Leanne Corbin let this statement go unchallenged. "There's this old nun at the Convent. Sister Angela. She was under the weather the other day. Some sort of stomach upset. And the Mother Superior asked me..."
"The visions," interrupted Matt.
"I'm coming to them." The nurse nodded to herself. "The clinic's literature makes great play of two holy visions that Sister Angela once had. They say it makes the site like a sort of Lourdes."
"Miracles and things?" Matt tried not to yawn as he examined the stains in the bottom his cup.
"It was nineteen thirty-four. Sister Angela wasn't a Sister then, she was a thirteen-year-old kid. The Convent took her in as an orphan when she was only a few months old."
"That makes her well over eighty," observed Matt. "Fancy being shut up in a convent all your life. No wonder she's having visions."
Leanne frowned as she ran a finger round the top of her cup. "Sister Angela says no one believed her at the time. The Mother Superior, not this one of course, went to the local bishop to report the matter, but he came down all heavy. He told Sister Angela she was making it up to gain attention. She says he told her she was a fanciful and sinful girl."
"You're serious?" Matt had to pick up his empty cup to hide his face. "A fanciful and sinful girl?"
"That's what Sister Angela told me. Then World War Two started and France fell. The Nazi troops arrived and the first vision came true."
Matt felt more interested now. "You mean she predicted the German attack? Go on."
"The soldiers surrounded the Convent and ordered the Sisters to open the doors. They said they were looking for escaped prisoners of war and French partisans, but the Mother Superior wouldn't open up. In the end they blasted the place with heavy guns which flattened the main building and killed some of the Sisters. There were no partisans."
Matt ordered more coffee for the three of them, but hot this time. "Chaud. Très chaud -- s'il vous plaît." He folded the map slowly. The story might be worth hearing after all. "Did Sister Angela tell you this?"
"She wanted to talk to someone, and I had a spare afternoon. She told me a lady appeared in the Convent garden to tell her three secrets."
"They always do."
"Do what?" asked Zoé in surprise.
"They always tell three secrets." Matt realized that Zoé and Leanne were staring at him. "I've read about things like this. The first two secrets usually happen, but not always the third. Maybe it's a sort of proof test so we can tell if the visions are genuine. Okay, so number one was the Germans. What about the second secret?"
Leanne nodded. "After the war the Vatican decided to fund the building of a hospital. Nothing was done for a few years, but eventually they started to build the Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon."
"And this was the second vision of Sister Angela?" asked Zoé.
"So they say." Leanne leaned back so the waiter could replace the empty cups with three fresh ones he had brought on a battered tin tray. "Merci."
"So they say?" Matt felt confused.
"I'll let you see the clinic's literature. There's a whole page about the visions. Sister Angela is quoted as saying that the lady in the garden told her a great center of healing would be built -- right on the spot where she appeared."
"I bet Sister Angela didn't say anything until after the clinic was built," said Matt trying not to sound too cynical. Zoé was never too keen on his cynical opinions.
Leanne nodded vigorously. "That's exactly the attitude the new Mother Superior took in nineteen sixty-five, and of course the new bishop agreed with her. No one had kept any records from the nineteen thirties, and everyone who knew Sister Angela before the war seems to be dead."
"Doesn't that prove my point?" asked Matt.
"You're right, they've only got Sister Angela's word for it. When Sister Angelda reported her vision in nineteen sixty-five, the bishop told her that if anyone merited a holy vision it would have been the Mother Superior -- not a young orphan in nineteen thirty-four. Mind you, by the nineteen sixties Sister Angela been made a full Sister, but they packed her off to work in the Gemelli Hospital in Rome and told her to keep quiet about her visions if she ever wanted to return."
"I'd have used it as an excuse to leave," said Matt thoughtfully.
"Take no notice of him," said Zoé. "So how did these visions become public knowledge?"
"That's where K7 come in," said Leanne. "The Sisters used to run the hospital, but they only spoke French. Ten years ago a team of professionals took over and rebuilt the whole place. Dr. Kappa was put in charge, and he wanted to attract wealthy English-speaking patients. So he gave the French Sisters the elbow and recruited nurses who could all speak English."
Matt examined the grounds floating on his coffee. "But they left this old Sister there?"
"Dr. Kappa heard about Sister Angela's lady in the garden and thought the publicity might be a good way of attracting patients." The nurse undid yet another button on her thin blouse. "So they called her back from Rome, got the story out of her, and wrote it up with the help of an advertising agency."
"Now who's being cynical?" asked Matt.
Leanne sounded surprised. "Am I? I don't mean to be."
Zoé fixed Matt with a look that brought him to a temporary silence. "I imagine there is a problem?" she said softly.
"There is. Sister Angela claims she never said the lady appeared where they built the clinic. She says it was higher up the hill."
Matt finished his coffee -- it was warmer than the first cup -- and stood up, accidentally knocking his cane chair backwards onto the floor with a clatter that brought the rest of the bar to silence. The whole ridiculous nature of the conversation was like a rapidly deflating balloon. "You want me to spend my holiday investigating a top medical center because they misquoted some old nun? No way, lady. No way."
Laura looked up, her face filled with anxiety. "There's something wrong with the clinic, but I don't know who to tell."
"Do you have a friend at work?" asked Matt.
"There's Mazie Meyran." Just for a moment Leanne Corbin's expression lit up. "She's from New Mexico, too. Sure, we've often talked about the clinic, but I don't think she'd understand. I have money. I could employ you."
As Matt picked his chair up, Zoé said quietly, "I'm sure there is more than Leanne has told us."
"Do you know anything about icons?" Leanne asked suddenly.
"Pop icons?" asked Matt.
"Religious icons," said Leanne patiently. "You know, paintings of Christ and Mary and the saints. Sometimes they're covered in gold or silver, except for their hands and faces."
"Matt knows what icons are," said Zoé firmly.
"I'm talking about Russian icons," Leanne continued. "Can you get large ones?"
"They're things that go in your pocket," said Matt.
Leanne disagreed. "They're much larger than that. I think some of them are three or four feet high."
"You're asking the wrong person." Matt dropped a pile of euro coins on the table and walked to the door. "I think icons are things you fold up in a little box and carry about with you. Get a book from the library."
Leanne looked distraught.
Matt felt guilty. "I'm sort of interested, I admit it. How about we meet again on Sunday? In this bar? Get me some of the clinic's literature and do a bit of investigating for yourself over the next few days." He glanced at Zoé and noticed she was nodding encouragingly. "We've rented a small house in Avignon. Here's the address if you need to see us earlier." He wrote it on a paper napkin.
"You still don't understand about the clinic." Leanne sounded agitated.
"Are they harming their patients?" Matt didn't want to let the nurse go off in tears. Zoé wouldn't forgive him for days.
Leanne Corbin shook her head. "I don't think so. If they are, I can't prove it. People are getting better all the time. Zoé knows how good they are. They have some of the most advanced facilities in Europe. They gave me the job because I'm Am
erican."
"So why are the French Sisters still there?" asked Matt.
"Like I said, the Sisters don't speak English. That's why the new owners replaced them. The Sisters are allowed to share the site, but they have their own buildings."
"I suppose it makes the place respectable," said Matt sardonically. "The patients catch sight of the nuns and think God is working in the wards."
"They don't have wards." Leanne sounded far away. "Just private rooms. Something Sister Angela said is bothering me. She said she's never told anyone about the third vision."
"But she told you?" asked Matt.
"Only a bit, and I'm not sure I believed her. It was something about a pope dying here at Tourvillon. Whatever it was, she's really worried about something she thinks she overheard one of the surgeons say." She shook her head and seemed to come back to the present. "I still don't know what to do with the envelope."
"What was in it?" asked Matt.
The security man from the clinic was drinking alone and Matt noticed he definitely glanced their way occasionally.
"I was in the surgeon's room and saw something on the wall above his desk." Leanne bit her lip. "That's when I realized I couldn't give the envelope back."
"Okay, so hand it to the police."
Leanne put her hand to her mouth. "For all I know, the local gendarmes might be part of K7. I can't risk showing it to anyone."
"Not even us?" asked Zoé.
"I haven't discussed it with Alain yet. He's my husband. It could put him in danger. He's not very good at keeping things to himself." Leanne forced an embarrassed laugh and took Zoé by the arm. "I'm sorry, Zo, I don't want to spoil your holiday. But when I heard you talking about private detectives I was going to ask if you could get me some bugs." She looked red with embarrassment. "It's stupid, but I'd love to know what Dr. Kappa and Dr. Bernetti are saying in private."
"I wouldn't bother," said Matt. "It might be rude."
Leanne started to laugh more freely now. "I'm on duty again tonight. I'll poke around and see if I can make some sense of it all. I'll get you the whole enchilada. And you'll meet me here next Sunday morning? That's a promise?" Her eyes sparkled. "When the French pronounce my name they make it sound like a sort of French lion." Her laughter was more innocent than fierce. "Lion Woman -- that's what my buddies call me!" And she buttoned up her blouse. "I think it's time I got rolling."
Then she was gone, slipping into the swarm of tourists who were searching for cheap souvenirs, before their obligatory tour around the gaunt Papal Palace.
"Do not forget to see the doctor about the headaches," Zoé called, but it was unlikely Leanne Corbin heard.
Matt undid his shirt, immune to any comments from Zoé about showing his chest. He could feel the morning heat building up. The man in the bright shirt had already slipped away unnoticed.
"Has a pope ever died here?"
Zoé pulled a face. "Since nineteen thirty-four? If so, I think Leanne would have told us."
Matt breathed out heavily. "You're a nurse. Is she cuckoo?"
"She is worried."
"But not cuckoo?"
"Why?"
"Because I found what she said about K7 interesting." He turned to make sure they were alone. "Ken Habgood's in the Freemasons, though I'm not supposed to know." He laughed. "He showed me an article from his Sunday paper last week. It had something about K7 in it. Ken boasted he had a client who was a member. They're a wealthy group."
"Wealthy? That does not, I think, sound like a client of your Ken."
"He had Ken summed up. Never offered him membership. The K stands for Knights, but I can't remember what the Seven bit is."
"Knights of Saint John?" suggested Zoé. "They used to run hospitals in the middle ages."
"No, not Saint John. Anyway, they don't run hospitals. I don't know if K7 are good or bad news, but they've got to be something like Freemasons."
"And you think they are doing something illegal at the Clinic of the Little Sisters?"
Matt shrugged and could feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his back. "You know what secret societies can be like. The ordinary members rarely get a chance to find out what their chiefs are up to. Look, if you think Leanne Corbin is sane, I'll give Ken a call and see if he's still got that paper."
Zoé's eyes flashed. "We are on our holidays, Matt Rider. Yes, I think Leanne is sane, but you are not phoning Ken." Her eyes became serious as she tapped out each word with a finger on his bare chest. "Promise you will not speak to Ken while we are away?"
"Okay, Zo!"
"Attention," warned Zoé, resorting to her native French. "Use that name once more and Nurse Champanelle will never play the flute for you again."
Matt frowned. He loved the way Zoé could bring music alive with her silver flute. "I wonder what it is they're doing up there at the clinic."
"Nothing that is your business. Now, Matt, do you promise not to speak to Ken?"
He thought for a moment before nodding dutifully. "Promise." It was a promise he'd keep. He wouldn't speak to Ken. And if he went to the Internet café to send Ken an email, Zoé would ask what he was doing. He had to find a way to send a fax.
Chapter Six
Convent of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon
THE AFTERNOON sky above Avignon was a beautiful shade of blue, like the color of Heaven. To Sister Angela it was the only color visible outside the high window. The helicopter was back again, the noisy machine disturbing her devotions, frightening the black kites that had been soaring overhead. The birds of prey had ruled the sky over Tourvillon ever since her childhood, and probably for an eternity before that.
The Sister put her shabby but much loved-book of prayers and devotions on the small table and went to the window, standing on the stone floor in her bare feet. Shoes were only for wearing outside, and rules must be obeyed -- most of the time. She yearned to see down into the grounds but the window was too high in the wall of white painted stone.
It was uncharitable to think such things, but to all intents she was a prisoner. She recalled how it had once been different, walking with the Sisters through the gardens, pulling the tips from the lavender and rubbing them between her fingers. Rows of purple flowers, and the blue of the sky. Times spent talking to the sick in the clinic. Freedom to walk within the gardens. She smiled at the memories. The scent of the plants was surely the scent of Heaven.
Of course there had also been times of trial. They started when the American doctor and his team came. Reverend Mother, may God bless her, had said it was all right. She said they were decent men come to heal the sick and care for the dying.
She sat on the corner of the hard bed. This black steel framed bed could be her solace from the world, in a more agreeable room. A room with a lower window. A door without a lock.
Dr. Kappa was using her. It was like a rape. The thought made her blush. She was not supposed to know about such things. But she did. Reverend Mother would accuse her of unclean thoughts if she knew. But Reverend Mother did not know, because thoughts like this were too secret to share with anyone except God.
There were all sorts of secrets. Dr. Kappa had taken her secret conversation with the Lady and distorted it. It was hard not to have uncharitable thoughts about Dr. Kappa.
Sister Angela frowned as her age-old fingers slipped lightly through the rosary with an ease that came only after decades of discipline. It was like rape if you tried to get something beautiful from somebody who did not want to surrender it, tried to get it by force. The young men in the town had been like that a long time ago. But that was before she had given herself to the Lord.
Bad things were happening at the Convent of the Little Sisters. Perhaps the Lady really did come to warn her about it all those years ago. They said the vision was just a dream, but she knew it was real. She banged on the door in frustration.
A heavy door. A high window. The surgeon had told her he would have her declared insane if she told anyone what he had done to the ma
n in the hospital. It would be terrible to be declared insane.
Something horrifying was about to happen. She had overheard the surgeon say a dreadful thing.
He was going to kill the Holy Father.
Chapter Seven
The Vatican
"HOLINESS?"
Archbishop Stephen Valdieri approached the large bed in the Papal apartment. The Holy Father had scarcely eaten any of his lunch, and he now lay partly covered by a single white sheet, his eyes closed. God forbid he might even be dead. One of the Sisters should be in constant attendance.
Valdieri coughed discreetly. "Holiness?" he repeated.
The Holy Father's right arm jerked in what appeared to be an involuntary movement. The sudden response startled Valdieri as he bent forward.
"Is that you, Stephen?"
Valdieri stood back at what seemed to be an appropriate distance. In his early fifties, he felt very much the young man here. "You have been asleep, Holiness. I did not intend to alarm you."
The Pope tried to pull himself upright but got no further than raising his head a short distance from the pillow. "I was dreaming of my childhood days, Stephen; of a time of good health. Do not leave me. Nobody tells me the truth, expect you."
Valdieri took a deep breath at what seemed rather a sweeping dismissal of the honesty among Vatican staff. "I will sit with you for a few minutes, Holiness." He pulled the folds of his black cassock from around his back and sat carefully on the bedside chair. Then he kissed the large ring on the Pope's hand. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Tell me about my health, Stephen." The Holy Father's pale hand of squat fingers stayed out from the sheet. "You need not keep anything back."
Valdieri regretted his decision to call on the Holy Father. It had only been a courtesy visit, and now he was facing the question he dreaded. No one, absolutely no one, seemed prepared to discuss the Holy Father's chances of survival face to face. "I am an archbishop." He tried to look helpless. "An expert in the Scriptures and papal security."
"You are sounding stuffy."
Valdieri wanted to be cautious. "Your personal physicians should be here to answer questions of a medical nature."
The Holy Father attempted a laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Do you really think they would tell me anything sensible?"
Valdieri found his eyes meeting the eyes of the Vicar of Christ. This was not an occasion for lies or even half-truths. But he would endeavor to sound optimistic. "The Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon near Avignon has graciously offered to treat you. The Clinic has a track record second to none."