prominent members of the government. This explained why the Prince had chosen a hiding place which was beyond the jurisdiction of the Italian authorities. The Sovereign Military Order of Malta has long lost the extensive territories which once made it, together with the Knights Templar, the richest and most powerful mediaeval order of chivalry, but it is still recognized as an independent state by over forty nations, including Italy. Thus Palazzo Malta, opposite Gucci’s in elegant Via Condotti, and the Palace of Rhodes on the Aventine hill, headquarters of the local Grand Priory and chancery of the Order’s diplomatic mission to the Holy See, enjoy exactly the same extraterritorial status as any foreign embassy. If the fugitive had taken refuge within the walls of either property, he was as safe from the power of the Italian state as he would have been in Switzerland or Paraguay. Whatever the truth about this, Ruspanti had not been seen again until his dramatic reappearance the previous Friday in the basilica of St Peter’s.
This event initially appeared to render the question of the Prince’s whereabouts in the interim somewhat academic, but the letter to the newspapers changed all that with its dramatic suggestion that his death might not be quite what it seemed — or rather, what the Vatican authorities had allegedly been at considerable pains to make it seem. According to the anonymous correspondent, in short, Ludovico Ruspanti — like Roberto Calvi, Michele Sindona and so many other illustrious corpses — had been the subject of ‘an assisted suicide’.
The letter made three principal charges. The first confirmed the rumours about Ruspanti having been harboured by the Order of Malta, but added that following his expulsion, which took place after a personal intervention by the Grand Master, the Prince had been leading a clandestine existence in the Vatican City State with the full connivance of the Holy See. Moreover, the writer claimed, Ruspanti’s movements and contacts during this period had been the subject of a surveillance operation, and the Vatican authorities were thus aware that on the afternoon of his death the Prince had met the representatives of an organization referred to as ‘the Cabal’. But the item of most interest to Zen was the last, which stated categorically that the senior Italian police official called in by the Holy See, a certain ‘Dottor Aurelio Zeno’, had deliberately falsified the results of his investigation in line with the preconceived verdict of suicide.
Almost the most significant feature of the letter was that no more was said. The implication was that it was addressed not to the general public but to those in the know, the select few who were aware of the existence and nature of ‘the Cabal’. They would grasp not only how and why Ruspanti had met his death, but also the reasons why this information was now being leaked to the press. ‘In short,’ II Manifesto concluded, ‘we once again find ourselves enveloped by sinister and suggestive mysteries, face to face with one of those convenient deaths signed by a designer whose name remains unknown but whose craftsmanship everyone recognizes as bearing the label “Made in Italy”.’
‘This one?’
The taxi had drawn up opposite an unpainted wooden door set in an otherwise blank wall. There was no number, and for a moment Zen hesitated. Then he saw the black Fiat saloon with SCV number plates parked on the other side of the street, right under a sign reading PARKING STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. It could sit there for the rest of the year without getting a ticket, Zen reflected as he paid off the taxi. Any vehicle bearing Sacra Citta del Vaticano plates was invisible to the traffic cops.
A metal handle dangled from a chain in a small niche beside the door. Zen gave it a yank. A dull bell clattered briefly, somewhere remote. Nothing happened. He pulled the chain again, then got out a cigarette and put it in his mouth without lighting it. A small metal grille set in the door slid back.
‘Yes?’ demanded a female voice.
‘Signor Bianchi.’
Keys jingled, locks turned, bolts were drawn, and the door opened a crack.
‘Come in!’
Zen stepped into the soft, musty dimness inside. He just had time to glimpse the speaker, a dumpy nun ‘of canonical age’, to use the Church’s euphemism, before the door was slammed shut and locked behind him.
‘Follow me.’
The nun waddled off along a bare tiled corridor which unexpectedly emerged in a well-tended garden surrounded on three sides by a cloister whose tiled, sloping roof was supported by an arcade of beautifully proportioned arches. Zen’s guide opened one of the doors facing the garden.
‘Please wait here.’
She scuttled off. Zen stepped over the well-scrubbed threshold. The room was long and narrow, with a freakishly high ceiling and a floor of smooth scrubbed stone slabs. It smelt like a disused larder. The one window, small and barred, set in the upper expanses of a bare whitewashed wall, emphasized the sense of enclosure. The furnishings consisted of a trestle table flanked by wooden benches, and an acrylic painting showing a young woman reclining in a supine posture while a bleeding heart hovered in the air above her, emitting rays of light which pierced her outstretched palms.
Zen sat heavily on one of the benches. The tabletop was a thick oak board burnished to a sullen gleam. He took the cigarette from his lips and twiddled it between two fingers. It seemed inconceivable that only half an hour earlier he had been lying in a position not dissimilar from that of the female stigmatic in the painting, wondering if it was worth bothering to get out of bed at all given that Tania would be back shortly after two. For no particular reasons, he had decided to treat himself to a couple of days sick-leave. Like all state employees, Zen regularly availed himself of this perk. A doctor’s certificate was only required for more than three days’ absence, and as long as you didn’t abuse the system too exaggeratedly, everyone turned a blind eye. That was how Zen had known that something was seriously wrong when Tania told him about Moscati checking up on him. When he phoned in, Lorenzo Moscati had left him in no doubt whatever that the shit had hit the fan.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Zen, I really don’t. You take a simple courtesy call, a bit of window-dressing, and manage to turn it into a diplomatic incident.’
‘But I…’
‘The apostolic nuncio has intervened in the very strongest terms, demanding an explanation, and to make matters worse half the blue bloods at the Farnesina were fucking related to Ruspanti. Result, the Minister finds himself in the hot seat just as the entire government is about to go into the blender and he had his eye on some nice fat portfolio like Finance.’
‘But I…’
‘The media are screaming for you to be put on parade, which is all we need. We’re saying you’re in bed, not with la Biacis but a fever, something nasty and infectious. We’ve sent Marcelli along to handle the press conference. All you need to do is fiddle a doctor’s certificate and then keep out of sight for a day or two. But first get along to Via dell’Annunciata in Trastevere, number 14, and make your peace with the priests. You’d better turn on the charm, Zen — or Bianchi, as they want you to call yourself. Remember how the Inquisition worked? The Church graciously pardoned the erring sinners, and then turned them over to the secular authorities to be burnt alive. And that’s what’s going to happen to you, Zen, unless you can talk your way out of this one.’
The implications of this threat could hardly have been more serious. If the Vatican lodged a formal complaint, the Ministry would have no option but to institute a full internal inquiry. The verdict was almost irrelevant, since the severity of the eventual disciplinary proceedings was as nothing compared to the long, slow torment of the inquiry itself, dragging on for month after month, while the subject was ostracized by colleagues wary of being contaminated by contact with a potential pariah.
So gloomy were these speculations that even the arrival of Monsignor Lamboglia was a distinct relief. The cleric was wearing a plain dark overcoat, grey scarf and homburg hat and carrying a black leather briefcase, and his sharp-featured face looked even grimmer than usual.
‘Will that be all?’ murmured the elderly nun from the doorway.
Lamboglia scanned the room slowly through his steel-rimmed glasses. He might have been alone for all the sign he gave of having noted Zen’s existence. Without turning round, he nodded once. The nun backed out, closing the door behind her.
The cleric took off his overcoat, folded it carefully and laid it beside his hat and briefcase on the table. He opened his briefcase and removed a portable tape-recorder, then looked at Zen for the first time since entering the room.
‘You may smoke.’
Zen twirled the unlit cigarette between his lips.
‘Do I get a blindfold as well?’
Lamboglia regarded him like an entomologist confronted by an unfamiliar insect whose characteristics had
