The Devil Will Come

TWENTY-NINE

ZAZO WATCHED THE Cardinals in rows of two walk slowly through the Sala Regia flanked by an honor detail of Swiss Guards. He swallowed hard. It was other-worldly to be seeing this play out on TV. He should have been there. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Lorenzo in the background and wondered how he was holding up.

Zazo’s father was puttering about the apartment in an agitated state, unable to go to the university, unable to pick up his Goldbach notebook. By turns he stared out the windows and at the phone as if he could will his daughters to materialize. Zazo tried to get him to eat but he wouldn’t.

Both of them jumped when Zazo’s mobile rang. He answered immediately and shook his head quickly to signal that it wasn’t Micaela or Elisabetta.

He listened and said, ‘Omar, you’re the best. I swear to you that you won’t get in trouble for this.’ Then he clicked off and sat down at his father’s computer.

‘Who was that?’ his father asked.

‘One of my friends in IT at the Vatican. He’s emailing me a file of phone records.’

‘Whose records?’

‘This morning I found out that in 2005 Bruno Ottinger placed a call to a private residence in the Vatican. Matthias Hackel, the man who’s currently second in command of the Swiss Guards, used to live there. I asked for Hackel’s phone logs.’

‘What does this have to do with Micaela and Elisabetta?’ Carlo asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But it’s curious, isn’t it? Why is a man like Ottinger communicating with a Swiss Guard? Anyway, I’d rather follow my nose than sit like a lump. I don’t trust the Polizia to be doing anything productive.’

His father agreed and hovered over his shoulder while Zazo opened Omar’s email and sent the attachment to the printer.

The printer was still churning out fifty pages. Zazo grabbed a sheaf and groaned, ‘This guy made a lot of calls.’

‘What are we looking for?’ Carlo asked.

‘I’m not sure. Patterns. Frequently dialed numbers.’ He pulled out the Ottinger logs and unfolded them. ‘Maybe any calls to third parties common to the two sets of logs.’

At the sight of dense rows of phone numbers, Carlo perked up. He pulled the pages from his son’s hand. ‘You go make me some toast and leave the numbers to me.’

*

The somber procession of Cardinals in scarlet and white seemed to fascinate Krek.

They were chanting the hymn Veni Creator Spiritus.

Veni, creator Spiritus

mentes tuorum visita,

imple superna gratia,

quae tu creasti pectora.

Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blest,

And in our hearts take up Thy rest;

Come with Thy grace and heavenly aid,

To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.

‘Please tell me why you’re doing this!’ Elisabetta asked Krak desperately.

He looked heavenward in a wry sign of cooperation, then muted the TV’s volume so he wouldn’t have to compete with it.

‘Nine hundred years ago, one of us, a great astrologer and visionary, made a prophecy.’

‘Malachy,’ she said.

‘Yes! Malachy. More cleverness from my nun. For us, this prophecy has been like a beacon and as one of the proud leaders of my people it has been my personal responsibility to use my resources to make sure it is fulfilled.’

‘To destroy the Church,’ she said sadly.

‘Yes, of course. This has always been our strongest desire.’

‘Malachy said the world would end. You want that too?’

‘Look,’ Krek said. ‘I enjoy my life. I’m very comfortable as you can see. But this is something that has been anticipated for a very long time. I say, destroy the Church. That much I can help to accomplish. Whether the world ends too because of my actions, well, we’ll just have to see.’

Elisabetta shook her head. ‘It’s despicable.’

Krek stood and liberally stoked his fire as if he wanted a backdrop of leaping flames. If that was his intention, then it achieved its dramatic effect. As he stood in front of the fireplace it appeared to Elisabetta as if he were emerging from an inferno.

‘Despicable?’ His voice rose, ‘How is your Catholic dogma so different? You speak of a Final Judgment Day. The day the world as we know it ends, no? Your version has Christ returning, mine does not. That’s the principal difference.’

‘In the Last Judgment there will be different fates for the good and evil. That’s what the Church teaches,’ Elisabetta said, fighting to match his anger with gentleness.

‘Believe me,’ Krek said, settling back down, ‘I have no interest in debating your theology. I welcome the perceived differences. Religious discord has always been a source of bounty for us.’

She felt sick. ‘You say you want to destroy the Church. Toward what end? What do you want?’

‘Our credo?’ he ejaculated contemptuously. ‘Our raison d’être? We’re interested in the dark beauty of power, wealth, domination. Fighting the Church has always enriched us. Every conflict brings opportunities. Wars make us rich – and, besides, they’re quite enjoyable.’

‘You get pleasure from human suffering?’

Krek set his jaw. ‘Personally, yes, especially the suffering of sanctimonious religious zealots, but maybe I’m a little extreme in this regard. Most of my brethren are more businesslike in their attitudes.’

‘You’re psychopaths.’

He laughed. ‘Labels again. You know, I’m an educated man. I’ve read and studied all my life. I understand the meaning of this term. Look, we are what we are just as you are what you are. I like to think we’re more evolved, more specialized, more efficient. We’re not hindered by emotionality and I believe that’s a strength. If you want to use the term “psychopath”, then go ahead. How should I label you?’

She was wrong-footed by the way he’d turned the tables. It took several moments for her to compose her thoughts. ‘I’m a woman of faith. I believe in God. I always believed in Him, from my earliest childhood memories. I believe in goodness and the power of redemption. When people suffer, I suffer. I am a servant of God. I suppose that’s my label. It defines me and it makes me happy.’

Krek glanced at the television to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, then replied, ‘Yes, but becoming a nun is a big step, no? No more parties. No more sex, I suppose. No more freedom to do whatever the hell you want to do when you want to do it. Why did you do it?’

He knows why, she thought. She wasn’t going to give him the sadistic satisfaction of spelling it out for him. She wasn’t going to say, you did it, you bastard! Your thugs put a knife in my chest. They snuffed out the life of the man I loved. You made me suffer as much as a person can suffer. My only salvation lay in a total commitment to Christ.

Instead, she said, ‘I can thank you for it. I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude.’

Krek found this amusing and clapped like a seal. Then he pointed at the TV. ‘Look!’ he said like an excited child. ‘They’re closing the door!’

Hackel and his underling Gerhardt Glauser were among the plain-clothes Swiss Guards trailing the procession, mostly men who had provided close security for the deceased Pope. When the last of the conclavists had passed through the great portal of the Sala Regia into the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Franconi, the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations, was the one to close the heavy door. Hackel knew there was a ritual to be performed before the door was locked from the inside but as far as he was concerned the game was almost done.

A contingent of Guards in ceremonial costume took their place in front of the closed door. Hackel and Glauser saluted them, then Glauser said, ‘Can I talk to you?’

The two men walked away from the prying lenses of the videographers and stood beside Agresti’s fresco of Peter of Aragon offering his kingdom to Pope Innocent III. The vaulted ceiling of the Sala Regia amplified sounds so Glauser bent to whisper into Hackel’s ear. ‘One of them, Giaccone, is sick. He’s still in the Domus.’

Hackel looked alarmed. ‘Why wasn’t I told of this?’ he whispered back angrily.

‘I’m telling you now,’ Glauser replied. ‘We’ve got it covered. I put two men on him. The Gendarmes are there as well. When they send a messenger for his ballot, we’ll shadow him too.’

‘Does Oberst Sonnenberg know?

‘I’m not sure. Not from me, anyway. I follow the chain of command.’

Hackel shot back, ‘You stay here.’

‘Where are you going?’ Glauser asked.

‘To the Domus to check personally on Giaccone’s security.’

‘I apologize for the delay in informing you, Oberstleutnant. I didn’t think it was such a big deal.’

Hackel stomped off in a huff. One stray lamb. He’d pay a visit to Cardinal Giaccone and take care of him properly.

Carlo Celestino was hunched over the dining-room table, his reading glasses low on his nose. He was circling phone numbers with his pencil and grumbling. ‘I wish you hadn’t marked up Ottinger’s records. It’s interfering with the system I’m using.’

‘There’s nothing I can do about it,’ Zazo said wearily. ‘Find anything?’

Carlo flipped through Hackel’s log and muttered, ‘This is the kind of thing a computer could do in a nanosecond. Maybe it’s not surprising that most of the out-of-country calls of a Swiss Guard are to Switzerland. Probably family, but that’s for you to figure out. Ottinger may have called Hackel’s number but Hackel doesn’t seem to have called Ottinger. Wait a second, here’s a funny one. Hackel made a few calls to a 386 number. Didn’t I see that exchange in Ottinger’s records?’ He checked the Ottinger files. ‘I knew it! 929295. Hackel and Ottinger both called this number.’

‘Let me see,’ Zazo said, reaching for the Ottinger pages. ‘Christ, I called it this morning!’

‘Who was it?’

‘They said it was a private line and hung up.’

‘Where is it?’

Zazo was already on the computer, looking up the code. ‘It’s in Slovenia, the Bled region. It’s not far from the Italian border. I’m going to call the Slovenian National Police in Ljubljana and ask them to do a reverse look-up. We’ve got to find out who lives there.’