Still unshaven, the man put aside his cup of tepid coffee, rose from the wicker chair and walked to the veranda. He stretched and, arms akimbo, began his twenty torso rotations. His daily ritual finished, he reached into the water basin beside the bamboo separator and aspersed his face.
He looked up just as the sun broke over the mountains’ horizon. He walked over to the edge of the veranda, put his hands on the wooden railing and gazed into the distance. Engulfed in the folds of the valley below, the river snaked lazily along, its meanders of dull silver weaving through the green of the lush, sub-tropical forest. Below and to the left of the veranda, two guards were patrolling inside the barbed-wire perimeter of the compound. Except for their short, muted exchanges and the occasional crowing of a macaw, the jungle was quiet.
He took in deep breaths, absorbing the fresh morning air. The man looked at his watch. He left the veranda, walked through the salon and went downstairs to the closed circuit video conference room.
It was time. Time to speak to his ‘guest’ again, then to Vespoli.
The Pope sat uneasily, hands crossed in his lap, waiting for signs of life from the TV monitor. Finally the shadow appeared.
‘You wish to speak to me?’ inquired the video voice in an electronically altered monotone.
‘Yes,’ said the pontiff, his voice firm. ‘I have a right to know why I’ve been brought here.’
‘You’ll find out in due course.’
‘Is it about money?’
The shadow didn’t answer.
‘Is it about the Church? About me?’
‘Partially.’
‘What, specifically?’ said the pontiff, trying to hide his growing discomfort caused by the impersonality of the voice.
‘Your arrogance, your lack of openness, your rigidity, your lack of vision, but most of all your hypocrisy. You should never have been elected Pope.’
The pontiff felt a surge of anxiety, and fidgeted with his tunic. ‘Why?’
‘You preach against genocide. You constantly denounce the regimes practising it. Do you remember your last condemnation?’
‘You mean the Mugabe regime?’
‘What right do you have to condemn others? After what you did? I quote to you John 8:7: ‘And Jesus said unto them: he that is without sin … let him cast a stone….’
The Pope felt the blood rush to his face. A throbbing constriction began to tighten the muscles and skin over his temples. His mind went numb. He feared he knew the answer to the question he was about to ask, but had to utter it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have the diary.’
‘Mio Dio!’ The Pope put a hand to his mouth and felt his hand begin to shake. After a moment, he said meekly, ‘And … and what do you intend to do with it?’
‘That depends on the Curia.’
The shadow’s image dissolved and the monitor went blank.
Vespoli had just finished escorting the Pope back to his room and had hurried back to the video conference room, this time alone. It was time for their prescheduled video conference, and as he sat down in one of the plush velvet seats, Vespoli fought back the increasing panic with every fiber of his body. Little droplets of sweat were forming on his upper lip and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He tried to calm his frayed nerves by closing his eyes, drawing a blank in his mind, and holding it. He hated the impersonality of the electronically altered voice and shadowed outline format of the transmission, but recognized the need for utmost safety precautions to hide the identity of the parties.
The monitor flickered to life. At the sound of the static, Vespoli jumped.
Gathering his wits, he said to the shadowed outline on the screen, ‘We have a problem, sir.’
‘Problem?’ answered the electronically-altered voice.
‘They’ve arrested Aguar.’
A long silence. Vespoli felt the muscles of his throat tighten.
‘Where is he?’
‘According to our contact, they’ve taken him to Rome, to the Questura Centrale.’
‘I trust you have an immediate solution to this problem,’ said the voice, dispassionate.
‘He was crossing the Swiss border and—’
‘Where is Umberto?’
‘Ah. We … we don’t know. He was to meet Aguar at the train station. He hasn’t reported in.’
‘Then you have two problems.’ The voice’s tone changed, more forceful.
Vespoli could feel the sweat running down from his armpits. Another long, oppressive silence. Vespoli heard the shadow inhaling and exhaling breaths through the electronic voice modifier. It sounded like the last rasps of a dying man.
‘What does Aguar know? How far up?’ said the voice.
‘Only to Umberto.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I swear.’
‘You’d better be right. I want this resolved quickly, Vespoli. Before I arrive in Switzerland tomorrow. Get Tomaso on it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t need to remind you that we’re on a very tight schedule.’
‘No, sir.’
‘No more screw-ups Vespoli, is that clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir. I’ll get Tomaso on it right now.’
The screen went blank. Vespoli rose from his seat and felt the numbness in his legs slowly dissipate. Raw, deep fear overtook him. He knew the man didn’t have a high tolerance for error, sometimes exacting a heavy price from those who had ventured beyond those limits. Vespoli knew he was at that threshold. He was responsible for all men under his command. Their errors were his. Damn that Aguar. Vespoli thought for a moment, searching for options. No, Tomaso had to be called. There was no other way.
Yet Vespoli still hesitated, fearing the call to Tomaso would also trigger his own death.