them.’
Balzarin did not move. But Patrick sensed the effort he made to control his features. Shadows licked at his pale skin, cast by the flickering flames in the open hearth. The nuncio fixed his eyes on Patrick, as though he possessed a faculty beyond sight, that enabled him to read his visitor’s thoughts. He was nervous, but when he spoke, his voice betrayed nothing of his inner feelings.
‘I think you are mistaken, Signor ... ah, Canavan. I did not know Father De Faoite. He did not give any papers to me. If these were important papers, surely he would have given them to his own bishop. They would not concern me. I am the Papal Nuncio: parish affairs are no concern of mine.’
Patrick coughed. In spite of the blazing fire, he felt cold. It was growing dark outside. He glanced across the room at Makonnen. The Ethiopian’s smile had gone and been replaced by a searching look directed at Balzarin. Patrick tried again.
‘I have every reason to believe that Eamonn De Faoite’s death was no parish affair. To my certain knowledge, it already involves at least one national intelligence bureau. At a very high level.’ Just how high it went, he had no way of knowing: but Chekulayev was not someone they would waste on parish politics.
‘An intelligence bureau?’ Balzarin seemed disturbed and more than a little interested, in spite
of himself. ‘Could you be more specific, Signor Canavan? You are referring to the CIA?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘At this stage, I think it’s better I don’t answer that.’
‘You are being deliberately mysterious, signore. Let me repeat, your friend left no papers with me, nor have I any other papers in my possession relating to his death. Father Makonnen tells me he died a little over two weeks ago. According to the bishop’s office, there was nothing unusual about his death. He was an old man who has now gone to his heavenly reward. I really cannot see what interest either his life or his death could hold for what you term a “national intelligence bureau”. I am a busy man, signore. You will excuse me if I ask Father Makonnen to help you out. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry I could not be of greater help.’
The Italian rose, intending to bring the interview to a close.
‘Please sit down, Your Excellency. I haven’t finished speaking.’
Patrick watched Balzarin’s face turn an episcopal purple. The nuncio remained standing, momentarily lost for words.
‘Eamonn De Faoite was murdered on the altar of his own church,’ whispered Patrick. ‘His eyes were gouged out and he was left to die in severe pain. His killers had daubed verses from the Bible on the walls. And you tell me there was “nothing unusual about his death”.’
Slowly, as though lowered there by a mechanism from above, Balzarin sank back into his chair.
‘Come ...? How ... did you obtain this information? All details of De Faoite’s death were kept from the public. The circumstances were much too ... disturbing. This is a Catholic country, signore.
There are some things that are better left unsaid. Do you understand me? This is not a matter of politics or scandals or reputations; it is a matter of faith. As representative of the Holy See in Ireland, it is my duty to ensure that the Church’s image is not harmed unnecessarily. The Church has many enemies in this country, both here and in the north. I have no intention of letting you or anyone else play into their hands.’
Balzarin talked himself back into a position of control. He leaned across the desk. The light was fading rapidly now, but nobody moved to turn on a lamp.
‘Let me ask you again,’ he said in a voice from which all signs of perturbation had been rigidly excluded. ‘How did you come by your information concerning the manner of Father De Faoite’s death?’
‘I found him. He died trying to tell me about something called “Passover”. He said you had papers that explained what it is about. I don’t care a damn if
Balzarin did not move. But Patrick sensed the effort he made to control his features. Shadows licked at his pale skin, cast by the flickering flames in the open hearth. The nuncio fixed his eyes on Patrick, as though he possessed a faculty beyond sight, that enabled him to read his visitor’s thoughts. He was nervous, but when he spoke, his voice betrayed nothing of his inner feelings.
‘I think you are mistaken, Signor ... ah, Canavan. I did not know Father De Faoite. He did not give any papers to me. If these were important papers, surely he would have given them to his own bishop. They would not concern me. I am the Papal Nuncio: parish affairs are no concern of mine.’
Patrick coughed. In spite of the blazing fire, he felt cold. It was growing dark outside. He glanced across the room at Makonnen. The Ethiopian’s smile had gone and been replaced by a searching look directed at Balzarin. Patrick tried again.
‘I have every reason to believe that Eamonn De Faoite’s death was no parish affair. To my certain knowledge, it already involves at least one national intelligence bureau. At a very high level.’ Just how high it went, he had no way of knowing: but Chekulayev was not someone they would waste on parish politics.
‘An intelligence bureau?’ Balzarin seemed disturbed and more than a little interested, in spite
of himself. ‘Could you be more specific, Signor Canavan? You are referring to the CIA?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘At this stage, I think it’s better I don’t answer that.’
‘You are being deliberately mysterious, signore. Let me repeat, your friend left no papers with me, nor have I any other papers in my possession relating to his death. Father Makonnen tells me he died a little over two weeks ago. According to the bishop’s office, there was nothing unusual about his death. He was an old man who has now gone to his heavenly reward. I really cannot see what interest either his life or his death could hold for what you term a “national intelligence bureau”. I am a busy man, signore. You will excuse me if I ask Father Makonnen to help you out. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry I could not be of greater help.’
The Italian rose, intending to bring the interview to a close.
‘Please sit down, Your Excellency. I haven’t finished speaking.’
Patrick watched Balzarin’s face turn an episcopal purple. The nuncio remained standing, momentarily lost for words.
‘Eamonn De Faoite was murdered on the altar of his own church,’ whispered Patrick. ‘His eyes were gouged out and he was left to die in severe pain. His killers had daubed verses from the Bible on the walls. And you tell me there was “nothing unusual about his death”.’
Slowly, as though lowered there by a mechanism from above, Balzarin sank back into his chair.
‘Come ...? How ... did you obtain this information? All details of De Faoite’s death were kept from the public. The circumstances were much too ... disturbing. This is a Catholic country, signore.
There are some things that are better left unsaid. Do you understand me? This is not a matter of politics or scandals or reputations; it is a matter of faith. As representative of the Holy See in Ireland, it is my duty to ensure that the Church’s image is not harmed unnecessarily. The Church has many enemies in this country, both here and in the north. I have no intention of letting you or anyone else play into their hands.’
Balzarin talked himself back into a position of control. He leaned across the desk. The light was fading rapidly now, but nobody moved to turn on a lamp.
‘Let me ask you again,’ he said in a voice from which all signs of perturbation had been rigidly excluded. ‘How did you come by your information concerning the manner of Father De Faoite’s death?’
‘I found him. He died trying to tell me about something called “Passover”. He said you had papers that explained what it is about. I don’t care a damn if
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