Lazarus Page 19

  The man who called himself Khalid answered for everyone.

  ‘I think it is obvious. She must have been under surveillance. She was intercepted and abducted on the way into Rome. Someone else drove her car to the airport and booked out in her name to Beirut.’

  ‘Why go to all that trouble?’

  To delay what we have now begun – the search for her.’

  ‘Is she alive or dead?’

  ‘My guess is that she’s alive.’

  ‘Reason?’

  ‘Why go through all the charade at the airport? Much simpler to kill her and dump the body.’

  ‘Next question: who is holding her?’

  ‘Mossad, without a doubt.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Interrogation. They know we exist. They must have had some word of our plans; otherwise why would there be that large concentration of forces at the clinic?’

  ‘How would they know?’

  ‘They would know because they were told.’

  ‘You are saying there is a traitor among us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Omar Asnan. ‘And to unmask that traitor it was necessary to sacrifice Miriam Latif. I regret that very much.’

  There was dead silence in the chamber. The four men looked at each other and then at Omar Asnan, who sat calm and benign, enjoying their discomfiture. Then he reached into his breast pocket and brought out a pen and a small leather-covered notebook. He opened the notebook and took up again the thread of his discourse.

  ‘You know how we are organised. We here are five. Below us are groups of three. Each group is self-contained. Each person within it has contact with only one person from another group. Thus treachery cannot spread easily. Only we five knew about Miriam Latif and our plans for her. Only one of you knew that I had summoned her here.’ In a gesture almost playful, he held the lip of the pen against Khalid’s temple. ‘Only you, Khalid, friend of my heart!’

  He pressed the clip of the pen. There was a small, sharp sound and Khalid slumped to the floor. A thin trickle of blood and fluid oozed from the hole in his head. Omar Asnan said curtly: ‘Pick him up. Put him in the big jar, the glazed one with the lid. Seal the lid with cement. Then spray this place. Already, it stinks of Jew! We’ll meet upstairs when you’ve finished.’

  In his office at the clinic, Sergio Salviati was conferring with Cardinal Matteo Agostini, Secretary of State. After a late night and a piece of simple surgery that went suddenly and dangerously wrong, his patience was wearing thin.

  ‘Understand me, Eminence. I am talking in clinical terms about the welfare of my patient. He has said he will abide by your judgement … I know you have other concerns, but these are not my affair.’

  ‘His Holiness does not need my consent to do anything.’

  ‘He wants your approval, your support against possible critics.’

  ‘Is that a clinical matter?’

  ‘Yes it is!’ Salviati was curt. ‘At this stage of cardiac recovery, everything is a clinical matter – every unnecessary stress, every shock or anxiety. If you don’t believe me, I can show you how those things read on a monitor screen.’

  ‘I believe you, Professor.’ Agostini was totally at ease. ‘So I shall make immediate arrangements for the transfer of His Holiness to Cardinal Drexel’s villa. The security there will be our affair. I take it you will still be able to provide adequate medical supervision?’

  ‘His own physician should supervise him on a day to day basis. I am close by for ready reference. I shall, in any case, see him at the end of the month. Tove Lundberg is a constant visitor to the villa. However, I would suggest you employ a good physiotherapist to supervise His Holiness in daily exercise. I can recommend such a one.’

  ‘Thank you. Now I have questions of my own. Is His Holiness fit to resume his normal duties?’

  ‘He will be, after an adequate convalescence.’

  ‘How long is that?’

  ‘Eight weeks for the ribcage to heal. Six months at least of graduated activity. Remember, he is not a young man. But since he is not engaged in heavy physical work – yes, he can certainly function quite well. There are, however, a couple of caveats: no long ceremonies, Masses in St Peter’s, carrying the cross around the Coliseum, that sort of thing. I know you have to have him on stage from time to time, but get him on and off as quickly as possible. Second caution: no long-haul air travel for at least six months.’

  ‘We’ll do what we can to manage him,’ said Agostini. ‘Next question: his mind? Will he be … stable? God knows, he’s never been an easy man to deal with and we do know that he is emotionally fragile at this moment.’

  ‘Fragile, yes. But he understands the condition and deals with it. Tove Lundberg is full of admiration for him. She has volunteered to stay close to the case for as long as she is needed.’

  ‘My last questions then. Is he changed? How is he changed? And how permanently?’

  ‘Certainly he is changed. In the old days the patient underwent the “experience of the God” – the metanoia which was the crisis point of the therapy. The experience, however it was engineered, certainly involved terror, trauma and the shock of survival. Your man has been through all that … It sounds perhaps overdramatised, but …’

  ‘I see the drama,’ said Agostini quietly. ‘I wonder how it will go in public performance.’

  ‘There, I’m afraid, I can’t help you.’ Salviati laughed and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I’m only the plumber. Prophecy is the Church’s business.’

  ‘So, Anton, for better or for worse, you have me as house guest.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am, Holiness.’

  They were seated in his favourite corner of the garden, under the pergola of vines, sipping iced lemonade which Tove Lundberg had sent out to them. Drexel was flushed with pleasure. The Pontiff seemed to have certain misgivings.

  ‘Hold a moment, my friend! It’s not only me. There’s a whole retinue. Security men, valet, physiotherapist, visitors I can’t refuse. Are you sure you can cope with all this?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. You will be lodged in the villetta, the small villa at the lower boundary of the estate. It’s comfortable and private, with its own garden and orchard. Also it is easy to protect. The security men have looked at it and they see no problems. There are quarters for your valet. Your own suite has a salone, study and dining-room. You will have my cook. I’m bringing her up from Rome.’

  ‘Anton, I really believe you are enjoying all this fuss.’

  ‘Of course I am! Do you realise that the first and last Pope to visit my villa was Clement VIII, Ippolito Aldobrandini, in 1600? His nephew Piero built that big palazzo in Frascati … But imagine what a papal visit must have been in those days – with carriage drivers, outriders, grooms, men at arms, courtiers and their women …’ He laughed. ‘Given more time, I’m sure we could have arranged at least some pageantry for you.’

  ‘To the devil with pageants.’ The Pontiff rejected the notion with a gesture. ‘I am coming because I want to be a countryman again. I want to shed my white cassock and put on work clothes and busy myself with simple things like rust on the tomatoes and whether the lettuces are hearting properly. I won’t need a secretary, because I don’t propose to open a book or a letter, though I would like to listen to some good music.’

  ‘And so you shall. I’ll have a player installed and some tapes and discs sent down for you.’

  ‘And I want to talk, Anton. I want us to talk like friends, looking back on a lifetime, but looking forward, too, to the world the children will inherit. I want to share your family, though I confess that scares me somewhat. I am not sure I have the skill or the energy to cope with them.’

  ‘Please! Don’t worry about that. You don’t have to cope with anything. You won’t have to learn anything, except how to manage yourself. You will arrive. I’ll introduce you. They’ll welcome you. You give them your blessing. All that is five minutes, no more. T
hen you forget about them … You will find, as I did, that they are all very intelligent creatures, anxious to be about their own affairs. When they are ready to approach you they will and they will establish the communication much more quickly than you ever could. All they need is your smile and your touch to reassure them. Remember that. Touch is very important. They are sensitive to any sign of revulsion or even of timidity. They are not timid themselves. They are brave and strong and highly intelligent.’

  ‘And they have a Nonno who loves them.’

  ‘That too, I suppose. But they give more than they get.’

  ‘I have a confession to make to you, Anton. Suddenly I am afraid of leaving this place. I am protected here against pain and discomfort. I am counselled like a novice. I know that if something goes wrong, Salviati will know exactly what to do about it … you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’ Drexel seemed to dredge up the words from deep inside himself. ‘I lie awake at night and wonder how Brother Death will come for me. I pray that he will arrange the meeting decently, without mess or fuss. But if he chooses otherwise – Boh! – to whom do I turn? The children can’t help. The women sleep far away from my quarters … So, yes! I know how you feel. It’s the solitude of the aged and the ailing. But since we have been given more than most, we should bear it with more grace.’

  ‘I am reproved,’ said Leo the Pontiff with wry humour. ‘Next time I will find myself a more complaisant confessor.’

  ‘No one is better placed to do so,’ Drexel rounded off the joke.

  ‘Now I need some advice.’ The Pontiff laid on the table two small packages wrapped in tissue. ‘These are gifts from me to Salviati and to Tove Lundberg. I’d like to have your opinion of them. I thought a lot about Salviati. He’s a brilliant, haunted man. I wanted something that would give him a moment of joy.’ He unwrapped the first package to reveal, laid on a bed of silk in a velvet box, an old silver mezuzah. ‘My clever secretary O’Rahilly chose this for me. It dates from the sixteenth century and is said to have been brought back from Jerusalem. The provenance is there, written in Hebrew. Do you think it will please him?’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  ‘And for Tove Lundberg, this.’ He brought out a disc of beaten gold, incised with runic letters and hung on a golden chain. ‘This, O’Rahilly tells me, came originally from Istanbul, and is attributed to the first Vikings who found their way down the river systems of Russia into Turkey.’

  ‘O’Rahilly has very good taste – and obviously a good knowledge of antiquities.’

  ‘For that he depends on the Sub-prefect of the Vatican Museum, who is also an Irishman! I am told they drink together on occasion.’

  ‘I am told,’ said Drexel, ‘that he may drink too much and too often. In your present situation, that could be more dangerous for Your Holiness than for him.’

  ‘He’s a good man, a kind man. He is a very good secretary.’

  ‘But not necessarily a discreet one. You may have to ask yourself whether you can afford him.’

  ‘Or whether in fact there is anyone I can afford. Is that what you are telling me, Anton?’

  To be blunt, Holiness, yes. We are all dispensable – even you. And that is my point. When you are restored, as you will be, when you begin the battle to rebuild the city of God, you will have less to fear from your enemies than from the slothful and indifferent who will never fight you but will wait, comfortable and happy, until you are dead.’

  ‘And how do I deal with that, dear Eminence?’

  ‘Like any good countryman, Holiness. You plough the furrow and cast the seed – and wait for God to provide the harvest!’

  The departure of the Pontiff from the clinic was a much more ceremonious affair than his arrival. This time there were three limousines; one for the Pontiff, another for the Secretary of State, a third for the prelates of the Papal Household. The men of the Vigilanza had their own fast cars, at front and rear and on the flanks of the motorcade. The Polizia Stradale provided a motorcycle escort. Barricades had been erected along the route from the clinic to Drexel’s villa and sharpshooters were located at danger points along the winding road.

  The Pontiff’s farewells to Salviati and to Tove Lundberg had been made in the privacy of his room. His gifts had pleased them both. Salviati had told him that he would save the mezuzah for the house he planned to build on the site of an old farmhouse he had just bought near Albano. Tove Lundberg bent her head and asked that he himself invest her with the runic talisman. When he had done so, he joined hands with both of them and said his farewells.

  ‘I have never in my life felt so poor as I do now. I have not even the words to thank you. The best I can do is leave you God’s own gift: peace on your houses. Shalom!’

  ‘Shalom aleichem,’ said Sergio Salviati.

  ‘You aren’t rid of me yet,’ said Tove Lundberg. ‘I have to introduce you to my daughter.’

  Then she settled him in the wheelchair and pushed him along the corridor and out into the driveway, where the staff were assembled to bid him goodbye.

  As the motorcade swept through the gates and out on to the open road, he felt a sudden stifling rush of emotion. This was truly resurrection day. Lazarus was out of the tomb, freed of his grave-clothes and moving among the living who were strung out along the roadside, waving flags and flowers and leafy twigs torn from the hedgerows. The cry they raised was always the same: ‘Eviva il papa’, ‘Long live the Pope’. And the Pope devoutly hoped their wish might come true.

  Because of the risk which everyone knew, the police escort set a fast pace for the motorcade and the drivers were forced to slew sharply round the bends of the hillside. The sharp motions put a strain on the Pontiff’s back and chest muscles, so that by the time they reached Drexel’s villa, he was sweating with pain and nausea. As he was helped from the limousine he whispered to his driver: ‘Don’t go. Stay with me. Steady me.’

  The driver stood with him, holding his arm while he breathed in deep gulps of mountain air and focused his eyes on the serried ranks of orchard trees and vines and the tall cypresses marching like pike men along the contours of the hills. Drexel, tactful as always, hung back until he was ready, then led him on a quick circuit of the women of the colonia, mothers and teachers and therapists.

  Then the children were brought to him, a strange shambling procession, some in wheelchairs, some walking, others supported on sticks or crutches. For a moment he felt as though his unstable emotions would betray him; but he managed to contain them and, in a display of tenderness that amazed even Drexel, he embraced each one, touching their cheeks, kissing them, letting them lead him as they wished from one to the other. The last one of all was presented by Drexel himself.

  ‘And this is Britte. She wants me to tell you she’d like to paint your portrait.’

  ‘Tell her, tell her …’

  His voice faltered. He could not bear the sight of that beautiful child-woman face perched on the spidery body.

  ‘Tell her yourself.’ Drexel’s voice steadied him like a military command. ‘She understands everything.’

  ‘I will sit for you every day, Britte, my dear. And when the picture is done I will fake it to the Vatican and hang it in my study.’

  Then he reached out and drew her to him, wishing he had the faith to command the miracle that would make her whole and beautiful.

  On the terraces of the Palazzo Lanfranco, Nicol and Katrina Peters were taking coffee. Nicol was sorting through the facsimile messages which had accumulated overnight on his machine.

  ‘The Pope’s being discharged from hospital this morning. His condition is satisfactory. His convalescence will be supervised by the papal physician … we know all that … Here’s something odd. It comes from the Arab newsagency. Reuters and Associated Press have picked it up. It’s captioned: “Mysterious Disappearance. Muslim girl feared abducted. Miriam Latif, an attractive twenty-four-year-old laboratory technician is employed at Professor Salviati’s clinic in Castelli, whe
re the reigning Pope, Leo XIV, is a patient. On Tuesday last she asked for an afternoon’s leave to go shopping in Rome and then keep a dinner engagement with a friend.

  “‘She did not keep the dinner date. At seven in the evening the clinic received a telephone call, supposedly from Miriam Latif. She said she was at Fiumicino airport and was leaving immediately for Beirut because her mother was seriously ill.

  “‘Police enquiries have confirmed that a woman using Miriam Latif’s name did buy a ticket to Beirut on Middle East Airlines and the same woman, heavily veiled in traditional fashion, presented Miriam Latif’s passport and boarded the aircraft. Arrived in Beirut, the woman used another passport to go through customs and immigration and then disappeared. Miriam Latif’s parents, who live in Byblos, north of Beirut, were contacted. Both are in perfect health. They know nothing of their daughter’s movements and have not heard from her.

  “‘Late today, airport police discovered Miriam Latif’s car in the long-term parking lot at Fiumicino. Forensic tests are being conducted on the vehicle. The Director of the clinic, Professor Sergio Salviati, describes Miriam as a highly competent and valued member of his staff. He says that all members of staff take occasional short absences for shopping and personal visits to Rome. No objection is raised, provided permission is obtained and a substitute is in place. Miriam’s room-mate and her friends on the staff describe her as cheerful and conscientious. Asked whether Miriam Latif had any political affiliations, Dr Salviati said he knew of none and that in any case Miriam Latif had been vetted by Italian authorities before she was permitted to take up appointment under the training scheme run by the International Clinic.

  “‘Miriam’s current boyfriend, Mr Omar Asnan, with whom she was to dine on the night of her disappearance, is deeply distressed and admits frankly that he entertains fears for her safety. Mr Asnan is an Iranian national who runs a prosperous import-export business between Italy and the Middle East … “