«What’s in here?» asked Aaron.
«I believe it’s his office,» replied Eleanor, blinking. «I haven’t been up here since I can’t remember when—probably when the construction was finished and Sam showed me through.»
«Let’s take a look. Do you know where the lights are?»
«The switch is usually on the wall.» It was, and three floor lamps lit up the three visible walls of a large pine-paneled office. The walls themselves, however, could barely be seen, as they were covered with framed photographs and, contrarily, Scotch-taped newspaper articles, many askew as if hastily, perhaps angrily, stuck to the surfaces between the profusion of photographs. «This place is a bloody mess!» exclaimed the mother of the inhabitant. «I’ll insist he clean it up!»
«I wouldn’t even consider it,» remarked Pinkus, approaching the nearest newspaper clippings on the left wall. In the main, they depicted a white-habited nun dispensing food and clothing to indigent people—white, black, and Hispanic—in various parts of the world, SISTER ANNE THE BENEVOLENT CARRIES HER MESSAGE TO ALL POINTS OF THE GLOBE, cried one headline over a photograph of a slum in Rio de Janeiro, the mountain crucifix seen clearly in the upper distance of that jet-set city. The other clippings were a variation of the same theme—photos of a markedly attractive nun in Africa, Asia, Central America, and the leper islands in the Pacific, SISTER ANNE, SISTER OF CHARITY, SISTER OF HOPE and, finally, ANNE THE BENEVOLENT, A CANDIDATE FOR SAINTHOOD?
Aaron, putting on his steel-rimmed glasses, studied the photographs. They were all taken at some extravagant retreat reeking of edelweiss, the Alps generally in the background, the subjects in the photographs happy and carefree, the enjoyment of life lighting up their faces. Several were instantly recognizable: a somewhat younger Sam Devereaux; the tall, aggressive figure of the maniac general, ‘Madman’ MacKenzie Hawkins; an ash-blond woman in shorts and a halter—voluptuous, indeed, and unmistakably Anne the Benevolent; and a fourth figure, a stout, smiling, jovial fellow in a short chef’s apron that barely concealed his lederhosen. Who was he? The face was familiar but—no, no, NO!
«The God of Abraham has deserted us,» whispered Aaron Pinkus, trembling.
«What in the name of the Celtics are you talking about?» asked Eleanor Devereaux.
«You probably wouldn’t remember, because it meant nothing to you,» answered Aaron rapidly, unsteadily, a distinct quaver in his soft voice. «But a number of years ago the Vatican was in disarray—financial disarray. Monies were flowing out of its treasury in … in megabuckets, supporting causes so unlikely as third-rate opera companies and carnivals and houses throughout Europe to rehabilitate prostitutes, all manner of insanities. The people thought the Pope had gone crazy, that he was, as they say, pazzo! Then, just before the Eternal City’s complete collapse, which would have resulted in panic throughout the investment world, everything suddenly returned to normal. The Pontiff was back in control, his old self! The media everywhere said it was like he had been two people—one pazzo, the other the fine good man they all knew and loved.»
«My dear Mr. Pinkus, you’re not making the slightest bit of sense.»
«Look, look!» cried Aaron, pointing at a smiling, fleshed-out face in one of the photographs. «That’s him!»
«Who?»
«The Pope! That’s where the money came from. The ransom! The press was right, they were two people! General Hawkins and your son kidnapped the Pope!… Eleanor, Eleanor?» Aaron turned from the wall.
Lady Devereaux had collapsed to the floor unconscious.
4
«Nobody’s that clean,» said Director Mangecavallo quietly, his voice laced with incredulity as he addressed the two dark-suited men seated across the table in the DCI’s dimly lit kitchen in McLean, Virginia. «It’s not natural, you know what I mean? Maybe you didn’t scrounge around hard enough, huh, Fingers?»
«I tell you, Vinnie, I was shocked,» replied the short, obese man who answered to the name of Fingers as he touched the knot of his white silk tie that fell over his black shirt. «Like you say, it ain’t natural—it ain’t even human. What kind of world do these high-type judges live in? One with no germs, maybe?»
«You didn’t answer my question,» interrupted Vincent softly, arching his brows and quickly shifting his penetrating gaze to his second visitor. «What do you say, Meat? You boys aren’t getting sloppy, are you?»
«Hey, Vin,» protested the large, barrel-chested guest, his heavy hands spread out in front of him, partially obscuring the red tie above his pink shirt. «A first-class—world-class—job we did, what can I tell ya? The high-types called for it, right? We even brought in Hymie Goldfarb’s boys in Atlanta, and who better to get the goods on a saint, am I right or not?»
«Yeah, Hymie’s boys know the tunnels, no question,» agreed the CIA director, pouring himself another glass of Chianti and removing a Monte Cristo cigar from his shirt pocket. «A lot better than all the feds in Hooverville. They dug us up garbage on a hundred and thirty-seven congressmen and twenty-six senators that guaranteed my confirmation, along with a little largesse spread around, of course.»
«Largest what, Vinnie?» asked Fingers.
«Largesse—forget it… I just can’t figure it. Every one of these six squirrelly judges got nuthin’ we can tap into? That’s extraterrestrial!» Mangecavallo got up from the table and lit his cigar. He paced back and forth in front of a darkened wall upon which hung alternating prints of saints, popes, and vegetables until he suddenly stopped, a cloud of smoke ringing his skull like a halo from way down under. «Let’s go back to the basics,» he said, standing motionless. «Let’s really look.»
«At what, Vinnie?»
«These four or five maybe liberal clowns who can’t think straight. What’s with them that Goldfarb’s people couldn’t find?… What about the big black cat? Maybe he ran numbers as a kid, did anyone think of that? Maybe no one went back far enough. That could be the mistake!»
«He was an acolyte and a choirboy, Vin. Right down the pike, a real angel, plus a big, big brain.»
«How about the lady judge? She’s a big cannoli, right? That means her husband has to shut up and pretend he likes her being the big cannoli—which he can’t nohow because he’s a man. Maybe she doesn’t feed him and he’s mad like hell but can’t say anything. People keep stuff like that quiet.»
«It’s also a wash, Vin,» said Meat, shaking his head sadly. «He sends her flowers every day at the office and tells everybody how proud he is of her. It could be legit on accounta he’s a big avvocato himself and he ain’t gonna make no enemy on that court, even his own wife.»
«Shit!… Hey, that Irish drink of water, maybe he has a couple too many like a lot of Micks do after their big parade. How about that? We could build a little file—top secret, national security, that sort of thing. We buy a couple a dozen witnesses who state they’ve seen him fried and gurgling in his suds after he leaves the office. It could work. Also, with his name we could add a few girlies. It’s a natural!»