The Devil Will Come

and to inform the priest what her sister knew about it.

‘So it seems we all have some knowledge, albeit incomplete,’ Tremblay said. ‘But I have some important new information.’

‘So do I,’ Elisabetta said.

‘Should I flip a coin to see who goes first?’ Micaela asked.

‘No, please, Sister Elisabetta,’ Tremblay said politely. ‘Tell me what you’ve found.’

‘My father’s a clever man, a mathematician. He broke the code. We know what the tattoos mean. I was about to tell my sister. The answer came from differences between the A and B texts of Marlowe’s Faustus. The tattoos say: “Malachy is King. Hail Lemures.”’

Tremblay’s face fell. ‘My God …’

‘What are Lemures?’ Micaela asked.

While Tremblay sipped nervously at his tea, Elisabetta reminded him that Micaela was subject to a Vatican confidentiality agreement and asked if she, Elisabetta, could speak freely. He nodded uncomfortably and Elisabetta passed on what he had told her about Lemures and what they had learned at the Secret Archives.

When she was done, Micaela asked, ‘You expect me to believe this? And you’re telling me that our mother was involved with these people. That they might have poisoned her?’

‘I’m afraid everything Sister Elisabetta says is the absolute truth,’ Tremblay murmured. ‘They are difficult foes. It would be better if they didn’t exist but they do.’

‘And Malachy?’ Micaela asked, shaking her head. ‘Who’s he?’

Tremblay said, ‘I can answer that.’

To Elisabetta’s surprise, the priest was fluent in his knowledge of the prophecy and presented a brisk summary. When he finished, he curled his long index finger through the handle of the cup and raised it to drain the last of his tea, then added, ‘I can tell you, Elisabetta, we had no idea that the Lemures were involved with the Malachy business. No one in the Vatican took it seriously. That was a mistake and now we’ve arrived at the moment of Malachy’s last pope. And maybe our world’s last hope.’

Micaela displayed her characteristic blend of scepticism and exasperation. ‘Am I the only one who feels like they’re in a carnival hall of mirrors? It’s too much! None of this makes any sense to me.’

‘You saw Aldo Vani in the flesh,’ Elisabetta said. ‘You saw the photos of Bruno Ottinger. These men were Lemures. The Prophecy of Malachy was important enough for them to tattoo it onto their spines! I’m scared, Micaela. Your carnival analogy – this isn’t a hall of mirrors, it’s the terror ride. I think these men mean to do the Church great harm.’

Tremblay reached for the leather portfolio he’d deposited at his feet. He unzipped it and took out a sheaf of copier pages. ‘Your sister is right, Micaela. Sister Elisabetta, when you left this morning I went back to my office and began working to find out who this “R.A.” was who signed the Dee letter out of the Secret Archives in 1985. It involved a lot of work, looking through old Vatican personnel files. I think I have the likely man: a certain Riccardo Agnelli. He was the private secretary to a bishop, a man who is now a cardinal.’

‘Who? Which cardinal?’ Elisabetta asked.

‘In a minute. But this is something much more important. By the time I had my answer, I saw my email inbox was full of messages. I subscribe to a service that scans newspapers and magazines for certain key words and symbols, like the Monad.’

‘What’s the Monad?’ Micaela asked.

Elisabetta leaned forward and shushed her. ‘Wait!’

Tremblay was laying pages down, one at a time. ‘Here’s a classified ad in today’s New York Times.’ Elisabetta saw a small image of the Monad with no accompanying text. ‘Here’s an ad in Pravda. Here’s Le Monde. The International Herald Tribune. Corriere della Sera. Der Spiegel. Jornal do Brasil. The Times of London. Sydney Morning Herald. There are more. They’re all the same. Just the Monad. I called a reporter I know at Le Monde. I asked him if he could find out who placed the ad. He got back to me. They received a letter with no return address with cash for the ad and instructions to run the image today.’

‘It’s a message,’ Elisabetta whispered, barely audibly.

‘Yes.’ Tremblay nodded.

‘A message? A message about what? What are you two talking about?’ Micaela exclaimed.

Elisabetta rose suddenly and felt faint. She steadied herself with a hand on her chair. ‘I know what’s going to happen!’

‘So do I,’ Tremblay said, his slender fingers shaking.

‘All this urgency to keep the skeletons of Callixtus hidden,’ Elisabetta said. ‘All the attempts to silence me. It’s because of the Conclave. These Lemures. They’re communicating among themselves to be ready. They’re going to fulfill the Malachy prophecy. They’re going to strike tomorrow during the Conclave!’

‘Have you gone mad?’ Micaela said.

Elisabetta ignored her. ‘I’m going to call Zazo.’

‘Zazo’s on suspension. What can he do?’ Micaela snapped.

‘He’ll think of something.’

There was a light rapping from the hall.

‘Good,’ Micaela said. ‘Someone sane’s here. That’s Arturo.’

Micaela got up and opened the door.

There was a man filling the doorway, a man with a reddish beard holding a pistol. Two more were close behind, all of them neat, ordinary, unsmiling.

TWENTY-FIVE

MICAELA YELPED BUT the men pushed their way inside, closed the door and forced her to the ground. Elisabetta sprang up in panic and ran to the hall to witness a bearded man standing over her sister pointing a gun, trying to quiet her with a finger held in front of his lips. Two other clean-shaven men were aiming guns directly at her. Elisabetta froze. The man with a beard spoke in a language she didn’t recognize, then immediately switched to English when she didn’t respond.

‘Tell her to be quiet or I will kill her.’

His tone was coldly matter-of-fact, his eyes dull.

He’s one of them, Elisabetta thought.

‘Please, Micaela, try to stay calm,’ she said. ‘We’ll be all right. Please, let my sister up.’

‘You will be quiet?’ the man asked her.

Micaela nodded and Elisabetta helped her to her feet.

There was a small sound from the kitchen.

One of the men ran there and in seconds was marching out Father Tremblay at gunpoint. The priest was breathing heavily.

‘What do you want?’ Elisabetta asked.

‘Go back, all of you,’ the bearded man said, pointing his gun toward the sitting room. ‘Is anyone else here?’

‘No.’

The bearded man seemed to be instructing one of the others to search the flat while he forced the sisters and Tremblay onto the sitting-room sofa. The man who stayed at his side was toting a large empty duffel bag.

Micaela’s lips were trembling. Angry tears streaked her cheeks and made her mascara run.

‘Are they?’ she whispered to Elisabetta.

‘I’m sure of it.’

Elisabetta’s eyes were dry. She fingered her crucifix and watched their every move, desperately trying to figure out a way to get Micaela out of this and fearful that her father or Arturo would stumble into their midst.

The other man came back from his search and gave an all-clear sign.