Beach Music (43 page)

Capers said, rising to leave, “I’ve always been the hero, Jack. You had a minor role from the beginning—the sidekick, the chum, the good buddy.”

“Be nice to the writers, Capers,” Ledare said, “before we put you in high heels.”

“That’s why I got to the producer first,” Capers said. “Funny line, Ledare. But don’t you dare tell me how to walk the waterfront. We’re at the Hassler.”

After they had left, I slept for a while, and when I awakened, the night had turned cold and there was a blue, dewy texture to the darkness. The wind that rushed off the Tiber brought a smell of leaves and paper. Pages of
Il Messaggero
with its day-old news scudded across the piazza like clothes blown off a line. I walked to the far window of the apartment, checked the clock again, and saw that it was 9
P.M
. on the nose. Turning on a light in a little-used hallway behind me, I stood centered in the frame of a huge rectangular window and I could see the graceful dome of St. Peter’s light up the modest Roman skyline. Then I saw a light wink on and off in the darkness. Hello, the light said in Morse Code. I waved and asked Ledare to come join me by the window. I pointed toward the bell tower of St. Thomas of Canterbury and she saw a column of light winking on and off.

“That’s Jordan,” I said. “That’s how we now have to communicate.”

“What does he want?” she asked.

A lingering flash of light shot toward us, followed by a short flicker, then another long beam of light followed by darkness.

“Kilo, in Morse Code. It means ‘I want to meet with you.’ ”

“How will you know where to meet?”

I scratched the back of my head, the signal that I had received the message. Three short beams of light were followed by three long ones. Then the same exact message was sent several moments later.

“Number thirty-three, Ledare,” I said. “Get the
Blue Guide to Rome and Its Environs;
it’s on the table there. Turn to the index, page 399. There’s a list of churches in the far right-hand column, starting with Sant’ Adriano. That is church number one. Count to thirty-three for me.”

“The thirty-third church listed is St. Cecilia in Trastevere,” said Ledare.

“Good,” I said. “That’s a big church.”

I scratched my head again and there was a final flash of light. “Jordan says good night. We meet two days from now in Trastevere.”

“Is that where he lives?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Although I have no idea where he lives. He thinks it’s safer for me to know as little about his life as possible.”

Ledare, looking down toward the wind-swept piazza at one lone man crossing it swiftly, said, “Do you think Jordan’s lonely, Jack?”

“I think loneliness is the central fact of his life,” I said.

W
e took a long taxi ride through the winding alleyways of Rome, and once we were sure we were not being followed I told the driver to take us to the restaurant Galeassi in Trastevere. We got out of the cab quickly and walked toward the huge, brooding presence of the Church of Santa Cecilia. I walked Ledare to the right side of the church beneath a painting of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary on the ceiling above us. We crossed the ancient paved floor toward a bank of confessionals that stood in a soldierly file on the opposite end of the church.

Two of the confessionals had lights on, indicating the presence of a confessor within, but only one bore a discreet sign marked “English.” Motioning for Ledare to wait for me in a pew, I entered one side of the confessional and drew the curtain. Out of habit, I opened the curtain slightly to see if someone had followed us to Trastevere. I
heard Jordan’s muffled voice rendering absolution in flawless Italian to an elderly Roman woman whose deafness made her confession an open book to any within shouting distance.

The panel slid and I saw the shrouded profile of Jordan through the screen that separated confessor from sinner.

“Hey, Jordan,” I said.

“Hey, big fella,” Jordan said. “I’m glad to know you’re all right.”

He then told me that his superiors had been questioned by representatives of Interpol regarding a fugitive priest wanted for questioning about a crime that took place in 1971.

“The report could have come from several places, but the two most likely are my father or Capers Middleton.”

“Your mother’d kill your father,” I said. “And Capers practically convinced me that he needs you worse than you need him.”

“Trusting Capers presents a small dilemma,” Jordan said crisply.

“Where else could this’ve come from?” I asked.

“Mike could’ve told friends in Hollywood about his hiring the private investigator. Your mother could’ve told members of your family. My father could easily have confided in some of his oldest friends. There are a million scenarios.”

“What now?”

“My abbot wants me to go away from Rome for a while,” Jordan said. “Until the weather clears.”

“Will you tell me where you’re going?” I asked.

“No, you know I can’t do that, Jack,” Jordan said. “But I’d like you to do me a favor. I’d like you to set up a meeting for me with my father. But use extreme caution, be very careful.”

“I will,” I said. “Ledare is with me and she could help.”

“Good. Ask her to come to the other side of the confessional and let’s plan how the meeting with my father should take place.”

“When are you going to see your mother?” I asked.

“I already have. She understands why I need to see him. I’ve always wanted to have a father, Jack. You know that. I’ve never had one in my life.”

“You overrate it,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I just need one.”

T
wo days later I awaited the arrival of General Elliott in the bar of the Hotel Raphael.

When he finally appeared, his eyes swept the room in a hard, predatory gaze. Looking to his right and left, he marched toward my table and put out his hand. I stood up and we shook hands perfunctorily.

“Your wounds are healing well?” the general said.

“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” I replied.

“You’re taking me to see my son, is that understood?” the general said.

“No, that’s not understood at all,” I said. “I’m going to take you on a walk through Rome. Jordan’ll decide if he’ll see you or not.”

“But he knows how I want to see this all resolved in his favor,” the general said. “He must know that I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t still love him.”

“First, he wants to see if anyone’s followed you,” I said.

“That sounds a bit like paranoia to me,” the general said.

“General,” I asked, “don’t you think paranoia’s appropriate in this instance?”

“I would never do anything to hurt my son,” the general said.

“You already have,” I answered. “We’ll know if you want to reverse that by the end of the day.”

“What do you mean by that?” the general snapped.

“We’ll see how it plays out.”

The two of us left the Raphael and proceeded to walk to the Santa Maria della Pace where we approached a side door on which I knocked loudly three times. Three knocks were heard in reply, the door swung open, and I led the general through the doorway beneath the semicircular porch and into the interior where we passed the graceful sibyls of Raphael himself as we made our way toward a beautiful marble altar and out through a sacristy door that led to the cloisters where shy nuns watched our passage without comment or interest. Another
portiere
awaited us with an open door and I passed along ten thousand lire for the services of both men.

We were now loose in the alleyways of Rome, the secret part of the city that I loved best. It was like walking through fields of rust and burnt-siena in this many-warrened section of Rome with its deep, one-roomed shops whose proprietors sat behind antique desks patient as stalagmites. I could not restrain myself from pointing out shops of historical or architectural merit as we wound through the streets that cut off suddenly from the Via dei Coronari. Twice, we doubled back on ourselves, then took a cab at a taxi stand near the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. I ordered the driver to take us to the Pincio, near the Borghese Gardens.

“This is amateur hour, Jack,” the general said. “I worked for Navy Intelligence for two years and you can’t shake a good tail just by playing tag.”

“We are just amateurs, General,” I said. “Please bear with us.”

“Who’s making sure we’re not being followed?” the general asked.

“Jordan,” I answered.

“We passed by him?”

“Twice,” I said. “How’ve you liked Rome?”

“I haven’t. Too chaotic. The city has no sense of order,” the general said.

I disagreed and said, “It has a perfect sense of order. But it’s a Roman sense of order and not necessarily understood by outsiders.”

We were dropped off at the Pincio and I led the general along its promenade, which overlooks all of Rome. From there everything looked different; from the height and the angle of the walkway were
revealed thousands of scrupulously kept terraces hidden on the rooftops of the city.

We walked on until we came to the Spanish Steps, which we went down, with me holding on to the general’s arm for balance. It was as hard and sinewy as a young wrestler’s and I could not help but notice what a fine figure of a man he was and I well understood how a young soldier could follow such a detached, unreachable man into battle. If he had any soft places, they were well hidden.

The general grew impatient with the game-playing and I was beginning to grow exhausted and irritable, but by the time we reached Dal Bolognese on the Piazza del Popolo, I was positive we were not being followed. However, the coiled intensity of the general alarmed me. He clearly had no capacity for lightheartedness or small talk, and nothing about Rome seemed to interest him.

We entered the bar Rosati and I paid the cashier for two
cappuccini
. Though the general looked agitated, he saw he had no choice but to continue his participation in this long, enervating diversion. The bar was filling up with businessmen who needed their
aperitivi
before wandering out to their favorite restaurants for lunch.

The general watched me closely as we both heard the sound of a helicopter overhead but he kept his equanimity and his demeanor calm. There was little to be said between us that would not open old wounds and the silence was wearing on me. Under normal circumstances, the general did not mind spending time with people he knew disliked him. It made the other person extremely self-conscious and prone to error and he tried to use this to his own advantage.

“What’s the next step?” the general asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered, looking out toward the Piazza del Popolo. “We must be patient.”

“I’ve been patient, and all we’ve done is go around in circles.”

Then I saw Ledare walking in swift steps out of the Via del Babuino toward the monumental gate, Porta del Popolo. She did not look in our direction as the general studied her well-rehearsed promenade across the length of the piazza. A blue Volvo station wagon came through the Porta del Popolo and drove toward Ledare, stopping beside her. Four men, all Franciscan priests, emerged from
the car and each began to move off in different directions from the obelisk in the center. One of the priests stopped and Ledare kissed him lightly on the cheek and pointed to the place where I was with the general.

“Where’s his beard?” the general said.

“Shaved it after he was on television,” I answered. “You saw that in the photographs.”

“He’s heavier,” the general said.

The priest walked toward us with the sun behind him, a diffident, disinterested walk that lacked all resolution.

“Is it him?” the general said. “It’s been so long. And the sun’s in my eyes. I can’t tell if it’s really him or not.”

“Do you want to be alone with him?” I asked.

“Not yet,” the general said. “Please stay. At least until we get the matter of introductions over with.”

“You don’t need any introduction,” I said. “It’s your son.”

As the priest approached us, he pulled back his cowl revealing a head of thick dark curls. The general reached out to shake hands with his son and there was a sudden movement in the bar behind us as three men burst out of the interior of Dal Bolognese. The general held his son’s hand fiercely as an undercover agent from Interpol expertly placed handcuffs on the priest. Every entrance into the Piazza del Popolo was suddenly blocked by blue Fiats with their swirling azure lights and their irritating sirens.

“I told you it was amateur hour, Jack,” the general said. “They fitted me with a device. They’ve followed us every step of the way.”

“Jordan wanted me to give you a message if it turned out this way, General,” I said, watching as two agents roughly dragged Ledare toward us. “He made it simple. You didn’t surprise him at all.”

“Let him deliver the message himself,” the general said, staring at his son.

“Now will you tell me my part in this silly charade, Jack, me boy?” the priest said to me in an Irish accent so thick that even the Italian policemen knew this was no American. He also removed a pair of dark sunglasses.

“Where is my son, Jordan Elliott?” the general demanded of the Irish priest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the priest said affably, enjoying the excitement and the crowd that had gathered around them.

F
or hours they questioned me at Interpol’s headquarters about my relationship with Jordan Elliott and I answered all their questions forthrightly. I could tell them nothing about this priest’s daily existence in Rome. I had no idea what order Jordan belonged to or where he slept at night or where he celebrated Mass. But I gladly provided a list of churches in which we had passed letters to each other and I offered the detail that he wore the habits of several different orders.

Celestine Elliott also underwent a grueling interrogation about her knowledge of her son’s underground activities, but Jordan had protected her with the same shroud of ignorance he had me. Celestine answered her interrogators with a blind unclassifiable fury, but offered no information not required by the questions.