Paul Christopher - Michelangelo_s Notebook

A long hall led down to a heavy wooden door guarded even at this time of day by an ornately uniformed Swiss guard complete with pantaloons, helmet and halberd. The priest knew that underneath the puffy-looking jacket the guard had a Beretta S12 submachine gun on a quick release sling on one side and a Beretta M9 service automatic on the other. The secrets of the Prince of Peace were guarded with some very sophisticated ironmongery.

The priest dug his plastic laminated ID card out of the pocket of his soutane, held it up where the guard could see it and watched him snap to attention. The priest gave the young man a brief nod then opened the door marked ARCHIVO SE-CRETO, the secret archives of the Vatican.

The man he had come to see was in the first of a score of rooms in the archives, waiting patiently at a plain wooden table, seated on a plain wooden chair. Around him were deep wooden shelves piled with documents. There was a small window looking down into the Pigna Courtyard. The man in the chair was Carlos Cardinal Abruzzi, presently the secretary of state, the second-highest position in the Vatican next to the pope himself. The priest knew that Abruzzi was far more powerful than the slight old man who sat in Peter’s Chair. All the threads of power came to Abruzzi’s hands eventually, and he plucked them like a well-played harp. He was aware, as few Catholics, or even Catholic clergy were, that the Vatican was less a center of religion than it was a center of business and government. In point of fact it was the second-largest corporation in the world and had an international population of almost two billion to govern, at least spiritually.

“What have you got for us, Frank?” Abruzzi asked, using the diminutive of the priest’s first name. The priest handed over the decoded cable.

“Dear me, Crawley murdered,” murmured the cardinal. “How unfortunate.” The tone of his voice held no compassion or regret. “A Moroccan dagger?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then we know who the killer is.”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least he’s come to light after all this time.”

“Rather dramatically.”

“He’ll have to be found and dealt with before the police trace him.”

“Yes.”

“An intern photographed one of Michelangelo’s drawings?”

“Yes.”

“How do we know this?”

“She was seen on the security camera at the museum.”

“Was any attempt made to recover the photographs?”

“Yes. It failed.”

“She’ll have to be stopped as well.” The cardinal continued to stare at the note thoughtfully. “This could be a great opportunity for us, especially with Crawley dead.” The cardinal paused. “Is there any connection between his death and the girl?”

“Doubtful.”

“But it could be made to look that way.”

“Presumably.”

“Who will you need?”

“Sorvino.”

“Is he available?”

“Yes. He is waiting for your order, Eminence.”

“Your order, Francis. I can have no part of this. You must understand.”

“Of course, Eminence.” He would take the fall if things went wrong.

“It would be a great thing if this could be brought to a conclusion once and for all. There is a great deal at stake, not the least of which is the integrity of the Church.”

“And the sainthood of one of her popes,” said the priest.

“If you can end this you might be beatified yourself.” The cardinal smiled. “We could always use another St. Francis.”

The priest returned the smile but there was no humor in it. “There are no saints consigned to the fires of hell, Eminence,” he said. “And I’m afraid that will be my fate after this is done.”

“Conceivably,” said the cardinal. “But perhaps I can see to it that you wear the bishop’s miter while you are consigned to this particular hell on earth. Would you like that, Francis?”

“I look for no rewards, Eminence. This is my job. It is how I serve.”

“This is no one’s job, Francis, man or priest, to clean up the moral defecations of someone who should have known better.”

“No priest is anything but a man, Eminence. First and last, he is a man. And the pope is only a priest.”

“You would teach me religious ethics?” The cardinal smiled gently.

“It is simple doctrine.”

“Which we all learned long ago in the seminaria, but an ordinary man would be deemed a fiend for what this vicar of Christ did. There was a time when he would have burned. Now he is to be a saint.”

“It is a clichй, Eminence, but God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”

“I doubt that this has anything to do with God or His wonders, Francis,” said the cardinal. “I doubt that very much.”

Delaney and Finn were alone in the apartment. He sat beside her on the couch. When he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle with just the slightest hint of a lilt she knew couldn’t be real because he’d obviously come from New York’s Hell’s Kitchen and not Dublin’s Fade Street-not that she really knew much about either. On the other hand, she had what she thought was a pretty good mind and a straightforward Midwestern distrust of people who were too nice for too little reason. The best candy is from strangers, her mother used to tell her.

“It was probably no more than a junkie looking for something to sell,” said the detective. “A terrible thing, surely, but the murder of Dr. Crawley seems an awful coincidence. I’m sure you see that. And you having an argument with him this afternoon and all.”

“I don’t see what the possible connection could be.”

“Neither do I, Finn, which is why I’m here-to see if there is one or not.”

“There isn’t.”

“What was the fight about?”

“A difference of opinion about art. I found a drawing stuck in the back of a storage drawer. I was positive it was by Michelangelo. Dr. Crawley thought otherwise. We had words. He fired me.”

“A difference of opinion hardly seems to be the stuff of being fired.”

“I agree.”

“Then why did he do it?” Delaney said, smiling calmly. “There it is again. You see, Finn, another mystery.”

“I don’t think he liked someone so young disputing his expertise. The man had an ego the size of a house.”

“Did he know young Peter?” Delaney asked gently.

“No. I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Do you have any idea who would have been angry enough at Crawley to kill him?”

“I didn’t know him very well.”

“What happened to the Michelangelo drawing?”

Finn frowned. It seemed like a strange question and she told him so.

“A drawing by Michelangelo would be valuable, I presume,” he answered.

“Of course.”

Delaney shrugged. “So there’s motive for killing him.”

“The last time I saw it he had it in his hands. I’d put it back in its acetate cover-”

“Why did you have it out in the first place?” Delaney asked sharply.

Finn hesitated. Why was he so interested in the drawing? To her it didn’t seem to have anything to do with Peter’s death or Crawley’s. She’d taken the cover off to get a clearer image when she photographed it, but she decided not to tell him-not yet, anyway.

“I wanted to get a better look at it.” Not a lie, really.

“But it was back in its cover when he had it?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s the last you saw of it?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t put it back in the drawer?”

“He might have after I left.”

“But you didn’t see him do it?”

“No.”

Delaney sat back on the couch and looked at Finn. A beautiful Irish girl with a face as innocent as a child’s and he was damned if he could tell if she was lying or not. He’d know better tomorrow after he looked at the surveillance tapes and talked to a few people.