Read Online Pope's Assassin by Luis Miguel Rocha - Free Book Online
Authors: Luis Miguel Rocha
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was in front of the hotel at the bottom of the steps. A Mercedes with tinted windows.
The young cleric opened the door of the vehicle, and Sarah looked inside. Her jaw dropped. Inside, comfortably seated and smoking a cigar, was a man in scarlet vestments, a gold cross hanging on his chest, his cardinal's cap on his lap.
"Good evening, Sarah Monteiro," he greeted her. "Let's take a ride, shall we?"
13
C onversations between friends are continuous. Even if they are years apart, they always resume them, as if they had just seen each other only the day before. And the day before in some friendships could have been three and a half years earlier. Hans Schmidt and Tarci sio enjoyed this kind of friendship.
An immediate embrace followed their handshake. Then two kisses. Tarcisio let his eyes fill with tears, but none dared to spill down his face. Schmidt was not so overcome, but that didn't mean he had not missed his friend. He was simply less demonstrative. He had always been called "the Austrian iceman."
"How are you, my friend?" Tarcisio examined his friend closely with a smile.
"As God wishes," Schmidt replied, looking at his friend.
"Sit down, sit down." Tarcisio pointed to an old brown leather sofa. "You must be tired. Did you have a good trip?"
"Very pleasant," Schmidt said, accepting Tarcisio's invitation to sit and letting his body rest on the sofa. He crossed his legs. "Without delays or problems."
Tarcisio sat down next to him. They were in his offi ce, which Schmidt had never been inside before. Very spacious, a large oak desk next to one of the wide closed windows that separated them from the Roman night outside.
A tense silence settled in. The small talk was almost exhausted.
"Did you have dinner? Do you want something to eat?" Tarcisio offered.
"I'm fine, Tarcisio, thank you."
Schmidt rarely felt hungry. Often during the time he was assigned to Rome, which seemed like ages past, he forgot to eat. He would faint from weakness. Schmidt was obstinate and dedicated himself completely to the tasks he was given, whether they were his studies or, later, his pastoral functions. For some years he was removed from these duties that gave him so much pleasure, helping Tarcisio with the more administrative and episcopal duties he knew were necessary, but didn't fulfi ll him. Whether he liked them or not, he performed them proficiently. Tarcisio had enor mous appreciation for him as a man, a cleric, and above all a friend.
"Are we going to talk about your problem?" Schmidt inquired. His approach to problems was simple and direct; he didn't avoid them or turn his back to them. If they existed, they had to be solved at once, so that they did not return to defeat him. God protects the audacious.
Tarcisio looked at the floor to find the right words, but feared words were fleeing him like water through his fingers. He decided to be direct, like his friend. Schmidt would not permit any other way.
"The Status Quo was broken." He got it off his chest, and lifted his gaze to an indefinite point on the wall where there was a large portrait of the Supreme Pontiff, his face with a neutral expression. He waited for Schmidt's reaction.
"Lay it all out" was the only reply, with a German accent to his Ital ian, normally fl awless.
Tarcisio needed his friend's sharp, lucid mind. No solution pre sented itself unless all the facts were at hand. Tarcisio opted again for the concise, cold recounting of the elements, no matter the cost.
"They killed Aragones and Zafer, and Sigfried has disappeared; so have Ben Isaac and his son." He threw out the names and facts point blank, as if mentioning them freed him from them or transferred them to Schmidt. He felt selfish for a moment, but it passed.
"When did they die?" Schmidt questioned him without emotion. If he felt anything, he didn't
The young cleric opened the door of the vehicle, and Sarah looked inside. Her jaw dropped. Inside, comfortably seated and smoking a cigar, was a man in scarlet vestments, a gold cross hanging on his chest, his cardinal's cap on his lap.
"Good evening, Sarah Monteiro," he greeted her. "Let's take a ride, shall we?"
13
C onversations between friends are continuous. Even if they are years apart, they always resume them, as if they had just seen each other only the day before. And the day before in some friendships could have been three and a half years earlier. Hans Schmidt and Tarci sio enjoyed this kind of friendship.
An immediate embrace followed their handshake. Then two kisses. Tarcisio let his eyes fill with tears, but none dared to spill down his face. Schmidt was not so overcome, but that didn't mean he had not missed his friend. He was simply less demonstrative. He had always been called "the Austrian iceman."
"How are you, my friend?" Tarcisio examined his friend closely with a smile.
"As God wishes," Schmidt replied, looking at his friend.
"Sit down, sit down." Tarcisio pointed to an old brown leather sofa. "You must be tired. Did you have a good trip?"
"Very pleasant," Schmidt said, accepting Tarcisio's invitation to sit and letting his body rest on the sofa. He crossed his legs. "Without delays or problems."
Tarcisio sat down next to him. They were in his offi ce, which Schmidt had never been inside before. Very spacious, a large oak desk next to one of the wide closed windows that separated them from the Roman night outside.
A tense silence settled in. The small talk was almost exhausted.
"Did you have dinner? Do you want something to eat?" Tarcisio offered.
"I'm fine, Tarcisio, thank you."
Schmidt rarely felt hungry. Often during the time he was assigned to Rome, which seemed like ages past, he forgot to eat. He would faint from weakness. Schmidt was obstinate and dedicated himself completely to the tasks he was given, whether they were his studies or, later, his pastoral functions. For some years he was removed from these duties that gave him so much pleasure, helping Tarcisio with the more administrative and episcopal duties he knew were necessary, but didn't fulfi ll him. Whether he liked them or not, he performed them proficiently. Tarcisio had enor mous appreciation for him as a man, a cleric, and above all a friend.
"Are we going to talk about your problem?" Schmidt inquired. His approach to problems was simple and direct; he didn't avoid them or turn his back to them. If they existed, they had to be solved at once, so that they did not return to defeat him. God protects the audacious.
Tarcisio looked at the floor to find the right words, but feared words were fleeing him like water through his fingers. He decided to be direct, like his friend. Schmidt would not permit any other way.
"The Status Quo was broken." He got it off his chest, and lifted his gaze to an indefinite point on the wall where there was a large portrait of the Supreme Pontiff, his face with a neutral expression. He waited for Schmidt's reaction.
"Lay it all out" was the only reply, with a German accent to his Ital ian, normally fl awless.
Tarcisio needed his friend's sharp, lucid mind. No solution pre sented itself unless all the facts were at hand. Tarcisio opted again for the concise, cold recounting of the elements, no matter the cost.
"They killed Aragones and Zafer, and Sigfried has disappeared; so have Ben Isaac and his son." He threw out the names and facts point blank, as if mentioning them freed him from them or transferred them to Schmidt. He felt selfish for a moment, but it passed.
"When did they die?" Schmidt questioned him without emotion. If he felt anything, he didn't
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