The Devil Will Come

THIRTY

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS and away from the prying eyes of the media the Cardinal Electors found their assigned places and stood somberly at their tables, hands folded. Three items were laid out before them: The Gospels, a simple plastic pen and a ballot slip.

Cardinal Diaz strode to the podium, surveyed his colleagues and looked upwards to Michelangelo’s magnificent ceiling. He focused on his favorite panel, The First Day of Creation, where God divides light from darkness, filled his chest and read out an oath in Latin. All those present would observe the procedures set down by the apostolic constitutions. If elected, they would defend the liberty of the Holy See. They would maintain secrecy and disregard any secular interests in voting.

When he was done, each Cardinal, one by one, touched the Gospels and simply stated, ‘I do so promise, pledge and swear.’

Diaz took his place at his desk and Cardinal Franconi slowly made his way to the door of the Sala Regia. He pushed it open and called out in a loud voice, ‘Extra omnes!’

Everyone but the Electors and conclavists were thereby ordered out. Several minor attendants dutifully left. Then Franconi closed the door behind them and slid the heavy bolt into place.

Hackel knocked on the door of Room 202 of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. The long hallway was empty.

Through the door, Giaccone asked who was there.

‘Oberstleutnant Hackel of the Swiss Guards.’

In a few moments the door opened. Giaccone was wearing a bathrobe and slippers. He looked pale, his face even more droopy than usual.

‘Oberstleutnant, how may I help you? Is everything all right?’

‘Your Excellency, I need to speak with you in private on a matter of great urgency. May I come in?’

Giaccone nodded, allowed Hackel to enter and closed the door.

‘So, now there is nothing more for us to see,’ Krek said, sitting down across from Elisabetta. The television coverage had shifted back to St Peter’s Square. ‘The Conclave has begun. We must wait. But not for too long, I think.’

There was a crystal whiskey decanter on the table. Krek twisted off the ground-glass top and poured himself a good measure.

Elisabetta watched him enjoy a mouthful. She didn’t know what, other than curiosity, then compelled her to ask, ‘Do you have them? The tattoos?’

‘Would you like to see?’

‘No!’

‘Pity. It’s been a tradition among us men since the late eighteenth century. Do you know what they stand for?’

‘Malachy is King. Hail Lemures,’ she said mechanically.

‘My goodness! How did you figure that out?’

‘A versus B. Your note to Ottinger with the book.’

‘I’m genuinely impressed!’ Krek knocked back another gulp of amber liquid. ‘It would really be great if you worked for me.’ He glanced at his watch and then at the television. He was drinking faster, becoming more voluble. ‘Marlowe was an important person, associating with the other great English Lemures of his day – Francis Walsingham, Robert Cecil, John Dee. His coded message became a rallying cry for us: Malachy is King! Hail Lemures! It was a prideful thing. The numbers became deeply meaningful. To wear them out of sight where only we would see … well, that was very special.’

Krek poured himself another whiskey.

‘And today you’re trying to turn Malachy into a reality.’

‘Since World War Two, just six popes ago, we began to get really focused on the prophecy and during John Paul II’s papacy the 9/11 attacks happened. So I and some of my colleagues got to thinking, let’s mobilize around this event and make sure that Malachy happens. And the radical Muslims made it so simple for us, with 9/11 and the rest. Just like that – the Crusades are back! And all we have to do is fan the flames a little. So we were completely ready to spring into action when this pope died – and he was kind enough to give us plenty of warning with his nice slow cancer.’

As he was talking, Elisabetta felt clammy. A nausea started in her gut and a bilious rush rose in her throat. Krek wasn’t looking at her anymore. His attention was fixed on the television.

‘So the two hundred and sixty-eighth pope will be the last one. An Islamist group will take credit for what happens today. It should set the stage perfectly for the greatest religious war in history. There will be fire – no, it will be more than fire. It will be a conflagration. We’ll watch it together, then have a little celebration.’

Zazo thanked the police officer in Ljubljana and put the phone down.

‘They gave it to you?’ his father asked.

‘No problem. I told them it was a Vatican emergency. It’s an unlisted number registered to someone named Damjan Krek.’

Carlo shrugged at the name.

Zazo did a search. ‘He’s a Slovenian billionaire. He owns a company that does construction, heavy equipment manufacturing, mining, that kind of thing.’ Zazo stood and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets. ‘So what’s a Slovenian businessman doing with a German professor with a tail and an officer of the Swiss Guards?’

‘K!’ Carlo exclaimed. ‘Krek could be the K who sent the book to Ottinger. This guy Hackel, I don’t know.’

Zazo picked up the phone again. ‘You speak German, right?’

His father nodded.

‘I’m calling Krek’s number. When it rings, say you’re Matthias Hackel calling for Krek.’

‘And if he picks up?’

‘Then I’ll take over, in English or Italian. I’ll tell him the Gendarmerie’s conducting a routine investigation. I’ll improvise.’

‘What’s this got to do with Micaela and Elisabetta?’

Zazo shook his head. ‘Maybe nothing, maybe everything.’ He put the phone on speaker mode and called Krek’s number.

When a man answered, Carlo identified himself as Oberstleutnant Hackel and asked for Krek.

There was a pause on the line and the man replied in German. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Hackel. You’re calling from a non-authorized line. I will have Mister Krek ring you back immediately on your authorized mobile number.’

The line went dead.

‘Damn!’ Zazo said, squeezing the back of his neck.

‘Now what?’ his father asked.

‘Something’s very wrong here. Krek’s at the center of this. I’m going to call the Slovenian police again and see if I can get them to send some men to his house.’

‘Looking for what?’

‘Micaela and Elisabetta.’

*

When Hackel left the Domus he avoided the crowds by passing behind the Basilica, the Sistine Chapel and the Palaces of Gregory XIII and Sixtus V to get to his flat. The route obliged him to skirt the Swiss Guards barracks. Just past them a voice boomed out, ‘Hackel!’ He recognized the caller’s voice, closed his eyes in frustration, and turned.

It was his superior, Oberst Sonnenberg, rushing out of the barracks with a squad of plain-clothes men.

‘Hackel, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the Chapel,’ Sonnenberg said.

Hackel turned and reversed his direction. ‘There was a report of suspicious activity outside the Church of Saint Pellegrino. I left Glauser for a short while to check it out.’

‘No, no, you must be mistaken,’ Sonnenberg insisted. ‘I’ve heard nothing of the sort. The problem is at the eastern entrance to St Peter’s, at the metal detectors. Someone tried to pass through with a gun. The Gendarmes have him but there may be a second man. Come with me.’

Hackel sputtered, searching in vain for an excuse to disobey. He sighed and followed along.

He hadn’t gone more than a few paces when he felt his phone vibrating in his pants pocket and pulled it out. It was Krek’s number. He had to take the call and fell back a few paces.

‘Yes?’

One of Krek’s men was on the line. Over the crowd noises from St Peter’s Square he heard, ‘Herr Krek is returning your call, Herr Hackel.’

Hackel slowed further to make sure he was out of Sonnenberg’s earshot. ‘I didn’t call him!’ Hackel declared.

‘I’m sorry? Just now – I took the call myself.’

‘Well, obviously it wasn’t me. What number was it from?’

‘I will send it to you by text, Herr Hackel, and inform Mister Krek of this irregularity.’

‘Do it right away. And tell him that I’m a little behind schedule but that all is well.’

Krek was on the phone, making no attempt to hide the conversation from Elisabetta. ‘Find out who made the call claiming to be Hackel and let me know immediately.’ He put the handset down hard and tossed another log on the fire. The heat was making his forehead glisten. ‘It seems we have a little more time,’ he said to Elisabetta. There was a huskiness in his voice. ‘Have a drink with me.’

‘I don’t drink,’ Elisabetta said.

‘I have some very good reds,’ Krek said. ‘You could pretend it was communion wine.’

‘No.’

‘Well, I’m having another.’

Elisabetta had never been so aware of her own heartbeat.

She couldn’t sit there any longer with this monster, waiting for some catastrophe to erupt.

She had to do something.

While he was pouring another whiskey she bolted toward one of the doors. Krek reacted quickly enough. He grabbed a fistful of her robe and twisted her down to the rug. When she tried to rise he hit her hard with his closed fist, striking her jaw.

Elisabetta’s head snapped back. The pain lasted only a second before her consciousness slipped away.

Zazo slammed the phone down.

‘No?’ his father asked.

‘They wouldn’t do it,’ Zazo said. ‘They routed me to the Deputy Head of the Slovenian State Police. He said that Krek was an important man and he wouldn’t send people out to his house on a whim. There was nothing I could say.’

‘What can we do, then?’

‘I’m going myself.’

‘To Slovenia? It’ll take you all day.’

‘Then I’d better get moving. I’m going back to my flat to get my car. Stay by the phone and call me if you hear anything.’

Micaela heard the cellar door creak open. Mulej was coming in. His jacket was off, his tie loosened. ‘I thought you’d be lonely,’ he said drunkenly.

She got off her cot. She’d already had a good look around for something that could serve as a weapon but there was nothing. No table lamps, no bed or table legs to pull off, no loose pieces of wood, not even a towel rack in the bathroom to wrench from the wall.

She was defenseless.

Mulej pointed at her with a fat finger. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered, shutting the door behind him.

‘What do you want?’ Micaela asked.

‘What do you think I want?’

He came closer.

‘There’s no way,’ she said defiantly.

Mulej didn’t seem concerned by her attitude. ‘Then I’ll shoot you. Krek doesn’t care. You’re no use to him. If you want to stay alive, you’ll cooperate. If not, then it’s not a problem for me.’ He patted his waistband. ‘What have I done with my gun?’ he slurred.

At that, she made a dash for the crates and began to scale them as Elisabetta had done.

Mulej watched in amusement. ‘What are you doing up there?’

‘Isn’t it obvious, you fat pig?’ she called down.

‘That’s hurtful,’ he said. ‘Come on down. Be more obliging.’

‘Screw you.’

‘If you don’t come down I’ll just have to get my gun and shoot you down.’

Micaela kept climbing. A wobbly crate shifted under her weight. She scrambled off it onto the highest one, the crate that Elisabetta had opened. She sat on it and glowered down at Mulej.

‘Okay,’ he said, unsteady on his feet. ‘I’ll be back and then I’ll shoot you.’

‘No!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t go!’

‘Why?’

‘Convince me to come down. Be nicer to me.’

He looked confused. ‘Nicer?’

‘Sure. Like a proper gentleman, not a fucking rapist!’

Micaela dug her heels against the wobbly crate and pushed off with all her strength. It creaked and slid and reached a tipping point.

Mulej watched in a drunken, soft-focused way, half grinning, hands on hips, suggesting either that he didn’t understand what was happening or that he thought he might be able to jump out of the way in the nick of time.

Gravity took hold of the crate. Perhaps its descent happened more quickly than he had anticipated.

His mouth opened to say something just before the crate struck him, pulverizing his face and crushing his big frame under a pile of splintered wood, red dirt and Lemures skeletons.

Micaela climbed down and tried to find an arm or a leg that belonged to Mulej under the debris. She dug around and found a wrist.

‘Good,’ she said out loud when she couldn’t detect a pulse.

Elisabetta regained consciousness quickly but it took several moments to get her bearings.

She was lying on her side in the center of the great room. The fire was crackling and popping fiercely. The big television was still showing the crowds at St Peter’s. Her jaw hurt terribly.

Where was Krek?

There was a weight on top of her.

Then she felt herself being turned onto her back.

A hand slipped up under her robes and she smelled the whiskey on her assailant’s breath.

‘I’ve always been curious,’ Krek said, breathing hard, his cheek touching hers. ‘I’ve always wanted to know what nuns wear under these habits.’

Elisabetta didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of weeping or pleading. Instead she squirmed and thrashed like a bucking horse and tried to throw him off.

‘Good, good!’ he shouted. ‘I like this. Fight harder!’

He had her robes up around her waist and as they bunched she felt something sharp against her stomach.

She remembered.

Elisabetta kept fighting Krek off with her left hand while she thrust her right one into the pocket of her tunic. She felt for the object and when she had it in her grasp she eased it open.

Her father’s pipe tool. This simple, comforting little implement.

Krek let up for just a couple of seconds to arch his back and undo his belt and that was all the time Elisabetta needed.

She slid the pipe tool from her pocket and punched it into Krek’s chest with all the strength she had in her arm.

He said nothing. She didn’t know she’d accomplished anything at all until she let her hand go and saw the tool sticking through his sweater, the aerator spike fully buried. There was no blood.

Krek looked down, rolled off Elisabetta and rose to his feet. He looked amused. ‘What is this? What did you do?’

He pulled out the pipe tool and laughed. ‘No, thank you! I smoke cigars!’

To Elisabetta’s horror, he seemed perfectly fine. As she lay on the rug he casually lowered his trousers, enough to reveal his lower back. ‘Have you ever seen one of these?’

He made a half-turn to show her his spine. His tail was thick, twitching like an angry snake. His tattoos were black and crisp, menacing but, to Elisabetta, no longer mysterious.

She started to crawl away.

But as Krek turned back to her something was happening inside his chest.

Blood was leaking from a small wound in his heart into the pericardial sac and when the sac was full it squeezed his heart like an orange in a juicer.

He inhaled sharply and began to wheeze.

Krek clutched at his chest and lifted up his sweater as if that might help give him more air.

He began to teeter, then slowly pitched forward like a felled tree.

He tried to speak but nothing came out.

And just before he crashed down pure rage possessed his face.

Elisabetta had never before seen a look of such hatred.