David Hewson - A Season for the Dead

The risks required great care. Every entrance into the room, every loan, every moment a work was in the hands of a reader, all these occurrences would be recorded, day in, day out. Whoever kept the tapes these cameras made would know what Stefano Rinaldi looked like, how he’d behaved, probably from the moment he’d entered the library itself on the floor above.

Was this why the man whispered? Or was there someone he feared in the room?

Either way, the cameras surely held the key. Still, Falcone’s question kept coming back: Why?

Logically, because Rinaldi wanted to set Sara the task of saving his wife, and feared this would be impossible if someone, either in the room or with access to the tape, witnessed what he was attempting. Could he have left his wife, Mary, standing on the chair in the tower, knowing that if she stumbled she would hang herself? Was it possible that somewhere between Tiber Island and the Vatican he changed his mind and decided to beg Sara to rescue her?

This was extending the craziness theory too far. Nor did it provide a link between Rinaldi’s supposed actions and his whispered instructions to Sara. Had he changed his mind, Rinaldi could have returned himself and removed Mary from the noose.

Costa began to understand Falcone’s doubts. The rudimentary logic which reduced these events to some simple act of bloody revenge began to unravel when one thought about the details. There was only a single possibility that could explain everything, and it was one Costa found deeply disturbing.

What if Rinaldi was not the lone murderer but an accomplice in concert with another? Or even a victim himself? What if he had come to the Vatican desperate because someone else was in the tower, someone who had entrapped him, his wife and the unfortunate Fairchild? Someone who had used Rinaldi’s debts to arrange that initial meeting, murdered the Englishman in front of their eyes, strung up Mary Rinaldi and told her husband that she would be dead unless he sent Sara Farnese back there immediately? Someone who sent the man out on this mission with Hugh Fairchild’s skin in a supermarket bag, demanding he spread it out on the desk, say these crazy words, knowing, surely, that the armed guards would think they had some homicidal madman in their midst?

And one more thing too. Someone who, as far as Stefano Rinaldi was concerned, would know whether all these conditions had been met.

Either because he had an accomplice there, or access somehow to the tapes even before Rinaldi could return. Costa rejected this last thought. It could only be practical if someone in the Vatican was in direct contact with the man in the tower. This was surely a conspiracy too far. No, the conditions that were set—the gun, the bag with Fairchild’s skin inside, the repeated and crazy declamations—were invitations to the armed guards of the Vatican to intervene with all possible force because of the nature of the threat they perceived. That must have been the intention—to ensure Rinaldi, and perhaps Sara Farnese too, died here in the library.

It was a hypothesis Nic Costa was reluctant to embrace. His years in the police force had taught him that simple solutions were usually the correct ones. The tapes were the key, Costa repeated to himself, then felt a firm hand grip his shoulder. He turned and, as he had expected all along, found himself looking into the cold, rheumy eyes of the man called Hanrahan, still dressed in the same black suit, still with a crucifix in his lapel.

Costa smiled pleasantly. These were different circumstances. He could think more about this curious man who now stood in front of him, blocking his way to the door, not angry, more jaded, even curious perhaps.

“This is tiresome,” Hanrahan said. “Don’t you know anything of the protocols that govern how we’re supposed to work?” The voice was thick, rough-edged and familiar somehow. Then Nic Costa remembered. Nic had briefly played for the force rugby team, before deciding that the more solitary sport of running suited him better. There had been an Irishman who coached the team for a while. He spoke like this. He even had the same kind of coarse features.

“I realized I forgot to give you my details,” Costa said. He took out his wallet and handed Hanrahan the official police card. Then he pointed at his face and the broken nose. “You’re a player, right? On the field. Rugby.”

Hanrahan read the card, then put it in his pocket. “When I was young. When I thought there was nothing in the world that could harm me.”

“I used to play a little too.”

Hanrahan eyed him, skeptical.

“Fly half,” Costa said. “Pretty good, even if I say so myself.”

“Falcone told me you ran. He said it was one of your talents.”

Costa nodded.

“In fact,” the Irishman continued, “I think he said it was your only talent.”

“Sounds like Falcone.”

“I can imagine you running, Mr. Costa. I imagine you excel. But at some stage you have to turn and fight too. How good are you at that?”

Costa laughed. “Probably not so hot, to be honest. It’s a question of size.”

“No, it isn’t.” Hanrahan said it firmly. “What do you want?”

“A look at the tape.” Costa nodded at the ceiling. “You must have our dead professor covered from the moment he walked into the library. I’d like to see.”

Hanrahan shook his head as if amazed. “Who do you think you are?”

“Just a cop trying to understand why three people are dead. Who do you think you are?”

Hanrahan thought about this, then pulled out his own card. “I’m a consultant here, Mr. Costa. I advise on security matters. I have no power to give you your tape—”

“Then introduce me to someone who has.”

“Why?”

Costa was starting to feel exasperated. “Don’t you think you’re under any obligation to help us crack this thing? Three people dead, Hanrahan. I know none of them are Vatican citizens, but even so…”

The Irishman waved a half angry hand at him. “Don’t give me that crap, son. When you deal with us, you deal with another country. This isn’t police work, it’s diplomacy.” The sharp, liquid eyes narrowed. “If I talk to the person who can give you that tape, what do you have to offer in return?”

Costa knew what Luca Rossi would say if he were here. Never do deals with these people. Never even think you can broker some kind of covenant because there’s always a caveat, a get-out you never know about until it’s too late. But Rossi was somewhere else, contemplating his dinner with Crazy Teresa. All the information he needed was here, locked inside this tiny country that just happened to live behind its own high walls in the heart of Rome. If he didn’t cut some kind of deal it might never see the light of day.

Besides, some small, quiet voice told him, there was an opportunity here. A moment when you could throw a stone in a pool and wait to see the patterns the ripple would make once the stone hit the surface. Sometimes you had to take chances.

Nic Costa pulled out his notebook and copied the phone number he’d found on Stefano Rinaldi’s computer that morning. He gave it to Hanrahan, who stared at the page with a stony expression. “Someone from here, someone in the office of a person called Cardinal Denney, was in contact with Rinaldi by phone.”

Hanrahan seemed genuinely surprised. “Do you know why?”

“Maybe I should ask Cardinal Denney.”

Hanrahan laughed, a big, hearty laugh, one that, had it lasted, might have brought tears to his eyes.

The Irishman’s hand slapped his shoulder, hard. “You’re a funny man, Mr. Costa,” he said. “I just haven’t the heart to call Falcone again. Not this time. Now just do me a favor, will you?”

“What?”