muttered undertones. Zen shifted his position slightly. His knees were beginning to ache.
‘The idea behind the Cabal is very similar,’ the man went on. ‘In short, they believe they know what the Holy Father wants better than he does himself — or at any rate, better than he can afford to express openly. Like many of us, they are disturbed by the decline in church attendance and in the numbers presenting themselves for the priesthood, and by the rampant hedonism and materialism of society today. Wojtyla’s early life was dominated by the struggle against a godless ideology, but he has come to feel that we now face an even more implacable foe than Communism. The sufferings of the Church in Poland and elsewhere ultimately served to strengthen the faith of believers. But what the Communists failed to destroy with force and terror is now in danger of decaying through sheer apathy and neglect.’
Zen emitted a grunt, of pain rather than agreement. Had some malicious cleric selected this rendezvous as a way of making him appreciate his place in the Vatican’s scheme of things?
‘In this situation, it is inevitable that some people should cast envious glances at the very different situation in the Muslim world. While our young people seem to think of nothing but the instant gratifications of a materialist society, theirs are gripped with a religious fervour of undeniable intensity, for which they are prepared both to die and to kill. While our cities are flooded with drugs and pornography, theirs are rigorously patrolled by religious police with summary powers of arrest and punishment. And while the authority of our leaders, including the Holy Father himself, is challenged on all sides, a single pronouncement by one of theirs is sufficient to force a celebrated writer to go to ground like a Mafia supergrass. Can you doubt that there are those of us who are nostalgic for the days when our Church was also capable of compelling respect, by force if necessary? Of course there are!’
Once again the brief pause, the slight rustle of paper. Was the man reading a prepared text?
‘But while some may idly regret an era which has passed for ever, others are scheming to bring it back. These people have noted Wojtyla’s effect on the cheering crowds who come to greet him in their hundreds of thousands during his tours of Africa and Latin America. Here is a man who has both the potential and the will to bring about a radical desecularization of society. Naturally the Holy Father cannot be seen to harbour any such ambitions, still less endorse the tactics of destabilization necessary to bring them to fruition. But by his sponsorship of such organizations as Opus Dei and Comunione e Liberazione, Wojtyla has made it quite clear in which direction he wishes the Church to move.’
Zen tapped impatiently on the wall of the confessional. It resounded hollowly, like a stage property.
‘This is all very interesting,’ he remarked in a tone which suggested just the opposite, ‘but I’m not a theologian.’
‘Neither are the members of the Cabal! Like the original Knights of Malta, from whom they draw their inspiration, they are men of action, men of violence, organized, capable and ruthless. What happened to Ruspanti is proof of that.’
‘And what did happen?’
‘Ruspanti made the mistake of trying to play a double game. On the one hand he was trading information for protection here in the Vatican, doling it out scrap by scrap, feeding us just enough to whet our appetite for what was still to come. He described the structure and aims of the Cabal in general terms, named a few of the minor players and hinted that under the right circumstances he would be prepared to identify the leaders, including well- known figures in the political, industrial, financial and military worlds. At the same time, he was also trying to put pressure on the Cabal itself, threatening to expose them if they didn’t meet his terms. That was a mistake which proved to be fatal. Last Friday he was summoned to a meeting with two senior representatives of the Cabal, here in St Peter’s, and…’
Zen wasn’t listening. He had just realized why his mother’s absence from home had seemed so oddly disturbing. When this man had phoned him at the Ministry, he claimed to have tried Zen’s home number and been told he was at work. That was a lie. There had been no one at home to answer the phone. The deception was trivial, but it altered Zen’s whole attitude towards this faceless informant. No longer did he feel constrained or deferential. He felt rude and sassy. His knees were killing him, and he was going to get even.
‘… that the Cabal is everywhere, even within the Curia,’ the man was saying. ‘Any opposition to their aims, any threat to their secrecy, is punished by instant death.’
‘If they’re so clever, why haven’t they found the transcript of Ruspanti’s phone calls?’ demanded Zen.
There was silence in the confessional.
‘Grimaldi had it, so they killed him,’ Zen went on. ‘But they didn’t find it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I did.’
It was a shot in the dark, but he had nothing to lose. The urgent tremor in the speaker’s voice revealed that it had gone home.
‘You have the transcript?’
There was a sudden eruption of sound, as though a bomb had gone off.
‘Hello?’ cried the voice. ‘Are you still there?’
Now the source of the noise was visible: a rack of spotlamps being lowered from their position high above the south transept.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ said Zen.
Why couldn’t the man see him?
‘Where is the transcript?’
‘Where Grimaldi hid it. It was I who discovered his body, and I had time to search his room before the Carabinieri got there. Someone else had been there too, but they didn’t know what to look for.’
Beyond the grille, the confessional was as silent as the grave.
‘Among Grimaldi’s belongings was a red plastic diary,’ Zen continued. ‘It was for the new year, so it was mostly empty, but he had noted down a series of letters and numbers that leads straight to the transcript, assuming you know where to look.’
‘And where’s that?’
Zen laughed teasingly.
‘Have you told anyone else where it is?’ the man demanded.
‘Not yet. It’s hard to know who to tell, with so many conflicting interests involved.’
There was a considerable silence.
‘Naturally you want to do the right thing,’ the voice suggested more calmly.
‘Naturally.’
Again the man fell silent.
‘This revelation changes everything,’ he said at last. ‘This is not the time or place to discuss it further, but I do urge you most strongly to take no further action of any kind until we contact you again.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Zen replied. ‘I don’t even know who you are. Suppose you step out of there and let me see your face.’
The sinister chuckle sounded again.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, dottore.’
Zen took the fake pistol from his pocket. He had been right to bring it after all.
‘You’re taking a big chance,’ he warned the man. ‘Supposing I decide to let someone else have the transcript instead?’
‘But how would you know it was someone else? You know nothing about us.’
One hand gripping the wooden railing, Zen raised himself painfully to a crouching position. Then he straightened up, gritting his teeth against the fierce aching of his knees. The revolver in one hand, he swept aside the heavy curtain covering the entrance to the confessional.
‘I do now!’ he cried.
He gazed wildly around. There was no one there. Then he heard the low chuckling once again. It was coming from a small two-way radio suspended from a nail which had been driven into the wall of the confessional, just below the grille.
‘You know nothing about us,’ the voice repeated. ‘Nothing at all.’
