Free Pope's Assassin by Luis Miguel Rocha Page B

shook his head. "In Marseille."
        He looked at his subordinates. He didn't need to say a word for them to step out and leave them alone. Gavache gave Rafael a prosecu torial stare.
        "What's going on here?" he asked suddenly. "An archaeologist, a theologian. Two people tied to the church, dead in the same manner, in the same country."
        "I have no idea," Rafael responded without lowering his gaze. To do so would suggest withholding something.
        "Some scam. Was he also a friend of the German?"
        "I saw him only once."
        "For what reason?"
        "I don't remember. It was a long time ago."
        "How long?"
        "Maybe twenty years."
        "And the archaeologist was English?"
        "Turkish, but he he'd lived in London almost since birth."
        "Don't you think it's curious you knew both of them?"
        "What do you mean by that?"
        "Two deaths, one after the other, of two people you knew."
        "Are you telling me I'm a suspect?"
        "Of course. We all are. Only they"—he pointed to the photos— "are not suspects."
        Death frees everyone of guilt and suffering. The true salvation.
        "Do you believe in life after death?" the Frenchman asked.
        "Excuse me?" What kind of question was that?
        "Just curious," Gavache added.
        Rafael was speechless. He'd have to respond carefully to avoid being misunderstood.
        "I believe there is a world after death where we'll be in communion with God and . . ."
        "In heaven?"
        "Yes."
        "Or hell?"
        "For whoever hasn't saved his soul," Rafael explained. Where were these questions leading?
        "Do you think the Turk and the Englishman went to heaven or hell?"
        Gavache had a gift for leaving him speechless.
        "Uh . . . I'd say to heaven." What a strange person.
        "Then you think they lived a life worthy of heaven opening its gates to them," Gavache insisted.
        "Without doubt."
        "So what had they done for someone to so meticulously plan their murders? What did they do . . . or what did they know?" Gavache left the question hanging in the air.
        Rafael sensed where the inspector was going. He had no doubt why he held this position. He was sharp.
        "There's something else," Gavache continued.
        Rafael waited.
        "You told me you came for personal reasons, and not in the name of the pope, right?"
    "Correct," Rafael confi rmed.
        "But these crimes have not yet been made public, Father. No jour nalists know about them. We informed the Holy See for very specifi c reasons, which makes your presence here very strange, don't you agree?" Gavache didn't wait for a reply. He looked directly at him. "I understand you are a friend of one of the victims, but you have to explain to me why you took the last flight of the day to get here, for personal reasons, to assist in an investigation of a crime that no one knew had occurred. Your friend's body wasn't even cold yet." Having asked the question, he turned his back. A habit of his. "Take your time preparing your answer."
         What the fuck was the first thought that crossed his mind, and the second and third. The fourth was a less serious obscenity. S hit.
        Jacopo came up at this moment, as if nothing was happening. "So? What did the guy want?"
        Rafael grabbed him by the collar and lifted him in the air a few inches, lacking a wall to shove him against.
        "You bastard," he cursed.
        Jacopo grabbed Rafael's hands to get loose, but they were like claws holding on. "What did I do?" he managed to ask.
        "Who told you about Zafer's death?" He still couldn't connect the name to the group of dead men. It seemed unreal. "Who?"
        "The secretary of state," Jacopo managed to spit out.
        Rafael set him down. Things hadn't been right since the beginning. It wasn't what was expected of him. His eyes