A Season for the Dead

Forty-Seven

Michael Denney sat at the low coffee table in the little apartment, opposite Hanrahan, trying not to look at the TV. The picture of Sara, her bare-sleeved, comforting arms around him, filled the screen. It seemed even more fascinating for the news programs than the images of Arturo Valena’s body being taken from the church off the Via Corso.

What irked Denney most was that he couldn’t recall the moment. He’d seen so little of Sara recently. He missed the time they spent together. It infuriated him that someone could have spied on them and not left sufficient clues for him to place the occasion.

“Who the hell took it, Brendan? You?”

The Irishman’s lugubrious features met his angry gaze. “Chickens come home to roost. You sent Fosse out to take those bedroom snaps for you. Don’t blame me if he didn’t know when to stop.”

“I thought Fosse was working for me.”

Hanrahan sighed and said nothing. Denney thought hard. He hadn’t seen her like this in more than a month. That meant they had decided to throw him to the wolves long before he had tried, and failed, to resurrect the bank.

“You’re an ungrateful man, Michael,” Hanrahan said. “I’ve watched your back in this place too long. I’ve risked my own reputation, perhaps more than that. And what do I get in return? Your misguided anger. Your lack of trust.”

“I’m sorry.” Perhaps he had offended Hanrahan. Or maybe it was just part of a broader, more subtle act than Denney had appreciated.

“I’m not myself right now. It’s just the thought of Fosse spying on us like that. Did they really think I deserved that?”

Hanrahan stabbed at the TV. “Deserve? Michael, I told you so many times she would be your nemesis. And there she is. Plastered all over the place. In every newspaper too. A cardinal of the Church and the woman they’ve been painting as some loose whore all week. What do you expect?”

“A little understanding,” Denney said quietly. There was no point in telling this icy Irishman about the need for love. It was inexplicable, incapable of being reduced to plain and logical analysis. Hanrahan didn’t believe in mysteries. He wanted only hard, unbending facts around him. He never noticed, never felt, the holes these hard, inhuman certainties made in a man’s life.

“Don’t blame anyone else now,” Hanrahan warned him. “No one made you start seeing her. No one else forced you to use Gino Fosse as a bagman on these night errands of yours. This is your doing. Not mine nor anyone else’s. If you must indulge in these black secrets—bribery, blackmail, for God’s sake—don’t go blaming others when they creep out into the light of day.”

“And you think I don’t know that?”

Hanrahan grimaced. Denney looked at his gray, emotionless face and knew there was more to come.

“Maybe. Maybe not. You’re a man prone to whimsies, Michael. It’s odd, given the job you used to do. I would have expected a more practical nature.”

“Like yours,” Denney said, without thinking.

“I like to think of myself as a reasonable man. One who helps keep the wheels turning.”

There was a time they had been together for a conference in Dubai. A financier had provided company for them both. It was a ritual, a gift it would have been impolite to refuse. He’d watched Hanrahan with the woman. She was beautiful, a tall Cypriot girl with perfect English and a ready smile. It was the only occasion on which he had seen the Irishman uncomfortable, incapable of controlling the world around him. Hanrahan had left before the dinner was finished.

“And never being touched by anything, eh, Brendan? Living on your own. Running other people’s lives. You’re not like me. You could get married. You could do what you like. Instead you just scheme and scheme. For me. For anyone that pays. I gave you good money to fix things. You were supposed to help me put the Banca Lombardia back on track.”

Hanrahan scowled. “I can’t raise the dead. That idea didn’t stand a hope in hell from the moment you first suggested it.”

“And you never thought of saying so.”

“I’m a servant. Have you forgotten?”

“One who doesn’t know who his master is.”

“Oh, but I always remember that. You were the one who forgot. You were the one who overstepped the mark. Because you just couldn’t resist, could you? It flattered your fulsome ego, dining with all these politicians. Having these women at your beck and call. You lost sight of yourself and drowned in your own arrogance. Don’t take your own faults out on others.”

Denney nodded. There was truth in Hanrahan’s words.

“But at least I’ve lived, Brendan. I’m not convinced you can say the same. Do you really believe the world begins and ends at your fingertips, man? Or are you just frightened of it all? Scared to death that a little love might steal away your powers? That you might be like Samson and wake up one morning to find your hair on your pillow. And suddenly you’re just the same as the rest of us: weak and dependent on others. Is that what scares you? That you might lose your strength and someone will come looking for revenge? Because if it is I must tell you what you are. An emotional coward. A man who fears what’s inside himself and takes that fear out on the world.”

Hatred flamed in Hanrahan’s eyes. Denney knew he had hit the spot. It gave him no comfort.

“To be honest,” Hanrahan said very carefully, “none of this matters anymore, Michael.”

“It matters, Brendan. Tell me now. Do you think we’ll be judged one day? All of us? Or is that just one more piece of whimsy?”

“I think there’s plenty who would like to judge you now.”

“And who are they? I’ve wasted my time in this dump, fearing them. Fearing you. What can they do except steal away what little of my miserable life’s left?”

Hanrahan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I wouldn’t value that too lightly, Michael. Think of what happened to Valena and the rest.”

Denney looked around the apartment. It seemed smaller, more dismal than ever. How had he allowed himself to be talked into being some voluntary kind of captive here?

“Terrible ends,” he agreed. “But you know the problem with spending your days afraid of dying? What you really end up fearing is life itself. You wind up hoping no one knocks on the door, no one comes close. You die anyway. It’s just that you don’t notice it happened a long time before you stopped breathing.”

Hanrahan closed his eyes as if he weren’t listening.

“Tell me, Brendan,” Denney said. “Do you believe in anything?”

“I believe in keeping our little piece of the world in order. Protecting it from those who’d destroy it.”

“Isn’t that what Pontius Pilate said?”

“You’re talking like a churchman, Michael. That’s something you’re not.”

“Say it, then,” Denney spat back. “Let’s hear what you came here for. Because it wasn’t to pass the time.”

“You’re out,” Hanrahan said flatly. “Today. By noon, it must be, or they’ll send someone in and throw you onto the pavement, I swear it. I’ve argued till I’m blue in the face but it’s no good. It’s these pictures. The proof that Gino Fosse is your boy. The woman. They’re scared there’s more to come, Michael. And let’s face it”—Hanrahan’s emotionless face fixed on him—“there is.”

Denney felt trapped in the small, airless room, felt as if his head might explode. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve known a lot about you for a long time, Michael. It wasn’t that hard. You cover your footsteps well, but you’re still an amateur. Now it’s beyond my powers. When they turn and say, 'Is this all?’ I won’t lie for you anymore. That time’s past.”

“So who’s casting the first stone, then? Just for interest’s sake. I’d like the names. I’d love to know how many people in this place would survive having someone spying on them night and day, seeing everything they do.”

Hanrahan pulled a half-smoked cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. The vile smoke filled the room. “Think of someone,” he told Denney. “Then put him on your list. I tried my best, but not with much conviction, to be honest. They’re right. You’re too much of an embarrassment now. We have to wash our hands of the stain of you before it leaves a mark on the rest of us. There’ll be a private plane back to Boston. Someone can help you there if you need it. We can give you a new name. A place to live where they won’t find you, with a touch of luck. But”—he waved his hand at the world beyond the walls of the apartment—“this part of your life is past. You can’t return to Rome. You can’t be Cardinal Michael Denney anymore. If you stay in Italy, even under a false name, someone will find you. Maybe the police. Maybe some people with other ideas. Either way, you don’t want it. And we don’t want it.”

It was what he expected but still the words smarted. “So I’m reborn. I become Joe Polack and work on some factory line in Detroit. Is that it?”

Hanrahan shrugged. “If that’s what you want…”

Denney felt his face become suffused with red. He wished he could keep the anger away. “Damn it, Brendan. I want what they owe me.”

The Irishman laughed. The sound made Denney miserable; it emphasized how alone he truly was. “Everyone wants what they’re owed, Michael. That’s the problem, isn’t it? All these debts to be paid, and so many of them to people none of us would like to know.”

“You’ll take me to the airport.” He tried to make it sound like an order, not a question, but the words failed to come out right.

Hanrahan scowled, then slowly shook his head. “No. We can’t afford the publicity. In America things can be different. There we can be more subtle. But for now, we need to make it plain. At eleven, the press department plans to issue a statement. I can show you a copy if you like. It will say you’ve decided to resign your office for personal reasons and intend to take up a new life outside the Church, beyond Italy. No more than that. We will brief the press privately, of course, and set some clear water between the Vatican and yourself. That must be done. You’re a pariah. We’ll make it clear we’ve been concerned by your actions, by the rumors about your personal life, for years, but these last revelations—which were, of course, new to us—proved too much to bear. You’ll become the prodigal son, Michael, one we must send out into the world to atone for his sins. Except, naturally, you’ll never return. We’ll not meet again after today. You’re making the rest of this journey on your own.”

Denney couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t comprehend how Hanrahan took such obvious pleasure in torturing him like this.

“And what am I supposed to do, exactly? Call a cab and wait for one of those crooks to join me in the back? Do I look suicidal, Brendan? I’d rather walk straight to the nearest policeman and ask him to take me in.”

Hanrahan laughed again. “And how long do you think you’d last in prison? If you got that far. Don’t be naive. The police can’t save you. Maybe even we can’t save you in the end. You’ve gone too far. You’ve offended too many people, given them such a wealth of ammunition to bring you down. Oh, to hell with it…” He scanned the apartment, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t pack much, Michael. Tell us what, if anything, you wish to keep and I’ll see it’s done. Bear in mind, though, that most of your possessions are attached to the office you held until this moment and they remain our property. Anything that is truly personal you may mark and I’ll send on later.”

“The paintings are mine.” Denney nodded at the copy of the Caravaggio.

“That I doubt. But you’re an accomplished thief. I’ll send them on. Perhaps.”

Michael Denney wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the couple at the focus of the canvas: the dying Matthew and his assassin, both bathed in the compelling light of Grace.

“Now, Michael, you won’t be thinking of yourself as the martyr in all this, surely?” Hanrahan asked lightly. “That would be a little rich.”

Denney hung his head and whispered, “Christ, Brendan, don’t enjoy it so much.”

He looked up. The Irishman’s eyes now held him in a fixed, concentrated stare, full of contempt.

“You confuse pleasure with duty, Michael. You always have. It’s the root of your problem. Don’t hate me, man. I’ve performed one last favor, for old times’ sake. Two men will meet you outside the gates at twelve. A couple of Rome cops at your discretion. They’ll take you to the airport. Off-duty, as it were.”

“Two men?” Denney asked. “Do you want me dead?”

“If I wanted that, do you think I’d have gone to all this trouble on your behalf? Not that we haven’t discussed it, you understand. There are those who thought it would have been the… cleanest solution.”

Michael Denney closed his eyes. He could picture them talking, in a private, secret room, somewhere in this tiny, insular state which had, in the space of thirty years, turned from a kind of heaven into a cruel, unbending prison. Perhaps they met weekly. Perhaps they had more information, more pictures, tapes. And they’d been planning, for how long? Wondering how to dispose of him, safely, cleanly, with the minimum of fuss. Wondering where they would find a trigger, the catalyst who could flush him out of his lair. Time and fate had finally provided that, but not by chance.

He pointed an accusing finger at Hanrahan. “You told him, you bastard.” The Irishman said nothing. His eyebrows rose a fraction. “You told Fosse about us. You set him against me, thinking that would be a swift end to it. You never guessed what he’d do instead. All these other people, Brendan. Alicia Vaccarini. Valena. Those poor bastards Falcone sent out to watch over him. Don’t you feel the slightest sense of guilt?”

Hanrahan drew himself up in the chair, preparing to go. “You’re rambling again, Michael. All wars have their casualties. The trick is making sure you’re not among them. Do yourself a favor and focus on that.”

Denney rose swiftly from his seat, crossed the room and brought his hands to the Irishman’s throat. Age and agility were not on his side.

Hanrahan was on his feet in an instant, knocking his arms away, standing there ready to fight. He had big fists and they were now half raised. Denney tried to remember who he was, who he still would be in his own head, whatever they did to him.

“Anger’s such a wasteful emotion,” Hanrahan said. “You should have spent more time dealing with yours, Michael, and a little less beneath the sheets.”

“Get the hell out of here,” Denney spat.

“Midday,” Hanrahan continued. “I’ll come to make sure you’re gone. Don’t worry. The press will be elsewhere. You’ll leave in privacy.”

He extended a hand, waited, then withdrew it. “You must place a terribly low value on your life, Michael.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’ve saved it so many times. Here I am saving it again. And not so much as a word of thanks.”

He looked at his watch. They had their arrangements. Michael Denney closed his eyes and prayed for the call.

It was two minutes late but it came.