The Tower by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page A

title page was written with the same pen and ink as the subsequent messages, but he saw no meaning in it. Perhaps his father had prepared the book years before as a gift for him and then had never given it to him.
    Fatigue won out as he struggled to give meaning to those words and he fell asleep, still fully dressed, on the sofa on which he had stretched out to read.
     

3
    T HE CAR WAS JUST beginning to wend its way up the curving Apennine road when the first drops of rain fell. The tarmac instantly turned shiny and black and the trees lining the road were soon bending over in the gusting wind. Father Hogan switched on the windscreen wipers and slowed down, but Father Boni, who had remained silent at his side until then, protested. ‘No, don’t. We can’t afford to lose any time at all.’
    Hogan stepped on the accelerator again and the big black car raced through the night, illuminated now and then by flashes of lightning from the storm.
    The tarmac ended a few kilometres later and the road became a kind of mule track, furrowed by streams of muddy water descending from the scarp above.
    Father Boni turned on the reading light and consulted a topographical map. ‘Turn left at the next crossing,’ he said. ‘We’re almost there.’
    Father Hogan did as he was told and, a few minutes later, started down a narrow path paved with rough cobblestones which ended in a courtyard. There they found a building dimly lit by a couple of street lamps. They got out under the driving rain, pulling their coats close, crossed the small, illuminated square and entered the building through a glass door.
    A very elderly man sat behind a desk reading the sports pages. He lifted his head and pushed his glasses up to his brow, considering the newcomers with considerable surprise. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, looking them over from head to toe.
    Father Boni showed his Vatican identification. ‘We’re from the Secretary of State,’ he said. ‘Our visit is strictly confidential. We must see Father Antonelli with the utmost urgency.’
    ‘Father Antonelli?’ repeated the man. ‘But . . . he’s very ill. I don’t know whether . . .’
    Father Boni stared him down with a look that brooked no objection. ‘We have to see him now. Understand? Immediately.’
    ‘Just a moment,’ said the man. ‘I must notify the doctor on duty.’
    He picked up the telephone and a very sleepy-looking doctor soon appeared, quite elderly himself.
    ‘Father Antonelli is in a critical condition,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if he’ll be capable of understanding or answering you. Is this really necessary?’
    ‘It’s a matter of life and death,’ replied Father Boni. ‘Life and death, understand? We’ve been sent by the Secretary of State and I’ve been authorized to assume all responsibility.’
    The doctor shrugged. Such a commanding, self-assured individual must certainly have had a very good reason for coming all that way in such awful weather.
    ‘As you wish,’ he said resignedly, and led them down a flight of stairs and along a long corridor that was badly lit by a couple of lamps. He stopped in front of a glass door.
    ‘He’s in here,’ said the doctor. ‘Please, be as quick as you can. He’s on the brink of death. He has suffered atrocious pain all day.’
    ‘Of course,’ agreed Father Boni opening the door, beyond which the faint glow of a night light could be seen. They entered.
    Father Antonelli lay on his deathbed, pale and sweat-drenched, his eyes closed. The room was in semi-darkness but, as soon as he became accustomed to that dim light, Father Hogan could make out the austere furnishings, the crucifix at the head of the bed, a breviary lying on the bedside table, along with a rosary, a glass of water and several medicine bottles.
    Father Boni approached and sat on the bed without even taking off his raincoat. He leaned down and spoke into the sick man’s ear. ‘I’m Father Boni, Father Ernesto Boni. I must talk to you . . .