moment. ‘A menorah, but with a cross in the centre. Your Eminence - someone visited the archbishop today. An American. He asked about that symbol. About the papers that came from Father De Faoite. At the time I thought Archbishop Balzarin seemed distressed.’
There was a long silence at the other end. When Fazzini spoke again, his voice had changed.
‘Father Makonnen, I must tell you that this is not a matter to be discussed over the telephone. I am very grateful for this information. Until I see you in person, however, I cannot give you any details. All I will say is that the archbishop had become involved in ... certain matters not in keeping with his position. You must make sure the file is secure. The Church could be gravely damaged if any of this leaked out.
‘Wait where you are and I will send someone to help you. Do not telephone the doctor until they come. There may be other documents, we must be extremely careful. Do not touch anything else until help comes. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Your Eminence.’
‘I shall wish to see you tomorrow in my office in Rome. Take the first flight. In the morning you will summon the other staff members back to Dublin. Do not contact them yet.’ There was a brief pause. ‘This American, Father. Did he give his name?’
‘His name? Yes, Eminence. It was Canavan. Patrick Canavan.’
‘Very good. He may have to be contacted as well. His life may be in danger. Did he leave an address?’
‘I’m not sure. Just a moment, Eminence, I’ll check.’ What did the cardinal mean, ‘His life may be in danger’?
Addresses were kept in a small filing cabinet in one corner. Makonnen opened it and started looking under ‘C. There it was: ‘Patrick Canavan,
104 Pembroke Road, Ballsbridge.’ He returned to the phone and gave the address to the Cardinal.
‘You have done very well, Father. Sono molto contento di te. Please be patient. Try not to worry, everything is being taken care of. Wait for help to arrive. And pray for the soul of Archbishop Balzarin. Try not to judge him. We are all human. We are all tempted. Satan is powerful.’
‘I understand, Your Eminence. I’ll do my best. Thank you for your help.’
‘Goodbye, Father Makonnen. Thank you for calling me.’
The phone went dead. Makonnen replaced the receiver with a shaking hand. Against his will, he was being drawn into dangerous waters.
Moving the archbishop’s body was not easy. With a shock, he realized that this was the first time he had ever handled a corpse. It took all his strength to drag Balzarin across the corridor into his private apartment. They were cheek to cheek, like lovers in a silent dance. The nuncio’s flesh lay cold and clammy against his skin, intimate and nauseating.
He lifted the body into bed and arranged the sheets. But try as he might, nothing could dispel the impression of unnatural death. Balzarin’s lips were curled back from his teeth in a tortured grimace. And Makonnen could not banish his fear that, at any moment, the dead eyes would open again in horror and outrage.
Makonnen looked in all the obvious places for a note, but there was nothing, not even a sign that the nuncio had started to write one. To avoid thinking of the silent bedroom, he busied himself checking that all was in order in the study. He pocketed the phial that had held the poison. The file he slipped into a large brown envelope, ready to take to Rome. He went carefully over the other papers on the desk, to be sure that there was nothing else that seemed out of place. As far as he could tell, all was in order.
He found himself restlessly pacing the floor of the study. Several times he started to pray, as the cardinal had asked him to, but the words came sterile to his lips, as though Balzarin’s death had killed something in him too. On his knees in the stillness of the study, he found himself bereft, without resources, impotent in the face of a darkness greater than any he had known. He felt as though something bestial had ravished his innocence.
Still restless, he decided to fill in the time packing for his journey to Rome. His best flight would be the 9.55 Aer Lingus departure, direct to Fiumicino, arriving at 1.35 that afternoon. He picked up the envelope containing the file and took it upstairs to his room.
There was little to pack. He had done this so often he had it down to a fine art. He did not know how long he would have to stay at the Vatican, but however long his visit everything would be supplied for his simple needs. He slipped the file into his overnight case and zipped it closed.
Back in Balzarin’s study, he checked each of the filing cabinets in turn, just to be sure there was nothing obviously missing. Satisfied that all seemed in order, he sat down to wait for the help Cardinal Fazzini had promised. And then he remembered the nuncio’s private safe. Fazzini would want to know the contents. But where was the key?
He looked through the drawers of the nuncio’s desk, but none of the keys he found fitted the safe. He found Balzarin’s key-ring in the pocket of his trousers, but the key he sought was not on it. He tried the housekeeper’s keys on a ring in the kitchen, but nothing matched. Just as he was about
to give up, he remembered feeling something round Balzarin’s neck as he carried him to his room. He returned to the bedroom: the key was on a chain, hanging beside a little gold crucifix.
The safe was packed solid with papers. Some seemed extremely old, others quite new. He carried them across to the desk, feeling a sense of guilt at this intrusion on a dead man’s privacy. And yet, not an hour earlier, had he not come down to this room for the express purpose of prying?
His attention was drawn at once by two large folders, their dark blue covers overprinted in gold. Each bore a golden circle inset with a candlestick, also in gold, and above it another symbol, two crossed keys, like those in the papal coat of arms. He took one to the desk. It contained about a dozen pages, on each of which several photographs had been pasted. Those at the front were old, many dating from the last century. As he got nearer the back, he came closer to the present day.
The photographs passed slowly through his hands: black and white butterflies pinned to a moment in time. They looked at him out of their rectangular cells: pale faces, dreaming eyes, opening and opened lips. He could not tear himself away. They willed him to look, to pass judgement, to remember.
The men in the photographs were, for the most part, senior clergy: bishops, archbishops, cardinals, the heads of seminaries, the chiefs of Curial Congregations. They were all Italian, all middle-aged or elderly, each one facing the camera disdainfully, mocking its trivial vanity with a chilling pride. Transfixed, he leafed through the pages, unable to find any pattern or meaning in them.
There was the sound of a car drawing up on the gravel path outside. Thank God, someone had come at last. He stood up, preparing to go to the door. As he did so, he let go of the folder. It shifted, opening at one of the later pages. He glanced down and paused, his attention drawn at once by the photograph at the top left corner. It was Balzarin, portentous, smiling, dressed in purple. Beside him, in red robes and virgin lace, he recognized the thin, unsmiling features of Cardinal Fazzini.
SIXTEEN
Makonnen felt his heart go cold. Though he was still unable to make sense of any of this, instinct told him he was in terrible danger. For all he knew, the folders and the photographs in them were entirely innocent. But something made him doubt it. Balzarin’s secrecy, Fazzini’s insistence that the nuncio’s death be hushed up, just as De Faoite’s had been, the cardinal’s request that he bring him the file, and now the discovery of his photograph among these others: Balzarin and Fazzini were both involved in something serious enough to push one of them to suicide.
Outside, the car engine was switched off. There was a sound of car doors opening and closing.
He ran to the window and looked out. Security lights illuminated the area around the entrance. Two men were walking towards the door. They were not priests, or were not, at least, dressed as such. There was something purposeful about their movements, something that reminded him of ... what? Undertakers?
Without even pausing to think, he snatched up the bundles of papers from the safe. The doorbell rang.
He looked round desperately for something to carry the papers in. His briefcase! It was in his own office down the corridor. Clutching the papers to his chest, he ran out of the room. The corridor was unlit save for the bar of light coming down from the open door behind him. His office was two doors down. He put the papers on the floor and went in. As he opened the door his chest heaved. Panic fluttered in his stomach. Downstairs, the bell rang a second time. What if it woke Diotavelli?
Hurriedly, he emptied his briefcase. There was something else he had to do, but for the life of him he could
