Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 10
* * *
Karen’s phone rang.
“Dulac here.”
“Yes?”
“The mafia killed Vasiliev.”
“Wow! Serious people.”
“Anything else on the marchioness?”
“No, not really.”
“How about lunch tomorrow, say noonish?”
“My schedule is a bit tight, but I could manage half an hour.”
“Perfect. See you at L’Express at noon.”
Karen put down the receiver. She welcomed the opportunity to see this man alone, after the uncomfortable breakfast at Isola Rossa. As she hung up, Karen felt a tingling, pleasurable sense of anticipation.
She had had time to think of her life and the recent turn of events. She caught herself enjoying the challenge of this new life-and-death game, and felt awakened, alive, as she hadn’t felt in a long time.
* * *
As they sat down for lunch at L’ Express, Karen felt drawn to the slightly silvering temples, the high forehead , the grey-blue eyes, aquiline nose and yes, those slender, elegant, aristocratic hands. She finally admitted to herself that she had a hand obsession, and that one of the first physical traits she looked at in a person was the hand and its gestures. Too thin, boring intellectual. Too thick, the lineage of hard physical work was usually not far up the genealogical stream. She was willing to give the person a chance, but awaited, predictably almost, the first sign of ill-breeding or vulgarity. She was rarely mistaken: next.
Hands were a sign of character, or the lack of it. A soft, fingers-only handshake—horror of horrors—indicated a noncommittal, insincere, even dangerous person. A firm, generous, trustworthy handshake was always welcome. Karen had few close friends, whom she cherished intimately. They all had good hands.
As Dulac sat down, she sensed a certain vulnerability she had not witnessed in him before. The condescension had come down one keynote. As the waiter left with their order, Dulac turned to Karen, his gaze intent, hands clasped, elbows on the table supporting his hunched shoulders.
“Karen, I might as well get down to it,” he said, squirming in his seat and looking sheepishly at her. “I need your help.”
“Sure Thierry. What is it?”
“I want you to go back to Isola Rossa.”
“What?”
“Without me.”
“If this is your idea of a joke, it’s in bad, bad taste.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Why on earth should I?”
“I will put my cards on the table, as they say.”
“Please do.”
“I think that you and the marchioness, well…ah…got along quite well.”
“That’s none of your bloody business.” She felt her face reddening and her body stiffening at the intrusion.
“But it is, you see. Any connection with these murders is my business. The marchioness will definitely refuse to see me. She will how you say, clam up.”
“But I’m a mythologist, not an investigator.”
“Yes, I know, but you could do some research in her library, no?”
“Wouldn’t that be a little obvious?”
“I’m sure you can be quite persuasive.”
“Why should I get involved in this?”
“Try conscience, thirst for justice, civic duty. Frankly on that front, you’re my only hope. I’m trying to tie up loose ends here. Of course we would send an agent down with you.”
“How considerate of you. Very comforting. What the hell would I be looking for?”
“I think the marchioness knows a lot more about this Pistis Sophia letter than she’s letting on.”
“What makes you say that?”
“We’ve spoken to the engraver, Mittenwald. He says he never saw the letter. He mentioned that the marchioness’s private stationery was handcrafted elsewhere. We think the Pistis Sophia letter comes from the illuminator that does the marchioness’s personal stationery.”
“I see.”
“Yes, but to prove she ordered its writing is another matter. I must also be honest with you. You are talking to a man close to losing his job.”
“Really?”
“I was summoned by the Minister of the Interior yesterday, and the message is clear. Without news, I will be sacked. It’s become highly political.”
“If you sensed something, as you suggest, between Lady Sarah and me, how can you think I’ll be objective?”
“That’s a chance I’ll take if you will.”
“Great. You are in dire straits. I have to think about this.”
“I understand. Oh, while you were looking through the newspaper articles on Lady Sarah, you probably missed this one.” Dulac handed her a copy of an old clipping of The Mirror. It read: “Marchioness’s illegitimate son drowns mysteriously off her yacht. Autopsy report: no foul play.”
Chapter 25
Nicola couldn’t control herself any longer. She flung the plate at the kitchen wall, shattering it into cheap, tiny fragments. Even in death, Sergei was interfering with her life, the life she was so painfully trying to build for herself. Her eyes moistened at the recollection of the few happy memories of her early childhood years, and she dug out from her trunk the one and only picture of her father, embracing her in his bear like hug.
She thought she could ignore the letter, but fifty thousand dollars was an absolute fortune. She could quit work and devote herself full-time to her last two years of medical school. It could even carry her into post-grad programs, perhaps a doctorate. Never in her most utopian dreams had she contemplated the possibility. It was now at her doorstep.
But she knew the FSB would be tailing her. She had to find a way to get at the safety deposit box without being followed. “Think, Nicola, think,” she said aloud. Suddenly, Dulac’s warning cast a dark shadow over the gleeful anticipation of becoming rich. What if he’s right? What if the mafia somehow knows of Sergei’s letter? Can I trust someone to get the money? Anton? The mafia wouldn’t tolerate her knowledge, or anybody else’s, of her father’s killer. They might think she knew his identity already. Damn you Sergei, how could you put me in this predicament? She cried until, dead tired, she fell asleep.
* * *
Dulac mulled over the idea of inviting Petrov for a meeting in Paris the following Monday. Surely, he thought, even the necessary “understanding” between the FSB and the mafia had been breached by the boldness of the killings. This was Petrov’s territory, and they had violated it. He decided to call.
“We must exchange all information,” said Dulac. “It’s the only way we can get them.” His motive, he realized, was now a little more self-serving.
“Yes,” said Petrov, “I will meet you in Paris.”
Dulac showed the same professional courtesy towards Petrov, and picked him up at Charles de Gaulle airport in his Renault. “Let’s go over what we have,”said Dulac, once they were in his office. He pulled out a pack of Gitanes and offered one to Petrov. “Our lead witness, presumably one of the assassins, has been killed. We think it’s the mafia.”
“We are sure,” interjected Petrov. “In Russia, only the mafia has the means and people to do this.”
“We have evidence, or someone wants us to believe, that Pistis Sophia is linked to the murders. The Vatican has received an extortion letter from the sect, or from someone who wants us to believe they sent it.”
“You have suspect?” said Petrov.
“The Marchioness of Dorset.”
The right corner of Petrov’s mouth twitched slightly.
“The letter is asking for the sale of four of the Vatican’s paintings, with the proceeds going to the poor in Africa. It can be inferred that if the Vatican refuses, other archbishops will die. It comes directly from the marchioness’s private stationery. We are trying to trace the illuminator. And you, any leads on Kurganski?”
“Disappeared,” said Petrov. “He set his AK-47 before leaving his apartment, to kill the contract sent by the mafia. He ended up wounding the landlord’s son.”
“How long can he hide?”
“Months, if he has money and makes no mistakes. Also he may be dead.”
“What about Nicola?”
“She has her routine. Classes at the University, waitress at night, study at her apartment, movies with her boyfriend, Anton. Are you questioning the marchioness?” “Not yet. If I try to bring her in, my boss will have me crucified, sorry, fired. Besides, there are jurisdiction problems.”
“Da,” said Petrov. “But tell me, Dulac, why would the marchioness have the archbishops killed?”
“That’s my problem. Motive. She’s reprimanded the Church in the past for being stingy, but murder? Doubtful, unless the sect is using her. I asked for transcripts of the recent synod meetings in which Salvador and Conti participated. They may reveal something. Karen Dawson has a theory linking the names of the four evangelists to the names of the dead bishops. The pattern has obviously been concocted on an a posteriori basis, as Immanuel Kant would say, but it may be carried out completely by the killers.”
“What do you mean,” said Petrov, visibly out of his depth.
“Two of the Evangelists’ names happen to fit the names of these dead archbishops. They shared some life-threatening secret. There may be other archbishops involved, whose names match the other two Evangelists. Read this. Dulac thrust Salvador’s letter to Conti into Petrov’s hand.
Petrov read the letter and frowned. “Doesn’t say much.”
“Any idea who hired Vasiliev and Kurganski?”
“We are putting pressure on our contacts inside. These names come up. Casimir Dobkin. He deals in porno movies and prostitution. We try to crack a nationwide ring. Victor Oleyev, some oil money. We don’t know where he gets the rest. Peter Nigensko is in real estate. His enemies disappear. Victor Olekseivitch is an oligarch. He has big amounts of shares in Russian businesses. He threatens poor citizens, and they give him their shares. These hoodlums play the big game. Only they have the “ball,” how you say, to break into Lubyanka.”
Dulac was gaining trust in Petrov. He felt he had to tell him. “Petrov, my time is running short at Interpol. Find out who hired those two assassins. Working up the ladder is easier than down.”
“You have a problem?”
“The Vatican is putting pressure on the French Minister of the Interior. Unless I have a name by next week, you’ll be talking to someone else from Interpol.”
“A week? That’s not much time in Russia, my friend.” Petrov looked at his watch and rose to leave. “I see what I can do.”
Chapter 26
Karen pondered Dulac’s request that she return to Isola Rossa. Did he know something about her that she didn’t? Why didn’t he think her fling, which she now realized to be quite apparent, would hinder her investigative skills? Or was he so desperate that he was willing to take that chance? That seemed more likely. I’ll be taking all the risks. Yet the challenge taunted her. Deliberate of him, she thought, to let her find out about her emotions vis-à-vis the marchioness. Why had she felt so guilty the following morning? She realized her work had masked her need for sexual gratification and emotional fulfillment for too long. Now she needed to find out where those energies would flourish.
Later, Karen decided to call Lady Sarah. “Hello, this is Karen Dawson.”
“Well hello, how are you?” The voice was intimate, inviting.
“Fine, thank you. I was wondering if I might impose on you. I’ve been doing some research on animal mythology in Gnostic traditions, and couldn’t think of a better source than your library. I would like to spend some time there. Would that be possible?”
“Of course, my dear. I happen to be leaving Tuesday for Isola. You can join me.”
Karen cringed at ‘my dear’, but persevered.
“Actually, I was thinking of going down next Thursday. The timing would be better for me.”
“Wonderful. Will you attend the session?”
“Perhaps.”
“Splendid. I can make the travel arrangements for you. It’s easier.”
“No, no, please don’t bother. I’ve already contacted my agent. She’s made the reservations.” As she spoke, Karen realized the transparency of the lie. Before phoning, she couldn’t have known if the marchioness would accept her request.
“Look forward to seeing you, then.”
“Yes, goodbye.”
Karen congratulated herself on how matter-of-fact she had been. Meeting the marchioness in person, of course, would be quite different. She laughed at herself. Is this some kind of test, a self-exam of my sexual orientation? Karen surprised herself with the elated feeling of her transformation. Where was the subdued, peaceful life of academia? The comfortable shelter of the classroom? She felt mixed feelings of fear and liberation, as if breaking out of a cocoon and discovering the world wasn’t made of soft silk. Why not call the whole thing off? She didn’t owe Dulac, or anybody else for that matter, anything.
Yet, deep down, she knew she had to continue. To stop now meant losing the opportunity of finding out not who she was, but, perhaps, who she would become.
* * *
Dulac’s thoughts raced throughout the night and kept him in a superficial sleep. What was the nature of Conti’s and Salvador’s secret? What was so important that it had cost them their lives? Had they “defended their faith with their very blood”, as cardinals were summoned to do by the pope upon their nomination. Surely a bit archaic as a notion, he thought. Saints were a rare commodity these days.
The coincidence of the names was disturbing. Then another idea occurred to him. Could the marchioness be using this demonic opportunity to further some hidden philanthropic aims? If so, she was on the closest side of extortion she had ever witnessed.
Yet there was something more sinister, spectacular, in the way these archbishops had been murdered. The assassins would not have gone to the trouble of organizing crucifixions unless they had a message, either to the victims, who had, as the postmortems showed, witnessed their own horrific deaths, or to anyone else attempting to follow in their footsteps. The plaques suggested a hidden warning. If he didn’t decipher them soon, other bishops could die. Not unimportantly, he’d also be out of a job.
Was Petrov faking his humiliation by the mafia? Was he corrupt? He showed no outward signs of corruption, but Dulac knew he would never fully understand the Russian mind.
Amid his confused thoughts, Karen entered his semi-consciousness. The strong sexual attraction was there, sublimated by his professional relationship. Was it reciprocal? He had not the slightest indication that it was. And then there was that evening at Isola Rossa. Dulac smiled, as he remembered the night he’d tried unsuccessfully to convert his beautiful cousin Raymonde, an avowed lesbian, to the pleasures of heterosexuality. The personal thoughts slowly gave way to immediate, more pressing issues. Could he reasonably expect her to go to Isola Rossa? Even with an Interpol agent by her side, the danger wasn’t negligible. The consequences of things going wrong were unthinkable.
* * *
That morning, Karen phoned Dulac. “I’ve decided to go to Isola Rossa.”
“Actually, I was hoping you wouldn’t accept. Are you sure you can handle this?”
“Yes, quite sure. Besides, I’m genuinely interested in knowing more about Pistis Sophia.”
“When do you leave?”
“Thursday morning, on the Bahamas Air 7:30 flight to Mustique. After that, it’s a twenty minute boat ride to Isola.”
“Karen, I’m having second thoughts about sending you. If the marchioness is somehow connected to this, I don’t think you should be there, even with one of our agents. Whoever is behind this plays for keeps.”
“I realize that. I thought you said I could help.”
“I’m sure you will. I’m worried about the price.”
“I’ll take that chance. Besides, I think you’re wrong concerning the marchioness.”
“A distinct possibility. Before you go, drop over to my office, and I’ll introduce you to Anna Delgado. I’m thinking she would be perfect as a Pistis Sophia recruit. Besides, we don’t have a lot of time to develop the cover and she’s a fast learner. ”
Chapter 27
Nicola kept her father’s power of attorney on her at all times, thinking the FSB would probably search her apartment. She was right. Petrov’s men had found nothing.
She decided that if the mafia knew of the existence of Sergei’s letter, they would have dispensed with the niceties of waiting for her to open the safety deposit box, and that she would already be dead. At least Sergei had correctly judged the loyalty of his messenger.
The thermometer outside her kitchen window read 2°C, and she donned her well-cut burgundy overcoat, the only luxury she possessed. She locked the front door, and again she noticed the new car parked at the end of the street, out of place amongst the older, beat-up sedans of her fellow students. Surely FSB.
Waiting for the bus, she tried to hide her nervousness by opening one of her textbooks and reading her morning’s lecture out loud. As she got on the bus, the car pulled out slowly and followed at an indiscreet distance.
Nicola alighted from the bus and walked nonchalantly towards the Kazerowsky Bank’s large columned entrance. Through the glass doors she could see the early hour clients, already fighting for position in the rapidly forming queues. Nicola strolled past and went directly to the business counter.
“Yes?” inquired a young clerk with cropped red hair.
“I want to open an account and a safety deposit box.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes, my name is Nicola Vasilieva.”
The clerk went behind to his desk and spoke with his colleague, a dour-faced matron.
As he returned, he took out a file folder and pen, and pushed them towards her.
