She paused.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about this. Not yet.’
‘It’s all right.’
She took several deep breaths.
‘Eamonn ... I was talking about Eamonn. He was the first to stumble across references to Passover.’ She paused. ‘You say he sent papers to Balzarin?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. Yes, that makes sense. He told us he had information, but that it was incomplete. I think he mentioned that he had a possible source for more. I remember now that he said Balzarin had approached him, hinting that he knew something about the Brotherhood. We had nothing on Balzarin here. I think maybe Eamonn gave his file on the Brotherhood to him in an attempt to find out more about Passover.’
‘What about this man Father O’Malley has taken Assefa to see? This cardinal. Can he be relied on?’
‘Dermot says he can. Good God, Patrick, we never meant it to be rushed like this. Roberto wanted us to take our time, to muster our forces, get all the ammunition we could, approach several people in positions of influence simultaneously. He was patient, in spite of...’
She stopped and stood up abruptly. For a moment, she stood staring at the door, as though uncertain, then she walked into the next room. Patrick followed her, uncomprehending. She was standing by the window.
‘They’re late,’ she said. ‘Roberto said he’d ring as soon as he’d delivered the letters. I’m worried.’
‘It’s still early,’ Patrick said. ‘Just gone eight.’ But he was worried too. Roberto should have been in touch.
‘I’m going to ring his apartment,’ Francesca said. There was a door beside her, leading to the study. Patrick followed her inside. As he stepped through the door, she switched on the lights. For a second, Patrick noticed nothing, then, all at once, he realized. He had been in this room before. Not since his arrival at the apartment with Francesca. Before that.
On one wall a print of Moreau’s ‘Salome’, lit by a single spotlight. Beside it a well-filled bookcase. In the corner a small television set, its screen blank.
This was the room of his vision, the room he had dreamed about in his last nightmare in Venice.
FORTY-NINE
As they drove to the Vatican, Assefa tried to pray, but his thoughts were too jumbled to fashion even the simplest of supplications. They hurried through familiar streets grown unfamiliar. Nothing seemed quite real or habitual. Everything had changed subtly: the streets, the shops, the cafes, the people. Rome had become a film set, a pastiche of a city, its inhabitants mere extras in a bad movie. He could not believe that here, somewhere in these streets, there were men and women preparing such a monstrous slaughter.
O’Malley had made several phone calls before setting off. He was leaving nothing to chance. He wanted to speak to the right people, but he had to take great care that what he said was not reported to anyone connected to the Brotherhood, least of all Cardinal Fazzini or any of the other members of the Curia known to be members. O’Malley knew that this was scarcely the moment to go lobbing accusations against cardinals. Fazzini was closely involved in the preparations for tomorrow’s ceremony. To leave the Secretary of State and his department out of discussions about security would be a major breach of etiquette.
The priest hoped he could persuade a small handful of individuals to take personal responsibility for whatever had to be done. Fortunately, he believed he had identified the right people.
Colonel Hans Meyer, the commander of the Swiss Guard, had immediate responsibility for Vatican security. Those of his men not actually carrying out ceremonial duties tomorrow would be armed with Uzis instead of halberds. It was vital for them to be ready to react to an attack from whatever quarter it might be launched. O’Malley was confident that Meyer and his men could be trusted completely. From several sources he had confirmed that the Brotherhood had never been able to infiltrate the Swiss Guard.
True, the old Noble Guards, Palatine Guards and Papal Gendarmerie had harboured several Brothers in every generation, but they had been abolished by Paul VI in 1970 and, as far as O’Malley had been able to ascertain, had bequeathed no legacy of that corruption to the Swiss. Meyer himself had been born and bred in Lucerne, an area seemingly free of Brotherhood influence. He could be trusted.
Overall responsibility for security lay with Cardinal John Fischer, President of the Vatican’s Central Security Office. Fischer was as clean as a whistle. Born in Chicago to German immigrants, he had worked his way up the Catholic hierarchy there under Cardinal John Cody. All they had had in common was their first name. As soon as he was able, Fischer had left Chicago to work for Catholic Relief Services in the Third World: Africa, the Philippines, Mexico. In the early seventies, shortly after Cor Unum had been set up to co-ordinate Catholic charity work, he had been called to Rome to serve on its board. Once in the Vatican, his considerable abilities as an administrator had led to repeated preferments. His move to Security five years earlier had been seen as a major step towards closer involvement with the papal household.
Finally, O’Malley had left a message for his old friend, Monsignor Giuseppe Foucauld, the Pope’s private secretary. Born in Rome of Italian-French parents, Foucauld was one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. He had the Holy Father’s trust, and anything that was destined for the Pope’s ear had to pass through him first. O’Malley had still not decided whether or not the Pope should be told of the plot or, for that matter, of the Brotherhood itself. In the long run, he would have to know, of course. But O’Malley was frightened of the consequences of a premature revelation.
A meeting had been set up in Fischer’s office, on the second floor of the Governor’s Palace, a long four-storey building behind St Peter’s which serves as the City Hall of the Vatican State. O’Malley had suggested this venue himself, thinking it better to meet there, away from curious eyes in the Apostolic Palace. The Brotherhood would be on the lookout tonight.
They drove straight through the Arco delle Campane to the left of St Peter’s: the Guards on duty at the gates were expecting them. A few moments later, O’Malley parked in front of the Governorato. He took a large bundle of papers from the rear seat and stepped out.
The cardinal was waiting for them in a private reception room behind his office. The building was quiet: all staff except for security personnel had left for the day. A young priest escorted them upstairs, gave them directions, and left discreetly.
Fischer greeted them himself, advancing with an outstretched hand and a warm smile. He was a cheerful-looking man in his early sixties. Over the years, he had put on more weight than was altogether good for him, but he managed to carry it with dignity. His skull-cap was perched far to the back of his head, giving him a rather jaunty appearance.
‘Father O’Malley? I’m pleased to meet you at last. I’ve heard a great deal about your work. You may not know it, but we’ve crossed paths more than once. Used to have problems with new religions out in Africa - Kimbanguists, Aladura, all those native churches. Pretty crazy. But the worst are the new cults getting into the old mission fields. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, Baha’is. Your people used to give us a lot of help.’ He shook hands firmly, then turned to Assefa.
‘Tenastillin. Indamin adderu.’
‘Dahina,’ answered Assefa.
‘I’m afraid that’s about the extent of my Amharic,’ said the cardinal, smiling broadly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think Father O’Malley mentioned your name.’