‘Do you control the thinker?’
‘Totally.’
They didn’t speak for a few moments. Ursino mulled over what his friend had said and bit his nails.
‘Let’s not talk about this anymore or I’ll be invited to keep your society tomorrow morning at the hearing.’ He meant it as a joke, but didn’t manage to smile. When the last word left his mouth, Ursino felt his observation was in bad taste. ‘Are you prepared?’
‘For what?’ Hans asked.
‘For the hearing tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is only tomorrow. Now I’m simply here with you.’ He looked Ursino in the eye, very attentively, very calmly.
Ursino sniffed again and sighed. ‘On your way, and don’t contaminate me with those ideas.’
‘Nice seeing you,’ Schmidt said, getting up.
The phone rang abruptly at that moment, and Ursino answered it. ‘Hello, Ursino.’
Whatever had been said on the other end of the line transformed Ursino in a way that left him confused and indisposed. When he hung up, he raised his hand to his chest. He felt his heart would burst.
Hans looked apprehensively at him and tried to help. ‘What’s the matter, my friend?’
Ursino felt like fainting. It was difficult to breathe, shivers ran up his spine.
‘What’s the matter, Ursino?’ Schmidt’s voice was more insistent.
‘They know about the bones,’ Ursino stammered.
‘What bones?’
Ursino stopped suddenly, as if he had been miraculously cured. He no longer panted or felt palpitations. He started pacing back and forth, thinking.
‘Call the secretary of state, please,’ the curator of relics asked him.
Schmidt quickly picked up the phone and dialed the extension he knew by heart. Trevor took time answering before he was informed of the urgency to call Tarcisio. The assistant assured them he’d get Tarcisio immediately.
‘They’re waking Tarcisio. Are you going to tell me what happened? Who are they? What bones are you talking about?’
Ursino continued thinking, thinking, thinking, until he paused and looked very seriously at Hans Schmidt. ‘The bones of Christ.’
23
The nausea turning her stomach made her vomit empty gasps of nothing. Try as she might to expel the sickness she felt in her stomach, Sarah succeeded only in dry heaves. She bent over the not very private toilet of the Learjet. She had started to feel bad as soon as they took off from Fiumicino. Leaving the ground provoked a sickening dizziness that made her press against the back of the seat. She tried to find the most horizontal position possible, which was still too vertical, and she knew the nausea was coming. Even before the plane had reached its cruising altitude, Sarah had unbuckled the seat belt and run for the toilet.
It must have taken half an hour to compose herself again. As suddenly as the nausea had come on, it disappeared.
She returned to the cabin, red-faced, overheated, and aching all over. The table in front of her seat held a tray with a teapot, cup and saucer, and a roll.
‘Sit down, dear,’ the comforting voice of Myriam said. ‘I asked them to make you both some chamomile tea. Drink it. It’ll make you feel better,’ she added with a knowing smile.
That ‘both’ upset Sarah, since she’d tried to hide it. The word hit her in the face and spread to the rest of her body. Could it be? Was she carrying someone with her in her womb? Was she pregnant?
The feeling of happiness that all future mothers supposedly feel was not there. The feeling Sarah experienced was panic, with no joy. Was she normal? She remembered Francesco just then and how anxious he must be without news of her. At once she imagined him at her side, she with an enormous belly almost at the end of her third trimester, soon to embark on an unknown parental sea. She wanted to force a smile, to feel a minuscule portion of happiness, anything positive, but couldn’t. Worse, she didn’t want it to be true. She enjoyed Francesco, admired him, but she didn’t want to have a child with him. Rafael’s image invaded her thoughts. She enjoyed Francesco, respected him… wanted to enjoy… to admire. She should want to have a child with him. Francesco was a marvelous man. He’d be a great father and loving husband… but Rafael’s image would not leave her mental screen.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know?’ Myriam interrupted, not knowing she was interrupting anything.
Sarah shook her head.
Myriam put her hand on top of hers. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about, dear. It’s a divine condition.’ Her voice changed, and it was Sarah’s turn to offer her a friendly shoulder.
‘Don’t be afraid, Myriam. Everything is going to be okay,’ she wished. ‘We’re going to get there on time and resolve everything.’
Myriam dissolved in tears as Sarah hugged her. The sorrow was contagious, but someone had to be strong.
‘It’s not fair, Sarah. No parent should lose a son.’ Myriam wept hard.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Sarah comforted her. ‘We’re going to look for him. Everything will turn out right.’ What more could she say?
‘Don’t speak about my son as if he were dead, Myr,’ Ben Isaac admonished her, from his own seat, not looking at the women. ‘Little Ben is alive. They’re not going to do anything to him.’
Sarah asked the attendant for a cup of water with sugar. The plane continued northeast, but for Ben it seemed motionless. He spoke with the pilot to move things along, but they were at the maximum altitude and speed the jet could tolerate. The more you hurry, the slower you go, Ben Isaac thought, his heart heavy with sorrow. But he would not be weak in front of a woman he didn’t know.
The cardinal who had surprised them didn’t continue the trip with them.
‘You’re a difficult man to find, Ben Isaac,’ William observed.
‘I’m not hiding,’ Ben Isaac said.
‘Let me introduce you to Sarah Monteiro.’
‘I’m sorry I don’t have time for a longer conversation,’ Ben Isaac said, excusing himself politely. He wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
‘We know about your son,’ William suddenly cut them off. ‘We received a DVD. I’m very sorry.’
Myriam lowered her head and controlled herself. It seemed like a death announcement. Her chest burned with a torrent of tears she forced herself not to show in front of the cardinal and this Sarah, who remained silent.
‘You received a DVD? Then you know I’m in a hurry,’ Ben Isaac proclaimed. He was losing his patience and had no time for the rules of etiquette or good manners.
‘Certainly. I’m leaving,’ William excused himself. ‘Sarah is current on everything and is going to go with you.’
The situation was strange, but Ben Isaac didn’t protest. Here was a cardinal prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith telling him he was current on everything, knew about his son’s kidnapping, and imposing a woman on him. They were in the same boat, or, in this case, the same plane. She had disappeared into the toilet for half an hour. After freshening herself up, the time had come to lay all the cards on the table.
‘What’s your role in all this?’ Ben Isaac wanted to know.
‘If you want me to tell you frankly, I don’t really know,’ Sarah answered timidly.
‘Did you see the DVD?’
‘On the way to the airport.’
‘What did they tell you?’
‘They talked about the Status Quo.’
Ben looked at her with different eyes. They’d told her everything. Why was she so special?
The attendant arrived with the sweetened water and gave it to Myriam.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he asked, softening his all-knowing attitude.
Sarah didn’t like to describe herself, but she understood. ‘I’m a journalist, the editor of international politics for the Times. I live in London. My father is Portuguese, my mother English.’
‘I think I’ve read something written by you.’
‘It’s probable. I published two books on the Vatican, specifically on the two popes before this one.’