David Hewson - A Season for the Dead

“I did,” he said. “While you were down at the gate.”

“I need to know…”

“No, you don’t. Not right now. All that would mean is that we’d have to watch you go through the agonies again, Sara. This is not about you. These people aren’t your responsibility.”

“You know that?” she replied coldly.

“We know enough,” Marco answered.

“Tell me. Please.”

They glanced at each other. Bea nodded.

“He shot two cops dead last night,” Marco said grimly. “One of them was Luca Rossi, Nic’s partner.”

She closed her eyes.

“Then he killed someone else,” Marco continued. “Arturo Valena, the man from the TV. They’re saying…” He hesitated. “They’re saying all sorts of things, to tell you the truth. They’re saying this priest they’re looking for is the son of that cardinal the papers are writing about.”

“I need to see this…”

His hand went out and held her as she passed him. Marco was still strong. This surprised her.

“No,” he insisted. “It’s just there to drive you crazy. There is nothing you can do. Are you hearing me? Leave this to Nic and the rest of them. It’s their job. Not yours.”

“I have to know.”

His old face examined hers. He was a clever man. Nic must have found out at an early age what she knew now: It was impossible to keep a secret from him when those sharp, intelligent eyes turned on you.

“No, you don’t,” Marco said. She knew what he left unsaid: You don’t need to hear because you know already. It was, she admitted to herself, this that interested her: finding out how much they had discovered, using that information for her own ends.

Marco picked up one of the sets of plants and examined it, touching the stalk, feeling the tender young leaves in his fingers.

“These are good,” he said, looking at her. “They’re a little late but never mind. It’s just a matter of care and attention. Don’t plant them together too tightly. You’ll need to water them in well. Sara…”

She did what he wanted. She looked into his face.

“The tools are in the outhouse over there. You should dress down a little, both of you. I want this done with care. When you’re finished, then we let the rest of the world in here again. But not before, please.”

He knew everything, or thought he did. She could see this in his face.

“And when Nic calls? When he comes around?” she asked, aware that she was already thinking about how soon she could get away and make the phone call.

“I think Nic will be pretty busy today, to be honest with you.”

“And when he isn’t?”

Marco had the answer already: You won’t be here. She would never have to face the possibility.

“The ground needs a little preparation,” he said. “I’ll teach you how.”

Forty-Seven

Michael Denney sat at the low coffee table in the little apartment, opposite Hanrahan, trying not to look at the TV. The picture of Sara, her bare-sleeved, comforting arms around him, filled the screen. It seemed even more fascinating for the news programs than the images of Arturo Valena’s body being taken from the church off the Via Corso.

What irked Denney most was that he couldn’t recall the moment. He’d seen so little of Sara recently. He missed the time they spent together. It infuriated him that someone could have spied on them and not left sufficient clues for him to place the occasion.

“Who the hell took it, Brendan? You?”

The Irishman’s lugubrious features met his angry gaze. “Chickens come home to roost. You sent Fosse out to take those bedroom snaps for you. Don’t blame me if he didn’t know when to stop.”

“I thought Fosse was working for me.”

Hanrahan sighed and said nothing. Denney thought hard. He hadn’t seen her like this in more than a month. That meant they had decided to throw him to the wolves long before he had tried, and failed, to resurrect the bank.

“You’re an ungrateful man, Michael,” Hanrahan said. “I’ve watched your back in this place too long. I’ve risked my own reputation, perhaps more than that. And what do I get in return? Your misguided anger. Your lack of trust.”

“I’m sorry.” Perhaps he had offended Hanrahan. Or maybe it was just part of a broader, more subtle act than Denney had appreciated.

“I’m not myself right now. It’s just the thought of Fosse spying on us like that. Did they really think I deserved that?”

Hanrahan stabbed at the TV. “Deserve? Michael, I told you so many times she would be your nemesis. And there she is. Plastered all over the place. In every newspaper too. A cardinal of the Church and the woman they’ve been painting as some loose whore all week. What do you expect?”

“A little understanding,” Denney said quietly. There was no point in telling this icy Irishman about the need for love. It was inexplicable, incapable of being reduced to plain and logical analysis. Hanrahan didn’t believe in mysteries. He wanted only hard, unbending facts around him. He never noticed, never felt, the holes these hard, inhuman certainties made in a man’s life.

“Don’t blame anyone else now,” Hanrahan warned him. “No one made you start seeing her. No one else forced you to use Gino Fosse as a bagman on these night errands of yours. This is your doing. Not mine nor anyone else’s. If you must indulge in these black secrets—bribery, blackmail, for God’s sake—don’t go blaming others when they creep out into the light of day.”

“And you think I don’t know that?”

Hanrahan grimaced. Denney looked at his gray, emotionless face and knew there was more to come.

“Maybe. Maybe not. You’re a man prone to whimsies, Michael. It’s odd, given the job you used to do. I would have expected a more practical nature.”

“Like yours,” Denney said, without thinking.

“I like to think of myself as a reasonable man. One who helps keep the wheels turning.”

There was a time they had been together for a conference in Dubai. A financier had provided company for them both. It was a ritual, a gift it would have been impolite to refuse. He’d watched Hanrahan with the woman. She was beautiful, a tall Cypriot girl with perfect English and a ready smile. It was the only occasion on which he had seen the Irishman uncomfortable, incapable of controlling the world around him. Hanrahan had left before the dinner was finished.

“And never being touched by anything, eh, Brendan? Living on your own. Running other people’s lives. You’re not like me. You could get married. You could do what you like. Instead you just scheme and scheme. For me. For anyone that pays. I gave you good money to fix things. You were supposed to help me put the Banca Lombardia back on track.”

Hanrahan scowled. “I can’t raise the dead. That idea didn’t stand a hope in hell from the moment you first suggested it.”

“And you never thought of saying so.”

“I’m a servant. Have you forgotten?”

“One who doesn’t know who his master is.”

“Oh, but I always remember that. You were the one who forgot. You were the one who overstepped the mark. Because you just couldn’t resist, could you? It flattered your fulsome ego, dining with all these politicians. Having these women at your beck and call. You lost sight of yourself and drowned in your own arrogance. Don’t take your own faults out on others.”

Denney nodded. There was truth in Hanrahan’s words.

“But at least I’ve lived, Brendan. I’m not convinced you can say the same. Do you really believe the world begins and ends at your fingertips, man? Or are you just frightened of it all? Scared to death that a little love might steal away your powers? That you might be like Samson and wake up one morning to find your hair on your pillow. And suddenly you’re just the same as the rest of us: weak and dependent on others. Is that what scares you? That you might lose your strength and someone will come looking for revenge? Because if it is I must tell you what you are. An emotional coward. A man who fears what’s inside himself and takes that fear out on the world.”