The Source - Michael Cordy [20]
'Can we play?' asked Samuel.
Sister Chantal glanced at her case, then at the box. She should leave, before the mother superior or one of the other sisters challenged her, but her vigil was almost over and the euphoria she felt compelled her to do something reckless: a small act of rebellion after a lifetime of discipline, obedience, patience and self-sacrifice. 'Yes. Let's have a tea party.'
She took the carved box and led the boys to the deserted kitchen. She put on the kettle and told them to fetch two cups and saucers. She opened the leather pouch and emptied most of its contents into the box, saving only the barest minimum for her final task; she was growing weak and would need her remaining strength to complete her vigil and pass on her burden. She had been forced to see so many die. What harm could this do now? She prepared the contents and tilted the box so they collected in one corner, shook half into one cup, half into the other, then poured in the boiling water. As she put the box down, Samuel reached for it, fascinated by the unusual carvings.
'Can we have it?' he asked.
Her first instinct was to take it back, but as she had no more need of it, she pocketed the leather pouch and nodded. 'Yes, Sam, you can share the box. But it's very old and very precious so take care of it.' She added sweet condensed milk to the cups and waited for the liquid to cool. 'Now drink your tea.'
10
Rome, three days later
Breathing in the soothing fragrance of pine and orange trees, Marco Bazin looked down on the dome of St Peter's, rising above the dawn mist of the eternal city. At such an early hour the Aventine Hill was deserted and he enjoyed the illusion that he was alone in the world. Then a man appeared in the distance. Bazin recognized his gait instantly. As he braced himself for the encounter he pondered the irony of what had happened. In all his years as an assassin, la mano sinistra del diavolo had never failed in an assignment. Until three days ago, the one time he had been ordered not to harm anyone.
Bazin cast his mind back to the night when the priest had visited him at his alpine retreat, then to his childhood and the hot, dusty courtyard of the old Jesuit orphanage in Naples. There had been no smell of fresh pine or oranges in that place, only the stench of sewers, sweat and fear. Half-brothers, born of the same whore, he and Leo had been each other's only friend, opposites bonded by a common need to belong and survive. His older, smarter, smaller half-brother had helped him with his studies, while he had protected Leo when the others had picked on him for his size and cleverness.
Then they had left the orphanage and everything had changed.
The Jesuits had always valued Leo's intellect. They had encouraged him to join the order and further his studies. The Church had become his salvation. Bazin, however, had hated the priests and they had had no time for his rough ways, so he had turned his back on the Church and joined the Camorra, the Neapolitan branch of that other Italian institution: the Mafia. Over the years the brothers' paths had diverged further, one becoming a powerful priest dedicated to saving souls, the other a feared assassin paid for taking lives.
When Bazin had discovered he was dying, however, he had called the only person he knew who could save his soul. To his surprise, gratitude and shame, Leo had offered him a way to absolve himself of his sins. But now, as he watched Father General Leonardo Torino approach in the early-morning mist, Bazin knew he had failed him.
Torino didn't smile or greet him, just tapped his watch. 'Let's keep this brief, Marco. I'm a busy man and I don't want my people to come looking for me.' He frowned. 'What