say nothing.
“Another random attack?” Koesler’s sardonic question was addressed to Koznicki.
But it was Toussaint who answered. “I think not.” He jerked the scarf off the man’s head. Long black ringlets sprang free.
“Dreadlocks!” said Cox in awe.
“How did you know?” Koznicki asked.
“Partly intuition,” said Toussaint. “I was looking for someone. The scarf looked as if it was covering more than the ordinary amount of hair. But mostly it was his eyes.”
Koznicki looked intently into the man’s eyes, then nodded.
“His eyes are clouded,” Toussaint continued. “He has the appearance of someone under the influence of some chemical substance. Probably marijuana—ganja.”
“Wow!” was Cox’s contribution.
By this time, Lennon, too, was taking notes. Irene Casey stood nearby garnering details for her second-day story.
“Look!” said Koesler. He pointed to a small image on the floor where the scuffle had taken place.
“The black fist!” said Koznicki.
“Can someone tell me just what the hell is going on here?” As the words left Lennon’s mouth, she remembered where she was and immediately regretted the epithet. She caught a quick glimpse of Cardinal Boyle, still standing on the altar step looking concerned. She fervently hoped his preoccupation with what had just taken place precluded his being aware of her inappropriate language.
“In point of fact, yes, young lady,” said Koznicki. “I believe enough pieces have fallen into place so that we can tell you the story. But first,” he turned to the
Even for Rome it was a tiny street, a cul-de-sac near the Aurelian Wall. And even though it was late Saturday night, very little was going on here. Every so often, a couple, arm-in-arm, would leave one of the flats, walk down the street, and disappear around the corner. Or a wage-earner would make his way home hurriedly. Or a wide, round wife and mother would stagger home under a load of groceries. At least the street itself was quiet.
In a basement flat in one of the buildings, a mournful and angry rite was taking place.
The windows of the flat had been boarded up and no sound escaped the room. Like everything else in Rome of any age whatsoever, the room seemed ancient. Here and there, niches that had once held small statues, busts, or urns were now empty. The room, bare except for a couple of long benches against the walls, was devoid of any decoration or appointment save for a large framed color portrait of a bushy-haired man in uniform with many medaled decorations on his chest: Haile Selassie I, late emperor of Ethiopia, Lion of Judah, and oblivious patron of the Rastafarians.
The small room was nearly filled with men, all of them black, most of them with dreadlocks, all of them smoking marijuana in one form or another—standard-sized cigarettes, gigantic spliffs, or chillum pipes.
One man was mournfully beating a single bongo-size drum at a funereal tempo.
“Hellfire and damnation!” shouted one man.
The drum continued to sound. Some of the men shuffled back and forth across the floor. Others slumped on the benches against the walls.
“We and we has failed Selassie I,” another man bellowed.
“Shame on our house!” called out another.
“Bredren!” commanded one man, evidently the leader. “Jah not be happy with us and us. He put into our hands dem condemned tings. We and we failed to make da sacrifice. Jah not pleased!”
“Dread Rasta!”
“But der be peace!” the leader called out. “Selassie I bring peace to his Rastas!”
“Praises due Selassie I!”
“Our and our condemned ting goes now to Babylon England place where other condemned ting be! Our Rasta bredren make da sacrifice. Make a sacrifice of both condemned tings!”
“Dread Rasta! Praises due Selassie I!”
“Now, bredren,” the leader continued, “it be time for our unityfication with da Rasta men in all of Babylon. First off, we and we make our sacrifice, we and we make da longing prayer to Addis Ababa and den we and we go way for tree days of grounation.”
“Praises due Selassie I!”
Each of the men unsheathed his knife. One left the room to return with a small goat that had been tethered to an iron fence outside the basement landing. He led the goat to the room’s northwest corner, the general direction in which lay England.
With a single stroke of his long knife, the leader slaughtered the goat.
The others approached the dead animal. One by one, each bathed his knife in the blood.
“Dread Rasta!” the shouts rose, “praises due Selassie I!”
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Kamego speaking. Welcome aboard our Trans World Airlines charter flight to London. The weather is clear all the way and we anticipate no turbulence. We will be cruising at an altitude of 25,000 feet. Our flying time is approximately two and a quarter hours. So we should be touching down at about 10:30 a.m. London time. Have a good flight.”
The flight attendants began serving a brunch, with a beer, wine, and liquor lagniappe. However, few aboard desired any alcoholic beverage.
Cardinal Boyle turned in his seat to face Inspector Koznicki. “I’m sorry your wife was unable to continue this trip with us.”
“It is all right; she understood,” said Koznicki. “This is not the first time we have had to cancel or cut short a vacation.”
“But my dear Inspector, you did not have to deprive yourselves of a well-deserved vacation on my account.”
“With all due respect, your Eminence, we did. There is an unavoidable element of danger now until we can clear this matter up. And I think it is of vital importance for you to be aware of this danger. That is why I asked to be seated with you on this flight, so we could discuss this very matter.”
“Oh, I’m afraid you may be mistaken, Inspector.”
“Oh, I am afraid not, your Eminence. Would you mind taking a look at this list.”
Koznicki handed the Cardinal a small piece of paper on which were written nine names.
Koznicki noted that while others on the plane had doffed jackets and coats to make themselves more comfortable, Boyle had retained his lightweight black suit coat and starched white linen roman collar. He never wore the voguish black shirt with the white plastic insert at the neck. Across his chest was stretched the gold chain that held his pectoral cross, now tucked into the inside pocket of his suit coat.
“Yes?” Boyle looked up, blue eyes inquisitive.
“That is the list the Reverend Toussaint acquired from his contacts in Rome. These are alleged to be the names of those who are intended victims of an extremist element of the Rastafarians.”
Koznicki correctly anticipated that Boyle would be familiar with the Rastafarian movement. But the Inspector went on to explain what was now understood to be the intent and motive of this violent segment of the group.
“And so, your Eminence,” Koznicki concluded, “I would be very much interested in your evaluation of these Cardinals.”
“Well, of course, this list includes the names of Cardinals Claret and Gattari, both unfortunately slain.”
“But the rest, your Eminence—would you not agree that they are—how is it you say it . . .
Boyle smiled and waved a hand in dismissal of the idea. “Oh, no, my dear Inspector. That is an
