‘I hate mass persecutions,’ Valeria says. ‘They’re messy and counter-productive. Better to target twelve leaders than thousands of innocent followers.’
‘What happens to me if I’m as wrong as you say? Another tribunal?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. You’re deniable, Cassius. I told you that from the start. You don’t exist. However, I do have one more job for you, which includes the opportunity to save your skin.’
She reaches into her bag and pulls out two embossed tickets for the next day’s performance. ‘Solid gold,’ she says. ‘Completely sold out.’
‘As Jesus would have wanted.’
‘Enough. There’s no way you’re getting in without a ticket. I’ve doubled security.’
‘I hadn’t looked that far ahead.’
‘No, I thought not. You have a day, one day, in which to capitalise on the knowledge you’ve gained about the disciples of Jesus. Find me John, however you can. Bring him to the Circus tomorrow and we’ll take him off your hands.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘If you run again, I have Alma.’
‘I’ll find you John. I’ll do my best.’
‘That would be good, the last of the twelve. Bring John to the Circus, Cassius, and you can walk away. Mission accomplished.’
XI: PETER crucified upside down
CASSIUS GALLIO SPENDS the night in the garden of Claudia’s suburban Roman villa. She has an organised garden, with shrubs in borders and trees in pots, but also many blocked sightlines that allow a vagrant to take advantage. She would be furious, presumably, if she knew that her former lover was asleep beside the compost bin.
Early the next morning, before dawn, Gallio is crouched behind a miniature cypress tree when the first lights in the house come on. Through the lit kitchen window he sees Claudia’s husband the architect searching through cupboards for cereal, in the fridge for milk. He finds what he’s looking for. He leaves the house before the sky has fully lightened, because after-the-fire is boom time for architects in Rome. The misfortunes of others will provide.
A little later, once the sun is up, Claudia and her two young daughters sit at the kitchen table for breakfast. Through the window Gallio approves their impeccable manners. Alma doesn’t join them. In Jerusalem Valeria had assigned Claudia to Gallio’s investigation, sent Claudia to keep an eye on him in Hierapolis and Caistor, and later it was Claudia she dispatched to intercept him at the bakery on the Via Veneto. Claudia is Valeria’s fixer and Gallio’s best guess, his only guess, is that Claudia will be responsible for Alma. John the disciple of Jesus can wait.
Cassius Gallio scuttles round the side of the house in time for a partial view of the front door where the girls kiss their lovely mother goodbye. The children join the neighbour and her son to walk to the bus stop, but the younger daughter dashes back for a forgotten lunchbox, snatches another kiss and she’s on her way.
Gallio waits ten minutes, goes round the back and knocks at the glass of the French windows. Claudia has nothing to fear, he thinks, because she can see all of him in her garden before she has to open the door. He has nothing to hide. She sees him, stops, moves forward and slides open the doors. She checks left and right outside, then bundles him into the house.
‘Fuck,’ she says. She shuts and locks the door and leans back against the glass. She’s wearing pyjamas. ‘Fuck I don’t believe this.’ She screws up her nose, looks at him. ‘You need a shower.’
‘Have you got Alma?’
‘I’ll fetch you a towel.’
He wonders how close he is to the limit of the warmth of her welcome. After his shower he hears her moving about in the kitchen, and he flits quickly through the upstairs rooms. The two girls share, and he admires their shelves packed with bedtime stories. No sign of Alma. The bed in the marital en suite is unmade, and on the dresser a framed photo catches his eye, a studio portrait of the smiling family. A life like Claudia’s could have been mine, Gallio thinks, but it wasn’t to be. He blames Jesus, he blames himself.
Downstairs Claudia is dressed, black jeans, grey woollen polo-neck. She looks attractive in grey, and clever, like the first time he saw her. Bare feet, toenails painted black. She sets up the pot for stove-top coffee, and for some reason, maybe the same reason, the kindness of Claudia affects him like thinking about Jesus. His eyes start to brim. Cassius Gallio has a problem with kindness, obviously. With love.
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Claudia says. ‘How did you get my address?’
Gallio pulls himself together, blinks a couple of times to hide his weakness. ‘I’m a Speculator.’
‘Me too. I’m supposed to be hard to find, not part of the story.’
‘Took some numbers off your phone in Caistor. Then there’s a procedure. The internet. We both know how to do it.’
‘I trusted you.’
‘You put a tracer in mine.’
They sit on high kitchen stools on opposite sides of her kitchen island, which is narrow enough for them to hold hands, should they choose to do so. Gallio drinks the coffee, strong and good. ‘Nice house.’
‘You’re scaring me. Why did you come here?’
‘To find Alma. You work as Valeria’s fixer.’
‘I’m not a nursemaid.’
‘Busy time. All hands to the pump. You’ll have other jobs, probably secret, but I thought you might also be keeping my daughter.’
Claudia scratches at the marble counter with the polished nail of her index finger. The counter is clean, so she has nothing to pick at except deep set grains in the stone. She wipes the flat of her hand over the smooth finish as if to sweep away crumbs. No crumbs, but she sweeps them anyway with a flick of her hand, as far across the kitchen as imaginary crumbs will go.
‘You’re paranoid,’ she says. ‘You can only take speculation so far. When your conclusions stop following logic you become as deluded as anyone who believes in life after death. And sometimes you’re deluded even when every step by itself looks reasonable.’
‘Which is why we need the CCU. To make sure complications stay tidy and explicable.’
‘Exactly. Mysteries can be explained. Explanation makes the problem go away.’
‘Has the CCU ever asked you to kill anyone?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I made the same pledges on graduation that you did.’
‘I killed Jesus.’
‘Did you? No one’s convinced about that. You’re a special case. You thought you killed someone but you didn’t.’
On Claudia’s side of the island there’s a drawer beneath the counter. She pulls the drawer out far enough to slip her hand inside. She wouldn’t, not here, surely? Gallio darts out his hand and clamps her wrist.
‘Let go of me.’
‘What’s in the drawer?’
To have a mind like Cassius Gallio’s is a curse. He lets his suspicions find a shape, and Claudia of all people can get close to him. After Caistor Valeria knows that, though she wouldn’t have planned anything too exotic because Gallio isn’t a disciple. So maybe a muted clip from a silenced CCU-issue Beretta. Valeria would be confident he’d follow Claudia somewhere quiet, should she ask. Like a bedroom, for example. Valeria has created the conditions.
‘I have nothing dangerous in the drawer, Cassius.’
‘I think you do.’
‘You have a vivid imagination. Too vivid. Your story isn’t the big story here.’
‘Bring your hand out very slowly.’
She does so, though he uses his strength to keep her slow. In her hand she has a buff-coloured padded envelope, A4 size, which she slides onto the counter. He lets go of her wrist and she rubs blood back through to her fingers.