Lorenzo spoke too loudly, a victim of blast-induced hearing loss. ‘Five minutes before the explosion Major Celestino entered the Sala Regia.’
‘He did this?’ Sonnenberg roared. ‘One of your men did this, Loreti?’
‘No, Oberst Sonnenberg,’ Lorenzo said. ‘Major Celestino saved them. He found out about the bomb and forced the cardinals out of the Chapel. They would all have died.’
Major Capozzoli came rushing over and joined them.
‘Where did he get his information?’ Loreti asked. ‘Why didn’t he inform anyone else?’
‘His sister told him.’
‘Who in God’s name is his sister?’ Sonnenberg demanded.
‘She’s a nun.’
Both men stared at him.
‘Look, I don’t know the details,’ Lorenzo said, ‘but she was right. Zazo told me that Matthias Hackel was involved.’
‘Hackel!’ Sonnenberg cried. ‘You’re insane.’
‘Where is Hackel?’ Loreti asked.
Sonnenberg tried hailing Hackel on his radio but got no reply.
‘The last time I saw him he was here at the Domus,’ Capozzoli said. ‘It was about forty minutes before the blast.’
‘Why was he here?’ Loreti asked.
‘He said he wanted to check on Cardinal Giaccone.’
‘Christ!’ Loreti said. ‘Let’s get up there. Cappy, come with me. Lorenzo, take some men and look for Hackel. Check everywhere. Check his residence.’
Loreti, Capozzoli and Sonnenberg stood outside Room 202.
Loreti knocked.
There was no answer.
‘Cardinal Giaccone?’ he yelled. ‘Open it,’ he said to Capozzoli.
Capozzoli had a pass key. The small room was empty, the bed made. Giaccone’s robes were neatly laid out on the bedspread.
The bathroom door was closed and they heard a shower running.
‘Hello?’ Sonnenberg called out.
There was nothing but the sound of water.
Sonnenberg tried again, louder. ‘Hello?’
The water stopped and a moment later the doorknob turned. ‘Hackel? Is that you?’
Giaccone opened the bathroom door, fat, naked and dripping wet.
At the sight of the three men in his room he tried to shut the door again but Capozzoli stuck his foot against the jamb, then threw the door open.
‘You were expecting Oberstleutnant Hackel?’ Loreti asked. ‘Why? Come out and speak with us. Do you know what has happened?’
Giaccone said nothing.
He rushed forward like a small pink bull, tripping up Sonnenberg who fell unceremoniously on his backside.
Giaccone reached for something on the desk, under his red hat. When he turned they saw it.
He had a dangling pink tail.
They hardly noticed the small silver pistol in his hand.
But he pressed it to his temple, shouted, ‘I am Petrus Romanus!’ and pulled the trigger.
Lorenzo forced the lock of Hackel’s flat and burst inside.
The men swept through. It was empty.
‘Search the place,’ Lorenzo ordered. ‘Put on your gloves. Treat it as a crime scene.’
It was a small flat and meticulously tidy, which made it easy to sort through Hackel’s possessions and papers.
Among his household bills was a very non-domestic account that stood out: an invoice to a Geneva-based mining corporation, which would prove to be a shell outfit with a fake import license. It was from a US company, EBA&D, for a roll of flexible RDX explosive, Primasheet 2000.
They had their man.
Now they needed a motive.
Cardinals Diaz, Aspromonte and Franconi huddled together in a corner of the chapel on the ground floor of the Domus. Their cassocks were soiled and their faces were still grimy but they were unhurt.
‘Did you see his body?’ Franconi asked.
Aspromonte nodded. ‘I did. I tell you, Giaccone had a tail.’
Franconi rubbed his hands in agitation. ‘Lemures?’ he asked nervously. ‘One of
Aspromonte said, ‘Before he shot himself he declared to the officers, “I am Petrus Romanus.”’
Diaz sputtered, ‘My God! Malachy! Is this prophecy coming to pass?’
‘We have many more questions than answers,’ Aspromonte said. ‘But there is no doubt now that the Church faces a time of unprecedented turmoil and struggle, the outcome of which we cannot be certain.’
‘Nothing must be said to the press about Giaccone’s “condition” or the circumstances of his death,’ Diaz insisted. ‘He had a heart attack when he heard the explosion. A heart attack. We must close ranks.’
‘The tragedy!’ Franconi sobbed. ‘Our greatest treasure, Michelangelo’s Chapel, gone!’
‘No, you’re wrong!’ Aspromonte scolded. ‘Somewhere in the world, perhaps here in Italy, is another Michelangelo. Buildings can be rebuilt. New paintings can be commissioned. But our greatest treasure, the Church, thank God, and its leadership have been saved because of the acts of a simple policeman and a simple nun.’
Diaz nodded. ‘We have work to do. I’m told that the Basilica only has damage to its northern exterior facade. The Sala Regia is quite badly damaged but the Palace is intact. We must find a place for the Electors to convene tomorrow. The Conclave must continue. We need a new Holy Father, now more than ever.’
Elisabetta and Micaela held each other and wept as they watched the terrible images on the television.
A reporter for RTV was interviewing a Slovenian family on pilgrimage to St Peter’s Square when the bomb went off.
The camera shook and thousands of people fell to the ground as one, screaming at the fireball that rose into the air.
‘Oh, God! Zazo!’ Elisabetta screamed.
Before Micaela stepped over Krek’s body, she kicked his chest just to make sure. She snatched the telephone from the coffee table and rang Zazo’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail.
‘I’m sure he’s okay,’ she mumbled. ‘He’s got to be okay.’
Elisabetta fell to her knees and began to pray.
She prayed for Zazo.
She prayed for the Cardinals.
She prayed for the Church.
She prayed for Micaela.
She prayed for herself.
In the distance they heard sirens. The insistent whooping got louder and louder until it stopped.
There were shouts in Slovenian, a brief but terrifying exchange of gunfire from the entrance hall and finally, after an unpleasantly long time, an urgent banging against the heavy oak door.
‘Police! We’re coming in!’
THIRTY-THREE
