couple of all-night redeyes yet.’
‘Do I want to know what an all-night redeye is?’ said Dulac.
‘Probably not.’
They made their way down the corridor back toward the front desk. As they approached, loud voices could be heard coming from the front desk area. ‘That’ll be the bloody press,’ said Guadagni.’
‘Already?’
‘They saw the special escort vehicle outside. Like a pot of honey to a bear.’
‘Do they know he has anything to do with the Pope’s kidnapping?’
Guadagni glanced at Dulac. ‘Ha! Believe me, they know. Any bets?’
‘No bets. Your turf, remember?’ said Dulac, smiling. In an instant, the hungry horde had surrounded them.
‘What’s his name?’ asked a blonde woman reporter from Corriere Della Sera to Guadagni.
‘Dimitri. Or Victor. I forget,’ he answered.
‘Has he been charged?’
‘Not as of now.’
‘What is his role in the Pope’s kidnapping?’
‘Who says he has anything to do with that?’ said Guadagni, smiling.
‘Come on, inspector, we’re only doing our job. Where is he from?’
‘The middle-east,’ said Guadagni.
‘Do you believe the Pope is still alive?’ said the reporter from Giorno Napoli.
‘We have no reason to think otherwise.’
‘Will the Vatican give in to the ransom demand?’ said the Corriere woman.
‘You’ll have to ask them.’
‘So you’re no further ahead than yesterday?’ she replied.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘You don’t have to.’
Guadagni put up his right hand, indicating closure. ‘Ladies, gentlemen , that will be all for today.’
Chapter 12
Central American Jungle, 11.05 a.m.
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.
Sicily, 7.10 p.m.
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 anelectronically 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
‘Do I want to know what an all-night redeye is?’ said Dulac.
‘Probably not.’
They made their way down the corridor back toward the front desk. As they approached, loud voices could be heard coming from the front desk area. ‘That’ll be the bloody press,’ said Guadagni.’
‘Already?’
‘They saw the special escort vehicle outside. Like a pot of honey to a bear.’
‘Do they know he has anything to do with the Pope’s kidnapping?’
Guadagni glanced at Dulac. ‘Ha! Believe me, they know. Any bets?’
‘No bets. Your turf, remember?’ said Dulac, smiling. In an instant, the hungry horde had surrounded them.
‘What’s his name?’ asked a blonde woman reporter from Corriere Della Sera to Guadagni.
‘Dimitri. Or Victor. I forget,’ he answered.
‘Has he been charged?’
‘Not as of now.’
‘What is his role in the Pope’s kidnapping?’
‘Who says he has anything to do with that?’ said Guadagni, smiling.
‘Come on, inspector, we’re only doing our job. Where is he from?’
‘The middle-east,’ said Guadagni.
‘Do you believe the Pope is still alive?’ said the reporter from Giorno Napoli.
‘We have no reason to think otherwise.’
‘Will the Vatican give in to the ransom demand?’ said the Corriere woman.
‘You’ll have to ask them.’
‘So you’re no further ahead than yesterday?’ she replied.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘You don’t have to.’
Guadagni put up his right hand, indicating closure. ‘Ladies, gentlemen , that will be all for today.’
Chapter 12
Central American Jungle, 11.05 a.m.
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.
Sicily, 7.10 p.m.
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 anelectronically 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
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