The Chimera Sanction (10 page)

‘Ya. We will accelerate the healing with doses of—’

‘I don’t have time for details, doctor. Remember. Tomorrow is Friday.’

‘Your name?’ said the woman desk sergeant, obviously bothered by the untimely interruption of her reading a thick report.

‘Good afternoon, signora. It’s Nervi, Dottore Alberto Nervi,’ said the man, pushing up his nose a pair of oval, wire-framed spectacles.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m here to see my client, Mecem Aguar. I’m his lawyer.’

‘Identity card.’

He opened his wallet, took out a card bearing his photograph, and handed it to her. It read: ‘Dr Alberto Nervi, lawyer, member #17786, Roma Bar Association, years 2005-2006.’

She looked at the card, then at him. ‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing to the elegantly wrapped box.

‘Oh, I forgot. It’s chocolates for my wife. I just bought them at the—’

‘They stay here.’

‘Of course.’

She was busy copying the details of the card, when two policemen approached the desk, shouldering between them with great difficulty an obese woman wrapped in a dripping wet blanket.

‘She’s American. She’s drunk,’ said the younger policeman. ‘She apparently fell, or jumped off the Ponte Sant’Angelo bridge.’

‘Momento,’ said the sergeant, holding up her right hand. ‘I don’t want her dripping all over my desk.’ She turned to the lawyer. ‘I’ll give
you twenty minutes.’

‘That should be enough.’

‘Nina,’ she said, calling over a small frail woman in uniform. ‘Show him to 12B. He’s here to see Aguar. Don’t let them out of your sight.’

‘But I must be assured confidentiality. I have to discuss—’

‘Nineteen minutes.’

‘All right, all right,’ he said.

The woman sergeant turned towards the two policemen still
propping
up the large, wet woman. ‘Get her into cell 3A. I’ll talk to her tomorrow when she’s sober.’

Pushing the ill-fitting, rimmed glasses upwards again on his nose, Tomaso followed the small woman through the metal detector and down a corridor lined with cells filled with Rome’s rejects, while they vied for Tomaso’s attention. ‘Hey, you a lawyer? You any good? I pay well,’ laughed an old prostitute, pumping lewdly with her pelvis and plumping up her sagging breasts.

They took the elevator up to the third floor. Its doors opened, and two guards stood before them, blocking the corridor. She showed them her identity card, and the guards let them through. He followed her to a large cell, before which stood two more guards, their Uzis at the ready. Rome’s ‘policia’ weren’t taking any chances. One of them frisked him.

‘What’s this?’ said the guard, pulling out a wrapped chocolate from Tomaso’s pocket.

‘Oh, I forgot. I left the box at the counter. I—’

‘OK, OK,’ he said, handing Tomaso the chocolate. ‘Be quick.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

The guard unlocked and opened the heavy metal door.

‘You have a visitor,’ said the woman to Aguar as she stood beside the entrance. Aguar looked puzzled.

‘Me? Why?’

‘Your lawyer.’

‘But—’

‘Nervi, Mr Aguar, Dottore Alberto Nervi,’ he said and entered the cell. ‘I’m here to help you.’

‘You were sent by—’

‘Quiet,’ said Tomaso, putting a forefinger to his lips, then taking
Aguar by the arm to the back of the cell. ‘It’s probably bugged.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘What did you tell them?’ whispered Tomaso, his head bowed, his lips barely moving.

‘Nothing. They want to deal. They’re offering a reduced sentence if—’

‘That would be most unwise,’ interrupted Tomaso.

‘They know about the gel on the glasses,’ whispered Aguar.

‘I see. Anything else?’

‘They found my fingerprints inside the latex gloves,’ said Aguar, looking scared. Tomaso thought quickly.

‘And you believed them? That’s an old trick. Trust me. If they tried that, they don’t have a case.’

‘Can you get me the hell out of this shithole? I suppose you … I mean, you must know people?’

‘Of course we know people.’ Tomaso said.

Tomaso reached into his jacket’s left pocket, took out a chocolate, unwrapped the blue tinfoil and popped it into his mouth. He chewed briefly, swallowed and said, ‘the right people.’ A look of relief started to form on Aguar’s face.

‘Good. That’s good. When can you—’

‘Soon. Very soon. Don’t worry,’ Tomaso said, putting his left hand on Aguar’s shoulder reassuringly. Tomaso then reached into his jacket right pocket and took out a chocolate, wrapped in white tinfoil. ‘In the meantime here, have one of these. Good for the morale.’

‘Come, son, let’s go to the library.’

The boy followed his father who, at sixty-eight, his hair white, his gait hesitant, looked ten years older. As they entered, the boy could smell the familiar scent of nutmeg and must emanating from the worn
books. A soft summer light intruded between the heavy, velvet drapes, its rays warming the library’s threadbare Persian carpets. The boy
anticipated
these weekly sessions with a certain apprehension: the fascination of new knowledge brought with it a sense of growing responsibility. It was becoming increasingly clear this was preparation. Preparation for the role he would play in the Cathar faith’s survival. Every week brought an extra brick of information that fitted into the walls of his ultimate destiny. There was no escape.

His father reached up and took down a tome with a faded red velvet cover, amid a row of brown leather books. He dusted it slightly and opened it.

‘This is the life of Pierre de Combel,’ his father said, ‘your ancestor. He wasn’t much older than you are now when he miraculously survived the massacre at Montségur. It’s time you read about him. I think you’ll find he was quite a remarkable man. Courageous, very courageous, yet cunning.’

‘Cunning?’

‘Yes cunning. Because under the masquerade of his Catholic
knighthood
, he quietly went about organizing what was to become the Cathar resistance movement. De Combel and, and a few others….’ The old man bent over and coughed heavily, his face turning to an alarming red as he gasped for air between spasms.

‘Father, are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes I’m fine. Just a bad cold.’ His father regained his composure and continued. ‘Most important, de Combel set new rules for the
survival
of our faith,’ he said, closing the book and waving it slightly.

‘How is that?’ said the boy.

‘I’ll get to it in a moment. You see, Pierre de Combel was entrusted with one sacred treasure. No, not that ridiculous piece of tin and silver that frauds and pseudo-historians like that Otto Rahn have written about. This Holy Grail and its supposed gift of eternal life. What
nonsense
! No, de Combel’s treasure was far more valuable, and even harder to secure: the preservation of our faith, so that our promise could
eventually
be fulfilled.’

‘Le pré reverdira. Our time will come again,’ said the boy.

‘Correct. You’ve learned your lesson well, my son. But what I’m about to tell you now will surprise you, might even shock you. To protect his
sacred trust, Pierre de Combel wasn’t afraid of using violence if necessary.’

‘Violence?’ said the boy, looking at his father with an air of curiosity mixed with disbelief.

‘I know. So far, you’ve learned that one of the basic tenets of our faith is non-violence.’

‘Of course.’

‘Not of course. Following the massacre at Montségur, de Combel realized that passive non-violence had only led to the useless slaughter of three hundred men, women and children, who believed their
immolation
was inevitable, the will of God. De Combel realized that for the Cathar faith to survive, he had to take the initiative. The Cathars had to fight fire with fire. So he organized a sort of Le Maquis against the Catholic oppressor, much like the French resistance movement did against the Germans during WWII. De Combel’s actions against the Catholics are well documented in this book.’

The boy stared at his father, unsure as to what degree he was to believe what seemed to go against everything his Cathar teachers had taught him.

‘You look skeptical.’

‘No, it’s that it’s quite difficult to—’

‘To believe? I’ll give you an example. In 1267 AD, the Archbishop of Albi, Villebet was his name, proclaimed that any Catholic who knew a Cathar within the city’s walls and didn’t denounce the heretic, such Catholic, when found out, would be ipso facto excommunicated. I don’t have to remind you that excommunication, in those days was feared worse than death. To a Catholic, it meant eternal damnation. For the Albigese, in a city where the two faiths co-existed side by side, it was a difficult, untenable choice. The Archbishop was forcing brother to turn on brother, friend against friend. After Villebet’s proclamation, de Combel decided to eliminate the Albigeses’ dilemma. He—’ His father started coughing again, a dry sickening rasp coming from the bottom of his lungs. The old man leaned backward, gasping for air.

‘Father, I…. We can maybe continue some other—’

‘I’m fine. Just get me a glass of water.’ Grasping the book with both hands, the old man slumped wearily into the sofa, his small, fragile frame almost lost amid the sofa’s vertical ribs of padded leather.

The boy went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of cold water.
Taking the glass with a trembling hand, his father took two sips and
placed it on the table next to the sofa.

‘Here, son, sit down next to me,’ said the man as he patted the cushion with his skeletal, arthritis-ridden hand. ‘Where were we? Ah yes, the Archbishop. Two days after his proclamation, Villebet was found crucified on the altar, in his cathedral. They never found out who did it until much later, 250 years to be more precise, when de Combel’s
biographer
pieced the evidence together. It was definitely de Combel. But getting back to my story, Villebet’s successor was wiser. He immediately annulled the proclamation.’ His father took another drink of water. ‘Later on during those troubled times, because of his high position within the knighthood, de Combel saved many Cathars from execution, often at the peril of his life. We owe him a lot. Some go as far to say the very survival of our faith.’

‘I see. But apart from a lesson in history, what has this got to do—’

‘With you? You’re going to learn, son, that all great endeavors are
built on a strong historical foundation. Lenin and Mao read Marx and
Rousseau. Jefferson read Aristotle and Sophocles, Patton was taught by
Alexander the Great and Napoleon, and—’

‘I understand, Father.’

‘If you are called eventually to become our leader – and I believe you
have the qualities necessary for the post – you must first acquire the
tools, the skills and the judgment essential to the faith’s survival and
growth. You’ll have many enemies, starting with those from within.
Our current leadership is passive and weak. I wish I had the strength to
fight them, but I’m afraid my time has passed. I suppose I was too busy
acquiring this.’ The old man waved his hand at the rest of the room,
and, the boy imagined, at the rest of his possessions and fortune. ‘All of
this will be yours someday.’

A sudden dread filled the boy’s heart. ‘Father, your cough. Is it…?’

‘The doctors say a good rest will cure it. If you believe them. These
quacks, what do they know?’ His father’s weak smile did nothing to
dispel the boy’s fears. ‘You see, de Combel was in much the same situation
then as we Cathars are in today. The threat is all the more sinister
now that it is hidden, pervasive, veiled in the cloak of so-called
tolerance
.
Of course the weapons and skills of combat have changed, but
make no mistake, it is, and will always remain, war. War that every
oppressed minority must wage if it is to survive.’

‘But, sir, how, how will I know when?’

His father took on that reassuring look that the boy knew so well, always a safe harbor from his anxieties and dilemmas.

‘In time, son, in time. All in due course. You and you alone will feel when you’re ready, when the circumstances are right. Let God and Spirit inspire you, guide you. You will feel it, know when it’s time. My task is the easier one. It’s to prepare you for that moment. When you become their chosen leader, I ask only one favor of you.’

The boy looked quizzically at his father.

‘That you take the name of Pierre de Combel, in memory of our illustrious ancestor. That name belongs to our family, and it is time to restore it to its full glory again.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘In the meantime, read the book and let me know what you think. I warn you. The end is quite disturbing.’

The boy never got to talk about the book with his father. One month later, the old man was dead.

The resumption of Dulac’s morning meeting with the members of the inner Curia had been postponed to later that evening. Before him, the members of the Curia continued to look at each other in silence, no one willing to break it.

‘Well I’m waiting, Monsignori. What could destroy the pontiff?’ Dulac said.

Finally, Brentano spoke: ‘Mr Dulac, I’m not aware of any particular circumstance that could destroy the Pope’s reputation, if that is what is meant by the message. But of course, before our call to the priesthood, we were … men. Some of us may have had a few rattles in the closet,’ he said, looking at the other cardinals with a knowing smile.

‘Skeletons. You mean skeletons, your Eminence. There’s a difference between a few skeletons and a cemetery,’ said Dulac. ‘The message says the Pope will be destroyed. I’m telling you what to expect if you don’t deliver. It’s your decision.’

‘And your job is to prevent this from—’

At that moment, Dulac’s cellphone rang. He looked at the number: Questura Centrale. ‘Sorry your Eminences, it’s Guadagni.’

He took the call. ‘Inspector, I’m in a—’

‘We went to interrogate Aguar again tonight,’ said Guadagni.

‘Get anything out of him?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘Poisoned. Someone posing as his lawyer gave him chocolates laced with enough trychloromethyl cyanide to kill an elephant.’

Dulac’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling in disbelief. ‘Christ, Guadagni, our one suspect, our only source, and he gets murdered in your jail? By a lawyer?’

‘They frisked him—’

‘Great. Just pissing great.’ Dulac hung up.

The members of the Curia looked at him expectantly. ‘They murdered Aguar.’

‘God have mercy,’ said Sforza.

Dulac eyed the prelates and pounded his fist onto the table. ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth? This is no time for Omerta. Clement XXI may die. For God’s sake, tell me what you know.’ The silence that
followed
could have lasted for minutes, hours, while the cardinals looked at each other, no one daring to speak. Dulac didn’t care anymore. He rose to leave.

Legnano finally spoke: ‘All right, Mr Dulac, all right. Please calm down. I will explain.’ He looked nervously at the other cardinals. ‘We’ll go to the Pope’s library. What I have to tell you …’

Will embarrass the hell out of all of you, Dulac thought.

‘… is more appropriately told in private.’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ mumbled Dulac, rising from his chair and following Legnano out of the room.

The cardinal hastened his step and they arrived before the Pope’s library adjacent to the papal apartments.

‘Please,’ said Legnano, ushering Dulac into the sparsely decorated room.

They faced each other on either side of the large oak table, Dulac in one of the spindly-legged Louis XV chairs, Legnano in the pope’s
highbacked
chair, directly under the large painting of The Resurrection by Perugino.

He looks quite at ease, sitting in the Pope’s place, thought Dulac.

Legnano crossed his arms and said, ‘Mr Dulac, I will be frank. It is possible that these men, these kidnappers might have found out
something
we discovered several years ago. To be exact, three years after the election of Pope Clement XXI. Until now, we, the members of the Curia, thought we were the only ones to know about this, this diary.’

‘A diary? Whose diary?’ Dulac said, offended at the cardinal’s lack of transparency.

‘A German officer’s diary.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Before I speak, swear to me that this information will never pass your lips.’

‘Of course.’

Legnano cleared his throat, leaned forward, hands clasped and forearms resting on the desk. ‘In 1943, in Naples, a young 13-year-old orphan boy named Paolo was trying to survive the bombing raids of the allies. He was one of the many facing starvation. He had a younger sister Maria, and they were living in a corrugated tin roof shack. She was sick, very sick. Prior to the war, Paolo lived near the synagogue on Via Capella Vecchia and had befriended a young Jewish boy named Eli Tannenbaum. They often played soccer together in the courtyard near the synagogue. When the war erupted, the Jews of Naples abandoned the synagogue and went underground, but Paolo got news of Eli’s whereabouts through a friend.’

Dulac sat immobile, feeling the muscles of his jaw tighten slightly.

Legnano continued. ‘When Maria couldn’t walk anymore, feverish with dysentery, Paolo went looking for Eli. He knew where the Jews had retreated to, but going there meant crossing the whole city, and risking running into one of the German patrols and probably being followed. Besides, he’d heard that the Jews were also desperate for food. He waited. But at the end of the third day, his sister burning with fever, he
decided he had only one hope left: the Germans themselves. He went to the nearest command station twice, begging for food. They turned him back. The third time, he offered them something he knew would interest them: his friend Eli’s address.’

Dulac leaned forward, his anxiety growing.

Legnano continued, a frown furrowing his generous forehead, ‘After the war, Paolo found out that the Germans tortured Eli, and as a result of his confession, arrested 450 Neapolitan Jews and sent them to Auschwitz. Eli’s entire family perished. Eli was spared, but committed suicide shortly after the end of the war when he found out what the Nazis had done. Paolo and his sister Maria were nourished by the Germans and survived the war. After the war, Paolo eventually became a priest, and rose quickly within the ranks of the Church.’ Legnano paused and took a deep breath, his gaze locked onto Dulac: ‘Paolo Volpini, Mr Dulac, is Pope Clement XXI.’

Dulac sat, mouth slack, staring at Legnano.

The cardinal continued. ‘We were sent extracts of the diary by the Catholic son of a German officer serving under the commandant in Naples, who had gotten hold of his father’s diary. The officer had
meticulously
noted the names and addresses of the deported Jews. Twelve of them survived. Their account corroborates the dates in the diary. They think Eli was the traitor. They don’t know about Paolo Volpini.’

Legnano clasped his hands and leaned forward on the desk: ‘I don’t have to remind you of your oath of confiden—’

‘What happened to the diary?’

‘I don’t know. We have only extracts. We tried to get in contact with the officer’s son, but he has disappeared.’

‘Hence the kidnappers’ reference to “destroy” instead of “kill”?’

‘You don’t have to remind me of that, Mr Dulac,’ said Legnano, the frown on his forehead deepening. ‘We had already come up with that premise before you “hammered the point home”, so to speak.’

‘I presume you’ve had this story corroborated by the Pope?’

‘Mr Dulac, how do the Americans say, we are between a mountain and a rocky place. If the Jewish community, or for that matter the rest of the world….’ Legnano’s voice trailed off slightly.

‘Explosive diary.’

‘We must get that diary, Mr Dulac.’