Cardinal Musaro, a gray-haired man with a broad, handsome face, took off his reading glasses as the semiretired archbishop of Havana entered the room, escorted by one of the nuncio’s priest attendants. The priest withdrew and Musaro gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. Both men were dressed in ordinary priestly garb that made no reference to their status.
Jaime Cardinal Lucas Ortega y Alamino, a slightly pudgy man with gold-rimmed glasses and thinning hair he regularly dyed black, sat down with a heartfelt sigh. Although Ortega was seventy-five years old— Musaro’s senior by almost ten years—both men had been elevated to Cardinal Pius II and both men wore identical solid gold Crucifixion rings on the third fingers of their right hands. They were of equal status in the eyes of the Church, so there was very little small talk between them.
“You have just returned from the Holy See?” Ortega asked.
“Yes, a few meetings.”
“How are the politics there, Bruno, as complicated as ever?”
“As complicated as ever, Jaime.”
“You spoke with Spada and his imp?”
“Brennan, you mean? Yes, I met with both of them, as we discussed earlier.”
“And?”
In answer Musaro opened his desk drawer and took out a small purple velvet box. On the top of the box, in gold, were the crossed keys and mitre that was the symbol of the pope. Musaro opened the box and put it down on the desk, facing Ortega. The former archbishop of Havana looked at it the same way he would look at a venomous snake. Inside the box was a ring identical to the one both he and Musaro wore—the Cardinal’s Ring.
“It is an exact duplicate, Jaime; no one will know the difference. I took the venom supplied by Selman-Housein to Rome and Brennan’s people did the rest. The ring contains the full venom load of eight Brazilian wandering spiders. The ring is made like a jet injector for diabetes. All it takes to fire is the pressure required to shake hands. That much venom will induce death within a few hours. There will be shortness of breath, paralysis and eventually asphyxiation.”
“Dear God,” whispered Ortega.
“God has nothing to do with it, Jaime; it is simple pragmatism. With Castro dead, the strongest independent body in Cuba will be the Catholic Church. We can control the country’s future, guide it down the appropriate path.”
“You know how many times this has been attempted before?”
“According to El Jefe, six hundred and thirty-eight, although I doubt the number is accurate.”
“Whatever the number, Fidel is still here and the assassins who made attempts on his life are not,” said Ortega.
“Most of the attempts were by the CIA or their proxies. This is not the same.”
“Why?”
“Because we have God on our side, of course,” said Musaro, folding his hands across his chest.
“You wouldn’t be the first to think that,” said Ortega, a note of bitterness in his voice. “The German soldiers in World War Two had it stamped on their belt buckles: Gott mit uns.”
“In this case, however, Jaime, it is true.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
“We are men of the world, Jaime. I am aware of your sexual proclivities, as is the Vatican. To us it is irrelevant.”
Ortega flushed crimson. “Then why do you mention these spurious allegations of my ‘proclivities,’ as you refer to them?”
“Because Castro knows about them, too. The disappearance of the gold chalice, censer and pyx from the Cathedral of the Virgin Mary of the Immaculate Conception of Havana, for instance.”
Ortega’s flush darkened even more. “That was a common thief; he broke into the cathedral at night. He was never caught.”
“All thieves in Cuba are caught, Jaime; that’s why Cuba has so many prisons. No, it was a ‘special friend’ of yours, Jaime, one of the assistant priests. I believe his name was Domenico Montera. You had him transferred to your alma mater in Quebec.”
“That’s a lie!”
“True or false, Fidel knows about it, too. He holds it over your head like a Damocles sword.”
“For the love of Christ, Musaro! You’re giving me a motive to assassinate the man, not an alibi!”
“On the contrary, Ortega, it is the perfect alibi.”
“How so?”
“Fidel hates you, you hate Fidel, but you spread his theories of the people’s revolution with almost as much fervor as he does. You are his creature, Jaime, and everyone knows it from the highest to the lowest, and everyone knows something else, as well.”
“What is that, Cardinal Musaro?” Ortega asked sullenly.
Musaro answered, something close to pity in his voice, “Que no tienen el coraje de matarlo. You would not have the courage to kill him, Jaime.” Musaro paused. “And that makes you the perfect candidate.”
“Because no one would believe such a coward would do such a thing?”
“Your words, not mine, Jaime.”
Ortega eyed the box on the table and the heavy, solid gold rectangular ring inside it. “Will he feel pain?”
“Not initially. As you know, Castro has suffered from diabetes for a number of years and has peripheral neuropathy in both his hands and feet and has considerable nerve damage as well. He will feel nothing as you shake his hand.”
“He will feel pain eventually, though?”
“Excruciating,” answered Musaro. “It will look very much like a stroke. He will be unable to talk, but essentially his entire body will be suffering from severe inflammation. His lungs will fill with fluid, and he will suffer extreme pain in all his joints. Eventually he will be unable to draw breath and he will die of asphyxiation.”
Ortega reached out and snapped the box shut, then slipped it into the pocket. “Good. I will do it.”
“You know when it is to be done?”
“The feast of St. Lazarus. It has been his favorite saint’s day since his diverticulitis. I am always invited to give the blessing. The older he gets, the more Catholic he becomes.”
“A common trait among old men,” said Musaro. He sat forward in his chair, placing his hands flat upon the polished inlaid desk. “The Feast Day of St. Lazarus is on the twenty-first day of the month. The deed must be done on that day. A great many people are counting on it, Jaime. A great many people are counting on you, Jaime.”
“And my reward for committing murder?”
“On the night of his death, you and I will be flown to Rome on an Air Canada 777. On the day after your arrival, the cardinal electors will meet to select a new dean since the ever-controversial Cardinal Soldano is over eighty and no longer eligible to vote in any future conclaves. You will become the next dean of the College of Cardinals.”
“It is an elected position. How can you guarantee such a thing?”
“There are currently ninety-four cardinal electors. I am owed favors of one kind or another by seventy-six of them, more than enough to obtain a two-thirds majority of sixty-two.”
“You’ve taken care of everything,” said Ortega.
“I am the apostolic nuncio, the envoy of the pope and therefore the envoy of God to this country.” Musaro lifted his shoulders and smiled, the light from the big bow window behind him turning his hair into a halo with a tropical Garden of Gethsemane at his back. His voice was soft but filled with the power of a man saying Mass in a cathedral. “‘Deos enim religuos accepimus, Caesares dedimus’: The gods were handed down to us, but we created this terrible Caesar ourselves, Jaime, and having created him, we have the responsibility of removing him from this world. Alea iacta est, Jaime. For Fidel the die has been cast and you have been chosen to be his Brutus. Deus animae tuae misereatur. May God have mercy on your soul.”