Songbirds were chirping in the big magnolia tree outside the open windows of Bishop Nano’s office. It was a balmy day, odd for January, and the expanse of manicured nature outside the rectory luxuriated in the warm embrace of God’s gentle hands. But to Bishop Scipione Nano Borghese, the tiny creatures in the shade tree seemed to be mocking him.
Zamba was towering over Nano, leaning into him as he made his point, with a long dark forefinger jabbing at the man’s face like a striking asp.
“Once again, you have given us the wrong name,” he seethed, glaring at Nano with undisguised contempt.
Zamba hated the Catholic Church, particularly those who ran it. His island home had suffered more than enough of their arrogant meddling, distorting Haiti’s ancient beliefs into a hopeless tangle of superstition and B-movie nonsense. Dressed in Catholic drag, the real power of voudon was becoming lost. Zamba intended to regenerate the ancient customs and restore them to full flower. Breaking the power of the Church was the first step.
As he saw it, Rome was hell-bent on establishing a spiritual tyranny over the world and nothing more. It was a racket; their piety was window-dressing. Like any successful multi-national, they were adept at eliminating the competition and consolidating power. In old Europe, they tortured witches and pagans and burned them at the stake. Over time they became more polished, but in reality little had actually changed; they simply did their dirty work through proxies. Shortly before World War II, the priests in Haiti incited the gullible populace to murder hundreds of hougans and manbos, the voodoo priests and priestesses who for centuries had held together the spiritual fabric of the island. That spiritual fabric in turn held the people together. Catholicism ripped that fabric to shreds and the island was suffering as a direct result.
When Pope John Paul II came to Haiti and kissed the soil, the bad luck generated from that one act had plunged the country into unremitting chaos from that point forward. The dynasty of Papa Doc Duvalier, the voodoo physician, and his son Baby Doc eventually lost their grip on the nation, as the country lurched from one disaster to another.
Zamba would have preferred to strangle Nano rather than to listen to any of his feeble excuses, but his master Devlin was consumed with a much larger issue than any pet peeves that Zamba harbored for Nano’s teetering, sclerotic Church. The entire world was at stake, and whether Zamba liked it or not Nano was playing a pivotal role. What particularly rankled Zamba was that the Borghese family spawned a long line of Church hierarchy for centuries on end, not the least of which was the infamous Pope Paul V.
And though every one of them had been incompetent, they kept rising to the top. Here was another one.
At the moment, Nano couldn’t have replied to Zamba’s blunt assessment even if he wanted to. His chest and his throat were constricted with fear, and it was all he could do to swallow in an effort to keep down a rumbling nausea that kept crawling up from his gut. He was completely aware of what Zamba was capable of doing to him. Dealing with Zamba and Devlin was like juggling a pair of chainsaws; after more than thirty years Nano was growing weary of the relentless tension the two of them generated.
“Our patience has run thin,” the voodoo master told him. His deep voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make Nano wince.
“Please understand,” Nano stammered, finally managing to find his voice, “That clinic was devastated by a tornado! The records have vanished –”
“Fool!” Zamba growled, cutting him off. “Do you think we have forgotten that night?”
Nano suddenly felt like a dunce. Of course they haven’t! He chastised himself. They were both right there in the thick of it.
“Did you ever consider,” Zamba hissed, “that Molinari could be buying time, feeding us sacrificial lambs?”
Nano blinked. He hadn’t considered that possibility, at least not seriously. True, in his fits of pique, the thought crossed his mind, but he had always dismissed it as the by-product of his petulant aggravation. He wondered now, was he slipping? Was he getting too old to stay on top of things? In retrospect, how could he have rejected the notion out of hand? As much as he hated to admit it, Zamba had an excellent point – it was as likely a scenario as any other.
Zamba seemed to be able to read his mind, and castigated him with another withering sneer. His disdain for the bishop was so profound that his necklace sensed his murderous loathing, and began its transformation into a black asp.
Nano’s eyes widened, staring at the dark magic, and Zamba willed the loa to be still. It morphed back into an iron link chain and resumed its quiet vigil.
Nano was still staring at it, wondering if it would just continue to lie still and be a tasteless example of slave chic bling. Zamba let him wonder. The uncertainty kept the bishop off-balance, making him more receptive to what Zamba had to say.
“You have been wasting our time, Nano, ever since you handed the dagger to that idiot priest.”
“But now we have it back again –”
“And what does that prove?”
As rattled as Nano was, he realized that it was a good question. But he didn’t have the time to process his thoughts and form a reply before the intercom in his desk phone came to life.
“Your Excellency?” It was Father Francis, his secretary in the outer office. “Agent Mas and Detective Kaddouri are here to see you. Shall I bring them in?”
Zamba glared at the intercom, annoyed at the interruption, but Nano was buoyed by it. He whipped his head around and focused on the phone, like a man overboard laying eyes on a floating log.
“Yes, Francis. But give me a moment.”
Zamba turned his glare on Nano, livid that he had taken advantage of the intrusion. Nano glanced back at him and just stood there, taking short, shallow breaths, unsure of what Zamba would do next.
The voodoo priest stared balefully at the old man, silently warning him to be careful of what he said. Without a word being spoken, Nano completely understood the man’s intent.
Zamba stepped back into a darkened corner of Nano’s office, fixing the bishop with another cautionary scowl as he receded into the shadows. Zamba knew exactly where he was in the cavernous room, having been there many times before. With his eyes still locked on Nano, he reached behind himself and pushed on a section of rosewood paneling, on the wall beside the last set of bookshelves.
A hidden door opened silently. Zamba finally turned away and stepped into the unlit passageway, disappearing into the darkness. He closed the door behind him, but not entirely.
Nano went to his desk and dropped into his tufted leather chair, letting out the lungful of air he had been holding since he spoke to Francis on the intercom. The tension spring under the chair squeaked as it caught the full load of his weight. With everything else that was going on in his life, the squeak still registered in the back of his mind as yet another thing that needed tending to. It wasn’t that he was easily distracted. Rather, he found that the more he aged, the less he was able to ignore things. Perhaps senility would be a relief, rather than the tragedy it was made out to be.
He only had a few more moments to compose himself. His guests could wait, but Zamba might run out of what little patience he possessed and do something rash. What that might be, Nano couldn’t guess. The man was capable of anything. And if he couldn’t do something, his master certainly could.
Nano took several deep, slow breaths to calm himself, something he’d learned from a yoga CD that he ordered online. It sure beat praying to a God that he had long since given up on. As his pulse slowed, he even managed to crack a little smile, contemplating the apparent long-standing irony of his situation, an Unbeliever in charge of a diocese. Apparent, because, in truth, there was no irony involved. Everybody knows that a successful pusher never uses his own product.
His moment of reflection brought his spirits back somewhat, and he finally felt ready to charm his guests. He tapped the intercom button on his desk phone, leaning close to it out of habit. “All right, Francis. Show them in.”
He picked up his favorite Montblanc fountain pen and pretended to be busy putting the finishing touches on a letter. As he scribbled away, Father Francis opened the door to show the two cops into his office.
Old codger that he was, Francis held onto the doorknob and simply waved his hand for Mas and Kaddouri to enter. He did as little walking as he could these days, and it was a good thirty feet from the door to Nano’s desk. The hell with that, he thought. They can find their way without my help.
Nano looked up from his correspondence and smiled graciously at his guests. The first thing that struck him was how good-looking they both were, how well they went together. He had expected a mutt and a bulldog.
Mas and Kaddouri stepped into the room and Francis quietly closed the door. Nano rose from his chair, his left hand on his blotter to steady himself, and extended his right hand to Mas. She’s lovely, he thought. Whatever made her become a cop?
“Agent Mas, a pleasure.”
She took his hand and shook it firmly. “Your Excellency...”
“Detective Kaddouri...” Nano said, shaking his hand.
“Your Excellency...” Kaddouri responded.
Nano waved a hand, inviting them to sit by the fire. Although it was a pleasant day, the cavernous room tended to be dank and gloomy, and the fire cast a welcoming glow on the tall bookshelves and dark paneling. Plus, it was January, despite the weather, and it served as a festive accompaniment to the Christmas decorations that still graced the room.
Nano gestured for Mas to sit in one of the antique wingback chairs, separated by the tea table. “Thank you, your Excellency,” she murmured, and sat down.
Nano glanced at Kaddouri, about to suggest that he could wheel the desk chair over, but Kaddouri was attracted by the display of priceless Christmas ornaments on the mantel. Nano had been collecting them for years. The entire Borghese dynasty had been acquiring art of one sort or another since the Dark Ages, and he was a chip off the old block.
“’Twas the season, eh?” Nano said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m always so reluctant to put them away.”
Kaddouri just smiled, and then stood there bouncing on his toes, indicating that he preferred to stand, and he gestured for the bishop to sit across from Mas.
Nano thought it was a cop strategy, having one of them looming over him, but he didn’t press the point. He sat in the other wingback chair, settling into the soft cushions. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and clasped his plump hands together, regarding them both.
Kaddouri was standing by the mantel. He glanced at Mas to say that it was her interview to conduct and not his, and then drifted away to wander the room and check out the antiques while Mas got down to business. She watched Nano’s eyes as they conversed.
“I ran into you the other day, your Excellency.”
He was puzzled, and tilted his head, asking for a clue.
“On Beaudry Street?” she prompted him. “Where the man jumped from his balcony?”
Nano thought back to the incident, and then he remembered the moment. He cracked a dry smile and squinted his eyes at her. The expression gave him a kindly uncle demeanor, one he liked to use when talking to women. It was a way that he could flirt with impunity. Priests had used it for centuries, and Nano had it down to a fine art.
“Actually, I believe I almost ran into you, Agent Mas,” he said, and she smiled in return.
He glanced over at Kaddouri, standing by his desk. The detective was admiring a small sixteenth century painting on the wall, a portrait of a teenage girl. There was something about her smile that captivated him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“Does she look familiar to you?” Nano asked him. Kaddouri nodded, his eyes stuck on the portrait. “I think I’ve seen this before. Is it an original?”
Nano smiled. “You’ve seen her before, but not in that painting. Lisa Gherardini. She was twelve years old at the time. I picked it up in Florence for a song several years ago, when I was assigned to the Vatican. I’m told it’s quite valuable now.”
The art historian in Florence had contacted the Palazzo Borghese about the piece, while Nano was visiting his ancestral home. He hurried down to Florence in the dead of night and scooped it up for his private collection. If anyone else in his family purchased it, it would have wound up in the palazzo along with all their other treasures, for the edification of gum-chewing tourists in T-shirts.
Kaddouri glanced at him, intrigued. Mas watched the bishop, studying his eyes and his mannerisms as he entertained Kaddouri with his prideful anecdote.
“She eventually married a Florentine merchant by the name of Francesco del Giocondo. Does the name ring a bell?”
Kaddouri was astonished. “Mona Lisa!” he whispered, and turned back to the portrait, finally recognizing the girl’s smile.
Mas was as astonished as he was, and it took all her will to keep her eyes on Nano, rather than catch her first glance of a young Mona Lisa. She could see it on the way out, she told herself. Right now, what she was seeing was a bishop who was puffed up and gloating with pride. Not very bishopy of him, she thought.
Nano was, however, human, and he was understandably proud of his find. When it was finally confirmed that Lisa Gherardini had in fact sat for Da Vinci, the value of his little memento from a day-trip in Florence instantly skyrocketed, from the paltry sum of forty Euros to well over thirty million and climbing. Sotheby’s had him on speed dial, but he was content to hang onto it until the Devlin affair was put to bed and he could retire in peace. Instead of going to an Old Padre’s Home, as he called it, he planned to sell the painting and purchase a villa on Lake Como, with a full staff and all the trimmings.
Nano turned back to Mas and smiled. “Now, where were we...? Oh, yes, I was almost running you over with my Maybach. Please accept my apology.” He opened a box of truffles on the tea table. “A chocolate for your troubles.”
She had to admit that the man knew how to turn on the charm. “Apology accepted, your Excellency.”
She helped herself to a truffle, and he had one as well. They both sat back for a moment and savored the handcrafted confections. They were heavenly.
Kaddouri was examining a three-dimensional chess set on an antique table for two. The game depicted a battle between the Vatican and the Kingdom of God, played with delicately carved alabaster and onyx pieces. The Basilica was a dark fortress on one side of the board. Its first two checkerboard rows were the wide steps leading down to St. Peter’s Square. God’s Kingdom was on the opposite steps, a crystal palace facing the Basilica.
Some of the pieces were still on the steps. Jesus and Mary were the king and queen of the Kingdom of God, and Mary Magdalene was His bishop. Lucifer was the king of the Vatican, and the Pope was his queen. Most of the pieces from both sides were in play. Archangels were the Kingdom’s knights and rooks, and angels were the pawns. They faced off against cardinals and bishops, and the Vatican’s pawns – human beings kneeling in prayer, their rosaries in hand.
Kaddouri drifted to the wall of books, shelf upon shelf of leather-bound texts that framed the leaded windows open to the afternoon breeze. He stepped under the rolling ladder to get a close look at a first-edition collection of the papers of Thomas Jefferson.
Just above his head, Zamba’s asp lay on a rung of the rolling ladder. Its tongue darted in and out of its mouth, trying to decipher Kaddouri’s scent. His cologne and mousse confused the creature, and probably saved his life.
Kaddouri drifted out from under the ladder, attracted by an early map of the Caribbean. The asp followed him, crawling up the ladder and transiting along the bookshelves.
“Could you tell me why you were on Beaudry Street, your Excellency?” Mas asked Nano.
He shifted in his chair and laced his fingers together. “I have a new chauffeur,” he explained. “Mr. Gibbs was taking me to the airport to pick up a colleague, but we took the wrong exit and found ourselves at your roadblock.” He offered a hapless smile, and shrugged. “We were lost.”
Mas countered with a sly grin. “And now you’re found.”
Nano was charmed by her wit. If things were different, he’d be asking her out to dinner. She reminded him of the call girl he had in Switzerland, one of the most cultured and intelligent people he had ever met. She was a good Catholic girl, someone you could bring home to Mother Superior. He was still in love with her, after all these years. Catholic girls were the best. He often fantasized of her coming to visit him at Lake Como. She could stay as long as she liked. If she was still in the business, he fully intended to see her again, if only for the pleasure of her company.
“That’s a Protestant ditty, Agent Mas. But it’s still a wonderful song.”
She nodded with a smile. Nano turned his head to see how Kaddouri was faring. The detective was in a shadowy corner of the room, near the hidden door in the paneled wall. His hands were clasped behind his back in a respectful museum posture as he admired the old map of the Caribbean Sea. Another priceless original, it was from the private collection of Sir Francis Drake. He sensed Nano’s eyes on him and turned, nodding appreciatively.
Nano graciously smiled, but as he did, his features froze. The black asp had draped itself on top of the gilded map frame, lurking in the warm shadow behind the brass picture light. It was stretching toward Kaddouri, flicking its tongue to taste the air, still trying to decode the jumble of odors the detective was exuding. As a humid breeze drifted in from the open window, the base note of his body musk became faintly detectable, despite the artificial aromas he put on that morning to mask it.
The asp confirmed its prey and was ready to strike.
Nano slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Well!” he said, a little loudly, “I’m sure we could chat the day away, but...”
The meeting was over. Mas stood up and shook his hand. Nano turned to Kaddouri with a cordial smile and extended his hand to him. It was incumbent upon the younger man to cross the room to take the older man’s hand, rather than the reverse, and Kaddouri did so out of respect. The asp withdrew into its warm hideaway, behind the brass light, as Kaddouri shook hands with Nano.
The bishop escorted them to the door. “Thank you for your time, your Excellency,” Mas said.
“God be with you, my child. I enjoyed our little visit. Truly.”
“You have quite a collection,” Kaddouri said to him.
Nano clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Lisa’s a little darling, but truth be told, that old map of Francis Drake is still my favorite.”
He used the moment to glance back at the map. The snake was still behind the brass light. He opened the heavy oak door and bid them adieu, as they stepped out to Father Francis’s office.
Nano gently closed the door and turned quickly to locate the asp, but it was no longer on top of the map frame. His eyes darted quickly around the room, scanning for the deadly creature, and his gaze finally came to rest on the hidden door in the paneled wall. It was slightly ajar.
There was a soft click of the latch as Zamba quietly closed it from the other side. Nano gulped, and broke out in an uncomfortable sweat. A voodoo master and his demonic serpent were both in his private quarters now, doing God-knows-what.
Mas and Kaddouri came down the steps of the rectory and got into his shiny black Land Cruiser. They buckled up and rolled down the sweeping driveway toward the open wrought-iron gates.
“He’s lying through his dentures,” Mas told him.
Kaddouri grinned. She had a way with words. “About what?” he asked her.
“The chauffeur of the Archbishop of New Orleans doesn’t know how to get to the airport? Spare me.”
Kaddouri piloted his SUV through the gates and turned right, heading back toward the freeway. The traffic was light and it was a pleasant day to be on the road. He stuck to the speed limit and sat back to enjoy the drive. He shrugged, “He said the guy was new.”
Mas just gave him a look, and he got her point.
“I was blind, but now I see,” he recited.
She smiled and looked out the windshield. “About damn time, Detective.”
He just smiled and watched the road. She used to be his rookie, back in the day. But he had to admit, she was turning out to be sharper than he was, and that made him proud.
Zamba stood beside Nano’s four-poster bed, looking through the open window at the Maybach limousine parked in the driveway below. The garage was behind the rectory and the driveway ran directly under Nano’s bedroom windows.
Nano steered the bloodhounds away from himself and toward his own chauffeur, blaming the man for their appearance at the police roadblock the morning that Devlin enticed the man to jump to his death. Zamba knew that even though Nano had diplomatic immunity, it only extended to his staff while they were on the job. If the police suspected anything, they would question the chauffeur the moment he got off work.
The limousine was parked in the shade of the big magnolia tree, just outside the bedroom windows. Mr. Gibbs spent the entire morning detailing the automobile, and he was nearly finished. The doors were open to air out the interior so that the scent of saddle soap would dissipate before the Archbishop asked to be taken anywhere. He usually liked to go for a ride in the late afternoon and stop for coffee and brandy in the French Quarter at sunset.
Mr. Gibbs was kneeling on the lambswool carpeting in back, burnishing the ashtrays with an old toothbrush and a drop of silver cleaner, when he felt something touch the cuff of his pants. He dipped his head and peeked under his arm, but all he saw was the dangling cuff of his black pants, a stretch of his bare calf, his black sock and his shiny black shoe.
Then he felt something touch his other cuff.
The asp slid out of the Maybach and dropped to the cool cobblestones. It slinked to the trunk of the magnolia tree and made its way up the rough bark to a large, thick branch that angled toward the rectory. The tree was in need of pruning. Its outer branches were already brushing against the building, but the arborist usually didn’t come until the middle of the month.
The snake retraced its own scent, slithering back to the open window of Nano’s bedroom. Zamba was standing there, waiting patiently for the loa’s return. He held out his arm and it slithered up his smooth dark skin onto his broad, muscled shoulder. It looped around his neck, took its own tail in its mouth, and returned to its resting state as Zamba’s voodoo necklace.