Now Stefano was stuck. If Ackerman were a regular, Stefano could hardly deny that he knew him. So, he said simply, “Yes, I know him.”
“Do you think he will be here tonight?” asked Nate, a little anxious that he might run into the monsignor.
“Maybe not,” said the bartender warily. “He usually comes on Wednesdays or Sundays.”
“Ask his friend Donato,” offered the young man. “He always comes with him.”
“Who is Donato?” asked Nate. The young drunk was proving more useful than the bartender.
“He’s over there,” said the helpful stranger, obviously trying to make himself indispensable to Nate. The young man pointed across the room to an alcove where a short man, who looked to be in his early forties, was leaning against a pillar. The man in the alcove was talking to no one and had a bored expression on his face.
The bartender was annoyed with the talkative volunteer. “Stai zitto,” Stefano said to the young stranger. There was nothing nice in his tone.
“Who is Donato?” asked Nate.
“I don’t know,” said the bartender. “He works with Matteo, I think.”
“No, he doesn’t work with Matteo,” interrupted the tipsy young man, determined to be part of the conversation. “He works at the Banco Vaticano.” The young man was clearly proud of his insider knowledge. “I hear he carries bags of gold to the vault, if he likes you. But he never carried a bag of gold for me,” said the smiling young man with a touch of drunken self-pity.
Nate remembered that Ackerman had mentioned a Donato in their conversation at the Columbus Hotel.
Maybe this was the same guy.
“Stai zitto, finochio,” said Stefano, picking up the serrated paring knife he used for slicing lemons and waving it at the young man. “Oma.” There was that Mafia word again. The young man had obviously given away some information Stefano thought imprudent, but he was too drunk or too infatuated with Nate to care about the threat.
“Why do you care only about the monsignori?” pouted the young man. “Gli laiaci are not good enough for you?” He was beginning to get obnoxious, even though he had been helpful.
“Does he come here all the time with Monsignor Matteo?” asked Nate.
“Ask him yourself,” said Stefano, obviously done with the conversation. Stefano turned again toward the young drunk.
“Tu—va via,” Stefano said. He pointed into the crowd, ordering the young man to leave. The young man obeyed as he disappeared onto the dance floor.
Nate walked away from the bar. He crossed the room toward Donato and leaned against one of the tall bar tables, hoping to strike up a conversation. Donato obliged, eventually looking Nate’s way and smiling. Nate smiled back. Bingo, he thought.
Donato moved over to the table and flirted. Ciao, bello. He extended his hand toward Nate, palm partly up. Nate did not know whether to kiss it or shake it. So he gave it a shake.
“Ciao,” said Nate. “That’s the end of my Italian, I’m afraid. I’m an American.”
“Oh, I love Americans,” gushed Donato. “You do things so quickly and efficiently in America. My name is Donato. It means ‘gift,’” he said with a smile. “But I’m not free.”
Nate was a little overwhelmed by his aggression.
“I was here to meet another American,” said Nate coyly.
“Really?” asked Donato. “Who might that be?”
“Matthew Ackerman,” said Nate. “Do you know him?”
“Yes,” said Donato. “Everyone in this bar knows Matteo, but he won’t be here until tomorrow. He always comes here on Wednesdays.”
“And what do you do, Donato?” asked Nate.
“I’m in finance, private finance, very private finance,” said Donato. He appeared a little uncomfortable now that work was being mentioned. Nate was now sure this was the Donato from the Vatican Bank. Very interesting that a bank official would be hanging out in a Mafia-run bar without any fear of discovery, Nate thought.
“And you?” asked Donato, shifting the focus. “What do you do?”
“Oh, I’m a lawyer,” said Nate casually.
Just then Nate’s cell phone went off. He could not hear it, but could feel its vibration. He fished the phone out of his pocket as he held up a hand to Donato, relieved that he had an excuse to stop the conversation for a second. “Scusi,” said Nate, moving away.
The screen on his phone showed Tracy’s number. Nate answered the phone covering his other ear with his free hand, as he crossed the bar and headed for the exit. The music was too loud to hear much, so he shouted into the phone, “Hang on, Bill, ’til I can get outside.”
“Where are you?” asked Tracy. “Sounds like a disco.”
“It is. I’m doing research,” said Nate. Tracy did not pick up on the remark. Nate headed for the exit upstairs. Once he was out on the quieter street, he said to Tracy, “OK, Bill, go ahead.”
“I’m just calling to confirm our meeting at 10:00 a.m. a week from this Friday,” said Tracy. “I’ll be staying at the Hassler, near the Spanish Steps. It’s only a couple of blocks away from the Knights of Malta Embassy on the Via Condotti.”
“I’ll find it,” said Nate. “I’m beginning to connect the dots here. I’ll tell you when I see you. I think you’ll find it very interesting. Who else will be at the meeting?”
“A man from Interpol and a representative from the Italian police, the Carabinieri. I think we need to keep this close to the vest for now,” said Tracy. “But we may want some official police help.”
“Good,” said Nate. “I’m not sure who we can trust at this point.”
“Only a few days in Rome and lost your faith already?” asked Tracy sarcastically.
“No, just seeing things in a different light,” said Nate. “Anyhow, I’ll see you a week from Friday. Bye.”
The walk back to the hotel was invigorating. The cool night air felt good. In a strange way, Nate had actually enjoyed the evening. It had even been fairly productive.
He had learned a little about Ackerman, including that he talked to journalists and was a pal to a Vatican Bank official. There was a high probability that Ackerman was Monsignor Anonimo.
Nate was not at all shocked to discover that priests hung out in a gay bar, although it did sadden him a little. He actually felt sorry for people like Ackerman and Donato. They were just lonely, pathetic men who had locked themselves in a closet that had no exit.
Nate didn’t think that anybody expected perfect chastity anymore. Most people he knew thought that celibates were either crazy or liars. Brigid didn’t believe anybody lived their vows. And if they did, she didn’t think it made them holy.
Nate chuckled as he remembered a favorite quote from G. K. Chesterton, one of his Catholic heroes: “The worst temptation of the most pagan youth is not so much to denounce monks for breaking their vow as to wonder at them for keeping it.”
As a lawyer, Nate knew that the dangerous and destructive thing about the priests’ behavior came from their need for secrecy. It made them do reckless and dangerous things. It made them drink. It made them vulnerable to blackmail, extortion, and worse. It bound them together in a conspiracy of secrecy and a confederacy of evil. Who knew what they might do to preserve their mutual secrets? Nate had seen it with public officials.
It all seemed so unnecessary. To people of Nate and Brigid’s generation, sex was good. It was a part of life, but only a part. And of late, thought Nate, only a very small part of his life.
As he turned the corner off the Lungo Tevere, the great dome of St. Peter’s came into view at the end of the Via della Conciliazione. Nate was struck with the grandeur and romance of the city. It was easy to fall in love with the place, and it was an easy place to fall in love. Perhaps Ackerman and Donato had fallen in love with Rome.
However, thought Nate, it’s better to fall in love with a person. A wave of emotion swept over him. He missed Brigid powerfully. Rome would have been better had she been there to share it with him.
>
As he reached the door of the Columbus Hotel, he suddenly felt a chill, not from the air of the cooling summer evening, but from within himself. It was the same chill he had felt a month ago, as he stood at the top of the steps with Tracy in Georgetown. It was a shudder of evil.
15
THE UNRAVELING
MONSIGNOR ACKERMAN’S MOBILE PHONE RANG AT 9:00 a.m. as he was leaving the American parish of St. Agnes on Piazza Navona. Ackerman had gone there to celebrate the morning Mass for half a dozen pilgrims. The call was from Stefano, the bartender from Angelo Azzuro.
Ackerman was shocked to hear Stefano’s voice on the phone. The only place he had ever spoken to him was in the bar. How did he even get the number? But then Ackerman remembered whom Stefano worked for.
The bartender’s voice was serious. “Matteo, we have to meet right now. I’ll be at the capolinea of the 64 bus in fifteen minutes. Meet me there.”
Ackerman demurred. “But, but I have work.”
“Screw work,” said Stefano. “Fifteen minutes. Be there.” The call ended. Ackerman started walking. He picked up his pace as he crossed the Ponte Sant’Angelo. When the Mafia said, “Be there,” they meant it.
As Ackerman got to Piazza Pio XII, just outside the Vatican wall and across the street from his office, Stefano was already there, leaning against the bus shelter. Ackerman had never seen him in daylight before. He was surprised that Stefano looked so much older. And today, there was no trace of the bartender’s smile.
“Get on the bus,” Stefano told Ackerman as he handed him a ticket. They climbed on just as the doors closed. They got seats at the very back. After a few stops the bus would fill up with passengers, but for the moment it was nearly empty.
“We’ve got a problem, a big problem,” said Stefano in English. He wanted to leave no chance for misunderstanding. “And you are a big part of it. There was an American lawyer in the bar last night, asking questions about you. That silly fairy Antonelli was also at the bar, and he told him all about you and Donato and the bank.”
The whine of the bus engine drowned out their conversation. At each stop more passengers got on the bus, with the blank faces common to commuters everywhere. They paid no attention to Stefano and Ackerman. In fact, they paid no attention to anything.
“Matteo, you talk too much. You’ve been seen talking to this lawyer at the Columbus.” Ackerman remembered the waiter who told him to shut up. “He has been coming to your office. Now he comes to the bar looking for you. He knows too much.”
Ackerman started to speak, but Stefano held up his hand to silence him. “He is not just a lawyer,” breathed Stefano. “He is an investigator for the Holy See. He is here to discover who is killing all the cardinali. Remember, Matteo, you are in this. You were the source for the article in Panoramio that gave my friends the names for the targets. Your article said who might close the bank to us. E la culpa tua. It’s all your fault.” Stefano stuck his finger in Ackerman’s chest. The bartender was almost spitting as he whispered, “We would not have known who to target if it weren’t for you and your people.”
“My people?” said Ackerman, trying to deflect the charge. “I didn’t tell you to target anyone. I just gave information to the writer. It was in Panoramio, for God’s sake.”
“Si, your people, Matteo,” said Stefano. “Your two cardinal amici, who have been making money from the Camorra for years.” Stefano made a point of using the Napolitano name for the mob. “They knew what they were doing. They became rich men because of us. You got your share. Now they owe us something. Now you owe us something.” Stefano repeated himself for emphasis.
The bus lurched to a stop in Largo Argentina.
“You call your cardinal friends and tell them to stop this investigation or …” Stefano made a pistol gesture with his thumb and index finger, pointing the gun at Ackerman’s heart.
“I will go see them tomorrow,” said Ackerman.
“No domani,” said Stefano angrily. “Oggi. You go today! You get this lawyer to stop the investigation now! If he is not on a plane to the United States tomorrow, I will call my capo. Then it is out of my hands, monsignore. The capi are not nice people, if they think their interests are in danger. You remember what happened to Roberto Calvi when he cheated my capi? It could happen to you, too. It could happen to me. Then I am dead along with you. No more talking to this lawyer. Zitto!”
They rode on in silence. Ackerman wanted to jump off the bus and run away, but by this time it was absolutely full. Besides, what difference would it make? There was no running away from the Camorra.
So Ackerman stayed put. Panic set in. What was he going to do? This was what he had always been afraid of. When you dance with the bear, you may get eaten.
He tried to recall how it all started. Ackerman had gone to Angelo Azzuro out of loneliness and boredom. Stefano had been nice to him at first. He gave him free drinks and introduced him to elegant men. Then Stefano offered him a way to turn his Vatican contacts into money and excitement. Ackerman liked to be useful. He wanted the money. Even more, he wanted to have the attention from someone like Stefano.
All Ackerman had to do was carry messages to his friends at the Vatican, especially to Cardinal Luciano Crepi, who ran the Vatican City State.
Soon Ackerman recruited Donato to greet these special depositors at the door of the bank. Donato needed no coaxing.
It was Donato who introduced Ackerman to Julio Salazar, the Colombian cardinal from Cali. Salazar had many friends who needed a way to dispose of huge amounts of cash. The Cali drug cartel was the largest in Latin America. They made giant deposits, arriving with suitcases full of cash. Donato carried their bags for them too, parading up the steps in his cassock. There was nothing illegal about it. No one asked any questions about the money.
The cardinals and priests told themselves that the Vatican needed the money. “The Church could do a lot of good for people all around the world,” they said.
“Besides,” they told themselves, “it is only justice.”
After years of working for the Vatican, Donato and Ackerman were still poor. They owned no houses or cars. Instead, they lived in dormitory rooms.
“It was only fair,” they said to themselves. They even reminded each other that there was a provision in Church law that allowed priests to take “occult compensation” if they were underpaid. Occult in Latin simply means hidden.
“Would canon law provide for it if this hidden compensation were not just?” they asked themselves.
But the talking to journalists was Stefano’s idea. It never would have occurred to Ackerman.
Stefano had introduced Ackerman to the reporters at the bar. That also seemed like fun at first. Suddenly, Ackerman was the expert, the big shot, the insider, Monsignore Anonimo, at the Vatican. He loved the attention.
What Ackerman hadn’t realized was that some journalists worked for the mob. Their articles were a way of communicating secret information to certain readers, hidden in plain sight, published for millions to read.
It had all been a game, but now the game had turned deadly. All I did was carry a few messages and talk to a few people. I did less than all of them, thought Ackerman. Now I’m in danger!
Then Ackerman thought about his friend Donato. That stupid fool. Donato was not even subtle about what he was doing. He would override the lay director of the bank. God only knows how many millions of dollars had been run through that bank. To Donato especially, it was all a game. With the money he was paid, he got to be a Roman playboy. The Mafia’s money was spilling out of their bags and into Donato’s pockets.
Stefano’s voice jerked Ackerman out of his thoughts and back to reality. “Remember,” warned Stefano. “We paid you. And we paid Cardinale Luciano and Cardinale Julio. They all got rich taking our money. We helped them with their projects. They wanted no change in the Church, so we helped them with their enemies. We even paid that crazy priest in Belgium to cause trouble, so the liberals would look bad. You
took our pay, now you work for us. You stop this investigation today, oggi, and tell the cardinals that you won’t be the only one to hang from a bridge if this thing falls apart.”
Ackerman gulped and stared at Stefano. It was as if he were staring at a stranger.
“One more thing,” said Stefano. “We don’t want to see you at the bar again. No more.”
Stefano reached for the signal to stop the bus. It labored up the Via Nazionale for a couple of more blocks and slowed to a stop in Piazza della Repubblica, across from the ancient ruins of the Baths of Diocletian. Stefano swung down the bus stairs and disappeared into the crowd. Ackerman wanted to raise his hand to say good-bye. He had always thought of Stefano as a friend, but now he knew better.
Monsignor Ackerman was numb with fear.
He rode the bus a few more blocks to the end of the line at Stazione Termini, the great train station of Rome. Everyone else had gotten off the bus before he moved. All life was completely drained from him.
He walked across the piazza to the taxi stand, where a long line of tourists was waiting in the taxi queue. Drivers and tourists were shouting and waving their arms impatiently, as part of the typical Roman chaos. Ackerman felt terribly alone. He sat down on a bench at the edge of the piazza and did something he had not done spontaneously in a long time. He prayed.
16
SIAMO IN CRISI
THE TAXI TOOK ACKERMAN TO THE PORTA SANT’ANNA, the same Vatican gate that Cardinal O’Toole had passed through after learning of Manning’s death. Ackerman had entered that gate thousands of times, but now he felt like a tourist visiting a strange land. Suddenly, it all seemed surreal—a place of fear, not security.
The Swiss guard recognized him and saluted smartly as he passed through the gate. Ackerman remembered the excitement he had felt as a young seminarian when he entered the Vatican for the first time. He had been so full of innocence, devotion, and enthusiasm. What happened to that naïve young Midwesterner? He had been so confident of his faith and so much in love with the Church.
Strange Gods Page 19