‘How much longer?’ Robin complained. ‘This proves that the pope doesn’t trust us, Rafael.’
Rafael sighed. The priests of the Society of Jesus were stubborn, and it wasn’t worth arguing about.
‘Do you think it’s worth killing people over this?’
‘Don’t you understand the seriousness of what I just told you?’ Robin answered.
‘You don’t even know if the bones are His. With respect to the Gospel of Jesus, anyone could have written it. You know perfectly well that the authorship of the gospels, apocryphal or canonical, has never been established definitively. The writing of the Pentateuch was attributed to Moses, in which he narrates his own death. Damn. Everything is uncertain. No one knows anything.’
Robin tapped his foot on the floor nervously.
‘However serious it might be, it’s not worth four deaths, Robin.’
‘I am not involved with these strategic decisions.’ The English Jesuit sounded defensive, as if washing his hands of it.
‘I understand, but nothing in all this justifies kidnapping Ben Isaac’s son. I really hope he’s not going to be victim number five.’
Robin looked at him, astonished. ‘We didn’t kidnap Ben Isaac’s son.’
‘Robin, don’t fuck with me,’ Rafael cursed. ‘You murdered four men and kidnapped Ben Isaac’s son. There’s no point in denying it, after all you’ve told me.’
‘Rafael, I give you my word we had nothing to do with the kidnapping. At least as far as I know, and I usually do.’
Robin seemed sincere. Whether he was or not, only he knew, since no one has found a way to discover if someone is lying; even the lie detectors can be fooled.
Rafael got up. He still felt hot, and his heart was racing. He looked at his watch and saw it was twelve thirty. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’
‘It’s always a pleasure to serve an envoy from the Supreme Pontiff, even one pointing a gun at my head,’ Robin said sarcastically.
‘How’s this all going to end?’ Rafael asked.
‘Do you want to know what I’ve discovered in all my years of experience?’ Robin paused to get Rafael’s attention. ‘The end makes everything clear.’
Rafael walked to the door. ‘I hope so.’
‘It’ll be easy for you to predict,’ Robin offered, going to the desk and picking up the phone. ‘After everything I told you, you don’t expect to leave here with your life, do you?’ Someone answered the phone. ‘We have an escape attempt. Code red,’ Robin said.
52
It wasn’t a pretty sight, and none of the three men would have been there to witness it if they could have helped it. It would not have been humane or pious to let Ursino leave such a sacred place without a moment of prayer and expiation for the services he so diligently performed for His Holiness, four of them, always taking into consideration the greater interest of the Holy Mother Church, submissive to the dogma and teachings of our Lord.
The paramedics had placed the body on a stretcher. A white sheet covered him to the chest and left his face visible. The fibula was still stuck in his eye, shocking the three men of God who observed him in silence. His face was black on the side with the wound, striped with dried blood. His mouth and chin were white as chalk. Ursino looked at peace, the kind of quiet that emanates only from the dead, who know a greater truth, their mission accomplished here on earth, problems resolved or left for others to deal with… What better reason to be at peace, with no debt collector to hassle them, the worries of borrowing a car, marriage disputes, loneliness, loss behind them. Death can be good.
‘Your Eminence,’ the doctor called, shutting a first-aid kit that had been of no use. He had cleaned the wound a little so that the dead priest would be at least slightly more presentable for the secretary of state. He would not remove the fatal bone for legal reasons.
Tarcisio didn’t hear him. He was absorbed in his prayer.
‘Your Eminence,’ he called again.
‘Yes, Lorenzo?’
‘Do you want me to inform the family?’ the doctor asked politely.
‘No, thank you. Father Ursino had no living relatives,’ the secretary informed him in a weak, sorrowful voice.
At that moment he noticed the trace of blood that had dripped from Ursino’s eye to the floor next to the desk. He tried to avoid vomiting as he imagined the sordid scene that had unfolded there. A sacrilege. William and Schmidt continued to watch over the corpse, whispering prayers to the All-Powerful Father to receive their brother in His merciful arms.
‘Clean up that blood as soon as possible, please,’ Tarcisio ordered, pointing at the dark red stain.
‘Certainly,’ the doctor answered. He looked around for one of the paramedics. ‘Tomaso, clean up this blood — ’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Your Eminence,’ Daniel, the commander of the Swiss Guard, interrupted. ‘It’s evidence.’
Tomaso waited while they decided, bent over the spot, ready to make it disappear. The secretary of state gestured to continue, a decision that did not make Daniel happy, but he swallowed silently and said nothing.
Lorenzo cleared his throat before speaking. The subject bothered him. ‘What about the body, Your Eminence?’
‘He will be buried in the German cemetery.’
That seemed strange to both Lorenzo and William. Schmidt laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He knew how difficult this was for him.
‘I’m sorry to ask, but the law requires an autopsy — ’
‘The law requires nothing, Lorenzo,’ Tarcisio interrupted with irritation. ‘You’re confusing Italian law with the law of the Vatican. Italian law requires, Vatican law recommends. There will be no autopsy. According to the will of the Holy Father.’
‘I’ll comply with that, Your Eminence.’ Lorenzo cleared his throat again. Another question remained, and he wasn’t happy to ask it. His conscience demanded that he do so. ‘Cause of death?’
Tarcisio reflected a few moments. His reply would determine how history would hear about this death. It would be the first murder within the high walls of the hill of the Vatican since the nineteenth century, if it were officially deemed murder. There was no other option.
‘An accidental cerebral hemorrhage,’ William proposed. ‘The cause of death was a stroke.’
Lorenzo looked at the secretary for confirmation. Only he was able to give it. A nod of his head sealed Ursino’s cause of death, wounded in the right eye by a bone, a fact that would be suppressed in the official records. No murder had occurred within the walls of the Vatican, according to any record.
Lorenzo left the Relics Room, leaving the leaders of the church to contemplate the corpse, Tomaso to clean up the blood, and Daniel with two Swiss Guards to protect the prelates.
‘He is at peace,’ Schmidt affirmed.
‘Yes. Surely looking down on us from the Almighty’s side,’ William added.
Tarcisio said nothing. He didn’t know any words appropriate for a moment like this. Human life was sacred. The disrespect for it by some, capable of taking it, as if killing a chicken or a cow, lives that God disposed for our nourishment. To take away God’s greatest gift was like renouncing Him.
While Tomaso cleaned up, his colleagues approached with the stretcher. ‘Can we remove the body, Your Eminence?’ one of them asked.
Tarcisio made the sign of the cross with his hand pointed at Ursino and wondered whether to cover his face with the sheet. Only then did he authorize them to carry the body off. As soon as the stretcher left the room, the atmosphere became lighter and more breathable. At last…
‘Now what?’ Schmidt asked.
‘I’m going to make the funeral arrangements,’ Tarcisio said. ‘But first… a meeting with Adolph.’
‘Do you need me?’ William asked helpfully.
‘Maybe later.’
‘I’m going to try to get some rest,’ Schmidt said. ‘I’m feeling the effects of all this.’
‘Of course, my good friend. You deserve it. I’ll ask Trevor to speak with the Daughters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul to prepare a room for you in the Domus Sanctae Marthae,’ he offered.