God's Dog by Diego Marani Page A
Authors: Diego Marani
through my fingers, but now Iâm on the scent. I may even have a name. I know how they operateâ¦â
Hearing unusual sounds from behind the grille, Salazar broke off. He noticed that the curtain on the other side was half-drawn. He glimpsed something glittering, then heard the click of a gun being loaded. He threw himself out of the confessional just as three bullets fired from a pistol with a silencer hissed through the brass grating and sank into the marquetry, splintering carved putti and garlands as they did so. Staggering around behind a pillar, Salazar managed to pull out his own gun, fired several shots in the direction of the confessional, then rushed to take refuge behind the chapel wall. The shots reverberated through the church like thunder; a light rain of shattered plaster pattered down on to the floor. Huddled on the ground, the inspector strained his ears, expecting further shots. For one brief moment the distant din of the traffic could be heard through the silence. Then a thud, the crash of overturned chairs and, a few moments later, a sound of shuffling coming from the high altar. Salazar trained his gun on the shadowy figure which had appeared on the stairs below. The canon, who had come back into the church on hearing the sound of the fracas, was holding up his hands and shaking his head; rigid with fear, he was staring into space, his chin quivering. Then Salazar emerged from behind his pillar and ran into the nave, peering between the rows of benches towards the confessional. Stretched out in a puddle of blood lay a man half-enveloped in the purple curtain which he had brought down with him as he fell, his gun still in his hand. Salazar went closer and turned the body over. He was a young man, with an olive complexion and a haircut like that of a cadet; his eyes were wide open â both of them. Salazar went through his pockets, extracting a bunch of keys, a mobile phone, two cartridge clips and a badge just like his own. The man was a Dominican.
A north wind had got up, giving a sheen to the paving and the facades of the houses, whipping up swirls of dust which settled on car bonnets. An empty tram jangled along Corso Vittorio Emanuele; the last shutters were coming down. Salazar walked fast, avoiding passers-by, trying to collect his thoughts. The person who had killed the Vicar clearly knew about their meetings; perhaps he had been on his trail ever since his arrival in Rome. That would explain the unexpected visitors to the convent. It would also solve the mystery of the stolen paintings. It was him they were looking for. He had not expected such reckless behaviour; he had been proved wrong. These people are dangerous, he thought; but now they were the only trail he had. Someone was undoubtedly lying in wait for him in the convent. That was where he had to go. He was well aware that it was dangerous; but he had to amass further proof. He went into the first church he came upon, to get his breath back and consider his situation. The silence and the scent of incense calmed him. He took his aggressorâs mobile phone out of his pocket. The address book had just ten numbers, referred to by the signs of the zodiac, but he did not have the password. He thought of the dead man, the supposed cadet, who had probably just left the academy; he imagined the lectures his superiors would have given him. Suddenly sure of himself, he typed in domini canis , and found just one file, headed Semana Santa. It was a plan of the security measures for Benedict XVIâs canonisation ceremony, down to the last detail: the make-up of the squads of guards, the positions of the marksmen and telecameras, the route to be taken by the pope, the seating arrangements for the great and the good on the podium, the teams who would be manning the police vehicles, the general running-order, with comments, and the timing of the entry of the various groups for the final parade. Salazar read it carefully. Useful though it
Hearing unusual sounds from behind the grille, Salazar broke off. He noticed that the curtain on the other side was half-drawn. He glimpsed something glittering, then heard the click of a gun being loaded. He threw himself out of the confessional just as three bullets fired from a pistol with a silencer hissed through the brass grating and sank into the marquetry, splintering carved putti and garlands as they did so. Staggering around behind a pillar, Salazar managed to pull out his own gun, fired several shots in the direction of the confessional, then rushed to take refuge behind the chapel wall. The shots reverberated through the church like thunder; a light rain of shattered plaster pattered down on to the floor. Huddled on the ground, the inspector strained his ears, expecting further shots. For one brief moment the distant din of the traffic could be heard through the silence. Then a thud, the crash of overturned chairs and, a few moments later, a sound of shuffling coming from the high altar. Salazar trained his gun on the shadowy figure which had appeared on the stairs below. The canon, who had come back into the church on hearing the sound of the fracas, was holding up his hands and shaking his head; rigid with fear, he was staring into space, his chin quivering. Then Salazar emerged from behind his pillar and ran into the nave, peering between the rows of benches towards the confessional. Stretched out in a puddle of blood lay a man half-enveloped in the purple curtain which he had brought down with him as he fell, his gun still in his hand. Salazar went closer and turned the body over. He was a young man, with an olive complexion and a haircut like that of a cadet; his eyes were wide open â both of them. Salazar went through his pockets, extracting a bunch of keys, a mobile phone, two cartridge clips and a badge just like his own. The man was a Dominican.
A north wind had got up, giving a sheen to the paving and the facades of the houses, whipping up swirls of dust which settled on car bonnets. An empty tram jangled along Corso Vittorio Emanuele; the last shutters were coming down. Salazar walked fast, avoiding passers-by, trying to collect his thoughts. The person who had killed the Vicar clearly knew about their meetings; perhaps he had been on his trail ever since his arrival in Rome. That would explain the unexpected visitors to the convent. It would also solve the mystery of the stolen paintings. It was him they were looking for. He had not expected such reckless behaviour; he had been proved wrong. These people are dangerous, he thought; but now they were the only trail he had. Someone was undoubtedly lying in wait for him in the convent. That was where he had to go. He was well aware that it was dangerous; but he had to amass further proof. He went into the first church he came upon, to get his breath back and consider his situation. The silence and the scent of incense calmed him. He took his aggressorâs mobile phone out of his pocket. The address book had just ten numbers, referred to by the signs of the zodiac, but he did not have the password. He thought of the dead man, the supposed cadet, who had probably just left the academy; he imagined the lectures his superiors would have given him. Suddenly sure of himself, he typed in domini canis , and found just one file, headed Semana Santa. It was a plan of the security measures for Benedict XVIâs canonisation ceremony, down to the last detail: the make-up of the squads of guards, the positions of the marksmen and telecameras, the route to be taken by the pope, the seating arrangements for the great and the good on the podium, the teams who would be manning the police vehicles, the general running-order, with comments, and the timing of the entry of the various groups for the final parade. Salazar read it carefully. Useful though it