by Tom Fox
“I was under the impression we had a meeting with the IOR’s president,” he said, annoyance immediately showing through in his voice.
The woman smiled. “You do. Don’t worry, you haven’t been fobbed off with a lowly subordinate. But with the Vatican closure, our staff have been restricted from regular duty.” She stared into Alexander’s eyes, then continued with a softly concealed pride. “I’m not normally the one who answers the front door.”
“We’re grateful for your help.” Gabriella stepped in, covering for Alexander’s gaffe. “And for your willingness to arrange a meeting on such short notice.”
“Mr. Holtzmann, the president of the Board of Superintendence, is looking forward to speaking with you. He confirmed the meeting himself.”
Alexander balked. The idea of the Vatican Bank’s senior executive officer being eager to meet with a reporter and a police officer was hard to fathom.
Their host noticed his expression. “You were expecting something else, Mr. Trecchio? Perhaps I should make my entrance again, come in a little more furtively and suggest you’d better not ask any questions, then send you demonstratively on your way? Perhaps I could wear dark glasses and quietly whisper that some things are never discussed or mentioned?”
Gabriella couldn’t stifle a laugh at the other woman’s self-deprecating humor. Alexander shifted to another shade of red.
“Don’t worry,” Beatrice Pinard said. “It’s not the first time I’ve encountered your reaction. But the IOR isn’t obligated to live up to the preconceived notions that others have of our work.” She smiled gently, then motioned toward the chairs along the wall. “Please, take a seat. I’ll inform the president you’re here and be back in just a moment to collect you.”
Alexander and Gabriella sat, and a moment later Ms. Pinard had slipped back through the white door and left them in solitude.
“That certainly went well,” Gabriella said, edging an elbow at Alexander’s ribs. “You want to do anything else to make us unwelcome before we’ve even told them why we’re here?”
Alexander opened his mouth but bit back his answer. What he was feeling was something Gabriella wouldn’t understand, and that Pinard’s humor didn’t alleviate. It was the twinge of experience. Of knowing how the Church and its institutions worked. And knowing that this wasn’t it.
He pulled out his new phone, opened the messaging app and entered a number he knew by memory. His uncle was the man he trusted most in the whole world.
He typed only a single line.
You won’t believe where I am.
29
The Apostolic Palace: 8:40 a.m.
Pope Gregory turned to the stranger, who sat silently opposite his desk. They had spoken together, they had been quiet together. There had been long spans of reflection and prayer. But now, as the progress of a new day pushed forward, the Pope was filled with resolve.
“I will speak to the people,” he said softly. “I’ve already conveyed my intentions to my staff. They will make the arrangements for a small press conference here in the palace. I’m certain, given the climate outside, that my words will be broadcast live.”
“And what will you say?” The man’s question was smooth and unrushed.
“I will tell the world of the good works we are witnessing.” The Pope’s answer was direct, though behind it there were concerns that wouldn’t fully leave his mind. The miracles that he’d learned had taken place outside the Vatican’s walls were extraordinary. But they were also just as unexplained as his own healing.
Yet that healing was real. That much he knew as an absolute fact. And as to the rest . . . he was, after all, a man of faith.
Besides, even a pope could speak in veiled terms.
“More importantly,” he continued, “I will urge them to make the witness of these things a beginning. To undertake good works of their own.”
The Pope looked into the face of the stranger. For the thousandth time he felt the pinch of curiosity. He considered asking the man his name—asking where he’d come from, why he’d come. But just like each instance in the past, the temptation fled as quickly as it had come. What remained was the feeling of serenity, of otherness, of timelessness that had been with the pontiff since he’d first met the stranger the previous day.
The feeling of hope. It was a feeling that, for the moment, was enough for Gregory.
“These are noble sentiments,” the stranger answered. There was a comforting smile in his eyes. “The goodness we see in the world should always spur us to a deeper virtue. What miracle has ever been an end in itself?”
The Pope sighed deeply and with gratitude. He reflected on the millions of faithful outside these walls who so desperately needed hope. The reassurance of love and grace. If he could offer them words that would inspire this, in the face of the wondrous things being done in their midst, his own heart would rejoice. Surely this was the great work to which the descendants of the Fisherman were called.
“There is only one thing I ask of you, if you are willing.” The stranger spoke after a few moments’ pause. A request. The first the man had made. Pope Gregory leaned forward in his chair.
“Of course.”
“I ask only that you say what is truly in your heart.” The stranger kept his eyes on the Pope’s as he slid a hand into the breast pocket of his shirt. He extracted a small slip of paper, folded once down the middle.
“Say what you feel, say what your heart whispers into your mouth,” he repeated, sliding the paper across the Pope’s desk.
“And then say this.”
30
Office of the Institute for the Works of Religion: 8:51 a.m.
“Am I to assume that you’re here to determine whether we’re corrupt?”
The question, delivered with a smile and absolute charm from the pudgy, rose-colored German face of Ernst Holtzmann, President of the IOR, was immediately disarming. Nothing about the man spoke of the kind of deception-laden, corporate criminal that popular belief asserted ran the Vatican Bank. Instead, Holtzmann was the spitting image of a fairy-tale village baker: rosy-cheeked, cheerful, rotund. He smiled warmly through perfectly round glasses, thinning hair mopping his forehead in a manner that was more comical than off-putting.
“No, that’s not why we’re here,” Gabriella replied apologetically. It was clear that the public-liaison-cum-receptionist had relayed her experiences from the lobby. “We’re sorry if you were given that impression.” She shot Alexander a furtive look. “We’re here to see whether you might be able to assist us with a police investigation currently under way.”
The man seemed to notice Gabriella’s embarrassment. “Please, don’t worry. I’ll be pleased to help you however I can, though I didn’t realize there were any police matters currently pending with our office.” He motioned for them to take the two leather seats opposite his small desk. “A drink?” Both Alexander and Gabriella declined, but the man poured himself a dram of what looked like Scotch. The morning hour seemed to pose no stumbling block to his habit.
“The accusation of corruption is one I hear often,” he said, taking a seat and following it with a sip, “and you probably wouldn’t be surprised at how many people end up here thinking they’ve landed in the heart of some grand criminal enterprise.” He smiled, his teeth clean but crooked. His lips were naturally a bright red, the color of a hearty lipstick, giving him a comical aspect perfectly fitted to his personality.
“They’re wrong?” Alexander asked, too confrontationally.
“But not for inexcusable reasons,” Holtzmann answered. The man wasn’t thrown for an instant. “It comes with the territory. I knew it would, the day the Pope appointed me to the office. We’re the financial arm of the Church, and the Church is an institution of great power and significant wealth. Both of those breed suspicion.”
He spoke in erudite tones that suggested more than an education only in finance. His words were to the point and delivered with a compelling openness.
�
�It seems there’s been plenty to be suspicious over in the bank’s past,” Alexander countered.
Holtzmann sighed. “Everyone has a past, including us. But unlike the majority of institutions, ours is heavily scrutinized. We’ve never been more transparent than we are now. And isn’t the most important question not what we’ve done in the past, but what we’re doing today?”
“Sounds right to me,” Gabriella answered. Alexander grunted softly.
“We’ve opened our doors to unparalleled levels of public scrutiny over the past few years,” Holtzmann added. “His Holiness Pope Gregory is well known for his desire to shed light into some of the darker corners of the Church’s extensive attic. And there’s no place more prone to darkness and back-room dealings than finance.”
“You’re sure you’re a banker?” Gabriella asked, only half sarcastically. Holtzmann smiled.
“I like to think that I’m a servant of the Church, helping support her good works in the world. But yes, I’m a banker and the former chairman of Holtzmann Financial, begun by my great-grandfather. I don’t see any reason why honesty and transparency shouldn’t reign in financial dealings.”
The IOR president took another drink of his Scotch, drawing it back the way most people drank coffee at this hour. “But you said you were here about a police investigation?” He looked toward Gabriella.
“We’re following up on the deaths of two scholars who perished under suspicious circumstances.”
“Deaths? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Holtzmann answered, making the sign of the cross over his chest. He paused and closed his eyes, uttering a silent prayer. When he opened them, he looked directly at Alexander.
“Since you’re here, I gather you’re wondering whether these two professors have some connection to the bank?”
Again, Alexander noted, the man was strangely open. Given the circumstances, he would normally have expected to have to drag such an observation out of one of the Church’s employees.
“They’d both written journal articles on corruption in the IOR,” he answered, leaning slightly forward in his chair. “Neither seemed to make much of a stir at the time, but the murder of both men in the past twenty-four hours suggests that someone was not pleased with their conclusions.”
Holtzmann released a long sigh. “Terrible, just terrible. Though I can’t see how academic work on the bank’s affairs could kindle such a reaction.”
“Do the names Marcus Crossler or Salvatore Tosi mean anything to you?” Gabriella asked. Alexander closely monitored Holtzmann’s features, but he saw there only the genuine signs of a lack of recognition. At least so far as he could read them.
“No, I don’t think I’ve heard either of those names before.” The bank’s president paused. “These are the names of the two men who were . . . killed?”
Gabriella nodded and Holtzmann crossed himself again. He looked paled by the attachment of actual names to what had formerly been the abstract concept of murder.
“Crossler’s paper suggests you’re still keeping secrets,” Alexander persisted. He could see Gabriella eyeing him at his side, her glance an exasperated, silent Alexander, shut up.
“Of course we keep secrets,” Holtzmann replied. He seemed undeterred by the question. “Every institution does. Confidentiality is an important ingredient in effective business. It’s all the more so in church affairs. We help the poor and the repressed, and this often means acting in direct violation of the wishes of the governments doing the oppressing. Look at the work undertaken in the days of John Paul II. The Church’s activities, many of them financed through this office, were a significant ingredient in toppling communism in many parts of the Eastern Bloc. We couldn’t just allow those governments to know what we were up to.”
The response gave Alexander pause. “Still,” he said, “in little more than half a century of existence, the IOR has had its fair share of scandals. Corrupt officers, illegitimate business dealings—”
“Alleged, on all counts,” Holtzmann interrupted. “With all respect, a thing is not true simply because it’s reported in the media.” He smiled again, and the ice clinked in his glass.
“Alleged,” Alexander allowed. “But ongoing secrecy doesn’t help alleviate suspicion. Crossler’s paper said he was unable to get concrete information from your office. Detailed materials on interactions with other agencies, that sort of thing.”
At first, the comment seemed finally to have thrown Holtzmann. He did not answer. He set down his drink. A moment later he was standing, turning away from Alexander and Gabriella, yet he did not head for the door. He arrived at a filing cabinet and drew open a metal drawer. Flipping through folders for a few seconds, he located a stapled collection of papers and drew it out from a stack of others like it.
“Do you mean this kind of information, Mr. Trecchio?”
Holtzmann returned to his desk with a satisfied smile on his face. He dropped the papers before them.
“A full listing of the IOR’s current financial and business partnerships.” He plopped himself back into his chair, looking eminently satisfied at the disbelieving expressions on both Alexander and Gabriella’s faces.
“Call it a little gift,” he added, “from your good friend the sinister keeper of secrets.”
Eleven minutes later
Vatican City: 9:01 a.m.
A black telephone rang, deep within the corridors of Vatican City. It was answered by a man who kept his words soft and brief.
“Yes?”
“There’s been activity.”
“Where?”
“The IOR head office. Holtzmann’s been talking.”
“To whom?”
“The registry book lists a male and a female.” The informant gave the names: Alexander Trecchio and Gabriella Fierro.
“You can get me a recording of the meeting in Holtzmann’s office?”
“Of course. You’ll have it in a few minutes.”
The man in the Vatican sighed, relieved. Ernst Holtzmann was an honest man, cooperative and fully above board in all things. Which was why he had never been privy to the true nature of what went on with the funds he nominally controlled.
The relief vanished entirely after the informant’s next words.
“There’s more. When the visitors were present, Holtzmann gave them the full IOR partnership listing.”
“They have the list?”
“They took it with them when they left.”
The informant started to say more, but never got the chance to finish. The voice in the Vatican was already gone and the line was dead.
31
Near the Tiber River, central Rome: 9:22 a.m.
The call had come in to central dispatch at 8:40 a.m., only twenty minutes before beat officers Enzo Juliano and Ivo Turci were due to go off shift. But that was how intriguing calls often came—in the last moments, unexpected.
They arrived at the appointed spot on the Viadotto della Magliana nine minutes later, pulling their patrol-issue Alfa Romeo 159 alongside the road that twisted beside the south bank of the Tiber. Juliano always hated these calls. Despite its romantic past in bygone Roman days, the modern Tiber was little more than a stinking open sewer traversing the city. But it was generally what was found on these occasions that really made his stomach turn.
A middle-aged woman with disheveled gray hair stood statuesque along the embankment, her face too ashen and white for the sunny weather. Juliano’s suspicion that she was the individual who had called the station was confirmed as he and Turci approached and she simply pointed downward toward the waterline.
“Wait here,” Turci instructed her as they passed. A moment later, both officers were descending the brick steps that led down to water level, then walking nimbly over the large rocks that bordered the ancient Tiber.
Juliano could already see it.
“Just there,” he said, pointing ahead to his eleven o’clock. Lapping in the water, just breaking the surface, were two legs. They were covered in j
eans, indeterminate brown shoes on the feet, something wrapped around them. As the officers approached, more of the body became visible. It was lying face down in the water, a flannel shirt covering the torso. Hair that looked to be a light brown and about three inches in length flowed about the back of the head, its motions strangely beautiful in the midst of the macabre scene.
“Careful,” Juliano sputtered, reaching out to offer his partner a hand as the latter lost his footing. The rocks that banked the river were rounded, algae-covered and slippery.
“I got it.” They were only steps away. Within a few seconds the two officers were standing to either side of the body.
“No obvious signs of trauma,” Turci noted, looking over the dead man’s corpse—though it was a largely useless comment. With his body covered in clothing, there could be any manner of trauma they couldn’t see. Knife strikes, gunshot wounds, the bruises of a fall. All that could be seen clearly was a heavy set of chains wrapped around his lower legs.
“Let’s get him turned over, see what we’re dealing with.”
Officer Juliano reached down and the two of them together grabbed the body by the torso.
“On three,” he instructed. Then the short countdown and the two officers together flipped over the body of the unknown victim.
The water splashed against Juliano’s legs as the body turned, and he stepped back on instinct as it came to rest in its new position. Golden-brown hair was matted against its face.
He reached down, grabbed the locks of hair around the eyes and nose, and pushed them aside.
It was then that they both saw the man’s face.
Only Turci found words to speak.
“Oh Christ.”
32
Salita ai Giardini Street, bordering Vatican City: 9:31 a.m.
“I’m not entirely sure I understand what just happened,” Alexander confessed as he and Gabriella left the round tower at the edge of the Apostolic Palace.