There are Franciscans, Marists, Benedictines, Trappists, Jesuits, Dominicans, and several others. I suggest you go to the Order they belong to and inquire there.”
Where the hell is “there”? Robert wondered. “Do you have any other suggestions?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Neither have I, Robert thought. I found the haystack. I can’t find the needle.
He left the Vatican and wandered through the streets of Rome, heedless of the people around him, concentrating on his problem. At the Piazza del Popolo, he sat down at an outdoor cafe and ordered a Cinzano. It sat in front of him, untouched.
For all he knew, the priest could still be in Switzerland. What Order does he belong to? I don’t know. And I have only the professor’s word that he was Roman.
He took a sip of his drink.
There was a late afternoon plane to Washington. I’m going to be on it, Robert decided. I give up. The thought galled him. Out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. It was time to leave.
“Il conto, per favore.”
“Si, signore.”
Robert’s eyes swept idly around the piazza. Across from the cafe, a bus was loading passengers. In the line were two priests. Robert watched as the passengers paid their fares and moved toward the back of the bus. When the priests reached the conductor, they smiled at him and took their seats without paying.
“Your check, signore,” the waiter said.
Robert didn’t even hear him. His mind was racing. Here, in the heart of the Catholic Church, priests had certain privileges. It was possible, just possible …
The offices of Swissair are located at 10 Via Po, five minutes from the Via Veneto. Robert was greeted by a man behind the counter.
“May I see the manager, please?”
“I am the manager. Can I help you?”
Robert flashed an identification card. “Michael Hudson. Interpol.”
“What can I do for you, Mr Hudson?”
“Some international carriers are complaining about illegal price discounting in Europe – in Rome, particularly. According to international convention …”
“Excuse me, Mr Hudson, but Swissair does not give discounts. Everyone pays the posted fares.”
“Everyone?”
“With the exception of employees of the airline, of course.”
“Don’t you have a discount for priests?”
“No. On this airline, they pay full fare.”
On this airline. “Thank you for your time.” And Robert was gone.
His next stop – and his last hope – was Alitalia. “Illegal discounts?” The manager was staring at Robert, puzzled. “We give discounts only to our employees.”
“Don’t you give discounts to priests?”
The manager’s face brightened. “Ah, that, yes. But that is not illegal. We have arrangements with the Catholic Church.”
Robert’s heart soared. “So, if a priest wanted to fly from Rome, say – to Switzerland, he would use this airline?”
“Well, it would be cheaper for him. Yes.”
Robert said, “In order to bring our computers up-to-date, it would be helpful if you could tell me how many priests have flown to Switzerland in the past two weeks. You would have a record of that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, of course. For tax purposes.”
“I would really appreciate that information.”
“You wish to know how many priests have flown to Switzerland in the past two weeks?”
“Yes. Zurich or Geneva.”
“Just a moment. I will talk to our computers.”
Five minutes later, the manager returned with a computer printout. “There was only one priest who flew Alitalia to Switzerland in the past two weeks.” He consulted the printout. “He left Rome on the seventh, and flew to Zurich. His return flight was booked for two days ago.”
Robert took a deep breath. “His name?”
“Father Romero Patrini.”
“His address?”
He looked down at the paper again. “He lives in Orvieto. If you need any further …” He looked up.
Robert was gone.
Day Seven
Orvieto, Italy
He stopped the car on a hairpin bend on Route S-71, and there across the valley, high on a rise of volcanic rock, was a breathtaking view of the city. It was an ancient Etruscan centre, with a world-famous cathedral, and half a dozen churches, and a priest who had witnessed the crash of a UFO.
The town was untouched by time, with cobblestone streets and lovely old buildings, and an open-air market where farmers came to sell their fresh vegetables and chickens.
Robert found a parking place in the Piazza del Duomo, across from the cathedral, and went inside. The enormous interior was deserted except for an elderly priest who was just leaving the altar.
“Excuse me, Father,” Robert said. “I’m looking for a priest from this town who was in Switzerland last week. Perhaps you …”
The priest drew back, his face hostile. “I cannot discuss this.”
Robert looked at him in surprise. “I don’t understand. I just want to find …”
“He is not of this church. He is from the church of San Gioven-ale.” And the priest hurried past Robert. Why was he so unfriendly?
The church of San Giovenale was in the Quartiere Vecchio, a colourful area with medieval towers and churches. A young priest was tending the garden next to it. He looked up as Robert approached.
“Buon giorno, signore.”
“Good morning. I’m looking for a priest who was in Switzerland last week. He …”
“Yes, yes. Poor Father Patrini. It was a terrible, terrible thing that happened to him.”
“I don’t understand. What terrible thing?”
“Seeing the devil’s chariot. It was more than he could stand. The poor man had a nervous breakdown.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Robert said. “Where is he now? I would like to talk to him.”
“He’s in the hospital near the Piazza di San Patrizin, but I doubt if the doctors will allow anyone to see him.”
Robert stood there, troubled. A man suffering a nervous breakdown was not going to be much help. “I see. Thank you very much.”
The hospital was an unpretentious one-storey building, near the outskirts of the city. He parked the car and walked into the small lobby. There was a nurse behind the reception desk.
“Good morning,” Robert said. “I would like to see Father Patrini.”
“Mi scusi, ma … that is impossible. He cannot speak with anyone.”
Robert was determined not to be stopped now. He had to follow up the lead Professor Schmidt had given him. “You don’t understand,” Robert said smoothly. “Father Patrini asked to see me. I’ve come to Orvieto at his request.”
“He asked to see you?”
“Yes. He wrote to me in America. I’ve come all this way just to see him.”
The nurse hesitated. “I do not know what to say. He is very ill. Molto.