Patrick watched Balzarin’s face turn an episcopal purple. The nuncio remained standing, momentarily lost for words.
‘Eamonn De Faoite was murdered on the altar of his own church,’ whispered Patrick. ‘His eyes were gouged out and he was left to die in severe pain. His killers had daubed verses from the Bible on the walls. And you tell me there was “nothing unusual about his death”.’
Slowly, as though lowered there by a mechanism from above, Balzarin sank back into his chair.
‘Come ...? How ... did you obtain this information? All details of De Faoite’s death were kept from the public. The circumstances were much too ... disturbing. This is a Catholic country, signore.
There are some things that are better left unsaid. Do you understand me? This is not a matter of politics or scandals or reputations; it is a matter of faith. As representative of the Holy See in Ireland, it is my duty to ensure that the Church’s image is not harmed unnecessarily. The Church has many enemies in this country, both here and in the north. I have no intention of letting you or anyone else play into their hands.’
Balzarin talked himself back into a position of control. He leaned across the desk. The light was fading rapidly now, but nobody moved to turn on a lamp.
‘Let me ask you again,’ he said in a voice from which all signs of perturbation had been rigidly excluded. ‘How did you come by your information concerning the manner of Father De Faoite’s death?’
‘I found him. He died trying to tell me about something called “Passover”. He said you had papers that explained what it is about. I don’t care a damn if nobody ever knows a thing about his murder. That isn’t important. But those papers are.’
‘And I repeat I know nothing of any papers. Frankly, I think you may be making a mystery where there is none. You say Father De Faoite spoke of Passover to you. He was dying. Like yourself, he was an expert in Semitic languages. No doubt he had some papers referring to the Jewish festival of that name. Or to the Book of Exodus perhaps. His death was the work of a madman. If you were there, you will not need me to tell you that. I can understand that you are disturbed. But I cannot let your personal distress do damage to the Church. Do I make myself clear?’
Patrick knew the Archbishop was lying. He could see it in his eyes and in his manner. His assurance had turned to bluster. He knew something, something that he and others wanted to remain a secret.
From his pocket Patrick drew out a small slip of paper. He had drawn a circle on it, and in the circle inscribed a menorah and a cross. Gently, he laid it on the nuncio’s desk.
Will you please tell me if this means anything to you?’
Balzarin switched on a green-shaded desk lamp and reached for a pair of wire-framed spectacles on his blotter. Patrick noticed that his hands shook as he put the spectacles on. He watched him narrowly as he bent to look at the paper. In the corner, he could see Makonnen watching as well.
The colour drained from the nuncio’s face. His lips moved, whispering something inaudible. He looked up. In his eyes Patrick could see a haunted expression.
‘Please leave, Signor Canavan. You are meddling in things you have no knowledge of. Please do not come again or try to contact me. Forget about this business. It is essential for you to forget about it. Otherwise...’
Balzarin stood abruptly.
‘Father Makonnen will see you out. Goodbye, signore.’
Pausing only to remove his spectacles, the nuncio turned and left the room through a side door. His footsteps echoed briefly in the room beyond.
On the lawn, a peacock cried out. Suddenly, there was silence. And in the silence darkness ruffled the leafless trees.
FOURTEEN
Midnight. The world suspended, lightless, blind. Dawn was hours away, almost unbelievable in its remoteness. Assefa Makonnen woke out of an uneasy sleep. Had there been a sound? Above his bed, a red light flickered beneath a painting of the Sacred Heart. He lay listening to the wind as it circled the building, creeping in and out among the trees. It was very cold.
The priest switched on his bedside light. Out of the darkness, a stark white room emerged. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. What had woken him? The cold? The mental unease he had felt ever since the American’s visit? Or had it been a sound after all? He listened intently, but there was only the wind.
He turned out the light and tried to go back to sleep, but sleep would not come. His mind was troubled. Over his head, the red light flickered incessantly. He would open his eyes and see it, like a red eye glaring at him. As a child in Asmara he had taken comfort from it in the cold hours before dawn. It had watched over him throughout his years at the Ethiopian Seminary in the Vatican, and later at the Accademia Pontificia, where he had trained to be a papal diplomat. But tonight it seemed angry, almost accusing. He switched on the bedside light again.
Something was wrong. Why had Balzarin lied to the American? Makonnen knew he should tackle his superior about the matter. But he also knew that he did not possess the courage to do so. The archbishop was a powerful man. It was only a matter of time before the Holy Father elevated him to the rank of cardinal. Back in Rome, Balzarin would be in a position to make or break lesser men. To make matters worse, the nuncio’s father had been murdered in 1940 while serving as a provincial governor in Italian East Africa - in northern Ethiopia, to be precise. From his first day in Dublin, Makonnen had been aware that his presence was barely tolerated.
But a priest had died under dreadful circumstances and someone was trying to cover it up. Makonnen knew that not even the local police had been notified of a murder. As far as the Irish authorities knew, De Faoite’s death had been entirely natural. The bishop had gone directly to Balzarin, and the nuncio had taken the matter entirely into his own hands.
There had been papers. Makonnen had handled them: after De Faoite’s death, he had been instructed to take them to Rome in the diplomatic pouch. He had flown straight to Fiumicino airport on 25 January and headed directly to the Holy See. There he had handed them over personally to Cardinal Fazzini in the Secretariat of State. Fazzini had dismissed him with a wave of the hand and told him to take the next flight back to Dublin.
He had come back troubled. But until today, his training had retained the upper hand over his emotions. They had taught him obedience: at school, at the seminary, at the Pontifical Academy. Obedience had never irked or shamed him before this. But tonight he felt it like a gag across his mouth, choking him.
The American had spoken of interest on the part of a ‘national intelligence bureau’. In all likelihood he meant the CIA. The man at the US embassy who had arranged Canavan’s audience was reputed to be their chief intelligence officer. And the Agency had co-operated with the Holy See often enough in the past. Why, then, had Balzarin reacted as he had? Just what did the archbishop know? Makonnen thought he might find the answer in Balzarin’s office.
He took his spectacles from the bedside table and slipped them on. The bed was warm, and he was reluctant to venture out. The climate here was the only thing on which he saw eye to eye with Balzarin. He steeled himself and swung his feet out of the covers onto the cold floor. He slept in socks, a woollen vest, and a thick jumper given him in November by a Sacred Heart of Mary Sister from Tallaght. Sometimes he thought the only thing between him and abandoning his vocation was Sister Nuala’s jumper. That and the socks.
His soutane hung on the back of the door. Shivering, he pulled it over his head. This was the stupidest thing he had ever done.
As he opened the door, he glanced round. On the wall facing the bed hung a plain wooden crucifix he had brought from Ethiopia. The black Christ stared at him with burning eyes. Makonnen returned his gaze.
‘What would you do?’ he asked beneath his breath as he closed the door behind him.
The nunciature was plunged in darkness. The building was almost empty. Most of the staff had gone up to Armagh the day before to consult with Cardinal O’Fiaich on the latest Anglo-Irish debacle. The charge d’affaires, Father Rennealy, was attending a conference in Cork. Only the nuncio, Makonnen himself, and a visiting Jesuit from the Holy Office were sleeping on the premises tonight. The visitor was in a guest room near Makonnen’s.
Dublin’s Vatican outpost was a two-storey building constructed at the end of the 1970s, when the nuncio had moved out of his old residence in Phoenix Park. The style was conventional, but the fittings had been designed for comfort.
Balzarin’s study was at the other side of the long house, near the nuncio’s private apartment. Makonnen hesitated in the corridor, listening carefully. He wondered again if he had been woken by a sound. It was highly unlikely that someone would have broken in: the nunciature, situated just off the Navan Road in the north of Dublin,
