Professor k the final q.., p.22
Professor K- The Final Quest, page 22
part #4 of Jack Rogan Mystery Series
‘His Eminence will be with you in a moment,’ said the young priest. He motioned towards a settee facing a marble fireplace, and withdrew. The walls on either side of the fireplace were crowded with paintings, mainly landscapes dating back to colonial times. Alexandra walked over to them, but before she could take a closer look, one of the doors opened, and the cardinal swept into the room.
‘I see the paintings caught your eye,’ he said.
‘This is better than the Sydney Art Gallery,’ replied Alexandra, pointing to the paintings. ‘Conrad Martens, Eugene von Guerard and even a Tom Roberts … and a McCubbin. Amazing.’
‘The Church has been here since early colonial days. I am only a temporary custodian,’ said the cardinal, smiling. ‘Thank you for coming over.’
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t far. It took me less than ten minutes to get here from the institute. We are almost neighbours.’
‘Quite. Some tea perhaps?’
‘Please.’
The cardinal walked over to the sideboard. ‘Mrs Kelly, my housekeeper, made this especially for you,’ he said, and pointed to a fruitcake on a silver platter. ‘You must have a big slice, or I’ll get into trouble. I don’t have many visitors, you see, and when I told her you were a Nobel prize winner, she became quite excited.’
‘I must thank her.’
‘She’ll appear any moment,’ said the cardinal, lowering his voice, ‘but you’ll have to speak loudly; she’s almost deaf, I’m afraid,’ he continued with a shrug. ‘I remind her of her grandson. That should give you an idea ...’
Enjoying the casual banter, Alexandra looked at the cardinal. How extraordinary, she thought, I feel like I’ve known this man all my life. As if on cue, a door opened and an old lady dressed in black entered carrying a tray with cups and a large teapot with a colourful tea cosy she had knitted herself.
‘So, what’s the verdict?’ asked the cardinal after Alexandra had thanked Mrs Kelly and eaten two slices of her delicious fruitcake.
‘The Gordon Institute and I would be honoured to help in any way we can,’ replied Alexandra.
‘Excellent; thank you,’ said the cardinal. It was the answer he had expected. He was watching Alexandra carefully. ‘Where to from here?’
‘Our top priority will have to be an accurate diagnosis of the disease. Without that, we are in the dark.’
‘Of course. And how do you intend to approach that?’
‘With genome sequencing.’
‘I understand.’
‘I would like to begin with sequencing His Holiness’s genome.’
The cardinal nodded. ‘You appreciate the urgency involved?’
‘I do. But do you appreciate the risks, Eminence?’
‘Risks?’
‘I don’t want to create high expectations. There are no guarantees here. A lot of this is new, uncharted territory. We are stepping into the unknown. In many ways, we are feeling our way ...’
‘Quite. What will you need to start it all?’ he asked.
‘A recent blood sample.’
‘Professor Montessori will provide that and everything else you may require. The Vatican’s entire medical team is at your disposal. The Church has a reliable courier service; fast and discreet. I can have a sample here within a couple of days.’
‘Excellent. But all of this is just the easy part, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We need more; a lot more. And that’s where things become … complicated.’
‘Oh?’
‘Allow me to explain: From what I’ve been able to piece together so far from the information provided by Professor Montessori, we are most likely dealing with a late-onset autoimmune disease.’
‘Do we know what could have caused this?’ asked the cardinal.
‘Yes. It’s all about inheritance; genes, I mean. If my interpretation turns out to be correct, then His Holiness’s disease would have resulted from inheriting germline mutations in both copies of his LRBA gene. One from his mother and another from his father. All the symptoms support this.’
Alexandra paused and looked at the cardinal sitting opposite. She could see from his expression that the significance of what she had just told him had not been fully appreciated.
‘Without going into too much technical detail at this stage,’ she continued, ‘what this means is …’ Alexandra paused again, searching for the best way to explain the complex subject without sounding patronising.
‘I think I know where this is heading,’ said the cardinal, stepping in.
‘You do?’
‘You would need to sequence the genomes of the parents for comparison, right?’
Alexandra looked at the cardinal, surprised. ‘Spot-on.’
‘And to be able to do that, you would need their DNA?’
‘Right again.’
‘But they are both dead.’
‘I suspected that,’ said Alexandra. ‘And that’s our problem, because without that, we cannot ...’
The cardinal stood up and walked over to one of the tall windows overlooking the cathedral. He clasped his arms behind his back and stared at the lofty steeple reaching towards heaven. ‘Is it possible to extract useful DNA from someone who’s been dead for say, twenty or so years?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s possible,’ replied Alexandra.
‘Have you done something like that before?’
‘Yes, but mainly for forensic identification purposes.’
‘How was it done?’
‘Well, we prepared sequencing libraries for our Illumina X-Ten machine I showed you the other day—’
‘How exactly?’ interrupted the cardinal, and turned around to face Alexandra.
‘We used exhumed long bones. In one recent case, the shaft of a femur. Sequencing libraries can be prepared from trace amounts of DNA isolated after grinding slices of bone to a powder. The bone was quite degraded, but we could still use it for short-fragment sequencing used today for genomes.’
‘If such a bone were to be made available say, from each dead parent, useful DNA could be extracted to allow genome sequencing?’ asked the cardinal. ‘For comparison purposes, I mean?’
‘Yes, that should be possible, provided certain strict procedures are observed to prevent contamination with DNA from live humans handling the samples.’
‘I understand.’
‘But surely, this is all purely hypothetical, Eminence?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His Holiness’s parents are buried in a family crypt in Venice. In lead-lined coffins. Tradition. If I remember correctly, they died about twenty or so years ago.’
‘You are not suggesting?’ said Alexandra, looking incredulous.
‘A little drastic, I know, but the gravity of the situation demands drastic measures. If this is the only way, then ...’
‘Are you seriously suggesting you could arrange something like that?’
‘You mean open the coffins and extract a femur from the remains of each parent?’
‘Yes.’
‘If the life of His Holiness depends on it, I will leave no stone unturned, not even a headstone if necessary.’
‘How will you do this?’
‘The Church has long arms ...’ came the cryptic reply.
‘You are full of surprises, Eminence,’ said Alexandra, and stood up.
‘And so are you, Professor Delacroix. Please leave this to me.’
33
Cimitero di San Michele, Venice: 31 May
It had rained during the night, and a dense fog hovered over Venice like a shroud, giving the facades of the palazzos along the Canal Grande an ethereal, ghostlike appearance. Conti had barely slept and was in the breakfast room on the first floor making phone calls. He had already briefed Grimaldi, and spoken to Forensics. Out of the three undertakers operating traditional funeral boats, two had been in the same family for over a century. However, one had recently changed hands and was owned by a corporation registered in the Cayman Islands, a tax haven frequently used by the Mafia. It had an office and an embalming room at the Cimitero di San Michele, the main cemetery of Venice.
By the time Cesaria walked into the dining room at seven, Conti had finished his breakfast and was sipping his third cup of coffee.
‘Have you slept at all?’ she asked, and joined him by the window, the fog outside muffling the sound of the motorboats and bells and casting a melancholy mood across the breakfast table. There was no-one else in the room.
‘A little, but time is precious and we haven’t much to go on here.’
‘Any leads?’
‘Could be. We start at the Cimitero di San Michele right here.’ Conti pointed to a small island on the map on the table in front of him.
‘Any reason?’
‘Just a hunch.’
‘How do you want to approach this?’
‘We speak to the undertaker and make an enquiry about a traditional Venetian funeral with all the whistles and bells.’
‘What, honouring Nonna’s departure with a final journey along the Canal Grande in a funeral gondola?’ asked Cesaria, smiling.
‘Something like that. We’ll take Jack and Tristan with us, but da Baggio and the countess should stay here. Just in case—’
‘There is another phone call?’ Cesaria finished his sentence.
Conti nodded. ‘And besides, no-one knows us here.’
‘Good point. When do you want to leave?’
‘As soon as we can.’
Because visibility was poor, progress was slow. The gardener who was driving the boat had to carefully feel his way along the busy waterways crowded with all kinds of vessels. ‘Almost there,’ he said, dodging a vaparetto packed with morning commuters. As they left the canal and entered the open lagoon, the fog parted to reveal a small island almost completely enclosed by a high wall. A beautiful church with a white Istrian stone facade dominated the water’s edge. Designed by Mauro Codussi, a renowned architect in 1469, the church of San Michele in Isola was the first example of Renaissance architecture in Venice.
‘San Michele?’ asked Conti.
‘Yes,’ replied the gardener, and put on speed.
‘Dedicated to Saint Michael. A most appropriate guardian of the faithful dead,’ said Tristan.
Cesaria turned around and looked at Tristan sitting behind her. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because he will hold the scales on Judgement Day.’
‘I see. Not only an expert in art, but biblical studies as well?’ teased Cesaria.
‘It is art that taught me all that. Renaissance paintings are full of biblical scenes and hidden meanings. You can’t understand Renaissance art without the religious bits.’
Cesaria nodded. What an extraordinary young man, she thought.
Unless there was a funeral, the island was usually deserted that early in the morning. That day, however, several boats, including a police launch, were tied up at the wharf, making it difficult to find a suitable spot to disembark. A young policeman stood on the wharf, watching.
‘I wonder what’s going on?’ asked Conti.
‘I’ll go and find out,’ said Cesaria.’
‘Good idea. Give him your best smile. We’ll wait here.’
Cesaria returned a few minutes later.
‘Well?’ said Conti.
‘An exhumation is in progress in the church over there.’
‘A criminal investigation?’ asked Jack.
‘No, not exactly. Something to do with the clergy. Apparently, some bigwigs from the Vatican are here overseeing things. The whole area is off limits at the moment.’
‘Great,’ said Conti, annoyed. ‘Did you ask about the undertaker?’
‘Yes. He’s in the church. You know; helping.’
‘Not a good time then.’
‘Doesn’t look like it. But I did ask the officer to see if we could have a quick word with the undertaker. I told him about Nonna’s funeral.’ Cesaria winked at Conti. ‘He understood.’
‘Okay. We wait.’
Cardinal Borromeo stood in the shadows, watching the two workmen operate the portable winch straddling a marble slab in front of a side altar. Chains had been attached to four iron rings set into the slab covering the entrance to the crypt. The crypt had served as the final resting place of the pope’s family for three centuries.
Cardinal Borromeo still had serious doubts about the exhumation, but Cardinal O’Brien had been adamant that it was the only way. And besides, His Holiness had given his permission, which had made all the difference. Wheels started turning. Professor Montessori and his assistant were standing by, ready to do what was necessary. Apart from the undertaker and his two workmen, the church was empty and the police had cordoned off the area to make sure they wouldn’t be disturbed. To open a grave inside a church was a serious matter, whatever the reason.
Professor Montessori turned to his assistant. ‘Remember, the main problem here is contamination,’ he said. ‘We must follow the protocol to the letter.’
The assistant, a young surgeon, nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Once the coffins have been opened, you and I will be the only ones down there. No-one else will handle the remains. Professor Delacroix’s instructions are clear.’
As soon as the marble slab had been lifted, exposing the entry to the crypt beneath the altar, Cardinal Borromeo walked over to Professor Montessori. ‘Ready?’ he asked, and looked down into the crypt, the cold air rising from below sending a shiver down his spine.
‘I still don’t know how you did it,’ said Montessori, shaking his head.
‘Persuade His Holiness?’
‘Yes. I was certain he would refuse. I know I would have.’
‘You forget, I’m a diplomat,’ interjected the cardinal, smiling. ‘Persuasion is my domain.’
‘Ah. That must be it.’
‘When faced with a choice between hospital and this ...’
‘You took advantage of a sick man,’ reprimanded Montessori.
‘No, an ambitious one. His Holiness knows if he doesn’t get better, the fragile peace process is bound to fail.’
‘Remind me never to say no to you,’ said Montessori, pointing a finger at the cardinal.
‘Let’s do it,’ said the cardinal, changing the subject.
‘I feel like a grave robber,’ said Montessori. ‘You and I should go down first and identify the sarcophagi.’
Cardinal Borromeo nodded and began to climb down the narrow set of stairs leading into the darkness below. ‘I know how you feel,’ he said, ‘but this is better than doing nothing.’
The young police officer walked over to the man in the dark suit standing in front of the church, smoking. ‘Are you the undertaker?’ he asked.
‘I am.’
‘Some people over there are looking for you,’ said the officer, and pointed to the wharf.
‘What do they want?’
‘Arranging a funeral. They asked if you had a funeral boat.’
‘Tell them to come back another time; I’m busy,’ replied the undertaker, annoyed.
The officer shrugged and walked back to the wharf.
They asked about a funeral boat, thought the undertaker, feeling uneasy as he watched the police officer talk to a young woman standing on the wharf. When the woman climbed into the waiting motorboat, the undertaker walked towards the wharf for a closer look. As the boat pulled away, he looked at Tristan sitting in the back with his head still bandaged. I wonder, he thought, watching the boat turn in front of him. Just before it accelerated, Tristan turned around and looked in the undertaker’s direction. Their eyes locked for an instant, igniting a flash of recognition in the undertaker. The guy under the bridge? the undertaker asked himself, remembering the daring abduction from a few days before. Then, shaking his head, he pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and dialled Belmonte’s number as the boat disappeared into the morning mist.
34
Istanbul: 1 June
Belmonte glanced nervously at his watch, again. He’s late, he thought, and ordered another drink. Belmonte was waiting for Bahadir in the restaurant bar to finalise urgent travel arrangements for the four young men and the doctor they had recruited in the container camp the day before.
Due to an unexpected change of plans by high rollers from Abu Dhabi, the date for the next Ars Moriendi session had to be brought forward by two days, making it almost impossible to groom the new combatants and get them ready. To overcome the problem, Gambio had offered to send his private plane to Istanbul to bring everyone back to Florence in time for the big game.
Belmonte, a meticulous planner, hated to work under such unexpected pressure. It undermined his modus operandi and took him out of his comfort zone. He was used to working independently and on his own, and knew from experience that haste was the enemy of caution, and therefore fertile ground for mistakes.
Bad news rarely travels alone. Belmonte was facing another serious problem with potentially disastrous consequences, and it all had to do with a phone call. The long journey back to Istanbul from the container camp had been exhausting. They had driven through the night and covered the twelve-hundred kilometres in record time. The phone call Belmonte had received from one of his men – the undertaker at the Cimitero di San Michele in Venice – had been unnerving. If the man was right about the sighting, the hostage had to be moved; at once. Belmonte didn’t believe in coincidences, only danger.
As soon as Belmonte set eyes on Bahadir hurrying towards him, he knew something was wrong. The worried look on Bahadir’s face was alarming. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Belmonte, frowning.
‘They’re gone! I still can’t believe it,’ stammered Bahadir.
‘What are you talking about? Who’s gone?’
‘The boys from the camp.’
‘What?’ Belmonte almost shouted.
‘They were all in the kitchen, being shown around by one of the cooks speaking Arabic, when it happened ...’
‘What happened?’ demanded Belmonte impatiently.
