‘Give me a second.’ Zazo heard Omar’s fingers on a keyboard.
‘Okay, Flat 18, almost got it … It was Matthias Hackel. He had it from 2000 until 2006. He’s in the Oberstleutnant Apartment now. He must’ve moved out when he got promoted.’
‘Hackel, eh?’ Zazo said, trying to think. He stopped to wait for a street light to change.
‘Why’s it so noisy?’ Omar asked. ‘Aren’t you at the Vatican?’
‘Yeah, I’m nearby. Look, Omar, what I’ve got to ask you to do is time-sensitive and extremely delicate. I need you to email me Hackel’s telephone logs for his residential and cellular numbers going back to 2006.’
His friend sounded incredulous. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘No, I’m deadly serious.’
‘I’d need a written authorization from Hackel’s boss to do that. If I didn’t have it, the Guards would run me through with their pikes.’
‘Omar, I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t a matter of life and death. Please believe me. I can’t let the Guards know I’m looking into one of their own. I’ll never reveal you as a source. Send it to my private email address. You’re in IT. You know how to make these things invisible.’
‘Free pizza for life?’ Omar asked.
‘Yeah, for life.’
Waiters hustled around the dining hall of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, serving the dessert course and pouring out coffees. The Cardinal Electors were taking care not to stain their cassocks. These days a good telephoto lens could pick up a splash of gravy from a hundred meters.
The nine Cardinal Bishops sat at the raised dais overlooking tables where the other Cardinals dined with the conclavists, the small number of attendants who were entitled to accompany them into the Sistine Chapel. Cardinal Diaz sat in the central chair, befitting his position as Dean of the College of Cardinals. His old friends, Aspromonte and Giaccone, flanked him.
Diaz pushed a piece of pie around his plate and mumbled to Giaccone, ‘The sooner we have a new Holy Father, the sooner we get back to proper food.’
Giaccone wasn’t as picky. He took a big forkful but agreed. ‘It’s not so much the food. For me it’s the bed. I want to sleep in my own bed.’
Aspromonte leaned his big bald head in to listen. ‘The walls are too thin.’ He pointed his fork in the direction of an American cardinal. ‘All night I heard Kelley snoring.’
Diaz snorted. ‘Well, in an hour we’ll be in the Chapel. We’ll do our duty and then life will go on.’
Suddenly, Giaccone winced and put his silverware down.
‘What’s the matter?’ Diaz asked him.
Giaccone scrunched his fleshy face and pushed at his round belly. ‘Nothing. Maybe some gas.’ He winced again.
Aspromonte looked concerned. ‘Maybe you should see the doctor. He’s right over there.’
‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’
Diaz patted him on the shoulder. ‘Go and lie down. There’s time for a little rest before we’re called.’
‘I don’t want to fall asleep,’ Giaccone protested.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Aspromonte said. ‘We won’t let you sleep through the Conclave!’
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE GREAT ROOM of Castle Krek made Elisabetta feel like a speck of dust. The huge hearth was blazing, the furniture was oversized, the gallery and wood-beamed ceiling were impossibly high.
Krek had made her sit on a sofa. There were doors on three sides of the room, all shut. There was no sign of the fat man. They were alone.
Elisabetta watched him closely, trembling and frozen like a rabbit trying to remain hidden from a prowling wolf.
Krek was impeccably groomed, with barbershop-fresh silvering hair and a perfectly aligned posture. He poured himself coffee and with an afterthought offered her a cup. She declined with a single head shake.
‘I’ve never actually met a nun,’ he said suddenly. ‘Can you believe that? Particularly with my long interest in the Church. And no ordinary nun. A professional woman, an archeologist. An expert in the catacombs – which have always fascinated me. I’m also fascinated by the choices you’ve made. You see, I’m always learning. Do you nuns have the opportunity to keep learning too? Or do they stifle this when you join a convent?’
Elisabetta stared mutely back at him, refusing to answer.
Seemingly unperturbed by her snub, Krek checked his watch and said, ‘Look at the time!’ He picked up a remote control, turned on a large flat-screen TV which hung above a sideboard and put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The wall became alive with a bright helicopter’s view over St Peter’s Square where tens of thousands of pilgrims were so packed in that they could hardly move.
Krek seemed gleeful.
‘Can you believe how many people are there? It’s going to be a big, big day for them. Some of them will tell their children and their children’s children: “I was there! I was at St Peter’s that day.”’
Elisabetta finally spoke. ‘I know what you are.’
‘You know what I am,’ he spat back. ‘
‘Lemures.’
‘So, I knew you were clever. This is just a confirmation.’
‘You killed Professor De Stefano. You killed Father Tremblay. You’re a monster.’
‘Labels. Always labels. A monster! Too glib, don’t you think? I define myself as a successful businessman who happens to be a member of a very old, very elite club.’
‘You must not do this.’
Krek looked at Elisabetta over the top of his wire-framed glasses and smiled. But there was no hint of humor in his expression. It was the smile of a predator closing in on its prey. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’
She trembled inwardly but said nothing more, causing him to stare at her fiercely.
‘Please understand this: I’ll do whatever I please.’
Three luxury coaches, each with a capacity of forty-two passengers, idled at the Domus Sanctae Marthae, waiting for the Cardinal Electors and the conclavists to file out for the one-minute ride to the courtyard behind the Basilica. True, all the electors were under eighty years of age, their older brethren banned from the task, and all possessed enough mobility to walk the short distance. But security concerns dictated this part of the ritual.
Cardinals Diaz and Aspromonte boarded the first coach and took adjoining seats. ‘Did you hear about Giaccone?’ Diaz asked.
‘No, what?’
‘He’s still in his room. He can’t come.’
‘What happened?’
‘He called the doctor. It seems that he has the runs. Too much food, I suspect.’
‘Will he join us later?’
‘The rules permit him to do so but he can also cast ballots from the Domus. I’ve assigned a monsignor to bring him a ballot if necessary.’
‘A disaster,’ Aspromonte whispered. ‘He’s the popular choice. But who knows how easy it will be to get votes
‘Well, God willing, he’ll recover quickly.’
On the television there was a bird’s-eye view of the coaches crawling away from the guest house and their brief journey to the rear of the Basilica. One by one the Cardinals filed out of the coaches and disappeared inside a door manned by Swiss Guards in full ancient regalia.
‘It’s a colorful spectacle,’ Krek said. ‘Full of tradition. That much I respect.’
From their sofas, both he and Elisabetta had a good view of the TV and with every passing second Elisabetta’s anxiety ratcheted upward. Out of desperation to do something, anything, she decided to engage
