on an antique table whose highly polished surface was bare except for a white telephone. The hatchet-faced cleric who had escorted Zen stood slightly behind and to one side of the archbishop’s chair, his head lowered and his hands interlocked on his chest as though in prayer. On the other side of the oriental rug which covered the centre of the lustrous marble floor, Zen sat on a long sofa flanking one wall. Three dark canvases depicting miracles and martyrdoms hung opposite. At the end of the room was a floor-length window, covered by lace curtaining and framed by heavy red velvet drapes.
‘However, let us leave the vexed issue of your precise status, and move on to the matter in hand.’
Several decades in the Curia had erased almost all traces of Sanchez-Valdes’s Latin-American Spanish. He fixed Zen with his glaucous, hypnotic gaze.
‘As you may have gathered, there was a suicide in St Peter’s this afternoon. Someone threw himself off the gallery inside the dome. Such incidents are quite common, and do not normally require the attention of this department. In the present instance, however, the victim was not some jilted maidservant or ruined shopkeeper, but Prince Ludovico Ruspanti.’
The archbishop looked significantly at Zen, who raised one eyebrow.
‘Of course, the Ruspantis are no longer the power they were a few hundred years ago,’ Sanchez-Valdes continued, ‘or for that matter when the old Prince, Filippo, was alive. Nevertheless, the name still counts for something, and no family, much less an eminent one, likes having a felo de se among its number. The remaining members of the clan can therefore be expected to throw their not-inconsiderable weight into a concerted effort to discredit the suicide verdict. They have already issued a statement claiming that Ruspanti suffered from vertigo, and that even if he had decided to end his life, it is therefore inconceivable that he should have chosen to do so in such a way.’
The middle finger of Sanchez-Valdes’s right hand, adorned by a heavy silver ring, tapped the tabletop emphatically.
‘To make matters worse, Ruspanti’s name has of course been in the news recently as a result of these allegations of currency fraud. To be perfectly honest, I never really managed to master the ins and outs of the affair, but I know enough about the way the press operates to anticipate the kind of malicious allegations which this is certain to give rise to. We may confidently expect suggestions, more or less explicit, to the effect that from the point of view of certain people, who must of course remain nameless, Ruspanti’s death could hardly have been more convenient or better-timed, etcetera, etcetera. Do you see?’
Zen nodded. Sanchez-Valdes shook his head and sighed.
‘The fact is, dottore, that for a variety of reasons which we have no time to analyse now, this little city state, whose sole object is to facilitate the spiritual work of the Holy Father, is the object of an inordinate degree of morbid fascination on the part of the general public. People seem to believe that we are a mediaeval relic which has survived intact into the twentieth century, rife with secrecy, skulduggery and intrigue, at once sinister and colourful. Since such a Vatican doesn’t in fact exist, they invent it. You saw the results when poor Luciani died after only thirty days as pope. Admittedly, the announcement was badly handled. Everyone was shocked by what had happened, and there were inevitably delays and conflicting stories. As a result, we are still plagued by the most appalling and offensive rumours, to the effect that John Paul I was poisoned or suffocated by members of his household, and the crime covered up.
‘Now a prince is not a pope, and Ludovico Ruspanti no Albino Luciani. Nevertheless, we have learned our lesson the hard way. This time we’re determined to leave nothing to chance. That is why you’ve been invited to give us the benefit of your expert opinion, dottore. Since Ruspanti died on Vatican soil, we are under no legal obligation to consult anyone whatsoever. In the circumstances, however, and so as to leave no room for doubt in anyone’s mind, we have voluntarily decided to ask an independent investigator to review the facts and confirm that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding this tragic event.’
Zen glanced at his watch.
‘There’s no need for that, Your Excellency.’
Sanchez-Valdes frowned.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Zen leaned forward confidentially.
‘I’m from Venice, just like Papa Luciani. If the Church says that this man committed suicide, that’s good enough for me.’
The archbishop glanced up at Monsignor Lamboglia. He laughed uneasily.
‘Well!’
Zen beamed a reassuring smile.
‘Tell the press anything you like. I’ll back you up.’
The archbishop laughed again.
‘This is good to hear, my son. Very good indeed. If only there were more like you! But these days, alas, the Church is surrounded by enemies. We cannot be too careful. So although I applaud your attitude of unquestioning obedience, I fear that we need more than just a rubber-stamped nihil obstat.’
Sanchez-Valdes rose to his feet and walked over to stand in front of Zen.
‘I shall introduce you to one of our security officers,’ he continued quietly. ‘He was at the scene and will be able to tell you anything you wish to know. After that you are on your own. Inspect, investigate, interrogate, take whatever action you may consider necessary. There is no need for you to consult me or my colleagues.’
He stared intently at Zen.
‘In fact it is imperative that you do not do so.’
Zen looked him in the eye.
‘So as to preserve my independent status, you mean?’
The archbishop smiled and nodded.
‘Precisely. Any suspicion of collusion between us would vitiate the very effect we are trying to produce. Do whatever you need to do, whatever must be done to achieve the desired result. I have been assured by your superiors that you are an extremely capable and experienced operative.’
He turned to Monsignor Lamboglia.
‘Fetch Grimaldi in.’
On the wall of the antechamber in which Giovanni Grimaldi had been kept waiting for the best part of two hours hung a large, murky canvas. It depicted a number of armed figures doing something extremely unpleasant to a nude male in the foreground, while a group of senior citizens with haloes looked on with expressions of complacent detachment from the safety of a passing cloud. Closer inspection revealed that the prospective martyr was being torn apart by teams of yoked buffaloes. Grimaldi winced sympathetically. He knew exactly how the poor bastard felt.
His initial reaction to what had happened was one of straightforward panic. He had been entrusted with a job whose delicacy and importance had been repeatedly stressed. It was a chance to prove himself once and for all, to make his mark as a responsible and trustworthy employee. And he had blown it. If only he hadn’t allowed himself to be distracted by that man with the gold chain, the flashy watch and the nasal accent who had apparently become detached from the Comunione e Liberazione sightseeing group which had passed through a few minutes earlier. The man had approached Grimaldi as he stood at the rail of the external balcony at the very top of St Peter’s, apparently absorbed in the stupendous view, and fired off an endless series of questions about where the Spanish Steps were and which hill was the Aventine and whether you could see the Coliseum from there. Grimaldi had known he had better things to do than play the tourist guide, but his pride in knowing Rome so well, being able to identify each of its significant monuments, had been too great. It was such a thrill to point out the principal attractions of the Eternal City with languid, confident gestures, as though he were the hereditary landlord.
Besides, his quarry was in plain view, standing by the railing a little further round the balcony, chatting up that classy number with the white silk headscarf who had been all alone on the balcony when they arrived. Grimaldi didn’t blame him! He might have had a go himself if he hadn’t been on duty. Not that he’d have stood a chance. It looked like she might well go for the Prince, though. They were standing very close together, and their conversation looked unusually animated for two people who had only just met. Meanwhile he was stuck with this northerner and his dumb questions. ‘And is that the Quirinale Palace?’ he whined, pointing out the Castel Sant’ Angelo.
The next time Grimaldi had looked across to the other side of the balcony, the Prince and his pick-up had
