Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 8
* * *
They rose, and Lady Sarah took Karen by the arm, squeezing it slightly. She led the group through the wide, vaulted corridor. “Forgive my faux pas,” she said to Karen. “I should rid myself of the habit of testing my guests in such an obvious manner.”
“That’s quite all right, I do it myself sometimes,” said Karen.
Dulac followed the ladies, his attention being drawn for a brief instant to a large room to his left where people were dining, seated around a long, richly decorated table.
“I usually dine with the faithful, but I thought this would be more appropriate,” said the marchioness, showing them to a small room.
Again, Dulac noticed a Vermeer and two small Brueghels surrounded by heavily brocaded blue satin drapes adorning high windows. Nothing like the soothing warmth of the Dutch Masters, he thought.
“Please be seated,” said the marchioness, as she sat facing Dulac, Karen at her left, Lescop at her right. “Shall we have some red with the pheasant entrée?” she said, almost rhetorically.
Dulac nodded approvingly.
The butler slowly decanted the 1993 Chateau Figeac, and Dulac couldn’t help but think the mood was quickly changing from the interrogatory to the convivial. But a Frenchman couldn’t refuse the opportunity of tasting one of France’s best wines, and an exceptional year to boot. Might as well enjoy.
* * *
During the dinner’s progression, Karen felt a slight hesitation when the marchioness’s warming gaze would leave hers to address Dulac or Lescop as she expanded on the history of Chateau d’Or.
“Sir Thomas had the limestone imported from the Loire Valley. Blois to be exact,” said Lady Sarah. “He was fond of saying the Caribbean climate would help his Chateau outlast Fontainebleau.”
The evening waned, the marchioness’s gaze grew more insistent, and then Karen felt it: an almost imperceptible, fleeting pressure of the marchioness’s left leg on her right knee. At first she thought it accidental, but moments later, the leg returned. Karen knew she had one split second to react. Overwhelmed] by the ambiance, the audacity of the move, the wine, and the exquisite setting, she let herself be engulfed by the rising pressure in her loins and didn’t move. Her heart raced and, trying to retain her composure, she looked straight in front at Lescop. Slowly, the pressure ebbed and Karen breathed heavily. She felt her nipples harden against her now cumbersome bra. Dulac’s conversation was becoming more and more remote, difficult to follow, and she suddenly felt a deft, probing hand caressing her leg, slowly squeezing the knee, reaching down into the softness of her inner thigh. She felt the increasing tingling and titillation of arousal and desire, heightened by the secrecy, as the marchioness calmly continued to eat dessert, then sip her coffee, and converse with her guests.
“Let’s have a digestif on the terrace, shall we? I never tire of the view at this time of the evening,” said Lady Sarah.
As they followed the marchioness to the terrace, Karen felt relieved and embarrassed, wondering if Dulac had noticed her arousal.
The view was astonishing, as the floating diffuse ball of fire slowly sank between the cypress trees framing the amphitheater below. For a moment, Karen regained her composure, as the fresh evening breeze revitalized her and cleared her thoughts. What am I doing? I’m supposedly helping in a murder investigation, not here to explore my sexual curiosity. The back of the marchioness’s left hand grazed the top of Karen’s buttocks as Lady Sarah moved close behind her.
“Sublime view, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Karen, clearing her throat and feeling the surge rising in her again.
After three more cognacs, Dulac, Karen, and Lescop bade the marchioness goodnight and turned in for the evening.
* * *
Karen’s room exuded quiet luxury, with walls of faded pink, Louis XVI furniture, ancestral paintings, and a bathroom the size of her mother’s garage. A large onyx bath completed the tasteful setting. At last, she could relax and once again try to gather her wits. She couldn’t believe this was happening, and swore repeatedly at herself. Apart from a fleeting, awkward exploratory experience with a female college roommate, all of her sexual adventures had been heterosexual. She couldn’t have imagined how easily she could be tempted to vary the menu. She poured the bottle of Hermes mousse and ran the bath, colder than usual, to help calm herself. She dimmed the light to relax her frayed nerves, set the whirlpool, and closed her eyes, as the cognac pounded her head and breast.
Suddenly, she felt a soft hand reach from behind her and slowly slide down her stomach, onto her mound. Startled, she tried to rise, only to meet the marchioness’s hungry mouth. The marchioness’s slim, nude body turned and slid down on top of hers, hands probing, massaging Karen’s taut breasts, grabbing her arching back with one hand, exploring deep, deep inside with the other, now gently squeezing, now caressing, now rubbing rhythmically.
Karen searched for Lady Sarah’s mouth, exploring deep with her tongue the softness of the lips, and entwining Lady Sarah’s tongue in a rising dance of desire. Karen reached around Lady Sarah’s mound, tugging, separating her firm buttocks, then inserting deft fondling fingers.
As she climaxed, Lady Sarah let out a long, guttural cry. Karen stiffened, and the release shook her taut body uncontrollably. After unison of convulsion, Lady Sarah led Karen to the bed, where they both lay replete, wet, side to side on the soaked mauve satin sheet.
Lady Sarah whispered, “A new Karen, am I right?”
“Very perceptive.”
Later, Lady Sarah rose lasciviously and wearily from the baldaquin bed and stretched her sculpted, toned arms.
Great body for her age, thought Karen.
“Sweet dreams, my dear.” She kissed Karen and slipped into her silk nightgown to leave.
* * *
The following morning, Karen awoke to the gentle warmth of an insistent ray of sun on her neck. She felt queasy, angry, confused, as a myriad of conflicting thoughts raced through her mind. She tried to piece together the circumstances of what and how this had happened. Was it the wine, the cognac, or did she have an underlying, hereto unavowed lesbian penchant. Or was it an erreur de parcours? She felt angry that, for whatever reason, she had compromised her professional integrity. How could she assess the marchioness’s implication objectively, if indeed she was mixed up in these murders?
“Good afternoon,” said Dulac, as Karen joined the assembled threesome for breakfast.
“Good morning,” she replied, looking ever so briefly at the marchioness and finding refuge in Dulac’s sardonic smile.
“I’m trying to convince these gentlemen to join me for a swim after breakfast,” said the marchioness. “Care to join us?”
“Actually, I’d like to spend some time in the library,” answered Karen stiffly, barely glancing at the marchioness. Time on her own is what she needed, desperately.
“Of course,” said the marchioness.
“Lescop and I want to interview some of your staff,” said Dulac, sipping the café au lait. “Can you make them available this morning? We’ll start with your administrative assistant, Miss Lee.”
“Yes, I’ll make sure she’s available,” replied Lady Sarah.
At that moment, Dulac’s cell phone rang.
“Inspector Dulac, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Sergei Petrov, FSB. We got Vasiliev. We are keeping him in Lubyanka.”
“Fantastic.”
* * *
For a moment, Dulac juggled the options in his mind. On the one hand, there was something too pat, too well-prepared in the marchioness’s attitude and answers. She had been overly explanatory. He wanted to probe, to find a chink in her armor. Her cool detachment from the whole matter irritated him. Should he stay and try to trip her up? With a woman as smart as the marchioness that would take time. No, surely that could wait. Questioning Vasiliev couldn’t.
“Lady Sarah, I must return to Paris. Some urgent business.” He certainly didn’t want the marchioness to know Petrov had called. Dulac phoned for the jet. Turning to the Marchioness, he said, “I’ll be leaving this afternoon.”
“I trust you will stay a few more days,” said the marchioness to Karen.
“I teach classes the day after tomorrow, and I’d like to get a lift back to Paris with Mr. Dulac.”
“As you wish,” answered Lady Sarah, disappointment and resignation in her voice. “Let’s at least enjoy the morning at the seashore.”
Dulac pressed on, “First I must talk to Miss Lee.”
“My, my, how tedious. Business before pleasure,” said Lady Sarah, summoning Lee on the intercom.
“Miss Lee, this is Mr. Dulac, from Interpol.” Lady Sarah introduced her assistant to the policeman. “He would like to have a few words with you concerning those grisly murders, you know, of Monsignors Conti and Salvador.”
Miss Lee, a beautiful Indonesian woman in her mid-thirties, nodded briefly at Dulac and looked quizzically, almost intimately, at Lady Sarah, seemingly not understanding why she would be questioned on the issue.
“Miss Lee, let’s go into the parlor. We’ll be more at ease,” said Dulac.
As she sat down, he couldn’t help but notice the necklace and pendant between the cleavage of her well-formed breasts. It was a replica of the Pistis Sophia icon, in gold.
Chapter 18
The private jet landed at Charles de Gaulle in the middle of the night, and Dulac dropped Karen and Lescop off at the terminal. After refueling, the jet continued on to Moscow, where he was met by Petrov at the airport in one of the old apparatchik Zil limousines, a relic of the KGB era and a tribute to the robustness of Russian manufacturing. It was Dulac’s third time in Moscow, and the city looked radiant. That special, crackling Russian blue sky enveloped the Kremlin buildings in Red Square, like toy houses in Gargantua’s playpen. Moments later, as the Zil approached Lubyanka, Moscow’s infamous prison, Dulac couldn’t help noticing that today, even the prison’s dirty limestone shone in monarchial splendor.
Lubyanka. The name still strikes terror in many a Muscovite’s heart. The prison was emblematic of Stalin’s darkest days. Thousands died there, including many innocent Soviets, after unspeakable torture, for being “undesirable” to the State. Many of its victims furnished Moscow’s medical schools with their body parts, some supplying fresh beating hearts to the Clinic Medika’s cardiovascular research department. A few dissidents, including Solzhenitsyn and Sakharov, had miraculously survived to later decry the atrocities. Longtime headquarters of the Chekia, KVD, and KGB, it now housed the administrative offices of the FSB, Russia’s main intelligence agency. Lubyanka’s long corridors and endless rows of cells were now empty, except for the occasional prisoner under current interrogation.
* * *
Dulac entered and immediately felt the imprint of sorrow and despair left by the thousands of lost souls, still haunting the drab grey marble of the entrance hall. He wanted to leave.
Petrov had ordered that Vasiliev be brought to the interrogation room near his office, so Dulac could witness firsthand any confession.
“We have been questioning him for over forty eight hours,” said Petrov. “You must understand that his army training makes him a tough customer, but we will break him.”
Through the one- way glass, Dulac saw that although there were no physical signs of abuse, Vasiliev couldn’t hold out much longer. His eyes were lifeless, hollow beyond hope, and resigned to their impending destiny. A ghoul would have looked healthier. Dulac knew that Russian techniques, although more humane now than in Stalin’s day, still fell far short of the Vienna Convention.
* * *
Later that day, Vasiliev finally caved in. “I want to make deal,” he announced to Petrov in the interrogation room.
Petrov signaled his adjutant to call Dulac, who had been waiting in Petrov’s office.
“Wait behind the glass. You will see how we get confession in Russia,” said Petrov to Dulac, before going back into the interrogation room. He sat down across the table from Vasiliev and said, “We don’t make deals with criminals.”
“Listen, my life is over. Then I die silent. You choose,” said Vasiliev.
Petrov knew he wasn’t bluffing. Nor could he afford to lose his prime witness and suspect. He also knew that part of Vasiliev’s army training was self-suffocation, in case he fell into Taliban hands.
“I am listening.”
“I want a ticket to Cuba and two million US dollars. Also I want twenty thousand dollars a year, for Nicola’s lifetime. In exchange, I give you the name of my partner, and my boss.”
“We already know your partner’s name. Anything else?” Petrov exclaimed, outraged. “Didn’t you forget a dacha on the Caspian and a chalet in the Urals?” Petrov stomped out of the room and glared at Dulac. “Very big imagination, criminals in Russia, yes?”
Dulac smiled and said, “In France, impossible.”
Chapter 19
Since her return to Paris, Karen had tried to bury herself in her work. She couldn’t close the gap of incomprehension between her students and herself, losing her emblematic patience, responding brusquely to their inane questions. The unpreparedness of her lectures was becoming all too apparent, even to herself, leading her to cut short any pertinent discussions. Her mind was definitely elsewhere. In their hurried departure from Isola Rossa, Dulac had asked her to do more research on Pistis Sophia. Did Pistis Sophia have a history of violence? Did it have enemies? Any documentation on its cells?
Dulac’s request coincided with Karen’s growing curiosity. She was intrigued by the lack of formality and the openness. Decidedly not a sect, with all the pejorative, doctrinaire aspects she had come to associate with the term. Hidden within the enclaves of The Sorbonne’s main library, she plunged into the Gnostic publications and books of the Pistis Sophia tradition. She found a reasonableness of beliefs that mirrored and gave concrete meaning to her own. Pistis Sophia had, from the beginning, refuted the traditional Christian anthropomorphic God. The “Unnamed,” “Indefinable,” “Unknowable,” were terms it used in its preaching. The revering of the Divine Feminine was purely a symbolic, mythical necessity, not an actual belief. The tradition rejected the doctrine of the physical resurrection of Christ, believing the correct interpretation of the Gospels to be that of a reborn mankind. The tradition rejected the Catholic credo, proclaimed by Constantine’s second Edict of Nicaea in 381 A.D. It had developed its own. Pistis Sophia opened its doors to members of all religions and found the same response: enlightened faithful wishing to see beyond the exclusive teachings preached by their predicators, and willing to enter into a new, inclusive manner of thinking, accenting the commonalities rather than the differences of the great religions.
Karen found no history of violence in Pistis Sophia, in sharp contrast with the tortures and murders committed by the Roman Catholic Church.
Along with the other Gnostic traditions, Pistis Sophia had suffered rejection and ridicule through the texts of early Christian writers such as Iraeneus. It had later been marginalized, then persecuted for centuries by the ever-growing Roman Catholic orthodoxy. Its lack of hierarchy, cornerstone of its practice, had led to its downfall. Its modern day resurgence intrigued her.
Karen also wanted to know more on Lady Sarah, Marchioness of Dorset. Sifting through the many newspaper articles, she didn’t envy the spotlight focused on Lady Sarah by the merciless British tabloids. “Another chauffeur, another lover?” read the headline of The Sun. “Sarah and Caroline, common taste for common men,” read another. “Marchioness of Dorset finally weeds out the gardener: will she ever learn?” exclaimed The Mirror. “Marchioness of Dorset battles heavy cocaine habit,” had brought to an end what was left of her privacy, to quench the public’s thirst for scandal. She had fought back with acts of philanthropy and generosity. “Lady Sarah gives 500 000 pounds to children’s leukemia research.”
And then Karen sat up, bewildered at what she read. She slowly reread the headline and small article. “Marchioness tells bishops: sell your rings and help the sick.”
The Daily, on June 7, 2004, cited Lady Sarah at a reception for the Leeds Muscular Dystrophy Fund, which she chaired, as saying, “We don’t see exemplarity from our churches. If our bishops were to sell their precious rings and golden staffs, we could raise another 400000 pounds.”
Karen rushed outside the entrance, grabbed her encrypted cell phone and rang Dulac. “There’s a newspaper article on Lady Sarah you should see. I’ll e-mail it this afternoon.”
Chapter 20
The three prelates had widely diverse backgrounds. Cardinal Eugenio Volpe, the aristocrat, descendent of the last Duke of Ferrara, claimed lineage to Lorenzo di Medici. He had the acumen, sense of organization and all-encompassing intellect of a large multinational’s corporate CEO, and he applied those skills to the multitude of tasks assigned to him by the Holy See. He’d chaired various Synods, the Banco Ambrosiano fraud investigation, and some of the sex scandal investigations into the American Church. He was tough, ambitious, and played the Vatican political chess game to the hilt. He chose his allies strategically. Once publicly called a snob, he had replied cuttingly that, quite to the contrary, he was nobility, and explained to his uneducated detractor that “snob” was a contraction of Sine Nobilitas, the Latin expression for “without nobility.” This was inscribed on a plaque hung from dormitories at Oxford reserved for the sons of commoners.
Working his way up the Vatican’s political ladder, he had recently been named Secretary of State, the last wrung before the papacy. He knew history was on his side. Secretaries of State often became popes.
Legnano was the son of a modest Tuscan wine grower. The Holy Father had, on many occasions, recourse to his earthy common sense, deep moral values, and unwavering rectitude. He was oblivious to Vatican politics, and considered his nomination as cardinal to be extraordinary, unmerited. He had left his archdiocese at Lucca with sadness and regret, to answer the call of duty, the call of the Holy Father. He missed the daily contact with his parishioners, the rolling hills of his beloved Tuscany, its soft, dry climate and fresh air. Whenever his schedule allowed, he returned to the family house near Capannori and, alongside his brothers, put his hand to tending and nursing the precarious, parsimonious vines.
