Brotherhood of the Tomb by Daniel Easterman Page A

What he wanted most of all in the world was to get out of Dublin. Out of its rain and mist and perpetual gloom. He was sixty now and wanted to spend his last days in the sun, preferably in his native Italy, best of all in Rome. After all, he did have fifteen years to go before he was officially expected to retire.
    There were moments on the verge of sleep when he cursed Saint Patrick for ever having brought the faith to this place at all. It was all a horrible mistake.
    Christianity was a Mediterranean religion: God’s son would never have volunteered to dwell among the cairns and cromlechs of this mist-soaked wasteland.
    He returned to his desk. A copy of the most recent edition of the Annuario Pontificio, the Vatican Yearbook, lay open at the first of many pages dealing with the Secretariat of State. It did no harm to keep up to date on who did what, who had been moved, who had passed on to a higher service. Casually, he flicked over a few pages then, consulting the index, turned to the section devoted to the Archives. He studied the entry for a few moments, made an annotation in pencil on a pad, and closed the book.
    There was a knock on the door.
    ‘Avanti!’
    Fr. Assefa Makonnen stepped into the room. He was the nuncio’s addetto, roughly equivalent to a second secretary. An Ethiopian, he had been sent to Dublin a year ago, to encourage links between the Irish church and the Third World. It had taken him less than six months to learn that some of the church hierarchy in Ireland thought this was the Third World.
    ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Excellency, but your visitor has arrived.’
    Balzarin sighed and pursed his lips. He had forgotten that a visitor was due. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was fourteen minutes to four.
    ‘Show him in,’ he said.
    As Makonnen turned to go, Balzarin called him back.
    ‘His name, Father, what is his name?’
    ‘Canavan, Your Excellency. Patrick Canavan. An American of Irish descent’
    ‘Ah, yes,’ Balzarin whispered. ‘The American.’
    The clock whirred guiltily and struck the quarter hour.
    It had taken Ruth over two hours this morning to fix up this interview with the nuncio. Strings had been pulled, favours promised. She was still unhappy about his pressing on with his inquiries, but had decided it was futile trying to dissuade him.
    Makonnen introduced Patrick to the archbishop and saw him into a chair before seating himself nearby, pen and paper on his lap in readiness for note-taking.
    Patrick hesitated. They no longer made them like Balzarin. The nuncio was a patriarch from his purple skullcap to his highly polished boots. He seemed to have borrowed the parts for his face from a range of Renaissance painters, but the overall effect was uniform: a look of aristocratic disdain that wore the holiness of his office with ill-disguised impatience.
    ‘I’m very grateful, Your Excellency,’ Patrick began, ‘that you found time to see me.’
    Balzarin gestured briefly with his hand. Patrick was not sure whether the movement meant ‘Don’t mention it’ or ‘Get on with what you have to say’, but he rather thought the latter.
    ‘I’m not sure ... Has Father Makonnen explained to you the reason for my visit?’
    The nuncio adjusted a photograph on his desk. On one finger, a ruby ring caught light from the fire.
    ‘You are a researcher in Semitic languages at Trinity College. You were a friend of the late Father Eamonn De Faoite, the parish priest of St Malachy’s, here in Dublin. You are ...’ He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, ‘... fifteen minutes late for your appointment. How can I help you?’
    Patrick shifted awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a reassuring smile from the secretary.
    ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Your Excellency. Before he died, Eamonn De Faoite told me he had given you some papers. I believe those papers relate in some way to his death. With your permission, I would like to examine