‘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.