The Psalter Read online

  “What should I do?”

  “You must do exactly what you have been doing, Father Petrus Romanus. The Psalters will remain within these walls and you with them. Together, we’ll find a way to keep them from Keller’s snooping.”

  35

  State Secrets

  This isn’t a simple bomb,” Rashid emphasized to Sayyid as they sat in a small, empty warehouse near Rome’s Termini train station. “It’s a complicated operation. Strapping on plastique to blow up a few people is one thing, but a building?”

  “You don’t need to destroy the structure, only the contents,” Sayyid said. “You told me you’d been trained?”

  “Roadside bombs or improvised explosive devices, nothing of this magnitude.”

  “Can you do it or not?”

  “I’m not sure. What’s inside?”

  “Books.”

  “Are we going to blow up a book shop?” Rashid said.

  Sayyid laughed, “A library, the largest and most corrupt on earth.” He rolled out map on the workbench and pointed to a building in Vatican City. “This is our target, the Library.”

  “You want to blow up the church’s library?”

  “Yes.”

  Rashid shook his head. “To what end?”

  “We’ll strike the heart of the infidels.”

  “How does bombing a Christian library hurt the infidels? Christians are not evil nor is their religion. Crusaders who attack Islamic countries, prop up dictators and occupy our holy lands are the corrupt ones. However, it’s wrong to destroy religious books.”

  “Wrong, you say?” Sayyid raised his voice. “Did not Allah forbid the making of images, yet more paintings of the Prophet Jesus and God himself are in this wretched building than anywhere else on earth. The vile place is a repository of forbidden works.”

  “Are not the words of the Jesus also in the library? We’re the Children of the Book, not the destroyers. Wiping out His words would a sin. We should find and protect them as I’ve been taught. I tell you I don’t like this one bit.”

  Sayyid glared at his protégé, then his face became soft. “Sometimes, we must do things that are distasteful, that in another time might even be a sin. But today, we’re the vanguard of the holy battle to bring about the golden days of justice. The imam said you would understand. This is his will. Do you not wish to follow his plan?”

  It was true, Rashid thought, the imam had promised I would be a warrior in the battle against the infidels. He also put his trust in this man who waged war on the crusaders. If this is indeed the will of the imam, who am I to question? Had the words come directly from him, he wouldn’t hesitate, but Sayyid was no imam. “For a job like this,” he began slowly, “we’ll need incendiary devices as well as explosives, a great many.”

  “You were well chosen, Rashid al-Ansar. A fortune will be placed at your disposal for whatever you need, but where can we buy explosives in Italy?”

  “You don’t know?” Rashid looked disappointed.

  “I can provide financing, but I’m not much of a procurer.”

  “No matter. I’ll make them.”

  Sayyid pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “What do you require?”

  “To begin with, paint thinner, antiseptic, and toilet bowl cleaner. I’ll calculate the amounts.”

  “Are we going to clean the Library before we blow the thing up?”

  Rashid smiled at Sayyid’s lack of in-the-trenches training. “Triacetone triperoxide is one of our favorites. We use TATP to make shoe bombs: powerful, unstable, and easy to hide. While I mix the chemicals, you can hunt down as much aluminum and iron oxide as you can buy without drawing suspicion.”

  Sayyid furrowed his brow. “Can’t we simply buy pipes or drums?”

  “Oxide is metal powder. I’ll mix the powders to make thermite. You want to burn the place down. Thermite will burn through armor plate at four thousand degrees. A few million books will be an appetizer. I’ll also need magnesium strips for a fuse.”

  “How can we get everything into the Library?”

  “I know a way,” Rashid said.

  Two police officers from the Carabinieri intercepted the imam at the gate as he stepped off the Alitalia flight and escorted him to the douane, the customs window. “Passaporto, signore,” the officer said. The Islamic cleric pushed his passport through the window and an officer scanned it into a computer, then picked up the telephone.

  The Carabinieri escorted the bearded imam through a nondescript door into a sterile waiting room with a large mirror. One of the officers pulled back a chair from the table and ordered him to sit.

  From behind the one-way mirror, Del Carlo stared patiently, searching every part of the imam’s facial expressions through his graying curly beard. The imam revealed little of what he might be thinking or feeling. The colonel cocked his head as he glimpsed the corners of the imam’s mouth turn up ever so slightly. Could be grinning? He asked himself. Turning to his lieutenant, who also watched at the colonel’s side, Del Carlo said, “If two large policeman escorted you to an interrogation room, what would you find amusing, Moretti?”

  The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps he wants us to see that he doesn’t fear the police.”

  “Then he’d wear a big smile. This one is for himself.”

  Del Carlo stepped into the secure room and closed the door, leaning against it as he waited for the imam to acknowledge him. The imam stared straight ahead as though he was in a trance. “Well, imam, you decided to pay us a visit.”

  No response. Del Carlo walked around the table. He stood behind the seated cleric for a long moment before continuing, heels clicking, step by step, on the linoleum floor, until he came to a chair on the opposite side. “You’re not very talkative.” Still no answer. “I hope you won’t mind answering a few questions.” Del Carlo sat.

  “You need only ask, Colonelo.” The imam looked him squarely in the eyes, unafraid and uninterested.

  “So you can speak.”

  “I’m not a mute, but since you’ve detained me against my will, I have no desire to offer anything. Nevertheless, if you require an answer, I shall do my best.”

  “I’m glad you’re going to be cooperative. We’re already aware of your Italian bank accounts and phony business.”

  The imam only stared.

  “If this is how you’d like to play, then I’ll ask and you answer. You’ve had a business license in Rome for some time now and fat bank accounts that are getting fatter. Yet there’s no commerce, just money moving in and out. We call such a farce a brass plate company.”

  “Truly? Interesting description. I don’t know what it means.”

  “I’m quite sure you do. They’re companies in name only, used as a front to launder dirty money. It’s against the law.”

  “I’ve broken no laws, Colonelo.”

  “Where’s the money going, and why are you passing it through a nonexistent company? Can you explain that?”

  “Of course,” the imam said impassively. “I acquired a business license in Rome, a bit premature, but I’m sure it’s not against the law. I receive revenue in my bank accounts from all over the world, and that, too, is no crime. The issue is threefold: is the source of the income from illegal activities? Will the money be used for unlawful purposes? And are assets hidden from the government to avoid taxes? The answers are no, no, and no.”

  “What is this premature venture?”

  “I owe you no explanation for the nature of my company. I’ve consulted my attorneys on this matter, but I shall tell you so you know where I stand.” The imam glowered at Del Carlo with eyes that changed in a flash from disinterested to hot and piercing. “I intend to buy farm houses in rural areas all over Italy, as I did in France, so Muslims can experience the joy of country life outside the squalor and bigotry of the ghettos where they live.” He leaned forward on the table, challenging the colonel. “Where they can be taught and trained in the true path of Islam—a good thing, don
’t you think? Such purchases require considerable money.” He sat back in his chair, looking serene and impenetrable once again. “We’ll teach Allah’s will in tranquil, rustic settings far from prying, prejudiced eyes.”

  “It sounds like a veiled threat. Should I be afraid?”

  “Why, Colonelo, how can peaceful Muslims vacationing in the country, listening to the true words of Allah be a danger to you?”

  “I don’t know,” the Del Carlo said, “but I intend to find out. What’s your interest in medieval prayer books?”

  “Many prized copies of the Qur’an from the years you call the Middle Ages are displayed in museums. Their value is beyond measure.”

  “I’m talking about a Christian book of Psalms written in Latin.”

  “Such a book would hold little interest for me,” the imam shrugged.

  “Truly? Then why did we find photocopies of this type of book at your farm?”

  “How should I know? Perhaps Hassan brought them. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Clever, and this Hassan, whoever he is, or rather was, came to your compound with another man. Oh yes, you’ve been under surveillance for some time. Who is this man, and where is he now?”

  “I am afraid I can’t help you. I don’t keep track of the comings and goings of our guests. I leave such things to our administrative personnel. My pursuits are strictly spiritual. In the area of the soul, I can help, but I’m not the reservations desk.”

  “Guards,” the colonel called. “Please escort our guest to his cell.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not for the moment.”

  “Then on what grounds are you holding me?”

  “Did you forget? Men were killed, shot to death.”

  “I’ve not forgotten,” the imam scowled. “They were Muslims and defended themselves against an illegal assault by the French police. Yet we’re in Italy, not France.”

  “You’re right, and in Italy I can hold you for twenty-four hours without charges or an attorney. I think we can find something in a day, perhaps an obscure law that was broken.”

  “In that case, I take my tea strong, Colonelo.”

  Del Carlo paced in front of Father Sabella’s desk, hands behind his back, making Cardinal Minissi’s secretary a bit frazzled. “I’m sure Father Romano will be here any moment,” he said. “He’s quite busy, adjusting to his new position.”

  “I’m in no hurry, Father,” Del Carlo answered, continuing to pace while taking in the layout of the office.

  Father Sabella tried to concentrate on the papers in front of him but glanced up furtively, hating that Prefect Romano was not on time for his appointment. The door finally opened and the librarian glided through, hand extended, “I’m happy to see you, Colonelo, and in more pleasant circumstances.”

  “How’s the boxer today?”

  “Out of shape.” Romano patted his belly.

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. The eye looks a little better, though.”

  “I got beat up much worse in school. Come this way.” Romano led the GIS chief through the door and down the hall to his office. “Would you like a coffee?”

  “No thanks, Father, and I want to thank you again for what you did in France. You were brave to put yourself in harm’s way.”

  “It’s our calling, to help our fellow man. I only wish someone didn’t have to die.”

  “It’s unfortunate, but, after all, he was going to use the gun. I assure you, once he had escaped, he wouldn’t have let Capitaine Desmoulins live. He was a professional. They don’t leave loose ends.”

  “Any death is a tragedy, no matter whose. The whole affair left me feeling tainted.”

  “No man is untouched by a killing. I suppose it’s part of the job, like a black eye in the boxing ring. I’m sorry you were involved. On the other hand, Desmoulins is quite happy.”

  After the salutations and requisite small talk, Romano got down to business. “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “How do I say this without sounding suspicious?” the colonel asked tentatively.

  “What?”

  “I believe you’ve discovered more books.”

  Romano was taken aback. How did the colonel know? Did he employ spies in the Vatican?

  “So I’m right? You needn’t look surprised. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Isabelle and Pascal Héber were listed on separate flight manifests from Paris to Rome, and I’m betting they’re still here. So why would two experts who specialize in ancient manuscripts be visiting Rome? A friendly visit?”

  “You hit the nail on the head once again,” Romano said. “I did discover more Psalters, and they came to help translate. You’re quite a good detective.”

  “It’s in the job description. What did you find?”

  “I should decline to answer.” Romano hesitated then added, “It’s confidential.”

  “Father, you have a job, but so do I. A priest is dead, along with suspected terrorists. One of your Psalters was stolen and everything is somehow related. I’m just trying to connect the dots before anyone else gets killed.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t offer much assistance.”

  “Why will you not help?”

  “I would if I could, but the books were confiscated.”

  “Taken? This is becoming a habit,” Del Carlo said. “By who?”

  “The Defender of the Faith.”

  “Cardinal Keller? Why?”

  “If I tell you,” Romano said, “I must have your personal assurance that you won’t divulge what you hear.”

  “State secrets?”

  “Something like that,” Romano nodded.

  “Father, this is a murder investigation and evidence is evidence.”

  “Naturally, but you have none, and neither do I. I’m not asking you to hide anything you discover, only to keep what I’m about to say in confidence.”

  “You have my word,” the colonel said.

  “Did you ever hear of Saint Malachy?” Father Romano began.

  36

  The Borgo

  Prince Ahmad crept through the front door of the schola cantorum between the prayers of Lauds and Prime, in the hour before dawn when the city begins to stir and cast off its nighttime covers for the labors of the day. He hung his cloak and removed his metal collar, which wasn’t really attached. Johanna had seen to that. The iron was just for show, for Ahmad’s safety she told him.

  “You’re empty-handed.” Johanna looked dumfounded. “Did you meet with trouble?”

  “Not I, but I fear Cardinal Anastasius is about to. San Marcello is swarming with soldiers. They found a body in his cell.” Ahmad nodded in Anastasius’ direction.

  “He didn’t kill the man. I did,” Johanna admitted.

  “He was an assassin,” Anastasius said, “and would have killed me had Johannes not struck.”

  “You need explain nothing to me,” Ahmad said blithely. “I’m but a humble slave.”

  “No such thing,” Johanna replied. “At least not within these walls.”

  Ahmad bowed. “In any case, a chafing collar didn’t cause the burn on your neck.” Ahmad turned from Anastasius to Johanna. “The body was clothed in a fine leather hauberk. He was no ordinary killer; he was an officer. Lucky for you your knife found his neck, otherwise the leather might have turned the blade.”

  “You got close enough to see the body?” Johanna shivered.

  “The moon doesn’t reflect a brown face as it does pale ones. I looked through the window and listened to what Bishop Benedict said to Count Theophylact.”

  “They were there? How did they find out so quickly?” Johanna appeared dumbfounded.

  Ahmad deduced the answer. “They would know if the assassin was their man. But you’re quite right, Master; Anastasius must leave now, on the hour. They’ll search the city and are certain to come here.” Then turning to the Cardinal of the San Marcello, he apologized. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t collect your belongings. I would have
been found out.”

  “You’ve taken a considerable risk, and I give you my thanks. My meager things are worthless and can be replaced. All the same, I wish I had a few books for the road.”

  Johanna wrapped her traveling cloak around Anastasius’ tall shoulders. It was too small and made him look like a comic minstrel mocking the priesthood in a passion play. She tucked her own Psalter into his hand and bid him farewell with a peck on the cheek, and he blushed in front of Ahmad. Ahmad looked down as though he hadn’t seen. “Lead him through the alleys as far as Nero’s plain, and protect him so he meets no harm.” Her instructions sounded like a prayer.

  Ahmad slipped a long dangerous dagger into his belt and pulled his own cloak around. “Everything you ask, I shall do.”

  Then Johanna pushed them out of the door, sank to her knees, and wept.

  Pope Leo ordered Anastasius’ arrest on a charge of murder, but was forced to retract the warrant when Johannes testified that it was she who killed the assassin to save the cardinal’s life. Benedict raged and argued for a trial anyway. An officer commissioned by Count Theophylact had been stabbed to death, and a killing was no trifling matter.

  “Truly,” Johannes answered his charge, “and just how did you happen to arrive at San Marcello with Theophylact and his men in the dark morning hours before Lauds to discover the dead soldier? Did a soothsayer reveal this foul deed in a dream?”

  Benedict cowered, taken unawares, wondering desperately what Johannes had heard and how he might have heard it. “Who said I was about?”

  “I do. Do you deny it?”

  “I…I spent the evening at the home of my nephew, Theophylact, when word came of the murder.”

  “Did Theophylact tell you, or did you give the news to him? Perhaps we should question the count separately to find the truth?”

  In the end, Benedict withdrew his objection and Leo declined to uphold the charge after Bishop Arsenius reminded him that the Emperor would be incensed if a cardinal in his favor should be falsely accused.

  Nevertheless, Benedict would not be denied. Three weeks later, he charged Anastasius with abandoning San Marcello and his parishioners. Once again, Arsenius came to his nephew’s defense using all of his diplomatic skills, as well as threats of the Emperor’s wrath. When his arguments were exhausted, he pleaded for mercy, saying that Anastasius wasn’t safe within the walls of the city. Johannes reminded the assembled cardinals and bishops that a cardinal of the Holy Church had been attacked by someone who wanted his influence silenced, permanently. She glared at Benedict the whole time she defended Anastasius, while the Bishop of Albano squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.