Papal decree

43

Hans Schmidt entered the papal apartments escorted by Daniel and two more plainclothes Swiss Guards, who stayed in the background. Two others in uniform were standing at attention by the doors giving access to the papal privacy. They saluted the officer passing by them, and he returned the gesture to his men.

‘Have they caught the murderer?’ Schmidt asked, out of breath with the fast pace imposed on him.

‘We can’t reveal details of the investigation,’ the commander of Pontifical Security told him.

‘I understand.’

They made the rest of the walk in silence, except for the sound of shoes and boots striking the floor. Schmidt had not been there for several years. The first time was in the 1980s in the time of Pope John Paul II, or Lolek, as he asked to be called in perfect German. That first time was always an unforgettable experience. Meeting the Supreme Pontiff, for a priest, was something transcendent, practically like meeting God in person. Lolek was the personification of Him. With the passage of time and more visits, Schmidt grew accustomed to the sumptuous place, the niches with statues of Pius IX, Benedict XIV, Pius XII, and Leo XIII, in a papal pose, all with the tiara on their heads, the symbol of eternal and secular power. Schmidt recognized the door that led to the pope’s study a few feet away, with two sentinels with lances, immobile as the walls, ready to give their life for the Supreme Pontiff at any moment.

Two empty niches waited for history to fill them with new personages, from the past or the present, by some patron closer to the arts than politics.

The sentinels saluted their superior and opened the doors. Schmidt examined the study. It was different from what he remembered. More austere, less happy. In Lolek’s time it was completely disorganized. Papers stacked everywhere, even on the seats of chairs. This study seemed arranged and decorated to appear in the next issue of a design magazine. Even the sun seemed shy about illuminating it with its rays. It was from that window that Ratzinger addressed the world every Sunday, but the Supreme Pontiff was not in the office, only Tarcisio, who looked through a crack in the white curtains at the square below, teeming with tourists and faithful completely ignorant of the blood spilled inside the walls of the holy state.

‘Your Eminence,’ Daniel called, since Tarcisio had not noticed their presence.

The secretary turned as if he were returning to earth. ‘Ah, you’ve arrived.’ He extended both hands to Schmidt like a cry for help. ‘My good friend.’

Schmidt took Tarcisio’s hands in his own. ‘Difficult times, but they will pass, Tarcisio, that is certain.’

Tarcisio looked at the Swiss Guard. ‘Leave us, Colonel.’

Daniel and his men retired without turning their backs.

‘Pope Benedict?’ Schmidt wanted to know.

‘He’s in a secure location. The two of us cannot be in the same place. Security protocol. We are under threat, Hans.’ He was silent a few seconds. ‘Since Albino Luciani, no one has died this way on this soil,’ he shared with Schmidt.

‘Who was the victim?’

Tarcisio hesitated before speaking the name of the person, who was a man of the church yesterday, and at that moment was no more than a story; it was as if saying it would transform the name into a truth Tarcisio didn’t want to confront. ‘Ursino,’ he finally said, closing his eyes to contain his suffering.

Schmidt helped him to the papal chair, where Tarcisio sat down, drained.

‘The murderer?’

Tarcisio shook his head no. ‘Still nothing.’

‘Just tonight I spoke with him,’ Schmidt remembered.

‘How do you deal with such a tragic death?’ Tarcisio asked. He was a man falling in a well of doubts.

‘Like all the others, my friend,’ Schmidt reassured him in a firm voice. ‘Death is a part of life. Celebrate his good moments and don’t consider the process a loss, but a privilege. You were part of Ursino’s life. You illuminated the way, each for the other.’

‘But we’ll never do it again,’ Tarcisio protested.

‘But you did once. Don’t feel sorrow for what cannot be. The future doesn’t belong to us. What’s important is that it happened when it happened and it was good. Life is always changing. Nothing is forever. You’re old enough to know that.’

‘That’s easy to say,’ the secretary argued.

Schmidt continued to console him. ‘I understand, Tarcisio, but remember that mourning is a selfish act. To weep for someone who dies is an offense to the life that he lived and we lived with him.’

The two men concluded what was a strange conversation, at least as far as Tarcisio was concerned. He was confused and didn’t want to explore that philosophy. The church would always prevail in its ancient ways; that’s how it was.

‘Why did you call for me?’ the Austrian iceman finally asked.

‘Because… because I don’t know whom to trust,’ Tarcisio confessed. ‘Someone murdered a priest inside our walls. An important priest, as you know. I’m walking blindly. I need light.’

‘You must be cold, Tarcisio.’

The secretary looked at him, overcome. The situation called for urgent measures. It was a century since the church had been attacked by such an implacable enemy, and, worse, an invisible enemy. Who could be behind such a diabolical scheme? What devil wanted to finish off the church? With a face, a description, one could plan a counter-attack, take a position on the chessboard. It was better than nothing.

‘We’re living in difficult, ungovernable times.’

‘We have to steady our minds and analyze things coolly,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Let’s start with what we know.’

‘We know they killed four of the Five Gentlemen.’

‘We should have put Ursino under security as soon as we knew about what had happened to the others,’ Tarcisio lamented.

‘No, no, no. Nothing you think now will change what happened. Ursino is out. They’ve killed four Gentlemen. The fifth is left, and then there’s Ben Isaac. Do you think we should put them under security?’

‘The fifth is always safe. Ben Isaac takes care of his own.’

‘Okay, what else do we know?’

Tarcisio put his face in his hands. He was exhausted.

‘We don’t know anything else,’ Tarcisio said.

At that moment the doors opened, admitting Cardinal William.

‘We know that the assassin is a Jesuit,’ he informed them with a smile.

‘A what?’ Tarcisio and Schmidt asked at once.

‘I’ve just obtained confirmation. The murderer is a Jesuit. But there’s more… the society should be current with the situation.

Schmidt’s placidity changed to perplexity. ‘The Society of Jesus?’

‘None other,’ William confirmed.

‘But why?’ Tarcisio wanted to know.

‘It doesn’t seem possible to me,’ Schmidt argued.

‘It’s being verified at this very moment,’ William told them. ‘You’re going to be meeting with the superior general of the society this afternoon, right?’

Tarcisio shivered, remembering the scheduled meeting. ‘Yes.’

‘You have to press him. Don’t meet behind closed doors.’

Schmidt smiled. ‘Please, Your Eminence. Do you think the superior general might attempt something against the secretary of state of the Vatican?’

William didn’t reply.

‘Are we to consider the Jesuits our enemy?’ Schmidt asked.

Tarcisio and William shared a conspiratorial look for a few moments.

‘It’s possible,’ William finally said.

Schmidt remained skeptical.

‘What now?’ Tarcisio asked.

‘Now… we wait for a woman to play her part,’ William said, looking at the square below. And a man.

‘The church in the hands of a woman. Ironic,’ Tarcisio observed.

‘Not for the first time,’ William remembered.