Pope's Assassin (12 page)

    "To whom do the Jesuits answer?" Gavache asked.

    "To the superior general of the society," Rafael explained.

    "And to whom does the superior general answer?"

    Rafael took longer to answer than he liked.

    "To the pope," Jacopo put in.

    No one said anything further, except Jean-Paul, with a brusque "We've arrived," as he braked hard.

    Gavache got out of the car and looked around. The others joined him.

    "Another church, Jean-Paul."

    "Another church, Inspector," Jean-Paul repeated.

    "I hope you're right," Gavache remarked to Rafael.

    "I do, too."

    And they climbed up the stairs toward the entrance.

T
he helicopter shook as it headed into the side wind. The pilot was accustomed to these conditions, and chose a route farther to the north to avoid fighting the wind. The call had come from the
Voyager
of the Seas,
a cruise ship sailing along the coast between Livorno and Corsica.

    It happened sometimes, someone more critically ill than the ship's clinic could handle or disagreements that had to be resolved by the police. In this case it was a couple who urgently needed to get to Fiumicino. They were alarmed, but spoke a language the pilot didn't understand. It sounded Arabic, but he couldn't say. Hebrew is diffi cult for anyone. They hadn't explained the urgency, nor did they have to. Must be some millionaire who needed to close a business deal, spoil ing the vacation of his wife—or his lover, since she looked younger than he.

    Ben Isaac secured himself as well as he could. Myriam clung to the seat and looked at the instrument panel countless times. No father should have to see something like this. His son, little Ben, tied up, bloody, with tape over his mouth and a blindfold covering his eyes. He was holding up a white sign with Hebrew letters written in black:

    But she didn't care about the sign or what it said. Only that the boy she had given birth to was suffering, helpless, with no one, without protection, without his mother. She had tears of worry on her face, and kept looking at his image.

    "What is it they want, Ben?"

    "I don't know, Myr," Ben Isaac answered, keeping his voice under control.

    "Money? Pay them, Ben. Pay whatever they want."

    Below they began to see lights from the coastal towns. They were nearing the peninsula.

    Ben Isaac looked out the window just as a light rain began to strike the glass. In his worst nightmares he had never imagined such a scenario. Had they kidnapped little Ben to blackmail him? He knew exactly what they wanted, but who were they? How did they find the information? Only a leak could have started all this, and there were not many who could have informed when those involved were so few. He had failed in the most important duty of his existence—protecting his family. Just as he had failed Magda in another life, long ago, in his forgotten past.

    The pilot radioed his position to the control tower and followed instructions for landing. A few minutes later they put down on the assigned runway. A van waited to take the passengers to a plane Ben Isaac had leased while still on board the ship.

    As soon as they settled into the van, his cell phone rang. It showed his son's number. Ben looked anxiously and turned the screen to his wife, who suddenly snatched the phone from his hands and answered.

    "Ben? Ben?" she cried desperately with tears running down her face. She listened a few moments and closed her eyes. Moments later she held out the phone to Ben. "It's for you."

    Her husband took the phone and lifted it, reluctantly, to his ear. "Ben Isaac," he answered. He said nothing more. He just listened. Probably as he was ordered to do. Myriam looked at him in suspense. No reaction, no interjection. Nothing. Total silence. The one-sided conversation lasted a few seconds. Ben Isaac hung up, and Myriam, instead of bombarding him with questions, made only one observa tion. "Don't hide anything from me, Ben."

    The van stopped next to a Learjet 60 XR that was ready to board them. An attendant waited next to the steps to help Myriam and Ben climb into the plane.

    "Welcome," she greeted them with a brightly enameled smile.

    The interior of the jet was a luxury they had become accustomed to, but even if they weren't used to it, they wouldn't have noticed. They were stopped in their tracks by the sight of a cardinal, accompanied by a young woman, seated comfortably in the cabin.

    "You're a difficult man to find, Ben Isaac," the cardinal observed.

    "I was never hiding."

    "Sit down." William gestured toward the seats. "Make yourselves at home."

T
he priest's name was Gunter, and he made them wait awhile. It was just as well that an acolyte received them inside the immense Church of Saint-Paul–Saint-Louis, sheltering them from the rain, which was getting heavy.

    Gavache lit another cigarette over the useless objections of the aco lyte. Those who enforce the law are always above it.

    Jacopo displayed a scornful smile, which everyone else considered idiotic, but no one said so.

    A Delacroix looked over them in silence,
Christ in the Garden of
Olives
. A statue, the Vi
rgin of Sorrows,
by a prominent French sculp tor, could also be admired. Rafael felt as if he were inside a puzzle with missing pieces. He was used to being a step ahead, not a step behind. It was not a comfortable position.

    Jacopo wandered through the side chapels appreciating the works of sacred art. This was his world. The light was dim and lent an air of mystery, deepened by the rain they could hear falling outside.

    "Interesting," Jacopo stammered, his eyes on an altar full of relics.

    "What's interesting?" Gavache interrupted with a cigarette between his lips.

    "This church. It's based entirely on the Church of the Gesù in Rome. Even the facade outside. The Jesuits are indeed exemplary."

    "It's a Jesuit church, anyway," Gavache offered, looking at Rafael. "Do you think they'll give up one of their own?"

    "We'll see," Rafael replied, sitting down in a pew next to Jean-Paul. "That isn't the idea."

    "What makes the Jesuits so special?" Gavache asked Jacopo.

    "They're extremely intelligent. They know how to think about the church. You could say they're specialists in marketing religion."

    Rafael smiled. What an absurd idea.

    "They always turn to preaching. Unlike the Benedictines, for exam ple, who live in communities and follow daily rituals together, the Jesu its think more about society than community. To convert people after preaching, spread the word of God through the world. Loyola was a very good strategist," Jacopo said, warming to his subject.

    "You talk a lot about this Loyola," Gavache noted.

    "Naturally. Saint Ignatius of Loyola was the founder of the Society of Jesus. This church, like many others, is due to the work that he initi ated. It's the largest Catholic religious order in the world. And every thing began here in Paris."

    "That's enough of a history lesson for now," Rafael said, saturated. He knew what Jacopo was going to say backward and forward.

    "Sorry, Rafael, but the subject interests me," Gavache interjected, then looked at Jacopo. "Please, continue."

    That a French inspector was interested in what he had to teach about the Jesuits made Jacopo feel very important.

    "Okay, you can always recognize a Jesuit church from its sym bol. We're talking about the sixteenth century, and they already had a notion of a sign." He pointed to the altar and to the acronym above the image of Christ. "IHS. You'll find those letters on the facade, too."

    "IHS?"

    "Yes, it signifies Jesus in Greek, composed of the letters
iota, eta,

sigma. Iota
and e
ta
are the same in Greek and Latin.
Sigma
was trans literated as S, and in some cases C, because they have the same sound. They also interpret the acronym in Latin as I
esus Hominum Salvator,
which means Jesus Savior of Men. If until the Council of Trent the Benedictines were the ones to follow in the matter of ritual, afterward the Jesuits revolutionized everything. Do you see that pulpit?" He pointed to a kind of marble veranda on top of a carved cap on a col umn supporting them.

    "I'm looking at it."

    "The Jesuits were adept at preaching, as opposed to turning their backs on the people. Don't forget, we're talking about the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Mass was celebrated in Latin, but the Jesuit fathers made a point of preaching facing the faithful, very close to them, in a way they understood." Jacopo was silent for a few moments. Many priests had preached their sermons from those pulpits. "And for me one of the most inspired inventions of the church: the confession," Jacopo added.

    "The confession? How so?" Gavache looked perplexed.

    "It was the Jesuits who invented confession as we know it today. I know we grew up thinking that these things existed forever, but it's not true. Everything has a beginning."

    Gavache had to think about that.

    "Marriage . . . ," Jacopo proceeded.

    "Don't tell me that was one of their inventions also?" Gavache cut him off.

    "No, marriage was before them, but the ritual as we know it today comes from the twelfth century. I mention it to illustrate how things aren't as we think they are. Someone thought them up, someone cre ated them . . . men, not God."

    Jacopo let the idea sink in. It was a theory that made people, espe cially laypeople, think.

    "You're a sensationalist, Jacopo," Rafael accused.

"Am I lying?"

    "You put things in a very simple way. As if they'd tried to think up ways to exploit the faithful," Rafael argued. Gunter was really taking a long time.

    "And didn't they? What was confession?"

    "You tell me."

    "What better way to create the omnipresence of God," Jacopo said, his face flushed. The subject was dear to his heart.

    "Please, Jacopo. That's absurd."

    "I don't think it's absurd," Gavache put in.

    "You see?" Jacopo agreed. "Any person with any sense agrees. Con fession was a pleasant procedure for getting to know the lives of every one around you. Even today a Jesuit priest hears confession from the pope every Friday. I tip my hat. It was ingenious."

    "The confession is protected by secrecy on the part of the confes sor," Rafael replied, tired of the conversation.

    "What does that matter? As soon as you tell me your secret, even in confession, I have power over you because I know something no one else does. Besides, a superior can oblige a confessor to divulge the con fession, as you know very well. There's a reason they call the superior general of the society the black pope."

    "The black pope?" Gavache inquired.

    "Yes, because the Jesuit suit is black," Jacopo explained. "There are some who claim that the black pope has more power than the pope himself."

    "Interesting." Gavache was visibly intrigued.

    "It's the society's mission to serve the Supreme Pontiff wherever he desires, without question, fulfilling his will, always, but it's said that whoever opposes the society finds himself in a war that can end very badly, even for the pope himself. There are rumors that some popes died at the hands of the society."

    "That is outrageous," said a thundering voice behind them. It was Gunter, who crossed the nave from the altar with firm steps. "The Jesu its answer only to the pope and carry out what His Holiness wants, when he wants, without question. We preach the word of the Lord all over the world—love, understanding, tolerance—and we help society progress down a good path. We never put a life at risk," he added. "I'm sorry I made you wait. My name is Gunter." He introduced himself to Gavache with a handshake. When he came to Rafael, he embraced him. Two friends separated by distance. He did not greet Jacopo.

    Gunter appeared to be in his forties and in great shape, emanating energy through every pore.

    "To what do I owe this visit at such an inopportune hour for the servants of God?" Gunter asked.

    "I'm sorry for the late call, Father Gunter, but servants have been assassinated and others need your help," Gavache said in his nasal tone, not caring if he seemed sarcastic. Gavache was Gavache. Who could blame him?

    "I'm not sure I understand."

    "We need your help, Gunter. Show him the recording, Inspector," Rafael said. It would be easier if Gunter was informed about what has happened as quickly as possible. Tell him everything, or almost everything, and show him the recording. Gunter remained pensive. A phrase went though his mind. A
d maiorem Dei gloriam.
Saint Ignatius uttered these same words in the sixteenth century, in the same city of Montmartre, where he founded the Society of Jesus with Peter Faber, Francis Xavier, Alfonso Salmeron, Diego Laynez, Nicholas Bobadilla, and Simão Rodrigues, on August 15, 1534. It was one of the rules that governed the Society. F
or the greater glory of God.
For Loyola this was the most important thing. Gunter listened and watched everything in silence and then went on thinking.

    "Did you know the archaeologist or theologian?" Gavache pro ceeded. He needed to start putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

    "I don't believe so."

    "Jean-Paul, show the photos of the victims to the father," the inspector ordered.

    Jean-Paul did so promptly, handing over the photos he was carry ing. Gunter carefully examined the faces but not one was familiar.