‘Please, Father Schmidt, if it’s for my sake, stay,’ William said, walking over to the desk next to the portrait of Benedict XVI.
‘I don’t think its proper for us to meet before the hearing of the congregation…’ said Schmidt, excusing himself.
‘Nonsense,’ William blurted out. ‘We’re not going to talk about that, are we? This has to do with the church and defending her, and we’re all together on that. Please stay.’
Thinking quickly, Schmidt agreed to stay. His case had nothing to do with this situation, which at the moment demanded more attention.
‘I am very worried about this, too,’ Tarcisio declared. ‘On the one hand he guarded the documents competently for more than fifty years. But a son is a son. That changes everything.’
‘Zafer, Hammal, Aragones.’ Schmidt counted them off. ‘Ben Isaac Jr. Apparently they know more, and we know less. We don’t even know who they are.’
William paced from one side to another, thinking. ‘I don’t think we should trust Ben Isaac. Not for his honesty and competence, but because of the delicacy of the situation. I think we should get possession of the documents as quickly as possible.’
Tarcisio shook his head no. ‘It’s not going to be easy. Pope Roncalli was forced to enter into the agreement with him because he couldn’t get his hands on the documents. I don’t think he’s going to give them up for free.’
‘Let’s pay,’ William cut in.
‘Do you think we haven’t offered money? Ben Isaac is a multimillionaire. Any offer is small change for him, and he’ll laugh in our face. He would pay us instead to keep them. The second agreement was so difficult that Pope Wojtyla limited himself to extending the term without discussing other deal points at all.’
‘Why does he want to hold on to the documents so much? He can’t use them. He gains nothing with them. As far as we know he’s never mentioned their existence to anyone. On the contrary, he’s kept them under enormous secrecy, which, fortunately, is in our own interests. No one can come near two hundred yards from the papyrus without swearing an airtight oath of complete silence. I don’t understand his fixation on them,’ William declared.
No one did. Maybe only Ben Isaac could explain, if there was an explanation. Sometimes there are no reasons for human obsessions. They just are.
No one said anything in the minutes that followed. Enemies should be kept in sight, under vigilance. The worst enemy was the one you didn’t know, whose movements could not be predicted because you didn’t know who he was.
Tarcisio got up painfully. The night was already late. The following day would be a series of important meetings with foreign dignitaries, and he couldn’t appear as if he needed rest. Certainly, makeup could turn a frog into a prince, but that was only a facade. The secretary of state’s meetings required intelligence and preparation, not a pretty face.
‘Well, tomorrow we have a full day, right, Trevor?’
‘Yes, Your Excellency. In the morning the ambassadors of Pakistan and Brazil.’
‘The afternoon with Adolph, right?’
‘Correct, Your Eminence.’
‘Damn, this is going to delay everything,’ William grumbled.
Tarcisio turned to William. ‘Any news from our agents?’
‘We have one with Ben Isaac at this precise moment. Rafael still hasn’t reported anything.’
‘I think it’s best to recover the documents. They’ll be better with us,’ Tarcisio deliberated.
‘I already gave orders to recover them,’ William said, ‘but what if Ben Isaac won’t give them to us?’
Tarcisio thought about it a few seconds, then started out of the Relic Room, where the bones of the saints reposed. ‘We’ll use whatever means are necessary.’
26
The morning darkness was cold. It wasn’t raining, though the pavement was wet. He continued on foot, going down Via Cavour toward the Via dei Fori Imperiali. He turned right and followed the long street toward the Piazza Venezia, turning his back on the Colosseum. Francesco shivered, but couldn’t tell whether it was from the chill. Cold sweat made him anticipate the moment of truth a few hundred feet ahead. The man had said Sarah needed him. Everything was all right, there was no problem, not to worry, but he needed to meet her in the Piazza di Gesu, which was after the Piazza Venezia on the left side. Just a few steps down Via del Plebiscito. Spread out on both sides of Via dei Fori Imperiali were the vestiges of what was once the Roman Empire. History didn’t lie and was there to be seen. At the end on the left was the Vittoriano, commonly known as the Altar of the Fatherland, an eccentric work by Giuseppe Sacconi in homage of Victor Emmanuel II, the father of the country, the first king of a unified Italy. The building was jokingly called the torta nuziale, or ‘wedding cake,’ by the Roman citizens.
Francesco ignored all this, thinking only about Sarah, not what was waiting for him in the Piazza di Gesu. The man spoke with a Tuscan accent, which in itself meant nothing. Sarah was a mystery. How she was able to make such influential contacts in the inner circles of the church and politics, he had no idea. Only she could say, and she never did. She was very reserved, and Francesco’s hot blood, even if it boiled, always respected her will and her space. He’d be excluded entirely if Sarah felt he was invading her privacy.
He crossed the Piazza Venezia to the left side and walked beside the Palazzo Venezia, which had once served as the Venetian embassy. He rounded the corner and walked down Via del Plebiscito.
At the end, the small Piazza di Gesu, dominated by the Church of the Gesu.
Two beggars slept next to the church door, rolled up in dirty clothes that covered them to their heads. With the exception of these two souls, forgotten by God, he saw no one else. From time to time a car or motorcycle passed. A bus emptied out its few passengers, on their way to work.
Where could Sarah be? Or the man who had called him? Was she in danger? He put the thought out of his mind. Absurd. Sarah left with a priest. What danger could come of that? It was true there were many examples of despicable acts committed by the church, but they wouldn’t have the courage to hurt a journalist, or two, if they considered him.
He tried not to think about it for a while. His mind always looked for patterns, labeled situations, good, bad, cold, hot, comfortable, uncomfortable, restful, uneasy. He was nervous now because he let his mind elaborate on innumerable theories about what would happen next. Not one true because the future is always unknown… always.
His phone pinged, indicating a text message. He took it out and looked at the screen: Continue toward Largo di Torre Argentina.
The sender was unknown. Had they called him to come to this location and were now changing it? What did it mean? He’d asked to talk to Sarah when they called, but the man said she was busy, but wanted to see him. Later they called him on his cell, which meant they had his number. Sarah could have given it to them, or, of course, whoever was responsible for this could have his own methods for finding out his number. His curiosity was greater than his fear, so he turned toward the Largo di Torre Argentina, which was close by. According to legend, it was in these Roman ruins of the Theater of Pompey, protected by a wall, that long ago some conspirators, including Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, stabbed Julius Caesar twenty-three times. No place was more opportune for a meeting.
The yellowish light from the streetlamps created a mysterious atmosphere. A group of drunken partiers passed him, singing louder than was appropriate for the hour. Finally he reached his destination after covering several yards on Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. Some people were wandering out from a bar after the alcohol they’d enjoyed had awakened their spirit of adventure.
‘Do you have a match?’ a completely drunk man startled Francesco.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.’
The guy mumbled some unintelligible curse and continued limping in the direction of Via dei Cestari, where he disappeared.
