David Hewson - A Season for the Dead

Hatred flamed in Hanrahan’s eyes. Denney knew he had hit the spot. It gave him no comfort.

“To be honest,” Hanrahan said very carefully, “none of this matters anymore, Michael.”

“It matters, Brendan. Tell me now. Do you think we’ll be judged one day? All of us? Or is that just one more piece of whimsy?”

“I think there’s plenty who would like to judge you now.”

“And who are they? I’ve wasted my time in this dump, fearing them. Fearing you. What can they do except steal away what little of my miserable life’s left?”

Hanrahan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I wouldn’t value that too lightly, Michael. Think of what happened to Valena and the rest.”

Denney looked around the apartment. It seemed smaller, more dismal than ever. How had he allowed himself to be talked into being some voluntary kind of captive here?

“Terrible ends,” he agreed. “But you know the problem with spending your days afraid of dying? What you really end up fearing is life itself. You wind up hoping no one knocks on the door, no one comes close. You die anyway. It’s just that you don’t notice it happened a long time before you stopped breathing.”

Hanrahan closed his eyes as if he weren’t listening.

“Tell me, Brendan,” Denney said. “Do you believe in anything?”

“I believe in keeping our little piece of the world in order. Protecting it from those who’d destroy it.”

“Isn’t that what Pontius Pilate said?”

“You’re talking like a churchman, Michael. That’s something you’re not.”

“Say it, then,” Denney spat back. “Let’s hear what you came here for. Because it wasn’t to pass the time.”

“You’re out,” Hanrahan said flatly. “Today. By noon, it must be, or they’ll send someone in and throw you onto the pavement, I swear it. I’ve argued till I’m blue in the face but it’s no good. It’s these pictures. The proof that Gino Fosse is your boy. The woman. They’re scared there’s more to come, Michael. And let’s face it”—Hanrahan’s emotionless face fixed on him—“there is.”

Denney felt trapped in the small, airless room, felt as if his head might explode. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve known a lot about you for a long time, Michael. It wasn’t that hard. You cover your footsteps well, but you’re still an amateur. Now it’s beyond my powers. When they turn and say, 'Is this all?’ I won’t lie for you anymore. That time’s past.”

“So who’s casting the first stone, then? Just for interest’s sake. I’d like the names. I’d love to know how many people in this place would survive having someone spying on them night and day, seeing everything they do.”

Hanrahan pulled a half-smoked cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. The vile smoke filled the room. “Think of someone,” he told Denney. “Then put him on your list. I tried my best, but not with much conviction, to be honest. They’re right. You’re too much of an embarrassment now. We have to wash our hands of the stain of you before it leaves a mark on the rest of us. There’ll be a private plane back to Boston. Someone can help you there if you need it. We can give you a new name. A place to live where they won’t find you, with a touch of luck. But”—he waved his hand at the world beyond the walls of the apartment—“this part of your life is past. You can’t return to Rome. You can’t be Cardinal Michael Denney anymore. If you stay in Italy, even under a false name, someone will find you. Maybe the police. Maybe some people with other ideas. Either way, you don’t want it. And we don’t want it.”

It was what he expected but still the words smarted. “So I’m reborn. I become Joe Polack and work on some factory line in Detroit. Is that it?”

Hanrahan shrugged. “If that’s what you want…”

Denney felt his face become suffused with red. He wished he could keep the anger away. “Damn it, Brendan. I want what they owe me.”

The Irishman laughed. The sound made Denney miserable; it emphasized how alone he truly was. “Everyone wants what they’re owed, Michael. That’s the problem, isn’t it? All these debts to be paid, and so many of them to people none of us would like to know.”

“You’ll take me to the airport.” He tried to make it sound like an order, not a question, but the words failed to come out right.

Hanrahan scowled, then slowly shook his head. “No. We can’t afford the publicity. In America things can be different. There we can be more subtle. But for now, we need to make it plain. At eleven, the press department plans to issue a statement. I can show you a copy if you like. It will say you’ve decided to resign your office for personal reasons and intend to take up a new life outside the Church, beyond Italy. No more than that. We will brief the press privately, of course, and set some clear water between the Vatican and yourself. That must be done. You’re a pariah. We’ll make it clear we’ve been concerned by your actions, by the rumors about your personal life, for years, but these last revelations—which were, of course, new to us—proved too much to bear. You’ll become the prodigal son, Michael, one we must send out into the world to atone for his sins. Except, naturally, you’ll never return. We’ll not meet again after today. You’re making the rest of this journey on your own.”

Denney couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t comprehend how Hanrahan took such obvious pleasure in torturing him like this.

“And what am I supposed to do, exactly? Call a cab and wait for one of those crooks to join me in the back? Do I look suicidal, Brendan? I’d rather walk straight to the nearest policeman and ask him to take me in.”

Hanrahan laughed again. “And how long do you think you’d last in prison? If you got that far. Don’t be naive. The police can’t save you. Maybe even we can’t save you in the end. You’ve gone too far. You’ve offended too many people, given them such a wealth of ammunition to bring you down. Oh, to hell with it…” He scanned the apartment, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t pack much, Michael. Tell us what, if anything, you wish to keep and I’ll see it’s done. Bear in mind, though, that most of your possessions are attached to the office you held until this moment and they remain our property. Anything that is truly personal you may mark and I’ll send on later.”

“The paintings are mine.” Denney nodded at the copy of the Caravaggio.

“That I doubt. But you’re an accomplished thief. I’ll send them on. Perhaps.”

Michael Denney wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the couple at the focus of the canvas: the dying Matthew and his assassin, both bathed in the compelling light of Grace.

“Now, Michael, you won’t be thinking of yourself as the martyr in all this, surely?” Hanrahan asked lightly. “That would be a little rich.”

Denney hung his head and whispered, “Christ, Brendan, don’t enjoy it so much.”

He looked up. The Irishman’s eyes now held him in a fixed, concentrated stare, full of contempt.

“You confuse pleasure with duty, Michael. You always have. It’s the root of your problem. Don’t hate me, man. I’ve performed one last favor, for old times’ sake. Two men will meet you outside the gates at twelve. A couple of Rome cops at your discretion. They’ll take you to the airport. Off-duty, as it were.”

“Two men?” Denney asked. “Do you want me dead?”

“If I wanted that, do you think I’d have gone to all this trouble on your behalf? Not that we haven’t discussed it, you understand. There are those who thought it would have been the… cleanest solution.”

Michael Denney closed his eyes. He could picture them talking, in a private, secret room, somewhere in this tiny, insular state which had, in the space of thirty years, turned from a kind of heaven into a cruel, unbending prison. Perhaps they met weekly. Perhaps they had more information, more pictures, tapes. And they’d been planning, for how long? Wondering how to dispose of him, safely, cleanly, with the minimum of fuss. Wondering where they would find a trigger, the catalyst who could flush him out of his lair. Time and fate had finally provided that, but not by chance.