had been well protected by the Gardai ever since Balzarin’s arrival. Perhaps the wind had disturbed something in the grounds.
The carpeted passage muffled his footsteps. On the wall to his left, the portraits of former nuncios hung like a row of judges, their massive gilded frames barely visible in the darkness. Makonnen thought of his tiny home on the outskirts of Asmara, the ancient churches cut into the rock at Lalibela, the tattered vestments of the priests, God’s poverty, Christ’s poverty, the world’s poverty. And all around him in the dark, endless riches jostling for space. For the first time in years, he felt out of touch with the world and with himself. Did God walk in such silent corridors? He shuddered and continued along the passage.
There was a light under the door of the nuncio’s study. Balzarin must be working late, something he normally never did. Makonnen hesitated. Now he had come so far, he did not like to turn back.
His feelings in the passage had somehow hardened him. He remembered his arrival in Rome, fresh out of Africa, dark-skinned and alien, trying to find his way in a universal church run by white men. At first, the glamour of the place, its symbols of imperial and ecclesiastical might, its gilded cupolas and icy prelates had disturbed and compromised his faith. With time, he had grown a skin against such things. But underneath, close to his flesh, they were an irritation.
He would confront Balzarin and be damned. What was the worst they could do? Send him to some backwater without hope of promotion? There were worse things in life. He stepped up to the door and knocked hard.
There was no answer. He waited half a minute and knocked again. Still no reply. Hesitantly, he took hold of the handle and pressed it down. The door was unlocked. It swung open without a sound.
The nuncio was seated at his desk, his face partly hidden in shadow, eyes fixed on the door. Makonnen hesitated.
‘Your Excellency ... I ...’
Balzarin did not move.
‘I thought I ... heard ...’
Makonnen took a couple of steps into the room. Something was wrong. The nuncio’s face was twisted in a grimace, whether of pain or terror he could not tell. The eyes were wide open, unblinking, drained of life.
The addetto stepped up to the desk. Balzarin was unquestionably dead, a small glass phial clutched in his right hand. The desk lamp lay shattered on the floor. That must have been the noise that had woken Makonnen. He bent forward and felt the nuncio’s cheek. The flesh was still warm.
He closed the nuncio’s staring eyes and reached for his hand in order to take the phial. The hand was resting on the desk, on top of a pile of papers. Makonnen glanced down. A mauve-coloured file lay open, its papers scattered. Without thinking what he was doing, he began to gather them together. Carefully, he inserted them into the file and closed it. On the cover were two words: La Fratellanza, The
Brotherhood. Beside the word someone had drawn a circle, and in the circle a seven-branched candlestick. A candlestick whose stem formed the base of a cross.
FIFTEEN
He used the direct line. It would be almost two o’clock in Rome. The phone rang at the other end, giving no indication of the caller’s urgency. It was several minutes before anyone answered.
‘Pronto? Parlo col Vaticano?’
‘Si. Che cosa desidera?’
‘Sono padre Makonnen, l’addetto dalla nunziatura di Dublino. Vorrei parlare con il Cardinale Fazzini, per favore, interno 69.’
‘Ma guardi che a quest’ ora? Il cardinale dorme.’
‘E molto urgente. Per favore, provi.’
‘Mah, se proprio vuole. Attenda un momento.’
69 was the number for Fazzini’s private line, only to be used in extreme emergencies. Just as he thought the operator would cut in to tell him to try again in the morning, there was a click and a terse voice answered.
‘Pronto. Qui parla Fazzini.’
He hesitated for only a moment. This was important. Important enough to get a cardinal out of bed for.
Tour Eminence, this is Father Makonnen, addetto at the Dublin nunciature. I ... I’m sorry to disturb Your Eminence at this hour, but ... there has been a terrible tragedy.’
In spite of himself, he found his voice fading away. He glanced round at the still figure of Balzarin, stiffening in his chair. For the moment he had left aside his private worries. He was a diplomat again, his only wish to avoid a scandal that might harm the Church. The irony of his situation could wait till later.
‘It is two o’clock in the morning, Father.’ Fazzini’s voice was sharp, edged with sleep. ‘Whatever your tragedy, surely Archbishop Balzarin is capable of dealing with it until a more suitable hour.’
Makonnen took a deep breath.
‘I regret ... to tell Your Eminence ... that Archbishop Balzarin is dead. He ... I think he took his own life. Si e suicidato. I...’
‘Are you alone, Father?’
‘Yes, I ... The other staff are away. The present housekeeper chooses not to sleep in the nunciature. She is not expected until ten o’clock. The only other person here is Father Diotavelli from the Holy Office. He’s still asleep. If...’
‘Listen to me carefully, Father ... what did you say your name was?’
‘Makonnen.’
‘Listen carefully, Father Makonnen. If you are correct and the archbishop has indeed taken his own life, I am sure you understand the need for ... discretion. I take it you have informed no one else of this ... unfortunate discovery.’
‘Yes, Eminence.’
‘Fa bene. See to it that Father Diotavelli is kept in the dark. The last thing we want is those bastards from the Congregation for Doctrine getting wind of this. They poke their noses into everything and find excuses for endless investigations. Keep Diotavelli out of this at all costs.
‘Now, this is important. I do not wish to distress you further, Father, but you must tell me how the archbishop ... managed things.’
‘He ... I think he took poison, Eminence. There was a small container.’
‘Feleno? Bene. There is no blood, the body is not marked in any way? Nessun segno sul corpo?
‘No.’
‘Very good. The archbishop: you found him in bed?’
‘No, Eminence. In his study. I’m phoning from there.’
There was a pause. Makonnen glanced up. On the wall above the desk a crucifix hung on a single nail. The figure of Christ was small and pale and wounded, his body slumped in the resignation of death. In the chair beneath sat Balzarin, red-faced and irresolute, mocking the pale image.
‘Father Makonnen, you must somehow get the body of the archbishop to his bed. It is the best way. Remove all traces of the poison. When everything is straightened, telephone a private doctor, someone who has helped us avoid some ... scandals in the past. I will already have spoken to him: he will understand. There must be no autopsy. The certificate will say Archbishop Balzarin died in his sleep of natural causes. Morte naturale. Capisce?
‘I understand.’ It was standard procedure. Bishops did not commit suicide. Nuncios, like popes, died in their beds. Peacefully.
‘One thing more, Father. Did the archbishop leave a note of any kind? A letter, anything?’
Makonnen hesitated.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in his study. Perhaps in his bedroom, I’ll take a look. But...’
He paused.
‘Yes?’
‘Eminence, there was a file. It was lying open on his desk when I found him.’
‘A file, yes. What sort of file?’
‘It...’ He remembered the papers he had couriered to Fazzini the previous month. The cardinal must know. He would explain everything. ‘It has a symbol on the front, Your Eminence. A Jewish candlestick, a ...’ He thought for a
