William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

Boyle did.

“Now, your Eminence, granted the caveats and disclaimers we have already discussed, would you agree that this is at least a fairly comprehensive listing of those Cardinals who would be strong candidates for the Papacy? At least as appreciated by the students of this sort of thing?”

Boyle considered for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“Do you know everyone on this list?”

“I know of all of them. Some are personally known by me, yes.”

“Then, tell me, your Eminence, if you feel we are correct in our somewhat hurried evaluations. With three exceptions, the men on this list all have bureaucratic positions in Rome.”

Boyle again considered briefly. “Yes, I would agree.”

“Good. Now, those in such bureaucratic positions are generally removed from everyday contact with ordinary people, and thus can be protected rather easily. The sole exception would have been poor Cardinal Gattari. Yet, if we had known of the danger to him, we could have protected him until we got this situation under control. For one thing, we would never have let him go into the Sistine Chapel unaccompanied while this threat lasted.

“But now, we come to the other three. The three that would not be in such protected and protectable positions.”

“Yes,” said Boyle, a new note of gravity in his voice, “That would be Cardinal Claret, Cardinal Whealan, and,” he paused, “myself.”

“That is correct, your Eminence. Cardinal Claret is, unfortunately, already a victim. That leaves yourself and Cardinal Whealan, Archbishop of London. The two Cardinals most vulnerable . . . and you will both be in the same place for the next two days.”

“That is correct.” He continued to finger his ring. “But of course we did not have the slightest notion of such a bizarre plot when we made our plans to meet. We are old friends, you know.”

“Well, I do not think we should have too difficult a time providing security while both of you meet away from the public eye. Say, in Cardinal Whealan’s quarters. Is there any plan for the two of you to be together in any public place?”

“Yes, there is.” Boyle felt somehow apologetic about something over which he had neither foreknowledge nor control. “Tomorrow evening there is to be an ecumenical service involving the Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Whealan, and myself.”

“And where might this service be planned?” Koznicki almost hated to ask.

“Westminster Abbey.”

Koznicki shut his eyes and tried to conjure up the Abbey from memory. He knew it was and had been for many centuries the site for coronations of British monarchs. He assumed it would be a devil of a place to make secure. Still, they must have provided a maximum type of security for the coronations.

Koznicki had been silent so long Boyle finally spoke up. “Is there something wrong, Inspector?”

“We will work it out.”

“I have one question, Inspector. You have been saying such things as, ‘until we get this situation under control’ and ‘until we can clear this matter up.’ Am I to take this to mean that you see an end to this threat at some time in the near future?”

“Oh, yes. The danger comes from one small though aggressive segment of the Rastafarians. They are a splinter group of extremists—zealots, if you will. Just as many situations breed terrorist extremists, so their background and environment has spawned this unbalanced bunch of religious fanatics. It is merely a matter of finding them and apprehending them. And this, in time, will be done. We have contacted Interpol as well as the police forces of each city where any Cardinal on that list is located. In effect, your Eminence, in fictional parlance, we know whodunit; the question remaining is, can we stop them and catch them? I think the answer is most decidedly yes.”

Satisfied, Boyle nodded.

“Oh, and one last thing, your Eminence. With all due respect: not a word about that list to anyone. The news media do not have that information and we do not wish them to have it until this case is closed. We do not want the Rastafarians to know that we know who their targets are. This is the element of surprise that will be our ace of trump in foiling their plot. Only the police, the listed Cardinals, Father Koesler, and, of course, the Reverend Toussaint, through whose good offices we have the list, know about it. No one else is to know.” Koznicki was torn between the enormous reverence he felt for a Cardinal of the Catholic Church and the necessity of stating his admonishment as forcefully as possible.

“Of course, Inspector.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. If you look out the windows on the right side of the plane, you’ll get a good view of the Alps. It’s a breathtaking sight this morning with the sun glancing off the snow cover.”

“It never fails,” said Joan Blackford Hayes to Irene Casey. “When one of those announcements is made, I am always on the wrong side of the plane.”

Neither of them made a move to the other side of the cabin to take in the Alps.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Joan continued, “I just knew I shouldn’t have been in that greeting line last night at St. John’s. I mean, I looked around and saw that I was just about the only Detroiter in line and I said to myself, you shouldn’t be here. And the next thing I knew I was on the floor in a heap of people.”

Irene Casey studied Joan Hayes. There was not a hair out of place, including the white streak that ran through her otherwise black, perfectly groomed tresses. Irene had known Joan for a considerable number of years, going back to their days at Marygrove College. She had never known Joan to be less than perfectly put together, not even, she recalled, on the basketball court. Even last night, Irene, from her perch of safety near the Cardinal, had watched Joan topple into the pile and emerge somehow unscathed.

“Checking things over back at the hotel later,” said Joan, “I found I did have a run in my stocking.”

Poor dear, thought Irene.

“But it was exciting, wasn’t it?” Joan continued. “The closest I’d ever gotten to a murder was reading about it. And there I was, as close to a real murderer—uh, I guess you call them assailants if they’re unsuccessful—as I am to you.”

“Yesterday,” Irene commented, “I didn’t even know what an eyewitness was, and today I are one.”

“Exactly!”

“Is that why you’re carrying your rosary?” Irene gestured at the rather ornate black rosary resting in Joan’s lap. “Did the experience frighten you into getting religion?”

Joan glanced down at her all-but-forgotten rosary, and chuckled. “No, this was a last-minute purchase.” She laughed again. “Actually, it was and it wasn’t.”

“Make up your mind, lady.”

“Well, it started the first day we arrived. Remember when we were driven all over the countryside for hours because our rooms weren’t ready?”

“I’ll never forget! Nor will I forget that yesterday they told us the water would be turned off for a few hours, and we never saw it again . . . including this morning!”

“Yes, it was dreadful, wasn’t it,” Joan sympathized. “I do hope you had the foresight to fill your tub with water before they turned it off.”

Ms. Perfect again, thought Irene.

“Well, anyway, no sooner did we get to the hotel than this peddler—you know, the one with a pushcart full of religious articles—came up to me and started rattling away in Italian. He saw that I admired this rosary, so he took it out of its box and showed it to me. I said—with gestures, ‘How much?’ He said— with gestures, ‘6500 lire.’ I said—with a lot of gestures, ‘Too much!’ He just shrugged and walked away. I think he knew I was going to become a captive audience.”