Chapter 42
TV Roma
A BLACK STRETCHED Mercedes picked up Marco to take him to TV Roma. Laura was already in the back, looking a little embarrassed to see him. It seemed that the plan was for them to be seen arriving together. A huge crowd of several thousand people had already gathered in the street outside the studios, and there were still two hours to go before the broadcast. Laura sat silently by his side in the back of the huge limousine, and Marco desperately wanted to know her thoughts.
"I think there's going to be a riot outside the TV studios." The driver turned round and grinned. "A gang of skinheads have come down from Germany. They're animals. They've daubed a few swastikas around, but they seem to be more interested in fighting each other at the moment. I suppose it's their idea of fun. The carabinieri will sort them out before we get there."
The words were probably intended to reassure his passengers, but they rang warning bells for Marco. A fascist skinhead -- the zoticone -- had tried to kill them in Paris.
They stopped close to the front entrance to be met by Paolo, one of the TV Roma security guards. Out in the street there was chaos as the carabinieri tried to maintain order and keep the skinheads away from the genuine sightseers. The youths began to chant loudly. Some of the crowd had been allowed to the gates but no further.
"Sorry about the disturbance, signorina," Paolo shouted to Laura above the noise. "That noisy lot won't be bothering you. The Current Affairs producer wants to see you before you go up. He's around here somewhere."
Laura sounded fully recovered and she began to laugh. "Thanks, Paolo. We thought the crowds had come for us!"
An overweight man in a white shirt and fawn baggy trousers was directing a cameraman. "The package is already here, Signorina Rossetti," he wheezed. "Cardinal Amendola sent it an hour ago by armed guard. I know it's not how it happened, but before you go up I want to pretend you and Father Sartini have just arrived with it straight from Paris. You can be handing the box in at the security desk. Look tired and anxious. The camera's over there. All right?"
Marco went through the charade willingly, although his stiff neck made movement embarrassingly awkward. Looking tired and anxious was not too difficult.
"Good, good," the producer called. "Now open the box just a bit and tantalize the viewers. Don't look so worried, Father: the carabinieri have checked the building."
The partially repaired and floodlit reception area felt like a stage. When Marco started to open the box for the camera he became aware of a reaction from the gates. The people who had been allowed to stand there could see everything through the repaired glass frontage. They started to clap and cheer enthusiastically. Overcome by the occasion Marco raised the box above his head, much to their delight. Then he pointed to Laura and joined in the clapping. If it were not for Laura's part in recovering the relic, permission for the program would never have been granted so readily, apparently by the Holy Father personally, with some unexpected support from Luigi Cardinal Amendola.
He and Laura finished their pretence at the reception desk and moved towards the elevator. The smile Laura gave him was probably an act as well. But perhaps not. He pressed the button for the fourth floor. The doors slid open immediately. Laura stepped in first. A large security guard in a peaked hat pushed his way in with them. Paolo called in alarm from behind his desk.
"Uno momento!"
But the doors were already closing.
KARL BREATHED DEEPLY in excitement. Every move he made, every detail of his plan, it was all so perfect. Last night everything had gone smoothly. With help from Herr Kessel's editor friend he had obtained a studio guard's uniform, then found a hotel where he spent a couple of hours superimposing his photograph on the woman's staff pass. In the early morning, when the breakfast guests were coming and going, the editor had met him behind the studios to admit him through the rear staff entrance. It was all much more efficient than Herr Kessel's laughable arrangements that first night.
He had been in the building for nearly ten hours now, relying on Erich and the gang outside to cause the maximum distraction they could, without getting arrested. Thousands of people were gathering in the street outside. Herr Kessel had been right: the people would come. Leo sounded as though he was putting on his best performance ever. Total Training. No more failure. Sartini and the woman, here with him in the elevator. And they didn't even know.
MARCO HELD THE box tightly. He felt strangely anxious as he reached out and pressed the button for the fourth floor. As Paolo shouted his warning, Marco saw the long blade in the guard's right hand. Then he realized who this large man was. Laura started to scream as he struggled to protect her from the frenzied knife blows. The large skinhead wearing security uniform was insane.
As the knife slashed across his arm, Marco kicked up hard between the man's legs. The German was vulnerable -- he'd proved it in Paris with the iron bar on the railway platform. The zoticone yelled in pain and let the knife fall.
Marco tried to kick it away, but the big skinhead dived to the floor, snatching at the black handle and rolling over in the confined space to come up, knife ahead at arm's length, thrusting upwards powerfully into Laura's chest.
Marco dropped the box and moved across to shield her from a second attack, kicking out and smashing his foot into the side of the German's head. The knife fell as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Laura slipped from his arms. The doors opened on the far side, throwing the large youth into confusion. Marco knew what to do. He slammed his foot over the knife and pressed the button for the foyer, desperate to get the elevator down in time to save Laura's life. The neo-Nazi picked up the black box and stared warily, with his back to the far wall of the elevator.
Marco could feel the warm blood running down his hands from where he had held Laura. Laura's blood mixed with his. As his arms became weaker she fell to the floor, twisting in pain. He covered the knife with his foot and watched the skinhead for any sudden movement. The security guards in the foyer would stop him getting away.
The elevator jerked. The doors opened into the reception area. The zoticone in the TV Roma security uniform ran out, holding the large black leather box containing the relic. The guards ignored him and rushed forward to help Laura.
RENATA BASTIANI had been outside TV Roma for more than an hour, wearing her new clothes from the Via della Maddalena. She'd been drinking all day; drinking to forget her lifetime of sorrow. A neighbor said her Bruno was involved in making a fantastic discovery. Bruno was a good boy, and all he needed was encouragement. Bruno would be pleased to see her new clothes. The colors seemed so bright, so cheerful. She'd always known she could look high class if she put her mind to it.
She recognized the large German with the shaved head. He had been in the shop with his friends, buying the sharp knife, calling himself Manfred Kessel. He was in uniform now. Was it Nazi soldier's uniform? Manfred Kessel was a terrible man, torturing and raping innocent women.
So many memories. The missed opportunity with the knife in the Gestapo building in the Via Tasso. The shouting, the German voices all around her in the street. It was just like the war. The Gapists were brave fighters, and she would join with them tonight. She would be worthy of the partisans. If Manfred Kessel was still alive then he must die. She had one more chance to make everything come right.
The large German in uniform came closer, his face white, running in fear of his life. In his arms he held a large black box. She pulled Bruno's favorite knife from her purse -- one of the pair she had given him. Poor Bruno, he was too small a boy to be mixed up in this war.
Manfred Kessel came closer, pushing his way through the crowd at the gates. At last she could make amends. As the huge body pressed forward, she forced the knife up into the broad stomach. It went in easily. The knife was sharp, ever so sharp. There was such a look of surprise on the German's face. She was proud of this moment. The Gapists would be proud of her, too.
JUST FOR A MOMENT, Karl thought he was free.
Then with horror he understood the reason for the pain, the intense pain that caused him to lean forward, to bend double in the desperate search for relief. A knife. An old hag had stuck a knife into his stomach.
He fell to the sidewalk. The destiny that had driven him this far told him he was dying. But death was impossible. His Papa had looked at him and given the prophecy, and prophecies always came true.
The crowd began to close in round him. Excited foreigners were bending over.
Only through sacrifice is it possible to have power.
The words of the Führer filled his mind and he felt humiliated, let down. Papa had failed him. The revelation in hospital had been nothing but a sham. Dreams of a glorious revival were fading away with his life. The Rallies, the Parteitage, enormous torchlit parades all over Europe. Aryans united in a new age of power. And these foreigners could only stand and jeer.
Blood. Far too much blood. The horror of death was numbing his stomach. No, not death. This was a healing. A miracle. He tried to stand. Destiny was still here. He raised his hand.
A divine being was at his side. He was going to rise from the dead. The people would bear witness.
"Papa! Papa!" But the words would not come out.
An old man in black reached down and took the box now lying at this side. Then came blackness.
JOSEF REINHARDT no longer felt the people pressing against him as he stooped to retrieve the leather box. It had been a hard battle to get this far through the crush.
He put his hand inside the young man's pockets and removed a slim notebook. The crowd would not protest. They were good Catholics. They would respect his clerical clothes and collar.
MARCO LOOKED UP for the first time. The whole of Rome's carabinieri seemed to be in the foyer of TV Roma. Some were trying to hold back the surging crowd, while a first-aider applied an emergency pad to Laura in an attempt to slow the loss of blood. An ambulance was coming. He could hear the siren. Laura was still conscious, her eyes large and bright. He put his head by hers and cried with all the compassion he could find.
"I love you," he whispered.
Laura looked away. "Don't say it, Marco. We're different. You can never hate people. Maybe you could once, but it isn't in you anymore."
He cradled her head against his chest. Anna's perfume was here. He was aware of Laura's blood coming through his shirt as he felt the warmth of her trembling body. "Hatred and forgiveness. There's always forgiveness."
She sounded bitter. "There you go again, Marco. People get what they deserve."
"Don't say anything. It doesn't have to be like this."
"I'm dying, Marco. I don't want your forgiveness and I don't deserve God's forgiveness. I don't want anything more to do with you." Laura began to sob, gasping for breath. "Run your fingers through my hair, like you did in Paris."
The siren slowed. The paramedics rushed in. Marco held Laura gently, tears running down his cheeks. Her hair was soft and damp against his face. She would understand one day.
"God's forgiveness is free, Laura. There's nothing we can do to earn it, but we can ask for it and accept it because Jesus died for us on the cross. All our good deeds count for nothing. We have to come to God just as we are. I didn't understand it once, but it's true."
The blood around Laura's mouth looked like bright red, smudged lipstick. She tried to speak as a paramedic pushed a clear plastic mask against her face.
"We'll do what we can, Father."
The words chilled him. Marco looked at Laura's face. "She's not going to die," he insisted.
Slowly he released his hold as the ambulance crew took charge.
THE NEWS ROOM was preparing for a news flash. The film crew had been recording the neo-Nazi riot for the evening news. They pushed their way back to the building with hastily gathered cameras and lighting, to grab video of the woman being rushed to the ambulance on the stretcher. They already had tape of the dead ringleader in the street outside, and the producer was deliberating whether to use shots inside the reception area with so much blood this early in the evening.
Natalia watched anxiously from the staircase. She had seen Marco with Laura; now he was sitting alone on the floor. Did no one care about him? They had been close friends once, and at this moment he needed her sympathy -- even her love.
As she pushed her way across the foyer, a voice called out loudly. "Natalia, you're wanted in the News Room. It's urgent!"
She turned. "In a moment," and continued to push her way through the crowd.
A uniformed man put out his arm. "Sorry, signorina, no one is allowed through here."
"I want to talk to the priest."
"Go back to work," the man advised.
"He's a friend," Natalia protested.
"Natalia!" The voice called again from the stairs. "You're wanted!"
A paramedic bent down to talk to Marco. Natalia turned away and ran up the wide stairs to the third floor, her eyes filled with warm tears. The News Room would be a frantic place right now and she had work to do. She stopped and looked back as she reached top of the staircase. Marco Sartini was looking at her. It might still be possible.