The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Walter Ellis

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s just that a young historian has been engaging in some troubling research in the Secret Archive.’

  Visco now had Bosani’s full attention. ‘What sort of research?’ he demanded.

  ‘He has been consulting details of your career, including your student days and your work to establish the central mosque. More to the point, he has discovered a connection between you and your illustrious precedessor, Cardinal Battista.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  The priest looked embarrassed. ‘When our people destroyed the files about the unfortunate business with Battista, they did not, it appears, wipe every trace. They were operating at a time when the computerisation of the records was far from complete and it appears that the classification stubs, indicating the fact that Your Eminence was the last one to examine the now missing file, were transferred as jpegs of the originals.’

  ‘And what was on these … jpegs?’

  ‘A brief description of the subject nature of the files, nothing more. They referred to an “investigation” ordered by Pope Paul V …’

  ‘But no mention of the nature of the investigation?’

  ‘None – save that His Eminence was the subject.’ Visco paused and looked down at his feet. ‘There was also a cross-reference to The Betrayal of Christ.’

  Bosani shot Visco an angry look. ‘This “historian” … what is his name?’

  ‘Dempsey … Liam Dempsey – from Ireland.’ He handed over a high-resolution picture of the Irishman taken by the security cameras in the Archive as he sat at the receptionist’s computer screen.

  Bosani stared at the picture. ‘Who is he? What’s he doing in Rome?’

  ‘That is what is interesting, Eminence.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘His uncle is Declan O’Malley, Superior General of the Jesuits. He provided the letter of introduction to the Library.’

  ‘O’Malley!’ Visco could see that his boss had begun to twist the episcopal ring on the fourth finger of his right hand between his left thumb and index finger – a sure sign that his temper was building. ‘And you tell me the nephew of Declan O’Malley has established a link between me and Battista? And that he has been putting together an account of my movements and interests over the last twenty years?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Bosani exhaled heavily. ‘That is unacceptable, Cesare. Unacceptable! And how exactly do the Jesuits fit into this?’

  ‘I’m working on that. I have asked Father Haddad …’

  ‘– The American?’

  ‘Actually he is Lebanese. But he has American citizenship.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But how can he assist us?’

  ‘He is our ears and eyes in the Society of Jesus.’

  Bosani looked doubtful. ‘Is he any use? He must be eighty if he is a day. Anyway, I thought he had a drink problem.’

  Visco ran his hand down his chin. ‘He has got over that, insh’Allah, and he has known the Father General for many years.’

  ‘Very well. But see to it that we find out everything we need to know. I have never trusted O’Malley. He cares nothing for the Church, only for his faith. Such men are dangerous.’

  ‘The matter has been dealt with, Eminence. There is no need for concern.’

  Bosani frowned. ‘But the facts he has already – what about those?’

  ‘I assure you, everything is in hand. The Archive has been told what to do and what to say. If you want my opinion, Eminence, I sincerely doubt that after today Mr O’Malley will have the stomach to bother us again. It is much more likely that he will be on the first plane home to Dublin. In the meantime, to answer your question directly, it would appear that the apartment he is staying in here in Rome is about to be … burgled.’

  ‘Franco?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘That is something. But we cannot afford to relax our vigilance. Time is precious and too much is at stake. Tell my friend from Spésa that for the next few days he is to keep a close eye on that young man. If he steps out of line even once, I am to be informed.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And when Haddad has spoken with the uncle, tell him to report directly to me.’

  ‘Yes, Eminence.’

  The cardinal picked up his pen and signed a couple of letters, both to leading cardinals newly arrived in Rome from the United States. ‘Have these delivered at once,’ he said. ‘Time is running out. There is serious business to be done in the next week and we can’t afford distractions – particularly if they involve the Jesuits. I shall rely on you to take all necessary steps. Do you understand me?’

  Visco met his master’s gaze. ‘Perfectly,’ he said.

  ‘Very well, then. Let us get on.’

  The prefect of the Secret Archive, Monsignor Domenico Asproni, was a small man and he stood on the balls of his feet as he faced up to the much taller figure of Dempsey. ‘Here is the problem,’ he said. ‘When our archivist, alerted by Security, sought to retrieve papers yesterday relating to Cardinal Orazio Battista – documents which you had precisely identified through the improper use of our internal computer network – what did he find? He found that they were gone. Papers that had been securely filed for more than four hundred years were now missing.’

  Dempsey had been summoned to the prefect’s office an hour before. He had assumed he would receive a formal reprimand for his flouting of the rules the previous day. But he had not expected to face a criminal charge. He threw up his hands – a gesture that he had learned conveyed indignation to Italians much better than words. ‘So what are you saying? That I’m a thief? Is that it?’

  ‘The papers have vanished, Signor Dempsey. The file is empty. All that remains is a classification stub and a brief indication of the subject matter.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. I only came across his name by accident. Who was Battista, anyway? And why is he suddenly so important?’

  ‘I think you are in a better position to provide that information than I. My question to you is much more simple and direct. Where are the documents? What have you done with them?’

  Dempsey bunched his fists and tried to remain calm. This was a put-up job. It had to be. ‘What have I done with them? According to the computer record – which was all I got to see – the file on Battista had been missing for nearly forty years. The last person to see it was Cardinal Bosani, in January 1977.’

  The prefect shook his head. ‘I have checked. What the computer says is that the file was identified by you yesterday morning and has since disappeared.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it, Signor Dempsey? Is it, really? I will grant you that this was an audacious theft. I cannot begin to imagine how it was achieved. But that is a matter for the police to resolve. We have no wish, as you can imagine, to bring embarrassment to the Father General of the Company of Jesus, who, as your uncle, provided you with a letter of introduction. I had hoped that you would appear before me this morning suitably contrite, bringing with you the missing file. Regrettably, you have not chosen that option. In the circumstances, my advice to you is to get yourself a good lawyer. The unauthorized removal of historical documents from the Apostolic Library, one of the world’s greatest repositories of knowledge, is a serious business – very serious indeed. You have left me with no alternative than to report this crime, and you as the sole suspect, to the Vatican Security Service. You may expect its officers, assisted by the detective branch of the Carabinieri, to call you in for questioning.’

  Dempsey swallowed hard but stood his ground. ‘In that case, Monsignor, since you have obviously concluded that I am a thief and a liar, I shall await your pleasure. You already know where I live.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Just one more thing. Do you have your identity card?’

  ‘That’s no business of yours, if I may say so.’

  The Monsignor pressed a button on his desk. Seconds later, the door to his office opened and two burly securi
ty men entered.

  ‘I would remind you, Signor Dempsey, that I represent the government of a sovereign state and have full jurisdiction in this matter.’

  Dempsey hadn’t thought of that. Passports were no longer necessary for EU citizens travelling within the Union. The latest generation of machine-readable ID cards provided a complete record of the holder’s police or criminal record, if any, plus credit rating, service and medical record and educational and employment history. Without it, life could be extremely difficult.

  Asproni folded his arms. ‘I am waiting,’ he said.

  Dempsey sighed. He took out his wallet, removed the card and handed it across. ‘I’ll expect that to be returned to me in the morning,’ he said.

  ‘That will be for the police to decide, not me. Arrivederci, Signor Dempsey.’

  ‘Ciao.’

  Minutes afterwards, as he walked out the main door of the library, Maya returned his phonecall. He told her what had happened. She couldn’t understand it. This wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to people she knew.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked him. ‘What did you do to provoke them?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Dempsey said, a tone of indignation creeping into his voice. ‘I was just doing my uncle a favour. Now I’ve been framed.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I wish it were. But look, is there any chance you could meet me later on at my apartment?’

  ‘I suppose so. Someone needs to talk some sense into you. For what it’s worth, though, there’s something very strange about Bosani’s behaviour.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Dempsey listened as Maya gave him an account of what her father had told her about the Camerlengo and Cardinal Rüttgers. ‘It was as if he didn’t care about Rüttgers or what happened to him,’ she concluded. ‘And when the poor man’s sister asked for his body to be sent home to Germany, Bosani refused point-blank. Instead, he had him entombed behind the walls of the Teutonic Cemetery. My father was shocked. He told me he had never witnessed such a lack of Christian charity in a man of God.’

  ‘I think we need to talk to my uncle,’ Demspey said.

  At that moment, however, Superior General O’Malley was busy pursuing his own inquiries. Briefcase in hand, he had walked the five hundred metres or so from the Borgo Santo Spirito to the Governorate, where he announced to the front desk his intention to visit the Office for Civil Records.

  The young man on duty was suitably respectful. ‘Of course, Father General. If you could wait one minute, I’ll arrange for someone to meet you as soon as you exit the lift.’

  ‘No need,’ the Irishman replied genially. ‘It’s a routine matter and I require no special assistance.’

  ‘Very well, Father General. You know the way?’

  O’Malley had already ascertained that Bosani’s office was on the fourth piano. ‘Of course. E grazie.’

  ‘Prego.’

  He felt vaguely guilty about the lie he had told. But God, he was sure, would forgive him. Taking the lift to the fourth floor, he checked again that he had remembered to bring a corkscrew with him. It was always the details that let him down. A pretty young nun looked embarrassed as he nervously fingered the end of the opener. He smiled at her reassuringly. When the lift stopped and the doors opened, he looked up and down the long corridor, not sure in which direction to proceed. It was a passing Monsignor, a portly man in his late forties, who assisted him.

  ‘Father General, you look lost,’ he said, speaking English with an American accent.

  ‘I suppose I am, really,’ O’Malley replied. ‘I’m looking for the office of the Camerlengo.’

  ‘I see. Unfortunately, His Eminence is extremely busy at the moment. Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Of course!’

  That was his second lie.

  ‘In that case, simply turn right and walk to the far end of the corridor. The Camerlengo’s office is in the corner. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Thirty seconds later, O’Malley halted at a door on which were inscribed the words Camerlengo de la Santa Iglesia Romana. Prior to Bosani, the Camerlengo had not kept an office in the Governorate, which was the seat of purely civil administration. But the current occupant of the post, who until the death of the Pope had also been Secretary of State, had announced that he wished to separate his two roles and had immediately commandeered a suite of rooms for his personal use.

  O’Malley didn’t knock. He just walked straight in. An earnest-looking young priest looked up from his desk in surprise. Opposite him, dressed in a black coarse-weave habit, sat a tall friar, built like a rugby forward, the dark fringe of his tonsure marking him out as a Benedictine.

  ‘Permesso,’ O’Malley said, smiling briefly at the monk, who scowled in reply. ‘I’m here to see His Eminence.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father General, but that is impossible …’

  ‘He will see me, I think.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘If you could just bring us a couple of glasses, Father …’

  ‘Visco. I am His Eminence’s Intimate Secretary.’

  ‘Of course. Two glasses then, Father Visco. And thank you.’

  Bosani’s private office was straight ahead and, again, O’Malley didn’t hesitate. It was only as he entered the inner office that he noticed that there was no one behind the desk.

  Bugger! It hadn’t occurred to him that Bosani might simply not be there.

  But then he heard a familiar baritone voice. ‘Cesare, is that you?’ The voice emanated from behind yet another door, this time to his left. O’Malley charged in yet again and two seconds later found himself staring down at the figure of the Camerlengo seated bareheaded in an old-fashioned leather armchair. He was reading a copy of Cumhuriyet, the Istanbul newspaper, which he immediately threw down, looking slightly alarmed.

  ‘Father General!’

  ‘Camerlengo!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘God’s work, I hope.’

  By now, Bosani had grabbed his skullcap from a small table next to his armchair and was labouring to his feet. Jamming the cap on his head, he glared at O’Malley. ‘But I am …’

  ‘– Reading the newspaper. Yes, I can see that. Only, the thing is, I need to talk to you, Your Eminence. I have things on my mind.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘And to make it easier, I’ve brought you something.’ He snapped open his briefcase. ‘It’s a bottle of Cinque Terre, from the estate north of La Spezia on which, I believe, your father worked for some years. It’s a wine you must have grown up with, but not so common these days.’ He paused, showing Bosani the label. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I asked your secretary, Father Visco, to fetch a couple of glasses.’

  At this point, Visco put his head around the door.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ O’Malley said.

  ‘The Father General asked me to bring some glasses.’

  Bosani shot his assistant a fierce look. ‘Just put them down,’ he said, ‘then leave us.’

  Visco slunk out.

  As O’Malley fumbled in his cassock for the corkscrew, Bosani decided it was time to take command of the situation.

  ‘Father General,’ he began, ‘I appreciate your kindness, but I really am exceptionally busy just now …’

  The Jesuit, dressed from head to foot in black, waved away the Camerlengo’s protest and drew out the cork with a discernible pop. He sniffed the bottle. ‘An excellent bouquet,’ he said, ‘with a faint tang of the sea. But then, I don’t need to tell you that.’

  He poured two glasses and handed one to Bosani.

  ‘Good God!’ the cardinal said, holding the wine as if it were a poisoned chalice. ‘It’s not even lunchtime.’

  ‘But very nearly,’ said O’Malley, smiling genially, ‘and it is an exceptionally hot day.’

  Bosani drew back, exposing the points of his teeth. ‘T
he quality of the day has nothing to do with it,’ he began. ‘I must ask you to desist in this matter. I am shortly to host a lunch in the Apostolic Palace for the cardinal electors of Latin America. After that, I shall be engaged in discussions with the former dean of the College of Cardinals. I’m afraid the future leadership of the Church must take precedence over a bottle of wine – even if it is Cinque Terre.’

  O’Malley’s eyes narrowed. There was no doubt about it: Bosani was a very odd fish indeed. It was rare for any Catholic prelate to refuse a glass of wine. For an Italian to say no – especially one who had grown up in the trade – was almost unheard of. It was almost as if …

  ‘Very well,’ he said, abruptly. ‘Then let me state my business directly. As you know, when I became a member of the Company of Jesus, I took an oath of loyalty and obedience to the Pope and his successors – an oath that I take extremely seriously. It is for that reason that I need to know from you that a certain rumour is not true.’

  ‘You speak in riddles. What rumour?’

  ‘The rumour that you, Your Eminence, are doing everything in your power to secure the election of a violently anti-Muslim pope – one who would more closely resemble the Antichrist than the Servant of the Servants of God.’

  Bosani’s face had by now turned purple. ‘How dare you? This is intolerable. Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘Is it true, then?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Bosani’s eyebrows met in the middle as he struggled to contain his anger and indignation. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I do not, and I must tell you that I very much resent your insinuation.’

  It was then that O’Malley noted that the Camerlengo was not wearing his pectoral cross. Nor was there any other crucifix or holy object in the room. He examined the features of the elderly Prelate, trying to divine his true nature. It was impossible to tell. Confronting Bosani, he felt like a prosecuting counsel. ‘There is something I must know, Eminence … something that has been bothering me. When the late Pope Benedict delivered his address in Regensberg, you were his closest advisor on the politics of the Muslim world. Had you opposed the substance of his talk, you would have had the opportunity to make your feelings clear.’