Lazarus Page 15

  ‘Tell him I ‘II be delighted to see him.’

  ‘And that’s all, Holiness. It doesn’t mean I haven’t been busy. It means that the Secretary of State will have my head if I submit you to even a hint of harassment.’

  ‘I’ll tell him myself you’re a model chamberlain, Malachy. Now, you had some enquiries to make for me about the young woman who died the night I came here. The one who was married to a priest of the Roman diocese.’

  Now Malachy O’Rahilly was caught between a very large rock and a very thorny place. The Pontiff demanded information. The Secretary of State had promised to boil him in oil if he divulged it. True always to his nature, Malachy O’Rahilly decided that if he wanted to stay in his job, he must cleave to the Bishop of Rome and not to his adjutants in the Curia. So, he told the truth; but this time at least he told it penny-plain, making no mention of the newspaper cuttings in his briefcase, no reference to the security meeting in the Apostolic Palace or Matt Neylan’s passionate intervention on behalf of de Rosa.

  When he ended his story, the Pontiff was silent a long time. He sat bolt-upright in his chair, his hands clamped to the arm-rests, his eyes closed, his mouth a pale razor-slash across his chalk-white face. Finally, he spoke. The words issued in a harsh, strained whisper, simple and final as the deaths that prompted them.

  ‘I have done a terrible thing. May God forgive me. May He forgive us all.’

  Then he began to sob convulsively, so that his whole body was racked with the pain and the grief. Malachy O’Rahilly, the perfect secretary, stood mute with embarrassment, unable to raise hand or voice to comfort him. So he tiptoed out of the room and signalled a passing nurse to tell her that her patient was in distress.

  ‘Explanations please, Professor.’ The Mossad man, humourless and laconic as always, pushed a clipboard across Salviati’s desk. ‘I know most of it, but I want to check it off with you.’ ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘That’s a specimen of the chart which is hung at the foot of every patient’s bed, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Where are the charts produced?’

  ‘On our own copier in the clinic.’

  ‘Now would you read the column headings, please?’

  ‘Time. Temperature. Pulse. Blood pressure. Treatment administered. Drugs administered. Nurse’s observations. Physician’s observations. Treatment ordered. Drugs ordered. Signature.’

  ‘Now take a look at the chart in front of you. Look at yesterday’s date. How many signatures are there?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Can you identify them?’

  ‘Yes. Carla Belisario, Giovanna Lanzi, Domenico Falcone.’

  ‘Functions?’

  ‘Day nurse, night nurse, physician on duty.’

  ‘Now look at the notations. How many different handwritings are there?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘How do you explain that?’

  ‘Simple. The nurses who sign are responsible for the patient. Each has several patients. Temperature, pulse and blood pressure are taken by juniors. Dosages are administered by pharmacy personnel, treatment may be given, for example, by a physiotherapist. The system is essentially simple. The physician prescribes, the nurse supervises, the others work under direction and supervision … Now perhaps you can tell me what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Loopholes,’ said the Mossad man. ‘How to murder a Pope in a Jewish clinic and get away with it.’

  ‘And have you found one yet?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Look again at that chart. Is there any mention of haematology?’

  ‘Right at the beginning, in the pre-operative stage of this patient. There’s an order for a whole series of blood tests.’

  ‘Explain exactly how they would be done – in respect of the patient.’

  ‘The test is ordered on the chart. The office on this floor calls haematology and puts in the order. They send someone to take blood samples, which are taken back to the laboratory for testing.’

  ‘That someone who takes the samples. What equipment does he have? How does he proceed?’

  ‘It’s generally a she,’ said Salviati with a grin. ‘She has a small tray on which there is alcohol, cotton wool swabs, some small adhesive patches, stoppered phials with the patient’s name and room number written on the labels and a sterile hypodermic needle in a sealed plastic packet. She may carry a small rubber strap to constrict circulation and pump up the vein. That’s the lot.’

  ‘How does she proceed?’

  ‘She identifies the vein in the crook of the arm, swabs the spot with alcohol, inserts the needle, draws the blood and transfers it to the phial. She staunches the puncture with cotton wool, then seals it with an adhesive patch. It’s all over in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Nobody else in the room during the procedure?’

  ‘Not usually. Why should there be?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the loophole, isn’t it? The girl is alone with the patient. She is carrying a lethal weapon.’

  ‘Which is what, precisely?’

  ‘An empty syringe, with which blood can be extracted from a vein, or a lethal bubble of air pumped into it!’

  ‘That’s something I hadn’t thought of. But there’s a big hurdle she has to jump first. Our distinguished patient has had all his blood tests. Who’s going to write the order for new tests on his chart? Who’s going to call up haematology?’

  ‘That’s the second loophole,’ said the Mossad man. ‘Under your very thorough system, Professor, the clipboards are brought to the office at the end of each day shift and night shift. They are hung on numbered hooks and the charge sister inspects each one before completing the diary of her tour of duty. Anyone can pass by and make a notation. I’ve seen it done. The girl who took the patient’s temperature forgot to write down the pulse rate or the blood pressure. You know it happens, and how it happens. How many times has a nurse had to ask you whether or no a dosage is to be continued?’

  Salvati rejected the whole idea out of hand.

  ‘I don’t believe it – not a single damned word! You’re synthesising a fiction; how a murder might happen! You’re pulling an assassin out of thin air. This girl is one of my people. I’m not going to let you frame her like this.’

  The Mossad man was unmoved. He announced flatly:

  ‘I haven’t finished yet, Professor. I want you to listen to something.’ He laid on the desk a small pocket recorder and plugged in an earpiece which he handed to Salviati. ‘We’ve had Miriam Latif bugged for days now – her room, her laboratory jacket, the lining of her pocket-book. She always uses a public phone, so she has to carry gettoni. The pocket-book goes with her everywhere. What you will hear is a series of brief conversations with Omar Asnan, the boyfriend. They’re in Farsi, so you’ll have to take my word for their meaning.’

  Salviati listened for a few minutes then, exasperated by his inability to follow the dialogue, took out the earpiece and handed it back.

  ‘Translation, please.’

  ‘The first conversation was from a bar in the village. She says yes, the arrangement is possible. Asnan asks how soon. She says a few days yet. He asks why. She says because of the logic. He asks what she means by logic. She says she can’t tell him now. She’ll try to explain at the next call … The explanation comes a little later in the tape. She explains that no one is allowed access to the man without passing through the security screen. She points out it wouldn’t be logical to have a blood test ordered in the middle of convalescence. It would be more normal just before the patient was due to be discharged. Asnan says it’s running things very fine. He’ll have to think of back-up arrangements. Her answer to that clinches matters as far as we’re concerned. She says: “Be careful. The place is crawling with vermin and I haven’t identified all of them yet.” There’s more, but that’s the core of it.’

  ‘There’s no possible doubt that she’s the assassin?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘What happens now?’

&nbs
p; ‘You don’t ask. We don’t tell.’

  ‘Would it help – it’s a long shot and I’d hate to do it – would it help if I transferred the patient to Gemelli or Salvator Mundi?’

  ‘Would it be good for the patient?’ The Mossad man seemed willing to consider the idea.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the best, but he’d survive it.’

  ‘What’s the point then, Professor? So far as Miriam Latif is concerned it would make no difference at all. She’s identified as a killer. The Vatican doesn’t want her. Because she hasn’t committed a crime yet, the Italians wouldn’t do more than deport her back to Lebanon. We certainly don’t want her running around loose in our theatre of operations. The conclusion’s obvious enough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why,’ asked Sergio Salviati bitterly, ‘why the hell did you have to tell me?’

  ‘It’s the nature of things,’ said the Mossad man calmly. ‘You’re family. This is your home place, we’re protecting you and all who abide here. Besides, what’s to fret about? You’re a doctor. Even your most successful cases end up with the undertaker!’

  Then he was gone, a sinister, bloodless ghost haunting the corridors of an underworld that ordinary folk hardly believed to exist. Now he, Sergio Salviati, was a denizen of that underworld, caught in the toils of its conspiracies like a wasp in a spider web. Now he, the healer, would be made a silent party to murder; yet if he did not consent to silence, more and bloodier murders might be done. As an Italian, he had no illusions about the underside of life in the Republic; as a Jew and a Zionist, he understood how bitter and brutal was the struggle for survival in the Fertile Crescent.

  Willy-nilly, he had been for a long time a player in the game. His clinic was a listening post and a refuge for sleepers in the intelligence trade. He himself, like it or not, was playing a political role; he could not, on the same stage, play the innocent dupe. Come to think of it, if the person of the Pope were directly threatened would the Vatican security men hold fire? He knew they would not. Sergio Salviati was not asked to pull a trigger, only to be silent while the professionals went about their normal business. The fact that their target was a woman had no weight in the case. The female was as lethal an instrument as the male. Besides, if any blood splashed on Sergio Salviati’s hands, he could always get rid of it when he scrubbed up for surgery. There at least and at last he had to be clean …

  In the midst of that wintry meditation, a courier brought the invitation for Tove Lundberg and himself to dine with Mr & Mrs Nicol Peters at the Palazzo Lanfranco.

  The Secretary of State had a tidy mind and a subtle one. He hated a clutter of trifles on his agenda; he insisted always that they be disposed of before addressing himself to major issues. So, on his afternoon visit to the clinic he spoke first with Salviati, who assured him that the Pontiff was making a normal and satisfactory recovery and that he could probably be discharged in five or six days. He also talked briefly to the Italian and Vatican officials in charge of security, careful always to avoid any questions which might suggest that His Eminence knew more than his prayers. Then he presented himself to the Pontiff and walked with him to a sheltered spot in the garden, while an attendant waited at a discreet distance with the wheelchair. His Holiness came brusquely to the nub of the matter.

  ‘I am ill, my friend; but I am not blind. Look around you! This place is like an armed camp. Inside I am hedged and picketed wherever I move. What is going on?’

  ‘There have been threats, Holiness – terrorist threats against your life.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘An extremist Arab group, calling itself the Sword of Islam. The information is high-grade intelligence.’

  ‘I still don’t believe it. The Arabs know our policies favour Islam over Israel. What have they to gain by killing me?’

  ‘The circumstances are special, Holiness. You are a patient in a clinic run by a prominent Zionist.’

  ‘Who still treats many Arab patients.’

  ‘All the more reason to teach everyone a lesson. But however twisted the logic, the threat is real. Money is on the table – big money.’

  ‘I’II be out of here in a few days – less than a week probably.’

  ‘Which brings me to my next point, Holiness. Most of us in the Curia are strongly against your proposal to lodge with Anton Drexel. It means a new and very expensive security operation, possible danger to the children and – let me say it frankly – the last thing in the world you want: jealousies within the Sacred College itself.’

  ‘God give me strength! What are they! A bunch of schoolgirls?’

  ‘No, Holiness. They are all grown men, who understand the politics of power – and not all of them are friends of Anton Drexel. Please, Holiness, I beg you to consider this carefully. When you go from here, go straight back to Castel Gandolfo. You will have the best of care, as you know. From there, you can visit Drexel and his little tribe whenever you choose.

  The Pontiff was silent for a long moment, watching Agostini with hostile, unblinking eyes. Finally, he challenged him: ‘There’s more, isn’t there? I want to hear it, now.’

  He did not expect evasion. He did not get it. Agostini set down the core of the argument.

  ‘All of us are aware, Holiness, of your concern at the divisions and dissensions in the community of the faithful. Those of us who are close to you have sensed for some time that you are going through a period of … well, of doubt and reassessment of the policies you have pursued so vigorously during your pontificate. That state of uncertainty has been increased by your illness. There are those – and let me hasten to say I am not one of them – who believe that the same illness, the sense of urgency it provokes, may cause Your Holiness to take precipitate action which, instead of doing good for the Church, may damage it further. Here is my point: if changes for the better are to take place, you will need all the help you can get from the Curia and the senior hierarchy of the National Churches. You’re one man in the world who knows how the system works and how it can be used to frustrate the most determined or the most subtle of Pontiffs … You trust Drexel. So do I. But he is a man in the evening of his years; he is a German; he is too impatient of our Roman follies. He is, in my view, a handicap to your plans; and if you were to put that to him, I believe he would agree with you.’

  ‘Have you yourself put it to him, Matteo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And where do you stand on the question of policy?’ ‘Where I always stand. I’m a diplomat. I deal in possibles. I’m always afraid of hasty decisions.’

  ‘Drexel is coming to visit me this evening. I owe him the courtesy of a discussion before I decide anything.’

  ‘Of course … There is one other matter on which I need a personal authority from Your Holiness, otherwise it will be floating around the Congregations for months. We’ve lost one of our best men from the Secretariat this week, Monsignor Matt Neylan.’

  ‘Lost him? What does that mean, precisely?’

  ‘He’s left us.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘No. In a way, I wish it were. He came to tell me that he is no longer a believer.’

  ‘That’s sad news. Very sad.’

  ‘From our point of view, he has conducted himself with singular propriety. It’s tidier to laicise him without fuss.’

  ‘Do it, and do it quickly.’

  ‘Thank you, Holiness.’

  ‘I will tell you a secret, Matteo.’ The Pontiff suddenly seemed to have withdrawn into a private world. ‘I have often wondered what it would be like to wake up one morning and find that one no longer had the faith one had professed for a lifetime. One would know it all, as one might know a matter of law or a chemical equation or a piece of history; but it would no longer have any relevance … What is the phrase in Macbeth? “It is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” In the old days, you know, we’d have turned away from a man like that, treated him like a leper, as if the loss were his own fault. How does anyone
know that? Faith is a gift. The gift may be withdrawn, as the gifts of sight or hearing may be taken away. It could as easily happen to you or me. I trust you were kind to him. I know you would never be less than courteous.’

  ‘I’m afraid he wasn’t very happy with me, Holiness.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’

  The question took them by a single stride to the story of the final Vatican involvement in the fate of Lorenzo de Rosa and his family. This time, however, it seemed that the Pontiff had no more emotion left to spend. What he uttered was a lament for lost hopes.

  ‘We’re losing too many, Matteo. They are not happy in the family of the faithful. There is no joy in our house, because there is too little love. And it is we the elders, who are to blame.’

  Once each week, at an unscheduled hour, Sergio Salviati made what he called the ‘white-glove round’ of the clinic. He had borrowed the phrase from an elderly relative who used to extol the spacious days of sea travel under the British flag, when the Captain, accompanied by the Commodore and the Engineering Officer, donned white gloves and inspected the vessel stem to stern. The white gloves showed every trace of dust or grime and protected the soft hands of authority.

  Sergio Salviati did not wear white gloves but his Chief Of Staff carried a clipboard and a xeroxed plan of the institution on which every shortcoming was noted for immediate remedy. It was a very un-Latin procedure; but Salviati had too much at stake in patronage and professional reputation to trust to the shifting standards of a polyglot staff. He checked everything: toolsheds, linen stocks, pharmacy, pathology, files and records, surgical waste disposal, kitchen, bathrooms. He even took micro-samples from the air-conditioning ducts, which in the hot Roman summer might house dangerous bacteria.

  The inspections were always made in the late afternoon, when his stint in the operating theatre was over and his ward rounds were all complete. At this hour, too, the staff were more relaxed and open. They were coming up to the end of the day and were vulnerable to criticism and well pleased by a word of praise. It was a few moments after five on this same ominous day when he came to the Haematology Department, where blood and sera were stored and analyses made of samples brought in from the wards.