He knew why the Curia had ultimately picked this man, aside from the fact that he had all the qualifications desired of a pope: a long career within the church, ten years spent in Rome, almost twenty as a devout missionary in Africa and the Middle East, where he was as much admired for his pastoral work as his diplomacy, an ideal attribute for any pontiff—from the Latin, the word meant “bridge-builder.”
But Cassini knew that John Becket was more than the sum of his parts. There was a powerful solidness to him, an incredible mystical integrity that made you feel you were in the presence of a truly extraordinary human being.
Cassini said quietly, “The last Pope Celestine was killed at the hands of assassins. He, too, placed himself in God’s hands. Yet God failed him.”
“He does not always do as we ask of Him. As a priest, you know that. But I am resigned to whatever fate He chooses for me. And now, please excuse me. I have important business to take care of, Umberto.”
Cassini nodded silently. He knew his audience was over. He knelt, kissed the ring.
John Becket turned to go, but hesitated. “There is something perhaps you should know. A worrying discovery made by one of the examiners.”
“Holy Father?”
“Some of the archives’ documents are missing.”
Cassini looked stunned. “I don’t understand. How is that possible?”
“A question I asked myself. It appears several files are unaccounted for. Some relate to the church’s financial dealings. Others to the findings in the Dead Sea scrolls. Either they have been deliberately removed, or they are mislaid. Which, is not yet clear.”
“This is a serious business.”
Becket nodded. “Father Rossi seems at a loss to explain. However, my examiners assure me they intend to get to the bottom of it.”
“Of course, Holy Father. I’m sure they will.”
“Bless you, Umberto.” The pontiff left, his white cassock flapping about his legs.
Cassini watched him retreat and felt a tremor of concern. He was bitterly reminded of a saying among the cardinals—elect a man as pope on one set of assumptions, and you will find he does something completely different. In this case he realized with certainty that at least one assumption of the cardinals had been misguided: John Becket may have been a compromise candidate, but he was not a compromising man.
Cassini knew that argument had failed him. He would have to rely on other means to change the pontiff’s mind.
45
Exactly thirty minutes later, seated in his Vatican office, Cardinal Umberto Cassini was sipping a cup of espresso and attending to a pile of letters, slicing them open with his bone-handled letter opener, when his Nokia cell phone buzzed. He checked the number that appeared on his cell. It was Ryan. Cassini answered his phone. “Sean, any news?”
“I’ve been busy watching our uncle, as agreed.”
Cassini was unused to hearing the pope referred to as “uncle.” Ryan had suggested using that term when discussing the Holy Father over the phone, in case anyone eavesdropped on their conversation. Cassini said, “I just left him an hour ago.”
“I know. But he’s on the move. He exited through the Vatican’s east gate.”
Cassini put down the letter opener and sat up as he heard a clatter of street noise in the background of Ryan’s call. “Did you follow him, Sean?”
“I’m on his tail as we speak. He’s walking fast, as if he’s in a hurry. You’ll never guess what: he’s dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a hat to mask his face.”
“Where are you?”
“About fifty yards behind him. I don’t think he’s seen me tailing him yet. I’m wearing civilian clothes myself.”
Cassini rose excitedly from behind his desk. “Whatever you do, stay on him. Which direction is our uncle walking?”
Ryan said, “Toward the red-light district.”
“That’s why I called. He’s just this minute heading near the railway station, where the brothels are.”
PART FIVE
46
BRACCIANO
NEAR ROME
The luxury villa looked as if it had been built for a Roman emperor, all lush gardens and gushing ponds. As the sleek black Alfa Romeo drew up outside the wrought-iron gates, the Serb removed his Ray-Bans. He had a broad, brutal face, with high cheekbones and a broken nose.
Beyond the gates, two men in suits came forward and peered at the vehicle, then one of them flicked on a walkie-talkie and began to speak into it.
Bruno Zedik, 240 pounds of muscle and seated in the Alfa Romeo, brushed a fleck of dirt from his suit and turned to the tarty-looking girl beside him in the passenger seat. She wore a tight black Lycra skirt and a low-cut top.
Zedik, a former Serb army commando, smiled. “This is the kind of villa I want to own one day. My own pool, servants, a view of the sea.”
“That’s if you’re still alive, Bruno,” the girl said moodily. She pouted, her arms folded. “Still, I suppose as long as you know what you’re doing.”
