‘That’s because the post office sends it to Palermo for sorting. By boat.’
She laughed again, with amusement and relief. Thinks she’s got away with it, Zen thought to himself. Already he was getting used to the idea of her treachery. To be honest, once he’d recovered from the initial shock it was almost a relief to find that she was indeed deceiving him. The immense and unconditional gift which Tania had made of her love still amazed him. Being worthy of it had been a bit of a responsibility. This discovery evened things up considerably. All in all, he told himself, it was probably the best thing that could have happened.
The door at the end of the corridor opened and Lamboglia reappeared. He extended his right hand, palm down, and waggled the fingers beckoningly. Zen rose and followed him into the office where he had been received by the Cardinal Secretary of State’s deputy the previous Friday. On this occasion, Juan Ramon Sanchez-Valdes was in his full episcopal regalia, an ankle-length soutane with a magenta sash, piping and buttons. The crown of his head was covered by a skullcap of the same colour. The rim of an ecclesiastical collar was just visible beneath the soutane, while a plain silver cross hung from its chain at the base of the archbishop’s chest.
As before, Zen was placed on the long red sofa while the archbishop sat in the high-backed armchair by the table. At his elbow, beside the white telephone, lay a single sheet of paper with some lines of typing. Lamboglia took up his earlier position, just behind the archbishop’s shoulder, but Sanchez-Valdes waved him away.
‘Sit down, Enrico! You make me nervous, hovering there like a waiter.’
Flinching as though he’d been struck, poor Lamboglia trotted off across the elaborately patterned rug with the quick fluttering gait of a woman, all stiff knees and loose ankles, and subsided into a chair on the end wall.
‘Enrico is from Genoa,’ Sanchez-Valdes remarked to Zen. ‘On the other hand I seem to recall that you, dottore, are from Venice. The two cities were of course fierce trading rivals, and vied with each other to supply us with transportation for the Crusades. I came across rather a good comment on the subject just the other day, in a dispatch from our nuncio in Venice at the turn of the century — the thirteenth century, that is. He advises the Holy Father to treat with the Doge, exorbitant though his terms might seem, explaining that while both the Genoese and the Venetians will gladly offer to sell you their mothers, the crucial difference is that the Venetians will deliver.’
Although he was aware of being manipulated by a skilled operator, Zen could not help smiling.
‘I gather it was you who found poor Grimaldi’s body,’ the archbishop went on without a pause.
Zen’s smile faded.
‘What a terrible tragedy!’ sighed Sanchez-Valdes. ‘Those poor children! First they lose their mother to illness, and now…’
He broke off, seemingly overcome by emotion. Lamboglia was rubbing his hands together furiously, as though to warm or wash them.
‘I believe Enrico informed you that we had strong reason to suppose that Grimaldi was the author of that anonymous letter to the press,’ Sanchez-Valdes continued. ‘Needless to say that fact has now become one more of the many embarrassments which this case threatens to cause us. If it became known, one can easily imagine the sort of vicious insinuations and calumnies which would inevitably follow. No sooner is the identity of the “Vatican mole” discovered than he is found dead in the shower. How very convenient for those who wish to conceal the truth about the Ruspanti affair, etcetera, etcetera.
‘That’s why we’ve summoned you here this morning, dottore. Enrico has explained to me your unfortunate misunderstanding of our intentions with regard to the death of Ludovico Ruspanti. On this occasion I want to leave you in no doubt as to our position. Fortunately it is very simple. With Grimaldi’s death, this tragic sequence of events has reached its conclusion. Any mistakes or miscalculations which may have occurred are now a matter for future historians of Vatican affairs. As far as the present is concerned, we shall instruct the Apostolic Nuncio to convey our thanks to the Italian government for your, quote, discreet and invaluable intervention, unquote.’
The archbishop lifted the sheet of paper from the table and scanned it briefly.
‘Enrico!’ he called.
Lamboglia sashayed back across the carpet to his master’s side. Sanchez-Valdes handed him the paper.
‘There is just one remaining formality,’ he told Zen, ‘which is for you to sign an undertaking not to disclose any of the information which you may have come by in the course of your work for us.’
Lamboglia carried the paper over to Zen, who read through the six lines of typing.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t sign this.’
‘What do you mean?’ snapped Lamboglia, who was waiting to convey the signed document back to Sanchez- Valdes.
‘To do so would risk placing me in an untenable position with regard to my official duties.’
Sanchez-Valdes hitched up the hem of his soutane to reveal a pair of magenta socks.
‘You didn’t display such exaggerated scruples the last time we spoke,’ he said dryly.
‘That was altogether different, Your Excellency. Ruspanti’s death occurred in the Vatican City State, and was therefore not subject to investigation by the Italian authorities. When I acted for you in that affair, I did so as a free agent. If Grimaldi had also died within the walls of the Vatican, I would have been happy to sign this undertaking. But he didn’t, he died in Rome. If I sign this, and Grimaldi’s death is subsequently made the subject of a judicial investigation, I would be unable to avoid perjuring myself whether I spoke or remained silent.’
Archbishop Sanchez-Valdes laughed urbanely.
‘But there’s no possibility of that happening! Grimaldi’s death was an accident.’
Zen nodded.
‘Of course. Just like Ruspanti’s was suicide.’
The two clerics stared at him intently. The archbishop was the first to break the silence.
‘Are you suggesting that Grimaldi did not die accidentally?’ he asked quietly.
‘That’s absurd!’ cried Lamboglia. ‘We’ve seen the Carabinieri report! There’s no question that Grimaldi was electrocuted by a faulty shower.’
Zen shook his head.
‘He was electrocuted in the shower, not by the shower.’
Sanchez-Valdes looked up at the ceiling, as though invoking divine assistance.
‘There’s no doubt about that?’ he murmured.
‘None at all.’
The archbishop nodded.
‘A pity.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Zen. ‘Nevertheless, although I am unable to sign this undertaking, I can assure you that I will honour it in practice. Your secrets will go no further.’
He smiled shyly.
‘As I mentioned the first time Your Excellency honoured me with an audience, whatever the Church decides is good enough for me.’
Sanchez-Valdes looked at Zen with amusement.
‘You’re a great loss to the Curia, dottore,’ he remarked, shaking his head. ‘A very great loss indeed! But then of course they already accuse us of creaming off the best administrators in the country.’
He got to his feet, sighing.
‘Thank you, Enrico, that will be all.’
After a momentary hesitation, Lamboglia left sullenly. When the door had closed behind him, Sanchez-Valdes walked over to the window. He pulled aside the screen of the net curtaining, allowing a beam of raw sunlight to enter.
‘What a lovely morning.’
He turned to Zen.
‘I think we should take a walk, dottore.’
Zen stared at him blankly.
‘A walk?’
‘That’s right. A walk in the woods.’
‘Have you heard the one about the whore and the Swiss Guard?’ asked the archbishop.
Zen, who was lighting a cigarette, promptly choked on the smoke. When the fit of coughing had subsided somewhat, he shook his head.
‘I don’t think I have.’
