Giacomo scowled. “Don’t try to blag me, you silly bitch. I’m not concerned with your feelings. We’re here to ensure that God wins the cosmic battle, and He will only do that if we sweep out the old, corrupt, secular institutions. Governments, for instance, have to go…” His eyes swept over his team as he addressed them: “I’m concerned that you people don’t fully understand our program. Do you?”
There was universal agreement that they did understand. Very quickly, the meeting broke up with handshakes and spilled coffee and a lingering smell of exclusive aftershave.
As soon as he was by himself, Giacomo had a fit of remorse. Maybe those bloody Churchill memoirs he was reading had gone to his head? He sat there for a while, then picked up the phone and dialed an extension.
“Has Barings been done yet? Barings… or what’s-his-name? That bastard I sent down. Has he been emptied yet?”
A weary voice at the other end informed him that what’s-his-name had been emptied and hung up to dry five minutes ago, but could certainly be resuscitated, except the shift had just changed. Reversing the process would thus necessitate calling back the last shift, paying overtime, holding back the new shift in the service elevator and…
“Forget it,” Giacomo cried and hung up.
The door clicked behind him and Paolo walked in. “I heard about your economist,” he said. “I suppose you’re regretting it already?”
“Yes. Of course. But what was I supposed to do? I’m a passionate man; I can’t help it.”
“Well,” said Paolo, struggling with the seal of a jumbo-pack of pork scratchings, “you could control yourself.”
“Ah, it’s all too much. Old Nick is running rings around us,” sighed Giacomo. “It’s like watching Brazil playing Belgium in the semi-final. And we have problems in Beijing.”
“In Beijing of all places?” said Paolo, munching. “Do we really care?”
“Paolo, the world is changing. The World of Matter is rising up to fight us. There’s no long, slow ride down the hill for us, my old friend, no waiting little inn surrounded by olive trees. Oh, no. And certainly no glasses of cold beer on the table. It wouldn’t surprise me if we end our days in an American prison, being waterboarded, having our asses interrogated off or flown around in planes to be tortured by Syrians.”
“Well, I suppose technically speaking we’re guilty of crimes against humanity,” said Paolo. “Most of the people we send down to the stripping room will never open their eyes again; let’s face it. There are too many maggots in the world. God wants to punish us and that’s all there is to it.”
“Pretty fucking disgraceful, aren’t we?” Giacomo chuckled diabolically, then stopped and shot his friend an irritated look. “We’re doing what we have to do, Paolo. That old word, humanity, that’s what’s causing all the trouble. When it boils down to it, who’s really human anyway? Or humane, should I say? If people really cared about each other, they’d sort out their fucking issues, wouldn’t they?”
“True enough,” Paolo agreed.
“But they don’t; they won’t even admit there are any issues. Let me tell you, Paolo, Homo sapiens will sink into the abyss while watching television and eating a bag of potato crisps. And because Homo sapiens refuses to sort out the problems, we’re going to have to do it for him. As for these prawn-eating, Rolex-wearing, Chinese simpletons, we can’t just let them take over, can we? Cut down our forests, drill up our oil, and turn Eden into a filthified dump, all for the sake of their blessed Lear jets and hookers and Bentleys and Picassos. Idiots!” Giacomo sucked in air and calmed himself. “In the final analysis we’ll be doing all the killing for humanitarian reasons.”
The two men sat quietly watching the rising smoke of their cigars.
Then, articulating a thought common to them both, Paolo muttered, “I suppose Michael and Ariel felt they could live without our friendship.” And then added wistfully, “In their place, I wouldn’t have turned down the chance of a long sleep.”
“There was something about that boy. How he got out of that cave I’ll never know. Bloody miracle if you ask me.”
“The odd thing is he doesn’t even believe in God.”
“It’s awful, but I think God prefers him to the both of us, Paolo. We’d better start praying there isn’t a heaven at all, because if there is I doubt we’ll ever see it. Which makes our sacrifice even greater.”
Paolo took him literally. “I agree. Let’s go and pray for a while.”
Reluctantly, Giacomo agreed.
The two men took the elevator up and, at the approach of midnight, eased their tired, millennial knees onto the venerable slabs of St. Peter’s.
37
Although it was half past two in the morning and Rome lay in deep mist, O’Hara was awake in his rib-shaped cell, clutching a bottle of single malt to his heart.
Outside the bars stood a hawk-like ecclesiast with an unpleasant intelligence about him as he perused the Irish renegade within. O’Hara kept pacing to and fro, compulsively swinging his head like a captive bear. His two-day stubble and too-much darting eyes did not impress. The ecclesiast, Sergio Rodriguez, was the Vatican’s maggot liaison officer and a man of power. He had a condescending tone when addressing O’Hara, whom he viewed as damaged goods.
“Patrick, you’ve asked me here and I’ve come at considerable inconvenience, but, given the circumstances, I’ve tried to be obliging. My assumption, based on your own words, is that you… wish to talk about the problem of Monsignor Giacomo.”
“Correct,” said O’Hara savagely. “And I need your help… your authority… to start dealing with it in a forceful manner. Basically, he needs bumping off.”
“Dear God, where do you think you are? We don’t bump people off. We may in exceptional cases remove them, but that’s quite different. Do also bear in mind that you’re no longer one of our congregation. Technically, I no longer have jurisdiction over you.” The liaison officer gave him a troubled, lingering stare. “You have joined the subterranean branch, Patrick; you have very publicly taken their vows and drunk from the Holy Grail and at this very moment you are in a devotional cell, preparing for enshrinement.”
“Don’t!” cried O’Hara, “Please don’t use that damned word. Even linguistically I’m dead set against these people.”
“I don’t think they are so very concerned about that,” Rodriguez observed drily.
“If we don’t deal with this hooligan, he and his little friends will bleed us dry. The Church will fall into ruin.”
“Oh, come now, the subterranean branch has always played its little apocalyptic games, neutralizing people here and there and hiding them in boxes. No one ever took it very seriously. This Giacomo is a gluttonous, simple man. As long as he’s supplied with sucking pig and harlots he won’t give us any trouble, you’ll find.”
“Are you aware of his plans for China?” O’Hara asked. “He’s set on wiping it out. Also America.”
Rodriguez’s eyes flickered pedantically. “You mustn’t put so much emphasis on people. Salt cod and virgin oil are purchased by the barrel, but people are not quantifiable numerically. Most of them are rotten, and many so deeply flawed that converting them to fertilizer is a rather attractive proposition, and also morally advisable. Don’t you see this, Cardinal?” He waved his hands expressively, as if to introduce a note of practicality and logic. “I have to say in many respects I have a great deal of admiration for the maggot church. It is working its way through some of the world’s most distasteful elements — criminals, drug addicts, tramps, refugees, prostitutes, squatters, and other ne’er-do-wells — removing them from circulation and taking away their ability to produce delinquent children. I might also add that His Holiness agrees with me, heavy though it is for him to admit it.”