Page 63 of Skotos
As we approached, the sister fixed us with a gaze meant to cow willful teenage boys. It was a glare that could frighten even the most hardened veteran of the grisliest war.
Thankfully, her iron gaze softened when I said, “We’ve come to visitSignoraMarini.”
“On behalf of her son,” Will added quickly.
“Father Marini?” The woman’s eyes brightened. Her English was stilted but understandable. “Such a wonderful man. Is he with you?”
“No,” I said. “We are friends of his.”
She frowned and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I did not know the Father had friends outside of the clergy, certainly not youngAmericanfriends.”
The CIA—and its predecessor, the OSS—had put us through more rounds of interrogation training than I cared to ever relive. They were brutal, thorough, and wholly determined to find the breakingpoint in each of their operatives. This nun’s gaze felt more invasive than any form of questioning we ever endured at Camp X.1
“We met him while working at the Vatican.” I leaned forward and whispered, “On a very special project for the Holy Father himself.”
The nun’s eyes narrowed. When Will nodded, confirming the veracity of my statement, surprise replaced suspicion.
“Well, now. The Holy Father, indeed.” She straightened, then gripped her rosary. “And you need to seeSignoraMarini?”
Will nodded. “Only as a favor to Father Marini. He felt terribly guilty for not having visited himself. He said he is her only visitor.”
The nun nodded slowly and released a long sigh. “That is true for too many of our residents.”
“When did Father Marini last visit his mother?” I asked, pulling another thread that had bothered me allmorning.
The nun sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “He has not been in to see her in days. I was beginning to worry.”
Will cocked his head. “Is that unusual?”
“Very. He comes every day, like clockwork. He is always here in the morning, right after mass. He reads to her sometimes, or just holds her hand. Even when she is . . . not quite present.”
“We understand,” I said. “We were hoping to see her for a few minutes, just to check in, to ease the good Father’s conscience, if you will.”
She hesitated, clearly uncertain. “SignoraMarini is not well. Most days she barely remembers her own name.”
“We won’t upset her,” Will promised. “Father Marini simply asked us to be sure she is all right.”
Guilt flared through me at Will’s words. Yet there we stood, lying to a nun while putting false words in the mouth of a priest. If there was a special circle of hell for such sins, we’d just punched our ticket. Then again, after everything we’d been through—and done—we’d likely bought that ticket long ago.
She studied us for another beat, then nodded and picked up her desk phone. A few moments later, we were led down a hushed hallway that felt even more sterile and empty than those of the Vatican’s underbelly.
Gianna Marini’s room was near the end.
The nun who escorted us knocked once before opening the door. The room was small but sunlit, with lace curtains and a neatly made bed. A brass crucifix gleamed above the headboard, and a dusty vase of silk roses sat forgotten on the windowsill. Sitting in a rocking chair near the window was a woman so frail it was hard to believe she was still alive. Her skin was parchment-thin, her hair barely wisps of its earlier fullness. She sat with her hands folded in her lap like a delicate relic, but her eyes, when they lifted to us, were a soft blue that still held a flicker of light.
She squinted. “Luigi?”
I glanced at Will.
“Luigi, il mio dolce ragazzo.” She smiled and extended her arms, trembling. “Sei tornato da me.”
The sister who’d led us to her room leaned close and whispered in heavily accented English, “She believes you are her husband who died almost thirty years ago. It would be best if you simply played along or she may become agitated.”
Will hesitated, then asked the nun, “Would you stay and translate for us? I didn’t think about her only speaking Italian.”
The nun nodded, sympathy filling her eyes as she motioned us forward.
“Yes,” Will said softly, kneeling by her chair. “I’m here.”
