive, you see, is the central repository for all of the acts promulgated by the Holy See: state papers, correspondence, papal account books, and many other documents that the church has accumulated over the centuries. Researchers have to apply for access with specific document requests. They can do a search in the Index Room and documents are brought to them by the staff. Officially, no one is allowed to simply browse.’

From the way he said that Elisabetta added, ‘But you can, right?’

He started climbing again. ‘Yes. I am allowed.’ He stopped on the landing and opened a door. ‘Come. The Index Room and the librarians are next to the Old Study Room.’

The Old Study Room had canary-yellow walls and a high vaulted ceiling. Life-size statues of saints were set into niches in the walls. Large windows overlooked the Vatican Gardens. There were row after row of white laminate desks with gooseneck reading lights and power plugs for computers. All the desks were empty.

‘It’s closed,’ Tremblay said. ‘Because of the Conclave.’

The Index Room, also devoid of people, was lined with card catalogs and computer terminals. Tremblay knocked on a door with the nameplate of the Head Librarian and a woman in her fifties wearing heavy make-up responded.

She greeted him warmly. ‘Father Tremblay! How nice to see you.’

‘Signorina Mattera,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you without notice. I’d like to introduce a colleague to you, Sister Elisabetta.’

The woman politely nodded to her. ‘How can I help you, Father?’

‘We need to find any material you might have on a woman named Flavia Celestino. She was an academic researcher who was given access to the Archive in the 1980s.’

‘Well, I might be able to find her in the logs, but the information on researchers is usually very sparse.’

‘Would there be a record of the documents she requested?’ Tremblay asked.

‘Possibly, but usually not.’

‘Well, anything you can find would be helpful,’ the priest said.

Tremblay and Elisabetta waited in the Old Study Room at a table with a view of the garden which was showing the first exuberance of spring greenery. The new Pope would have a lovely place for respite.

‘May I ask you a question?’ Tremblay said.

‘Of course.’

‘Why did you become a nun?’

Elisabetta smiled but countered with ‘Why did you become a priest?’

‘Me first, eh?’ he laughed. ‘Okay. For me it was easy. I was an altar boy. I was comfortable in the Church. In college I was awkward. I never fit in so well. Well, maybe I would have been fine in an office doing accountancy, but I was never going to have a social life. I mean, my condition, the way I look. Women were scared of me so celibacy wasn’t the biggest sacrifice, I suppose.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I’m wondering, Father, if you’ve asked other nuns why they’d entered the clergy?’

‘No, never.’

‘Why me?’

He hesitated then blurted it out. ‘Because you’re so beautiful. When a beautiful woman becomes a nun, I imagine the sacrifices are greater and the commitment to God is proportionately greater too.’

Elisabetta felt her cheeks flush. ‘It’s a complicated question. Was I running from something? Was I running toward something? My faith is deep and I think that’s the important thing for me.’

‘It’s a good answer.’

The clipping of heels against the stone-tiled floor signaled the return of the librarian. She had an index card in her hand. ‘It’s most unusual, but it seems this researcher has her own file. I can’t imagine why but here’s the accession number. Do you want me to have it brought to you?’

Tremblay took the card and inspected it. ‘No, I’ll find it myself.’ He said to Elisabetta, ‘We’re going to the basement.’

Descending was easier for him and Tremblay was able to make it down several flights of stairs without stopping. The subterranean archives, excavated some thirty years earlier, was vast, stretching under the full length of the Vatican Museum. Unlike the Tower of the Winds with its breathtaking frescoes and dark wooden cabinets containing older, more precious material, the basement had the look of an industrial site. There were some eighty kilometers of file cases – metal, beige, utilitarian – laid out on concrete floors beneath a low concrete ceiling. The priest told her that insiders called it the Gallery of Metallic Shelves.

Tremblay looked at the card’s file number and said, ‘It’s a good thing nuns wear sensible shoes.’

They walked for several minutes through the seemingly endless grid of shelving. Elisabetta felt a strange association. It was like being in some kind of latter-day catacombs. In the past bones were revered. Now it was paper.

‘Many of these files,’ Tremblay said, ‘are more “secret” than the documents in the Tower of the Winds. Officially, there’s the hundred-year rule that keeps most of the Vatican’s correspondence and documents closed for one hundred years, to protect them from being released to the public during the lifetime of those concerned. From a practical standpoint, everything later than 1939 is strictly off-limits.’

‘But not for you,’ Elisabetta said.

‘I have no restrictions.’ He checked the numbering on the cases. ‘I think we’re close.’

They finally came to a halt in the middle of a row. Tremblay used his finger to pick out the numbers on each pale yellow file box.

‘This one,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s helpful to be tall.’ He reached high above his head and wriggled a box free. ‘It’s a long way back to the Reading Room. Do you mind if we just look at it here?’

The box was almost empty; it contained only a dozen or so loose papers. Tremblay removed them, put the box at his feet and held the papers so that both of them could see.

The first page was a typed letter on University of Rome letterhead dated 12 June 1982.

Elisabetta’s mother’s signature was bold and confident, written with an italic-nibbed fountain pen. It brought tears to Elisabetta’s eyes but she sniffed hard once and stifled her sobs.

‘It’s her letter asking for permission to use the Archives,’ Elisabetta said, reading it quickly. ‘It’s on the subject of her book, Pope Pius’s excommunication of Queen Elizabeth.’

Tremblay put the letter at the back of the stack.

There were other, similar letters, requesting readmittance to do further searches. One of the letters summarized the documents she had already reviewed: Regnans in Excelsis, the Papal Bull of 1570 excommunicating Elizabeth, Queen of England for heresy; a letter from Matthew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury to Pope Pius V (1571); a letter from Edmund Grindal, Archbishop of Canterbury to Pope Gregory XIII (1580); a Papal Bull of 1580, Pope Gregory XIII’s Clarification of the Regnans in Excelsis; a letter from the Papal Nuncio in France to Pope Clement VIII informing him of the death of Elizabeth (1603).

Tremblay looked to see if Elisabetta had finished, then turned to the next page.

It was Flavia’s cover letter dated late 1984, referencing the gift of her book on the excommunication of Elizabeth to the Vatican Library.

Then another letter, this one dated 22 April 1985 to the Chief Archivist asking to return to do research for her second book. Flavia wrote: ‘In the course of doing work on my Queen Elizabeth book, I happened upon an interesting correspondence between the English mathematician and astronomer John Dee, and Ottaviano Mascherino, the astronomer who built the Tower of the Winds. I would like to search the Archives for further letters between the two astronomers to elaborate on my hypothesis that, while the religious schism between Rome and England was absolute, there was nevertheless vigorous and persistent scientific and cultural intercourse among the luminaries of the day.’

‘Did you know of this?’ Tremblay asked.

‘No. Nothing.’

The next page caused Elisabetta to inhale sharply.

It was a memo to the file from the Chief Archivist, dated 17 May 1985, withdrawing Flavia Celestino’s Archive privileges. It asserted that she had obtained unauthorized access to File Box 197741-3821 and that her notes had been confiscated.

‘This seems suspicious,’ Tremblay said. ‘She could only have received files specifically requested. As I said, there’s no browsing allowed.’

A lined piece of notebook paper was stapled to the memo. It was in Flavia’s distinctive italic.

‘Her notes!’ Elisabetta said.

The notations were sparse:

Letter from Dee to Mascherino, 1577:

Brotherhood

Common Cause

‘When I am observing the full eclipse of the moon on 27 September from London, I take heart in knowing you will be gazing on the same sight from Rome, dear brother.’ Lemures

‘My God!’ Tremblay exclaimed. ‘She found direct evidence. I’ve never seen this letter she refers to. Come with me. The file box that’s referenced – ones with these numbers are up on the Diplomatic Floor with the older documents.’

‘Wait,’ Elisabetta said. ‘We’re not finished.’

There were two more sheets in Flavia’s file.

The first was a memo to the file from a physician, Dr Giuseppe Falcone, addressed to no one but marked ‘Hand-delivered, 6 June 1985.’

On the request of the Vatican I examined the patient, Flavia Celestino, who is under the care of Dr Motta at the Gemelli Hospital. She is in serious condition with diarrhea, vomiting, anemia, liver and kidney dysfunction and periods of disorientation. My differential diagnosis includes hemolytic uremic syndrome, viral encephalomyelopathy, amyloidosis, and intoxication with heavy metals or arsenic. The latter would have to be my leading suspicion. I have spoken with Dr Motta. He informs me the arsenic and toxicology tests are negative and while surprised I have to accept what he says. I believe he has considered all relevant possibilities but at this stage there seems to be little to be done for her.

‘She was poisoned,’ Elisabetta whispered. Now she made no attempt to staunch her tears and Tremblay looked on impotently.

The last page was a copy of the death certificate, dated 10 June 1985, listing Flavia’s cause of death as kidney and liver failure and noting that a post-mortem was not requested by the coroner.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tremblay said, touching her hand. ‘But we have to find the Dee letter.’

He placed the file box back in its place and with long strides backtracked rapidly toward the Tower. Elisabetta followed, her body and mind so numb that she could hardly feel her feet against the floor.

Going up the stairs, Tremblay cursed his weak constitution but forced himself to keep going until they’d reached the second floor of the Tower. At the landing Elisabetta was worried that he might pass out from air-hunger.

‘It’s this way,’ he gasped.

Here in the Archive of the Secretariat of State, they passed through room after room of seventeenth-century walnut cabinets. Tremblay had written the file number on a scrap of paper and he referred to it as he searched the rooms. He finally found it, high up. Facing the tall library ladder he said, ‘I’m so puffed out I don’t trust myself.’

Elisabetta climbed the ladder and pulled open the door he was pointing at. He called out the file number to her. She found the box.

After climbing down she laid the file on top of one of the low cabinets in the center of the room and let Tremblay open the box.

It was full of parchments tied in a ribbon, all from the sixteenth century.

With a practiced eye he scanned the Latin, French, English and German scripts, looking for the one he wanted. Two-thirds of the way through the pile he stopped dead at a modern sheet of paper with a handwritten note in ballpoint ink.

1577 Letter from John Dee to Ottaviano Mascherino, removed to a personal collection. Signed, R.A. 17 May 1985

‘Who is R.A?’ Elisabetta asked.

Tremblay shook his head sadly. ‘I have no idea, but by God I’m going to find out. Let’s go. There’s nothing more for us to do here. I have work to do. I’ll contact you as soon as I have something. Please, say nothing of this to anyone.’

The phone rang in the librarian’s office.

‘This is Signorina Mattera in the Secret Archives. Yes, Your Excellency. Thank you for getting back to me. I wanted to inform you that Father Tremblay requested access to a red-flagged file today. It was regarding a woman who did research here in the 1980s, a Flavia Celestino. Yes, Your Excellency, per protocol, he was granted access and now, per protocol, I have duly informed you.’