‘Please sit down, Father. There’s no reason to be upset. Everything’s under control.’
Meyer stepped forward.
‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but Father O’Malley is right. We cannot afford to take any risks with the Holy Father’s life. Or any other lives.’
Fischer pushed himself out of his chair.
‘I asked Father O’Malley to sit down. I would like you to do the same.’
‘I cannot...’
‘Colonel, you are on the verge of insolence. Remember your place.’ Fischer’s face had reddened. His eyes glinted with anger. The colonel stood his ground.
Father O’Malley made to take Fischer by the shoulders. The cardinal drew back a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek.
‘You will remain seated, Father.’ The voice was hard. ‘It’s time you understood just how matters really stand.’
Fischer reached for a second telephone, a white office model, and dialled a single digit. It rang briefly, then a voice answered. The cardinal said, ‘Could you come up now, please?’ and replaced the handset.
No one spoke. Assefa glanced at O’Malley nervously. He could not understand how it was possible for Cardinal Fischer not to believe their story. They had evidence. Assefa had provided full details of events in Dublin. What more could the cardinal want? He glanced at the American.
The cardinal had resumed his seat. He sat impassively, all anger gone, hands folded calmly in his ample lap. His red-piped soutane was perfectly creased. His shoes were immaculately polished. His rosy cheeks glowed with contentment. He seemed like a large wax doll.
Assefa’s eye was drawn by something on the wall, just behind Fischer’s head. It was the cardinal’s personal coat of arms, painted on a ceramic plate. Assefa had noticed it several times that evening, but now it was as though he saw it properly for the first time.
At the centre of the heraldic design, beneath a red cardinal’s hat with long, hanging tassels, sat a broad shield. And in the centre of the shield a man stood upright in the prow of a small boat, one arm raised high above his head, about to cast a net on the water.
Fischer. Fisher. The fisherman. Il Pescatore.
FIFTY
The door opened. Two priests stepped into the room and inclined their heads towards the cardinal. They were carrying small sub-machine guns in what seemed a very professional manner.
‘Colonel Meyer,’ Fischer said, ‘I regret to inform you that you are being placed under arrest. If you would be so kind as to accompany these gentlemen, they will see you are treated properly.’
‘Verfluchte Scheisse!’ Meyer spluttered and leapt out of his chair. At the door, there was a sound of bolts being drawn back.
‘I demand to know what you think you’re playing at,’ the colonel raged. ‘You have no authority to do this. Who are these men? No one but my Guard is authorized to carry arms here. I don’t care if you...’
‘Take him away,’ Fischer waved a dismissive hand at Meyer. The priests - if priests they were - stepped forward and grabbed the colonel roughly, each one taking an arm. Before he had time for further protest, he had been bundled through the door. It slammed behind them. There was a sound of footsteps clicking across the marble floor outside, followed by another door slamming, then silence.
Fischer leaned back in his easy chair.
‘So,’ he said, smiling first at O’Malley, then at Makonnen. “What am I going to do with you two?’
‘Absolutely nothing at all,’ the Irishman replied. ‘And, contrary to expectations, you’re going to have Colonel Meyer brought back here. He is going to make his telephone call to Monsignor Foucauld after all.’
‘Is he indeed? I’m interested to hear that. Perhaps you could tell me why you think that is.’
O’Malley gestured towards the table.
‘What do you see there, Your Eminence?’ There was more than a hint of sarcasm in the way O’Malley used the title. ‘A list of names, documentary evidence of their connection to an organization called the Brotherhood of the Tomb, documents proving that this Brotherhood exists. As valuable a bundle of papers as ever existed, don’t you agree? Now, did you think I’d come here tonight bringing the only copies in existence? Did you imagine I was that trusting?’
He paused and reached for the list of names. He lifted it from the table and waved it in front of Fischer’s face.
‘Copies of this list, together with xeroxes of every relevant piece of documentation, have been deposited in the vaults of three major Italian banks. I have prepared letters for the Public Prosecutor, the Minister of Justice, the Prime Minister, and the editors of Il Tempo, Messaggero and the Giornale d’ltalia. By now, they will all have been delivered by hand by a colleague of mine.’
He laid the list back on the table.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I want you to listen carefully. If I do not contact each of the individuals I have mentioned by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, they have instructions to open the envelopes. Equally, if any major act of terrorism should occur anywhere in Italy within the next few days, they will open the envelopes. In any event, they will under no circumstances destroy them. Inside, as you will have guessed, they will discover my letter, together with written authorization to open the vaults and extract the documents I have deposited in them.
‘Do you understand? You can harm me or not, as you choose. You can go ahead with your plan for tomorrow morning, knowing that it may be preempted. In either case, your Brotherhood is finished. Migliau is on that list. Fazzini. Well, you have seen for yourself. I’m sure you can complete the rest.’
He let out a deep sigh.
‘It’s finished, Your Eminence. It’s all over.’
Fischer said nothing. He sat watching O’Malley, his eyes unblinking. At the end of a minute, still silent, he got up. He walked slowly into an adjoining room. Another minute passed, then he reappeared. In his arms he was carrying a large pile of papers, all packed in neat brown files and tied with string.
‘Are these the papers you mean, Father O’Malley?’
He put the files down on the table. O’Malley stared at them like a man who has just been shown an open grave and told that it is his own. The life seemed to have gone out of him. His body sagged, his head bent, his shoulders seemed bowed beneath an intolerable weight.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Avanti!’ Fischer called.
The door opened and a thin man dressed in the robes of a cardinal stepped into the room.
‘Tommaso, please come in,’ said Fischer, welcoming him. ‘We were just talking about you.’
‘Really?’ The new arrival raised his eyebrows. ‘How flattering.’
‘I don’t think you know Father Dermot O’Malley.’
‘But I’ve heard so much about him.’ The stranger held out his hand, waiting for O’Malley to rise and kiss his ring. But the Irishman did not move.
‘I see we have forgotten our manners.’ The cardinal lowered his hand.
‘And this,’ said Fischer, ‘is Father Makonnen. I think you already know one another.’
Assefa said nothing. He knew Fazzini well enough.
‘Please, Tommaso, come and have a drink.’
‘Just a fruit juice for me, please. I’ve been dining with the Holy Father. My mind should be clear for tomorrow.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Fazzini took a comfortable chair beside Fischer.
‘And how was the Holy Father?’
‘Fine, fine. He has great hopes for tomorrow, great hopes. Oh, by the way, before I forget. I dropped into my office before coming over. I have the letters you wanted.’
He reached inside his soutane and drew out a bundle of about half a dozen thick envelopes. Father O’Malley closed his eyes as though in pain.
‘Thank you, Tommaso. I’ve dealt with Meyer. I think we’ve taken care of everything.’ He glanced at his wrist.
