‘If this call was made, I insist, on God’s name, that it wasn’t me who placed it. Please believe me.’
De Stefano ignored her entreaty. ‘I have to attend an emergency meeting at the Vatican. I have to tell you, Elisabetta, that it was a mistake to involve you in this. You are dismissed. Go back to your school and your convent. I’ve spoken with Archbishop Luongo. You can’t work for me any longer.’
TWELVE
ELISABETTA FELT LIKE she was on a boat that had slipped its mooring line and drifted from the protected waters of a harbor into a vast chartless sea. It was the middle of the afternoon and though she was physically in a place she knew well she found herself in an utterly strange mental and spiritual state.
The bedroom had stayed unaltered from the day when Micaela had left for university. Elisabetta’s own bed had the same pink ruffled spread and satin pillowcases, faded by years of sunlight. Her school books were still there, a precocious mix of French philosophers, theologians and serious novels. Micaela’s bookcase was, in contrast, filled with such light fare – romances, pop magazines, teen advice books – that it seemed it might float away. Over Micaela’s bed was a Bon Jovi poster. Over Elisabetta’s was a poster of a beautiful stag with giant antlers, cave art from Lascaux.
Elisabetta lay on top of her bed, fully dressed in her habit but with her shoes kicked off. She couldn’t go back to the school or the convent because Zazo had forbidden it and had enlisted Elisabetta’s father, Micaela and even Sister Marilena in his crusade. Elisabetta was finally convinced by the argument that she might be putting students and nuns in danger if she stayed there.
She couldn’t go back to the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archeology because, for the first time in her life, she’d been suspended from a job. Her skin danced with anger at the very idea that De Stefano thought she might bear some responsibility for the looting.
And she couldn’t even pray in peace without becoming distracted and getting dragged into restless thoughts.
Disgusted, Elisabetta pushed herself up off the bed and put her shoes on. Defiantly, she decided that if she couldn’t resume her teaching she would continue with her other job, whether or not she remained on De Stefano’s staff. She thrust her chin forward truculently. She would continue out of intellectual curiosity. But there was something more urgent, wasn’t there? A deep notion was forming that she
For her own survival.
‘God protect me,’ she said out loud, then went to the kitchen to make herself coffee before settling down in the dining room to peruse some reference works.
There was a sound of a key in the door.
She looked up from her books and heard her father calling her name.
‘I’m here, Papa, in the dining room.’
Her books and papers were strewn across the dining-room table. She had used her father’s desktop computer in the sitting room to send an email from her private account to Professor Harris in Cambridge – not to cancel their meeting but to change the venue.
She was midway through a modern copy of both texts of
Her father had finished work for the day. Neither of them was used to the other’s presence outside of a Sunday lunch.
‘How are you?’ he asked, lighting his pipe.
‘Angry.’
‘Good. I like anger better than forgiveness.’
‘They’re not mutually exclusive,’ Elisabetta said.
He grunted. The pipe went out. He reached for his pipe tool, retracted the long spike and methodically aerated the bowl. ‘I’ve got some tinned soup. Want some?’
‘Maybe later. I’ll make a proper meal tonight. How would that be?’
Carlo didn’t answer. Instead his eyes were drawn to the thing he most loved in the world – numbers.
Elisabetta had copied out the numbers from the Ulm tattoo onto an index card.
63 128 99 128 51 132 162 56 70
32 56 52 103 132 128 56 99
99 39 63 38 120 39 70
‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up the card.
‘It’s something to do with the project I was working on. It’s like a puzzle.’
‘I thought they told you to stop.’
‘They did.’
‘But you haven’t.’
‘No.’
‘Good girl!’ Carlo said approvingly. ‘A grid of twenty-four numbers, nine by eight by seven,’ he went on. ‘A numerical pattern isn’t leaping to mind. Can you give me some context?’
‘I’m not allowed to, Papa.’
‘You’ve told Micaela things. She told me you had.’
‘She shouldn’t have said anything,’ Elisabetta said.
‘She only told me that she was permitted to have some information. What it was, she didn’t say.’
‘Good. Because, like me, she signed a confidentiality document with the Vatican.’
‘And last night you told Zazo some things. Did he sign a document too?’
Elisabetta looked up guiltily. ‘I shouldn’t have told him but I was scared. I suppose I did what they accused me of doing. Divulging Vatican secrets.’
‘Nonsense. Zazo is your brother and a Vatican policeman. It’s almost like talking to a doctor or a lawyer or even a priest. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Zazo is hardly a priest.’
‘Well, talking to your father is closer. There’s a sacred bond between a father and a daughter, don’t you think?’
‘In a way, yes,’ she agreed.
‘I know I wasn’t a substitute for your mother but I did my best. It wasn’t easy having a university job and raising the three of you.’
‘I know, Papa. We all know that.’
‘Tell me something. When you were young, were there things you wouldn’t tell me that you would’ve told your mother?’
‘I’m sure there were.’
‘Like what?’
‘Girl things, woman things, but never anything too important. You were always there for me and you were always strong. We felt your strength.’
‘Well, after the pounding they’ve been giving me at the University I’m not feeling so strong but I appreciate your saying that.’ Carlo frowned. ‘You know I didn’t want you to become a nun, don’t you?’
‘Of course. You weren’t shy about telling me.’
‘It seemed like you were retreating. A retreat from your life. You’d had a big trauma but I wanted you to be like the American cowboys who get back on their saddles and ride out to fight another day. But instead you ran to the Church and hid. Are you mad at me for saying it?’
‘I’m not mad, papa, but you’re wrong. In my mind it wasn’t a retreat. It was a bold step toward a better
