The First Apostle (4 page)

For a few minutes Mandino sat at his desk, his irritation growing. He wished he’d never become involved in this mess. But it hadn’t been his choice, and the instructions he’d been given years ago had been both clear and specific. He couldn’t, he rationalized, have disregarded what they’d found out through the Internet, and the Latin phrase was the most positive clue they’d ever unearthed. He had no choice but to get on with the job.

Just, in fact, as he had no real choice about what to do next. Distasteful though it might be to him, in view of what had happened, at least one man would have to be informed.

Mandino crossed to his wall safe, spun the combination lock and opened the door. Inside were two semiautomatic pistols, both with loaded magazines, and several thick bundles of currency secured with rubber bands, mainly U.S. dollars and middle-denomination euro notes. At the very back of the safe was a slim volume bound in old leather, its edges worn and faded, and with nothing on the front cover or the spine to indicate what it contained. Mandino took it out and carried it across to his desk, released the metal clasp that held the covers closed, and opened it.

He turned the handwritten pages slowly, scanning the faded ink lettering and wondering, as he did every time he looked at the volume, about the instructions it contained. Almost at the end of the book one page contained a list of telephone numbers, clearly a fairly recent addition, as most had been written using a ballpoint pen.

Mandino ran a finger down the list until he found the one he was looking for. Then he glanced at the digital clock on his desk and picked up his cell phone again.

In his office in the City, Mark Hampton had shut down his computer and was about to go off for lunch—he had a standing arrangement with three of his colleagues to meet at the pub around the corner every Wednesday—when he heard the knock. He shrugged on his jacket, walked across the room and opened the door.

Two men he didn’t recognize were standing outside. They didn’t, he was certain, work for the firm: Mark prided himself on knowing, if only by sight, all of the employees. There were stringent security precautions in place in the building as all four companies housed there were involved in investment and asset management, and their offices held financially critical data and programs, which meant that the men must have been properly checked in by the security staff.

“Mr. Hampton?” The voice didn’t quite match the suit. “I’m Detective Sergeant Timms and my colleague here is Detective Constable Harris. I’m afraid we have some very bad news for you, sir.”

Mark’s mind whirled, making instant deductions based on nothing at all, and almost immediately dismissing them. Who? Where? What had happened?

“I believe your wife is at your property in Italy, sir?”

Mark nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident there. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your wife is dead.”

Time seemed to stop. Mark could see the police officer’s mouth opening and closing, he even heard the words, but his brain completely failed to register their meaning. He turned away and walked across to his desk, his movements mechanical and automatic. He sat down in his swivel chair and looked out of the window, seeing but not seeing the familiar shapes of the high-rise buildings that surrounded him.

Timms had continued talking to him. “The Italian police have requested that you travel out there as soon as possible, sir. Is there anybody you’d like us to contact? Someone who can go with you? To handle the—”

“How?” Mark interrupted. “How did it happen?”

Timms glanced at Harris and gave a slight shrug. “She was found by your cleaning lady this morning. It looks as if she had a bad fall on the stairs sometime last night. I’m afraid she broke her neck.”

Mark didn’t respond, just continued to stare out of the window. This couldn’t be happening. It must be some kind of mistake. It’s somebody else. They’ve got the name wrong. That must be it.

But Timms was still there, still spouting the kind of platitudes Mark assumed policemen had been trained to say to bereaved relatives. Why didn’t he just shut up and go away?

“Do you understand that, sir?”

“What? Sorry. Could you say that again?”

“You have to go to Italy, sir. You have to identify the body and make the funeral arrangements. The Italian police will collect you from the nearest airport—I think that’s probably Rome—and drive you to the house. They’ll organize an interpreter and whatever other help you need. Is all that clear now?”

“Yes,” Mark said. “I’m sorry. It’s just—” A racking sob shook his whole body, and he sank his face into his hands. “I’m sorry. It’s the shock and . . .”

Timms rested his hand briefly on Mark’s shoulder. “It’s quite understandable, sir. Now, is there anything you want to ask us? I’ve a note here of the contact details for the local police force in Scandriglia. Is there anyone you’d like us to inform on your behalf? You need somebody to stand by you at a time like this.”

Mark shook his head. “No. No, thank you,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain. “I have a friend I can call. Thank you.”

Timms shook his hand and handed him a single sheet of paper. “Sorry again, sir. I’ve also included my contact details. If there’s anything else you need that I can help with, please let me know. We’ll see ourselves out.”

As the voices faded away, Mark finally let himself go, let the tears come. Tears for himself, for Jackie, tears for all the things he should have said to her, for all that they could and should have done together. In an instant, a few words from a well-meaning stranger had changed his life beyond all recognition.

His hands shaking, he flicked through his Filofax and checked a cell phone telephone number. Timms, or whatever his name was, had been right about one thing: he definitely needed a friend, and Mark knew exactly whom he was going to call.

“Mark? What the hell’s wrong? What is it?”

Chris Bronson pulled his Mini to the side of the road and held the cell phone more closely to his ear. His friend sounded totally devastated.

“It’s Jackie. She’s dead. She—”

As he heard the words, Bronson felt as if somebody had punched him in the stomach. There were few constants in his world, but Jackie Hampton was—or had been—one of them. For several seconds he just sat there, staring through the car’s windshield, listening to Mark’s tearful explanation but hearing almost none of it. Finally, he tried to pull himself together.

“Oh, Christ, Mark. Where did . . . ? No, never mind. Where are you? Where is she? I’ll come straight over.”

“Italy. She’s in Italy and I have to go there. I have to identify her, all that. Look, Chris, I don’t speak the language, and you do, and I don’t think I can do this by myself. I know it’s a hell of an imposition, but could you take some time off work and come with me?”

For a moment, Bronson hesitated, sudden intense grief meshing with his long-suppressed feelings for Jackie. He genuinely didn’t know if he could handle what Mark was asking him to do. But he also knew his friend wouldn’t be able to cope without him.

“I’m not sure I’ve got a job right now, so taking time off isn’t a problem. Have you booked flights, or what?”

“No,” Mark replied. “I’ve not done anything. You’re the first person I called.”

“Right. Leave it all to me,” Bronson said, his firm voice giving the lie to his emotions. He glanced at his watch, calculating times and what he would need to accomplish. “I’ll pick you up at the apartment in two hours. Is that long enough for you to sort things out at your end?”

“I think so, yes. Thanks, Chris. I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Bronson slipped the phone into his pocket, but didn’t move for several seconds. Then he flipped on the turn signal and pulled the car back out into the traffic, working out what he had to do, keeping his mind focused on the mundane to avoid dwelling on the awful reality of Jackie’s sudden death.

He was only a few hundred yards from his house. Packing would take him no longer than thirty minutes, but he’d need to find his passport, pick out whichever cards had the most credit left on them, and get to the bank and draw some euros. He’d have to let the Crescent Road station know he was taking unpaid compassionate leave and confirm they had his cell phone number—he would still have to follow the rules despite his problems with Harrison.

And then he’d have to fight his way through the London traffic to get to Mark’s crash pad in Ilford. Two hours, he guessed, should be about right. He wouldn’t bother trying to book tickets, because he wasn’t certain when they would reach Stansted, but he guessed EasyJet or Ryanair would have a flight to Rome sometime that afternoon.

The direct-line telephone in Joseph Cardinal Vertutti’s sumptuous office in the Vatican rang three times before he walked across to the desk and picked it up.

“Joseph Vertutti.”

The voice at the other end of the line was unfamiliar, but conveyed an unmistakable air of authority. “I need to see you.”

“Who are you?”

“That is not important. The matter concerns the Codex.”

For a moment, Vertutti didn’t grasp what his unidentified caller was talking about. Then realization dawned, and he involuntarily gripped the edge of his desk for support.

“The what?” he asked.

“We probably don’t have a great deal of time, so please don’t mess me about. I’m talking about the Vitalian Codex, the book you keep locked away in the Apostolic Penitentiary.”

“The Vitalian Codex? Are you sure?” Even as he said the words, Vertutti realized the stupidity of the question: the very existence of the Codex was known to a mere handful of people within the Vatican and, as far as he knew, to no one outside the Holy See. But the fact that the caller was using his external direct line meant he was calling from
outside
the Vatican walls, and the man’s next words confirmed Vertutti’s suspicions.

“I’m very sure. You’ll need to arrange a Vatican Pass for me to—”

“No,” Vertutti interrupted. “Not here. I’ll meet you outside.” He felt uncomfortable about allowing his mystery caller access to the Holy See. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a map of Rome. Quickly his fingers traced a path south, from the Vatican Station. “In the Piazza di Santa Maria alle Fornaci, a few streets south of the Basilica di San Pietro. There’s a café on the east side, opposite the church.”

“I know it. What time?”

Vertutti automatically glanced down at his appointments book, though he knew he was not going to meet the man that morning: he wanted time to think about this meeting. “This afternoon at four thirty?” he suggested. “How will I recognize you?”

The voice in his ear chuckled. “Don’t worry, Cardinal. I’ll find you.”

Chris Bronson drove his Mini into the long-term parking at Stansted Airport, locked the car and led Mark toward the terminal building. Each man carried a carry-on and Bronson also held a small computer case.

Bronson had reached the Ilford apartment just more than an hour after leaving Tunbridge Wells, and Mark had been standing outside waiting when he pulled up. The journey up to Stansted—a quick blast up the M11—had taken them well less than an hour.

“I really appreciate this, Chris,” Mark said for at least the fifth time since he’d climbed into the car.

“It’s what friends do,” Bronson replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Now don’t take this the wrong way, but I know being a copper doesn’t pay much, and you’re helping me out here, so I’m picking up the tab for everything.”

“There’s no need,” Bronson began a halfhearted objection, though in truth the cost of the trip had been worrying him—his overdraft was getting near its agreed limit and his credit cards couldn’t take too much punishment. He also wasn’t certain whether Harrison was going to try to suspend him or not, and what effect, if any, that would have on his salary. But Mark’s last bonus had been well into six figures: money, for him, wasn’t a problem.

“Don’t argue,” Mark said. “It’s my decision.”

When they got inside the airport, they realized they’d just missed the midafternoon Air Berlin flight to Fiumicino, but they were in good time for the five thirty Ryanair, which would get them to Rome’s Ciampino Airport at just before nine, local time. Hampton paid with a gold credit card and was given a couple of boarding cards in return, and they made their way through the security control.

There were a few empty seats at the café close to the departure gate, so they bought drinks and sat down to wait for the flight to be called.

Mark had said very little on the journey to the airport—he was clearly still in shock, his eyes red-rimmed—but Bronson desperately needed to find out what had happened to Jackie.

“What did the police tell you?” he asked now.

“Not very much,” Mark admitted. “The Metropolitan Police received a message from the Italian police. They’d been called out to our house this morning. Apparently our cleaning woman had gone to the house as usual, got no answer and used her key to get inside.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, then took out a tissue and dabbed at them. “Sorry,” he said. “She told the police she’d found Jackie dead on the floor of the hall. According to the Italian police, she’d apparently stumbled on the stairs—they found both of her slippers on the staircase—and hit the side of her head against the banister.”

“And that . . .” Bronson prompted.

Mark nodded, the depth of his despair obvious. “And that broke her neck.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he took a sip of water.

“Anyway,” he went on, “Maria Palomo—she’s the cleaner—told the police that I worked in London. They traced me through the British Embassy in Rome, and they contacted the police here.”