"The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud" - читать интересную книгу автора (Navarro Julia)7AS HE PARKED HIS CAR OUTSIDE THE JAIL, Marco thought he was probably wasting his time. Two years earlier, he hadn't been able to get anything out of the tongueless man, or "the mute," as he always called him. He'd brought in a doctor, a specialist, who examined the man and assured Marco that his hearing was perfect, that there was no physical reason he couldn't hear. Yet the mute had remained so tightly locked within himself that it was hard to know whether he could really hear or, if he could, whether he had any understanding of what was being said to him. It was more than likely that the same thing would happen now, but Marco felt compelled to see him nevertheless. The warden was not in, but he'd left orders that Marco was to be allowed to do whatever he asked. What he asked was to be left alone with the prisoner. "No problem," said the head jailer. "He's a real quiet guy. He never makes any trouble-in fact, he's kind of mystical, you know? He'd rather be in the chapel than out in the yard with the others. He hasn't got much time left on his sentence; they let him off easy, three years. So another year and he's on the street. If he'd had a lawyer he could've asked for early out on good behavior, but he didn't. No lawyer, no visitors, nothing…" "Does he understand when people talk to him?" "Huh! Now, "That clears that up." "It's that the guy's strange, you know? I mean, I'd never take him for a thief; he sure doesn't act like one. He spends all his time looking straight ahead or sitting in the chapel." "Does he ever read or write? He's never put in a request for books, a newspaper, anything?" "No, never. He never watches television-he's not even interested in the World Cup. He's never gotten mail, and he doesn't write to anybody." When the mute entered the interview room where Marco was waiting for him, his eyes showed no surprise-just indifference. He remained standing near the door, his eyes lowered slightly, his posture expectant but unfearing. Marco gestured for him to sit down, but the man remained on his feet. "I don't know whether you understand me or not, but I suspect you do." The mute raised his eyes off the floor slighdy, in a gesture that would be imperceptible to anyone not a professional in human behavior-but Marco was a professional. "Your friends have broken into the cathedral again. This time they set a fire. Fortunately, the shroud was unharmed." The man betrayed not the slightest reaction. His features remained unmoving, seemingly without any effort on his part. Yet Marco had the impression that his probes, his flailings in the dark, were hitting something. Perhaps, after two years in prison, the mute was more vulnerable than when he'd been arrested. "I suppose it makes a man desperate, being in here. I won't waste your time, because I don't want to waste mine either. You had a year left, and I say 'had' because we've reopened your case in the course of our investigation of this fire in the cathedral a few days ago. A man was burned to death-a man without a tongue, like you. So you may have a long wait in jail while we proceed, tie up all the loose ends-two, three, four years, it's hard to say. Which brings me to why I'm here. If you let me know who you are and who your friends are, we might be able to reach an agreement. I'd try to convince the authorities to let you out early, and if you're afraid of your friends, you could go into our witness protection program. That means a new identity, and Marco proffered a card with his phone numbers. "If you want to get in touch with me, show this card to the guards; they'll call me." Nothing. Marco left the card on the table. "It's your life, not mine." As he left the interview room he avoided the temptation to look back. He'd played the role of the tough cop and one of two things had happened-either he'd wasted a little time or, against the odds, he'd managed to plant the seed of doubt in the man's mind and he just might react. When the mute returned to his cell, he fell onto his cot and stared up at the ceiling. He knew security cameras covered every inch of the chamber, so he had to remain impassive. A year-he had thought he would be free again in a year. Now this man had told him it might be Since he deliberately shunned the television and other sources of news in the prison, he knew almost nothing of what was happening in the outside world. Addaio had told them that if they were captured they were to isolate themselves, serve out their sentence, and find a way back home. Now Addaio had sent another team. He'd tried again. A fire, a brother dead, and the police once more searching for clues. In prison he had had time to think, and the conclusion was obvious: There was a traitor among them. It was not possible otherwise that every time they planned an action something went wrong and somebody wound up in prison or dead. Yes, there was a traitor among them, and there'd been one in the past as well. He was certain of that. He had to go back and make Addaio see that, convince him to investigate, find the person responsible for so many failures and for his own misery, the years in jail. But he had to wait, whatever that meant to him personally. If this man had offered him a deal, it was because he had nowhere else to turn. It was a bluff, and he couldn't fall for it. His strength came from his resolute silence, the strict isolation he imposed on himself, the vows he had made. He had been well trained for this. But how terribly he had suffered during these two years without a book, without news from the outside world, without communicating, even by signs, with the other prisoners. He had convinced the guards that he was a poor inoffensive mental case, remorseful at having tried to steal from the cathedral, which was why he sat in the chapel and prayed. That's what he'd heard them say when they talked about him. He knew they felt sorry for him. Now he must go on playing his role and hope that they trusted him and would talk in front of him. They did that all the time, because for them, he was just part of the furniture. He had deliberately left the man's card on the table in the interview room. He had not even touched it. Now he had to wait-wait for another year to pass. "He left the card right where you put it-didn't even touch it." The warden had called Marco to report the status of his prisoner, as promised. 'And have you noticed anything unusual these past few days?" "Nothing. He's the same as always. He goes to the chapel when he's out of his cell, and when he's in his cell he's staring at the ceiling. The cameras record him twenty-four hours a day. If he did anything unusual I'd call you." "Thanks." Marco hung up. He thought he'd struck a nerve, but he was wrong. The investigation was going nowhere. Minerva would be arriving any minute. He'd asked her to come to Turin because he wanted the entire team on hand. Maybe if they all sat down together they'd be able to see something. They'd stay on in Turin for two or three more days, but then they had to go back to Rome; they couldn't devote themselves exclusively to this case-that wouldn't fly with the department, much less the ministries. And the worst thing that could happen would be somebody starting to think he was obsessed. The guys upstairs were already restive-the shroud was unharmed, no damage done, nothing taken from the cathedral. There was the body of one of the perps, of course, but nobody had figured out who he was, and nobody seemed to care much either. Sofia and Pietro walked into the office. Giuseppe had gone to the airport to pick up Minerva, and Antonino, always punctual, had been there for some time, reading files. Sofia raised a hand in greeting. "How're things, boss?" "Great. The warden assures me the mute hasn't taken the bait-it's like I was never there." "That sounds like the way he's acted since the beginning," said Pietro. "Yeah, I guess so." A peal of laughter and the clacking of high heels announced the arrival of Minerva. She and Giuseppe came in, laughing. The atmosphere brightened with Minerva's arrival, as it always did. She was happily married to a software engineer who, like her, was an authentic computer genius, and she seemed to be in a perpetual good mood. After the usual round of greetings, the meeting got under way. "Okay," said Marco, "let's go over what we've got. And when we're done I want each and every one of you to give me your opinion. Pietro, you start." "First, the fire. The company that's doing the work in the cathedral is named COCSA. I've interrogated everyone who's working on the electrical system-nobody knows anything, and I think they're telling the truth. Most of them are Italian, although there are a couple of immigrants: two Turks and three Albanians. Their papers are all in order, including work permits. 'According to them, they get to the cathedral every morning at eight-thirty, as the first Mass is ending. As soon as the worshippers leave, the doors are closed and there are no more services until six in the evening, when the workers go home. They take a break for lunch, from one-thirty to four. At four sharp they're back, and they get off at six. 'Although the electrical system is not all that old, they're removing it to install better lighting in some of the chapels. They're also repairing some of the walls- humidity has caused chunks of stucco to come loose and drop off. They figure that they'd have been done in two or three more weeks. "None of them remembers anything unusual happening the day of the fire. In the area where the fire broke out, there were three men working: one of the Turks-a guy named Tariq-and two Italians. They say they can't understand how the short circuit happened. All three of them swear they left the wiring in order when they went to lunch at a little tavern near the cathedral. They have no idea how it happened." "But it did happen," said Sofia. Pietro glared at her and went on: "The workers are happy with the company; they say the pay is good and the bosses treat them well. They told me that Padre Yves oversees the work in the cathedral, that he's a nice guy but he doesn't miss a thing, and that he's very clear about how he wants the work done. They see the cardinal when he officiates at the eight o'clock Mass and a couple of times when he's reviewed the work with Padre Yves." Marco lit a cigarette, despite Minerva's reproachful look. "But," Pietro went on, "the experts' report is conclusive. Apparently some cables that were hanging above the altar in the Virgin Chapel touched and caused a short circuit; that's where the fire started. An accident? Oversight? Neglect? Hard to say. The workers swear they left the cables apart, in perfect condition, but we have to ask ourselves whether that's true or just self-justification. I interviewed Padre Yves. He assured me the workers have always seemed very professional, but he's convinced that somebody fucked up. Not a direct quotation, by the way." "Who was in the cathedral at the time of the fire?" asked Marco. 'Apparently," Pietro answered, "just the porter, an older guy, about sixty-five. People are in the offices until two, when they go to lunch. They come back around four-thirty. The fire started around three, so the porter was the only one there. He was in shock. When I interrogated him he broke down crying; he was scared, you could tell. His name is Francesco Turgut-an Italian citizen, father Turkish, mother Italian. Born and raised in Turin. His father worked at Fiat, and his mother was the daughter of the porter in the cathedral and helped him clean it. The Church maintains a house for the porter that actually shares a wall with the cathedral, and when Turgut's mother and father married, they moved in with the mother's parents, into the porter's residence. Francesco was born there; the cathedral is his home, and he says he feels guilty for not having been able to prevent the fire." "Did he hear anything?" Minerva asked. "No, he was watching TV and was half asleep. He gets up early to open the cathedral and the office annex. He says he jumped up when somebody rang the buzzer at the door. A man passing by in the piazza alerted him to the smoke. He ran in and discovered the fire and immediately set off the alarm and called the firemen. Since then he's been beside himself-all he does is cry. He says he walked through the cathedral before closing it up, and nobody was there. Part of his work is precisely that-seeing that nobody remains inside. He swears that when he turned off the lights, the cathedral was empty." "So what do you think?" Marco asked him. "Was it set intentionally, or do you think it was caused by neglect or some sort of accident?" Pietro hesitated. "If we hadn't found the body, I'd say it was an accident. But we've got the body of a man we don't know anything about, except that he's missing a tongue, just like the other guy. What was he doing there? "Plus," Pietro went on, "somebody, in fact, broke in. The side door to the offices was forced. You can get from there to the cathedral. There are marks on the doorjamb. Whoever it was knew how to get in and how to get inside the cathedral. Since he did it without attracting the porter's attention, we assume he did it pretty quietly and when he knew there'd be nobody there." "We're sure," Giuseppe put in, "that the thief, or thieves, knew somebody who works in the cathedral or has some relationship to it. Somebody who told them that that day, at that hour, there wouldn't be anybody around." "Why are we sure of that?" Minerva asked. "Because in this fire," Giuseppe said, "as in the purported robbery attempt two years ago, as in the fire in '97, as in all the other 'accidents,' the thieves knew there was no one inside. There's just one entrance besides the main entrance that's open to the public-the entrance to the offices. The others are permanendy boarded over. And it's always been that side door that's been forced. The door is reinforced, but that's no problem for professionals. We think there were other men with our dead guy and they got away. Raiding a cathedral is not something one man does alone. According to the records, all these incidents have taken place when work is being done on the church. Whoever these guys are, they seem to take advantage of repairs to get people in there when no one else is around, maybe short-circuit some wiring or flood the place or otherwise create chaos. But this time, like all the times before, they didn't take anything. Which is why we keep asking ourselves-what were they looking for?" "The shroud," said Marco. "But why? To destroy it? To steal it? I don't know. I wonder whether forcing the door isn't a red herring, something they do to throw us off. It's too obvious… I don't know… Minerva, what've you got?" "I can tell you that one of the controlling shareholders of the company in charge of the work, COCSA, is Umberto D'Alaqua. I've mentioned this to Sofia and sent you some of it by e-mail. This is a solid company that works for the Church, not just in Turin but all over Italy. D'Alaqua is a man the Vatican knows well and thinks highly of. He works with them as a consultant on some of the Vatican's big-and I mean big-investments, and he's made the Church large loans for operations where the Vatican wants to keep its presence quiet. He is trusted at the highest levels and he's also taken part in delicate diplomatic missions for the Church. His businesses range from construction to steel, including oil exploration, etc., etc. He owns a big block of COCSA. 'And he's an interesting man. Single, attractive, fifty-seven years old, serious. Never makes any show of the money or power he has. He's never seen at jet-set parties, never been known to have a girlfriend." "Gay?" Sofia asked. "No, apparently not, but boy, does he walk the straight and narrow. It's as though he's taken a vow of chastity, although he doesn't belong to Opus Dei or any other lay order that would indicate a particularly religious bent. His hobby is archaeology-he's financed excavations in Israel, Egypt, and Turkey, and he himself has actually worked at the digs in Israel a couple of seasons." "It doesn't sound like Signor D'Alaqua jumps out as a prime suspect," Sofia commented wryly. "No, but he's quite a figure," Minerva insisted. "As is Professor Bolard. These guys are heavyweights. See, boss, this professor is a renowned French chemist, one of the most famous investigators associated with the shroud. He's been studying it for over thirty-five years, doing tests on it, probing every aspect imaginable. Every three or four months he comes to Turin; he's one of the main scientists the Church has entrusted with the conservation of the shroud. They don't take a step without consulting him." "Right," added Giuseppe. "Before moving the shroud to the bank, Padre Yves spoke with Bolard, who gave very precise instructions as to how the transfer was to be done. Years ago a small room was constructed for it, literally inside the bank vault, and it was built to the specifications of Bolard and other scholars." "Okay, well, so Bolard," Minerva continued, "is the owner of a big chemical company. He's single and rich as Croesus, just like D'Alaqua, and has never been known to have a romance either." "So… do D'Alaqua and Bolard know each other?" Marco asked. "Not that I've found, although I'm still working on that. Of course, there'd be nothing strange if they did-Bolard also has a passion for the ancient world, and they're both involved with the Vatican. They travel in the same circles." "What have you found out about our Padre Yves?" Marco asked her. "Quite a guy, this priest of ours. "The only peculiar thing about him-for a priest, anyway-is that he likes martial arts. Apparently as a child he was kind of a ninety-seven-pound weakling, so to keep him from being hammered on all the time, his father decided he needed to learn karate. He took to it, and besides having his black belt with who knows how many notches or whatever in it, he's also a master at tae kwon do, kickboxing, and aikido. The martial arts seem to be his only indulgence, but considering the other predilections one runs across in the Vatican, this one is nothing. Oh, and despite how good-looking he is-I'm judging by the photographs-he's never been known to stray from his vows of chastity, with girls "What else have we got?" Marco asked without aiming the question at anyone in particular. "We've got squat, boss," Giuseppe said. "We're still at square one. No leads and, what's worse, no motive. We'll look into the door being forced if you think it could be a plant to throw us off, but then where the hell do they get in and out? We've gone over the cathedral with a fine-tooth comb, and I can promise you there are no secret doors or passages. The cardinal laughed when we asked him about that possibility. He assured us that the cathedral has nothing like that. And I think he's right-we've looked at the maps of the tunnels that run under big parts of the city, and in that area there aren't any. In fact, Turin makes a lot of money taking tourists into the tunnels and giving them the history of its hero, Pietro Micca, and there's no hint of anything under the cathedral." "The motive is the shroud," Marco insisted. "They're looking for the shroud. I'm still not sure whether they want to steal it or destroy it, but the objective is the shroud, that I'm sure of. Okay, any suggestions?" There followed an uneasy silence. Sofia looked over at Pietro, but Pietro, head down, was busying himself lighting a cigarette, so she decided to just dive in. "Marco, I'd turn the mute loose." Everyone stared at her. Sofia plunged on. "I mean, if you're right, Marco, and this is an organized, long-term effort to go after the shroud, then it's clear that this mutilation is part of their M.O.-they send tongueless men in to do the job, so if they're caught, like this guy in the Turin jail, they can keep silent, cut themselves off, not be tempted to communicate. And not only tongueless, right? Their fingerprints are burned off, so there's no way to discover who they are, where they come from. And in my opinion, Marco, threatening this guy is not going to get you anywhere. He let somebody cut out his tongue and burn off his fingerprints-do you think "We can do one of two things: wait a year, or try to convince the big boys upstairs to approve a new line of investigation-turn the guy loose, and once he's on the street put a tail on him. He'll have to go somewhere, get in touch with somebody. "It's a thread that might lead us through this knot, get us into the conspiracy-our own Trojan horse. If you decide to go that route, though, there're a lot of preparations that have to be made first. We can't turn him loose right away; we'd have to wait I'd say at least a couple of months and even then do a lot of acting so he doesn't suspect why we've let him go." "God, we've been idiots," Marco said after a long moment. Then he slammed his fist down on the table. "How could we have been so stupid! Us, the cara-binieri, everybody. We had the solution right in front of us, and we've spent the last two years with our heads up our asses." Marco's next words dispelled any final doubts Sofia had about her thinking. "Sofia, you're dead right. It's what we should have done from the beginning. I'll talk to the ministers and explain it to them-we need to get them to talk to the judges, the prosecutor, whoever, but get them to let him out, and from there we start an operation to follow him, every step he takes. No one can argue seriously anymore that this is random. And I'll make sure that no one wants to be on the wrong side of securing the shroud for good. It's time-well past time-to get to the bottom of what's been going on. And end it." "Boss," Pietro interrupted, "we shouldn't rush into this. Let's think first about how to sell the mute guy the idea that we're turning him loose. Two months, as Sofia suggests, doesn't seem like enough time, considering that you just talked to him and told him he was going to rot in jail. If we turn him loose now, he'll know it's a trap and he won't move." Minerva shifted uncomfortably in her chair, while Giuseppe looked distracted and Antonino stared into space. They knew that Marco expected to hear from each of them. 'Antonino, why haven't you said anything?" Marco asked the team's other art historian. "Honestly, boss, I think Sofia's plan is brilliant. I think we ought to do it, but I agree with Pietro that we can't turn the guy loose too soon; I'm almost inclined to let him serve out the year he's got left." 'And meanwhile what? Sit back and wait for the next group to try something?" Marco almost shouted. "The shroud," Antonino replied, "is in its own vault at the bank, and it can stay there for the next year. It won't be the first time it's spent that long without being exhibited to the public." "He's right," Minerva broke in, "and you know it. I mean, I agree that it's hard to have to sit and wait, but if we don't, we could lose the only lead we've got." "Giuseppe?" "I hate to wait, boss," the cop answered. "But I think we have to." "I don't want to wait," Marco said emphatically. "Not a year." "Well, it's the most sensible thing to do," Giuseppe argued. "I'd do more." All eyes turned back to Sofia. Marco raised his eyebrows and extended his hands, inviting her to go on. "In my opinion we need to go back to the workers and interrogate them again, until we're absolutely certain that the short circuit was really an accident. We also need to investigate COCSA, which means interviewing D'Alaqua too. Behind that impressive facade there could be something we've missed." Pietro glared at her. He was the one who'd interrogated the workers, and he'd done so exhaustively. He had a file on every one of them, the Italians as well as the immigrants, and he'd found nothing on them in either the police computers, the files of Europol, or the background checks he'd done. They were clean. "You think we need to have another go at them because they're foreigners?" he snapped. Sofia rounded on him. "You know that's not it, and I resent the implication, Pietro. I said exactly what I think; I think we should go back and investigate them all again, Italians and foreigners both, and if you pushed me I'd say the cardinal too." "We'll all go over what we've done so far, and we won't close off any line of investigation," Marco interjected, to cut off their escalating debate. Pietro squirmed angrily in his seat. "What is this, we're going to make everybody a suspect?" Marco didn't like his tone. "We're going to continue our investigation," he repeated. "But I'm going back to Rome now. I want to talk to the ministers; we need to get their green light on the Trojan horse plan. I'll try to come up with some way to turn the mute loose sooner rather than later, without him suspecting that something's up. I want two or three of you to stay here for a few more days. The others will go back with me, but I want it clear that everyone is still on the case. Work it into whatever you've already got on deck. Okay, then-who's staying?" "I will," said Sofia. "Me too," said Giuseppe and Antonino simultaneously. "I think," remarked Minerva, "that I'll be more useful with my computers back in Rome." 'All right. Minerva and Pietro will go with me. I think there's a plane at three." Sofia and Pietro sat in silence. Marco had left to stop by the office of the chief of the Turin carabinieri before he went to the airport, while Minerva, Giuseppe, and Antonino had decided to go down to the bar on the corner for coffee, to give the couple some privacy. Everyone had noticed the tension between them. She busied herself with papers, while he stared out the window. 'Are you angry?" Sofia finally asked. "No! You don't have to tell me everything you're thinking." "Come on, Pietro, I know when you're upset." "I don't feel like arguing about it. You came up with a half-baked plan that I could have helped you with if you had talked to me about it. But you talked Marco into it, so that's a gold star for you. And now we'll all work to make sure your Trojan horse works. Don't brood about it, or we'll wind up in a stupid fight that won't get us anywhere except pissed." "Is your problem with the plan that it came from me? Or do you really see weak spots?" "It's a mistake to turn the mute guy loose. He'll figure out that something's not right and he won't lead us anywhere. We'll probably wind up losing him. As for investigating the workers again, go right ahead. Let me know if you find anything." Sofia didn't bother to respond. She was glad he was going back to Rome. If he stayed, they'd wind up Yes, the best thing was for Pietro to go back to Rome; a few days would pass and everything would go back to normal. They'd kiss and make. up… |
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