Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 5
Chapter 12
The train left the grayness of Milan and wound its way through the Italian countryside towards Stresa. Archbishop Alberto Conti’s spirits lifted, buoyed by that essentially tender, homogenous green of all of nature’s verdure in early spring. His mind reveled in the anticipation of the sights, smells, and sounds that awaited him. He’d been coming to the Borromeo Islands on Lake Maggiore every odd year in spring for the last six years, replenishing and invigorating his being. As the archbishop of Milan, he headed one of the largest and busiest archdioceses of Italy.
The conductor announced “Next stop, Stresa.”
Conti reached overhead for his suitcase and signaled to his bodyguard, Piero. Since Salvador’s murder, the Vatican had insisted that all archbishops travel with bodyguards. As he prepared to disembark, he walked by two pale-complexioned men, their whiteness contrasting with the olive-skinned Italian passengers. Probably East Germans on their way to Rome, he thought.
Conti and his bodyguard took a taxi to the Hotel Palma, and Conti asked for his usual room facing the lake. He entered, opened the curtains, and took in the breathtaking view. The sun was casting its late afternoon rays on Isola Madre, the largest of the Borromeo Islands, an emerald set on a bed of turquoise. Behind, the Lombardy hills crouched silent, ominous, and grey. He strode out onto the balcony, stretching and smiling at nature’s grandeur. He would get up early the next morning, he told himself, to fully enjoy these treasured moments. To ease his conscience, he’d grabbed a perfunctory amount of correspondence before leaving, and decided to sift through it to see if any pressing matters required his immediate attention. A dissatisfied priest’s request for transfer, an interpretation of procedural matter under canon law, an unmarked envelope, sealed.
He opened it. It was from Salvador. As he read it, feelings of sorrow and anxiety overwhelmed him.
My dear Alberto,
During our last discussions, you asked me to give the matter more thought and get back to you. After many sleepless nights, and notwithstanding the risks, I have come to the conclusion that the long-term benefits of acting now outweigh the short-term benefit of remaining silent. We know those who will oppose us. Inaction leads to condoning the idea that the end justifies the means: I cannot accept this. We have seen what this did in Italy. Only a solid front will resolve the matter, in light of the power and pervasiveness of these people. We need to gather support quickly.
Please call me at the nearest opportunity. These matters are best dealt with in person.
Yours affectionately,
Antoine
* * *
Archbishop Conti had not slept well. The disturbing letter drove home the reality of his predicament, as a partner in Salvador’s dilemma. For the moment, however, he felt he could do nothing. It was getting late, and he would just make the eleven o’clock mass at Saint Ambrosio, the coquettish neo-classical church in Stresa.
After lunch with his bodyguard, Piero, and his favorite half-bottle of Amarone, the two men strode to the dock and embarked on the small passenger ferry to Isola Madre. As the ferry approached the island’s minuscule landing, a blushing pink azalea bush drooped almost to the water to welcome him to this earthly paradise. They alighted, and Conti noticed the mauve rhododendrons had already carpeted the soil with their lush petals. Deep green pines, magenta hibiscus, wisterias, white camellias, clusters of yellow mimosas slowly engulfed them. We’re caught on the palette of a Sisley painting, Conti thought. Flaubert had declared this island “the most sensuous place on earth,” and Conti couldn’t fault him.
They wandered slowly, pheasants and iridescent peacocks crossing their path. Conti stopped to film the immodest display of colors. He paused, mesmerized by a pink rhododendron, a huge puff ball resplendent before its green backdrop of subtropical pines. The intermingling of scents from flowers and trees, now the sweetness of the cedars, now the pungency of the begonias, made him giddy. He had brought his missal, and sat down on a wooden bench as dark thoughts of Salvador’s tragic death kept creeping into his consciousness. He read intensely, and eventually dozed off. Piero continued walking towards the small fountain, and lit a cigarette.
Chapter 13
Across the Atlantic, alone on the balcony of her hotel-sized mansion, Lady Sarah absorbed the ineffable view: a crescent of sun had just begun to rise from the glowing, undulating Caribbean Sea. Above, a long, ominous grey cloud filled the horizon, its orange edges suffused by the water’s reflections.
The Caribbean island of Isola Rossa belonged to one of the richest women in England, Lady Sarah Litman, Marchioness of Dorset, heiress to a fortune made in steel. It had been two laborious, strife-ridden years since her contractor had started building a huge, open amphitheater, a scaled-down Ephesus, to be integrated into the hillside between the mansion and the ocean. Now, she finally savored the realization of her dream. Pistis Sophia’s members once again had a proper venue in which to practice their rites.
The Pistis Sophia tradition had a long, secretive, and uneven history. Born in early Christian times, later rekindled by Abbot Bernard de Clairvaux in the twelfth century, the tradition had been marginalized and persecuted by the Catholic Church. It had barely survived the Inquisition, later been forgotten and dormant for many centuries, and had recently found a new breath of life. Its belief in and its accentuation of the Divine Feminine attracted primarily women, impatient with the lack of progress of their stilted status within their religions. The simplicity of its Gnostic origins, features, and practices attracted members of various faiths, frustrated by the archaic, oppressive restrictions of their churches. Four years ago, the tradition had welcomed another celebrity into its fold: the Marchioness of Dorset.
The sun’s disc was almost visible in its entirety, for a moment seeming to sever itself from the sea. Simultaneously, the chant of a women’s choir singing a Bach motet rose effortlessly from behind the center of the amphitheater, and filled the Caribbean air with its classic serenity. Even from here, the acoustics are amazing, she thought. Lady Sarah, dressed in a white translucent robe, descended from the balcony and walked blissfully down the short path towards the amphitheater. On each side, cypress trees pointed their lance-like silhouettes into the dawn.
As Lady Sarah approached, the choir fell silent. She joined the five women dressed in flowing red robes, and together they walked towards center stage, each holding a large candlestick. They deposited them on the altar and faced the strada, where members of Pistis Sophia sat waiting for the ceremony to begin. Behind the altar of rose alabaster, a large icon hung from a wooden crossbeam supported by two marble columns. Of late medieval, early Renaissance inspiration, the icon pictured a winged and haloed woman in white, flanked by two smaller figurines on a lower plane. The angel-like woman appeared to smile slightly, seated on her golden throne. Above, an eagle adorned a small inscription in Latin, and underneath, the head of a bull carried a sun-like disk between its horns. On one side of the figurines strode a blue lion passant, and on the other sat a seven-headed red dragon.
Lady Sarah seated herself on a small wooden chair beside the altar. She signaled the women to begin the ceremony. The five women stood still as a young man in his teens, dressed in a toga, brought a small white lamb, legs tied, and set it on the altar. The audience, sparsely spread amongst the expansive hard granite strada of the amphitheater, waited in expectant silence. The third woman from the right stepped up to the altar, arms stretched upwards in an imploring V, and began a long incantation, her voice rising in intensity and pitch.
The woman then seized a short sword from the altar, held it up above her head, then started to swing it downwards. A cry rose from the audience. At the last instant, she turned the blade on its flat side and rested it on the lamb’s head. The symbolic gesture drew a murmur of relief from the audience.
The woman chanted loudly in Latin:
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, donna nobis pacem.
Another woman, third from left, intoned with the audience the Pistis Sophia Credo.
“Let us pray. Pistis Sophia, Mother of Knowledge, Ground of All Being, we rejoice in you and you in us. Help us live by the examples of your bridegroom Jesus Christ, of Buddha, and of the Prophet. Help us be filled with thoughts of inclusiveness of all inanimate and animate matter, and to seek the power of knowledge in all mankind. Let us share in your infinite compassion and love. Let us discover you, through our understanding of others and of ourselves. Give us courage and strength to oppose and convert your enemies.
“We believe in our expanded consciousness after death, in reunification with you. We rejoice at the thought of basking in your eternal light, amen.
“Let us now share a sign of our mutual compassion.”
The members of the audience and the six women exchanged embraces. The choir concluded with the chorale of a Handel Cantata, and the disciples slowly dispersed in a blissful unity of spirit.
Chapter 14
They had seen Conti and his bodyguard leave Stresa on the ferry. They hurried back to the dock and boarded their small motorboat. They circled the island, found their pre-selected landing spot and hid the boat. The sun was already lengthening the elms’ shadows as the two men strode nonchalantly along Isola Madre’s intricate paths, almost oblivious to its tropical plants and exotic birds, anxious for time to pass. Later, they walked past Conti, seated on a bench, snoring, his missal fallen beside him.
They circled back and took a position behind a large juniper bush. Kurganski had counted fifteen visitors during their walk. From where he sat, crouching, he could see the dock and watch the red ferry boat shuttling back and forth, its white waterline cutting a swath through the turquoise water. Twelve had left, none had arrived. It was getting late. Soon, the archbishop would leave and the opportunity would be lost. They would have to start all over again. Rescheduling killings was difficult, and expensive.
“We must do it now,” whispered Kurganski to Vasiliev, looking at the bodyguard. “Three tourists are left. Check where they are and get back here.”
Kurganski looked at the target. Slightly built, for a bodyguard, he thought. The war had taught him that size was irrelevant. Some of the toughest, biggest Russian soldiers had wept like babies under the Taliban mortar attacks, slinking back to the barracks in near-shock. He himself had barely survived an attack from a lightly-built adolescent. Hiding behind a wall, the boy had jumped out, and with Kurganski at point-blank range, the boy’s gun had jammed. He dropped the gun, drew a knife and pounced on Kurganski with the speed of a hungry cheetah, slicing at his arm and shoulder. Kurganski had managed to get his pistol out with his other hand and fire at the adolescent’s face. The lifeless boy that fell on him like a tall, skinny doll, was only half his weight.
“No one,” reported Vasiliev.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive, the others must have left on the last ferry.”As the sun started dipping below the hills, igniting the Lombardy sky with a soft orange flame, Vasiliev took the small bottle of Desflurane and a cloth from his beat-up brown suitcase and handed them to Kurganski. Vasiliev unsheathed his knife and ran the blade across his fingernail, removing a sliver. Deadly sharp.
They crept up towards the thick, dwarf pine tree, behind the fountain where the bodyguard sat puffing his cigarette, looking at the sunset.
Kurganski looked at Vasilev, his glance inquisitive. Vasiliev nodded.
Kurganski leaped from behind the bush, cloth in hand, and stuffed it into the bodyguard’s face. The bodyguard lunged forward, simultaneously kicking backwards with his right foot, hitting Kurganski in the groin. The Russian gasped in pain. The bodyguard turned, only to meet Vasiliev’s knife with his stomach. Vasiliev thrust once, twice, then sliced upwards, the man’s abdominal tissue and shirt parting easily. The bodyguard didn’t utter a word, letting out a sickening gurgle as he slowly dropped to the ground.
Vasiliev stood for a moment, looked around. No one. They grabbed the man’s convulsing body and dragged it behind the dwarf pine. Vasiliev wiped the knife with the Desflurane-soaked cloth, careful not to cut himself.
Now they crept slowly, purposefully, towards Conti. He was still bent over, dozing peacefully.
Kurganski grabbed Conti’s head and shoved the cloth over his mouth. Conti looked up quizzically, took two breaths, and fell unconscious.
They dragged him behind the small bushes, the soft cooing of pigeons announcing impending finality. They waited, and heard the sound of the ferry leaving the island.
* * *
Conti awoke in pain, his wrists and arms taut and burning. His left side hurt atrociously. He looked left, then right. His wrists and arms were bound to the pergola’s crossbeam, and his feet couldn’t reach the ground. He could hardly breathe. He tried to shake his head but the duct tape over his mouth didn’t budge. He looked down at his naked torso and saw the blood. Desperation set in. Where is Piero? He must come. He started to shake uncontrollably.
My God. Piero…I will…Suddenly, he heard voices coming from along the path. The voices grew stronger. They were approaching. He felt a surge of hope. Contorting his face, he tried to wet his lips. A minuscule air passage was forming at the left corner of his mouth. He started to yell, but the sound stayed locked in the antechamber of his gullet, the veins and arteries of his throat ready to burst. He writhed in pain, trying desperately to loosen a limb, any limb. His shaking had stopped. He saw two men approaching and renewed his muffled grunts. They halted a few yards from him.
He couldn’t believe it. They seemed to barely notice him. They’re ignoring me! Conti’s frustration turned to anger. One of them lit a cigarette. I’ve seen them before. They spoke to each other nonchalantly, as if he weren’t there. When they turned and walked away, their image finally crystallized in his mind: the men on the train. The weight of his body pressed on his lungs, as each breath became more and more painful, harder to exhale. He was suffocating.
Dear God, send Piero, he prayed. I mustn’t die. I have so much to do. Time passed, with no sign of Piero. They must have killed him. He thought of Salvador. We’ve failed, Antoine. Conti began to cry. Moments later, he prayed for his soul and asked forgiveness for his sins.
On the shore, the lights of Stresa were beginning to blur, veiled by his eyes’ watery mist. He felt dizzy, and his shaking started again. Cold, he was so cold. He knew he was lost and resigned himself to the inevitable. At the last instant, he panicked. He couldn’t breathe. Then, darkness fell.
* * *
Early the following morning, the ferry driver walked nonchalantly, humming a popular song, enjoying the day’s awakening. The fresh dew reflecting the sun off the hibiscus leaves caught his eye. He paused for a moment, breathing in the sweet scent of cedars. Another gorgeous day. He looked at his watch. He had ten more minutes before driving his ferry back to Stresa. He strode along until he reached the small clearing.
Suddenly, Conti’s lifeless shape came into focus.
The ferry driver froze in disbelief. He saw all the blood, and realized the man must be dead. He grabbed his phone and called the Stresa police station.
* * *
At 9:15 a.m., Inspector Andrea Calvino and three policemen from the Milan Questura Centrale piled into the Alfa Romeo and drove down the autostrada towards Stresa, siren blaring.
Twenty minutes later, Calvino ordered that all ferries to Isola Madre be canceled, and commandeered a patrol boat. They rushed to the pergola and cut Conti loose, wrapping his body in blankets. Why such a horrible death? Then Calvino saw the plaque—The Ox has fallen, the Dragon is wounded—and the picture of Salvador’s crucifixion hit him.
“He looks like…I think it’s Archbishop Conti.” said Calvino to the policeman.
“Yes.”
Calvino heard a small commotion, coming from behind a large Juniper bush. Two of Calvino’s men had discovered Piero, inert, lying askew in his blood. “Get the men to check nearby hotels for any missing persons. Start questioning the ferry drivers,” said Calvino.
* * *
Soon, Stresa was astir with policemen. Visitors crammed the little ferry dock, cordoned off by the police. Two men had been murdered on Isola Madre. It seemed all the more improbable that such a glorious day beckoned.
“Will the ferries run to the other Borromeo islands?” asked a tourist.
“No, not for now,” said a policeman.
Calvino got a call from one of his men.
“Inspector, Archbishop Conti has not been in his room this morning at the Hotel Palma. He didn’t have breakfast there, as he usually does. His bodyguard is missing.”
Calvino didn’t speak. He rushed to the hotel and had the clerk open the door. The bed had not been slept in, and a note had been slipped under the door. Calvino read it.
The Ox has fallen, the Dragon is wounded.
Calvino showed the photograph of the crucified man to the hotel manager, and Conti’s identity was confirmed.
* * *
The Corriere Della Serra’s blood-red headlines shocked Italy: “Assassins strike again—Archbishop Conti and bodyguard murdered on Isola Madre.”
Calvino’s phone was ringing constantly, his office inundated by reporters. He held an impromptu press meeting, declared he had no suspects yet, but that Interpol had been brought into the investigation.
* * *
Dulac received Calvino’s call early in the afternoon, and had his worst nightmare confirmed. Serial killings with a political-religious agenda. He took the afternoon flight to Milan and arrived at Calvino’s office before dark.
