Michael Dibdin - Cabal

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‘Come!’ he said, beckoning.

Inside, a spiral stone staircase burrowed upwards through the masonry of the ancient palace. They climbed in silence. After some time, Lamboglia opened another door which led into a magnificent enclosed loggia. The lofty ceiling was sumptuously carved and gilded, the rear wall adorned with antique painted maps representing a world in which North America figured only as a blank space marked Terra Incognita. The large windows opposite offered an extensive view over St Peter’s Square, now reduced to serving as a parking lot for those pilgrim coaches which had managed to fight their way through the traffic.

Zen followed his guide through a door at the end of the loggia, beneath a stained-glass light marked ‘Secretariat of State’ and into a vaulted antechamber. The walls and ceiling were covered in fantastic tracery, fake marble reliefs and painted niches containing trompe l’oeil classical statues. Lamboglia pointed to one of the armless chairs upholstered in grey velvet which stood against the painted dado, alternating with carved wooden chests and semi-circular tables supporting bronze angels.

‘Wait here.’

He disappeared through a door at the end of the corridor. Zen sat down in the designated chair, which proved to be as uncomfortable as it was no doubt intended to make the occupant feel. The windows on the opposite wall were covered in lace curtaining which strained the sunlight like honey through muslin. Zen closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what he was going to say. Try as he would, though, his thoughts kept drifting away to the night before. Tania had lied to him, there was no doubt about that. Not just filtered the truth, as he would shortly do for the benefit of the Vatican authorities. No, Tania had lied.

‘Were you out this afternoon?’ he had asked casually as they lay in bed together.

‘Out?’

He ran his fingertips lightly over her ribs and belly.

‘Mmm. About six o’clock.’

She pretended to think.

‘Oh yes, that’s right. I stepped out for a moment to do some shopping. Why?’

‘I tried to phone. To tell you I’d be late.’

He rolled up on his side, gazing down at her.

‘A man answered.’

A distant look entered her eyes, and he knew she was going to lie. The rest was routine, a matter of how hard he wanted to press, how much he could bully her into revealing.

‘You must have got a wrong number,’ she said.

He looked away, embarrassed for her, regretting that he’d brought it up. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help adding. ‘It happened twice. I dialled again.’

She laughed lightly.

‘Probably a crossed wire at the exchange. It’s a pity the Vatican doesn’t run a phone system as well as a postal service. They fly their mail out to Switzerland to be sorted, you know, yet it still arrives in half the time it takes the post office.’

He accepted the diversion gratefully.

‘That’s because the post office sends it to Palermo for sorting. By boat.’

She laughed again, with amusement and relief. Thinks she’s got away with it, Zen thought to himself. Already he was getting used to the idea of her treachery. To be honest, once he’d recovered from the initial shock it was almost a relief to find that she was indeed deceiving him. The immense and unconditional gift which Tania had made of her love still amazed him. Being worthy of it had been a bit of a responsibility. This discovery evened things up considerably. All in all, he told himself, it was probably the best thing that could have happened.

The door at the end of the corridor opened and Lamboglia reappeared. He extended his right hand, palm down, and waggled the fingers beckoningly. Zen rose and followed him into the office where he had been received by the Cardinal Secretary of State’s deputy the previous Friday. On this occasion, Juan Ramon Sanchez-Valdes was in his full episcopal regalia, an ankle-length soutane with a magenta sash, piping and buttons. The crown of his head was covered by a skullcap of the same colour. The rim of an ecclesiastical collar was just visible beneath the soutane, while a plain silver cross hung from its chain at the base of the archbishop’s chest.

As before, Zen was placed on the long red sofa while the archbishop sat in the high-backed armchair by the table. At his elbow, beside the white telephone, lay a single sheet of paper with some lines of typing. Lamboglia took up his earlier position, just behind the archbishop’s shoulder, but Sanchez-Valdes waved him away.

‘Sit down, Enrico! You make me nervous, hovering there like a waiter.’

Flinching as though he’d been struck, poor Lamboglia trotted off across the elaborately patterned rug with the quick fluttering gait of a woman, all stiff knees and loose ankles, and subsided into a chair on the end wall.

‘Enrico is from Genoa,’ Sanchez-Valdes remarked to Zen. ‘On the other hand I seem to recall that you, dottore, are from Venice. The two cities were of course fierce trading rivals, and vied with each other to supply us with transportation for the Crusades. I came across rather a good comment on the subject just the other day, in a dispatch from our nuncio in Venice at the turn of the century — the thirteenth century, that is. He advises the Holy Father to treat with the Doge, exorbitant though his terms might seem, explaining that while both the Genoese and the Venetians will gladly offer to sell you their mothers, the crucial difference is that the Venetians will deliver.’

Although he was aware of being manipulated by a skilled operator, Zen could not help smiling.

‘I gather it was you who found poor Grimaldi’s body,’ the archbishop went on without a pause.

Zen’s smile faded.

‘What a terrible tragedy!’ sighed Sanchez-Valdes. ‘Those poor children! First they lose their mother to illness, and now…’

He broke off, seemingly overcome by emotion. Lamboglia was rubbing his hands together furiously, as though to warm or wash them.

‘I believe Enrico informed you that we had strong reason to suppose that Grimaldi was the author of that anonymous letter to the press,’ Sanchez-Valdes continued. ‘Needless to say that fact has now become one more of the many embarrassments which this case threatens to cause us. If it became known, one can easily imagine the sort of vicious insinuations and calumnies which would inevitably follow. No sooner is the identity of the “Vatican mole” discovered than he is found dead in the shower. How very convenient for those who wish to conceal the truth about the Ruspanti affair, etcetera, etcetera.

‘That’s why we’ve summoned you here this morning, dottore. Enrico has explained to me your unfortunate misunderstanding of our intentions with regard to the death of Ludovico Ruspanti. On this occasion I want to leave you in no doubt as to our position. Fortunately it is very simple. With Grimaldi’s death, this tragic sequence of events has reached its conclusion. Any mistakes or miscalculations which may have occurred are now a matter for future historians of Vatican affairs. As far as the present is concerned, we shall instruct the Apostolic Nuncio to convey our thanks to the Italian government for your, quote, discreet and invaluable intervention, unquote.’

The archbishop lifted the sheet of paper from the table and scanned it briefly.

‘Enrico!’ he called.

Lamboglia sashayed back across the carpet to his master’s side. Sanchez-Valdes handed him the paper.

‘There is just one remaining formality,’ he told Zen, ‘which is for you to sign an undertaking not to disclose any of the information which you may have come by in the course of your work for us.’

Lamboglia carried the paper over to Zen, who read through the six lines of typing.

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