Dominus

by Tom Fox

  Now he could only hope that Gregory would mention both.

  35

  Vatican City: 10:20 a.m.

  “Is it right for us to meet without the rest of the brethren?” In the four years he had been a member, Monsignor Farro had never known the Fraternity to meet ex parte, without the whole membership assembled. There were, after all, only thirteen of them. And they always met in secret. It was not as if a full gathering required elaborate preparation.

  “It’s right if I say it’s right,” their leader answered curtly. “Several of our brothers are occupied in other matters, but Father Taylor has urgent news that requires immediate attention.”

  The Reverend Taylor Abbate was Brooklyn born and raised, and, though he came from several generations of Paduan stock, was the only member of the Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris not to be Italian by nationality. He was known universally as “the American” as a constant reminder, and he wore the title with pride. He was a young man who stood out for his ruthlessness, and he didn’t mind having a title that marked him uniquely as well.

  At this moment, he looked concerned.

  “We might have a problem,” he blurted out, not particularly worried whether it was rightly his moment to speak. There were only five of them in the office and they were here to receive his intelligence.

  “What sort of problem?” Farro asked, his previous concerns over questions of protocol and quorums forgotten.

  Father Taylor’s worry was accentuated by the features of a face not accustomed to expressing this particular emotion. Through college and seminary he had been an avid sportsman, playing football of both the American and European varieties. He’d kept up a demanding physical regimen over the years since, as he’d worked his way through various positions in the USA before being called to serve in the curia two years ago. His body was fit beneath his black shirt and dog collar, and his face was much more experienced in expressing confidence and control than concern. It was a face that, when most people first saw it, struck an immediate note of fear, despite it being poised above a priestly collar.

  “You’ve been told of the call I received from the IOR about Holtzmann’s visitors.”

  The four other necks in the room immediately tensed. They’d all been passed word of the last-minute additions to the agenda of the figurehead president of the IOR.

  Father Taylor’s normally controlled face lost a shade before he continued. “Our listeners recorded their conversation. They contacted me because two red-flag words came up in the discussion.”

  “Which?” the leader of the Fraternity asked, his voice measured and calm.

  “Names, both of them.”

  “Chrissakes, man,” one of the members, a bishop, pressed. “Which names?”

  Another shade of color melted from Taylor’s features. “Tosi, and Crossler.”

  “The professors?” the group’s leader asked, his recognition immediate. “The ones who wrote articles on financial scandals at the bank?” He obviously knew the men, but his reaction hardly matched the discomfort in Father Taylor’s expression. The priest nodded.

  “They’re renewing their research now, of all times?”

  “No,” Taylor answered. “They’re dead. And someone else is asking questions about them.”

  “Do I have to fucking ask you who?” the bishop said angrily. No one seemed especially surprised by the episcopal minister’s foul tongue. The myth of puritanical virtue plaguing the higher rungs of the clergy held no stock in this circle.

  Father Taylor spat out the words. “A reporter,” he announced, “and a cop.”

  Suddenly the air in the room was different. All five men were silent, Taylor waiting to see the reactions of the rest, the other four trying to figure out how to react.

  The leader of the Fraternity sat motionless, as was his wont. But then, with shocking immediacy, his stoic stillness fled and the man exploded in furious, unrestrained anger. Two fists rose together from the wooden desk and slammed down on its surface, the red in his neck and cheeks instantaneously of the same intensity as the piping of his garments. Everyone else froze.

  The Cardinal Secretary of State swore aloud, spitting out his words.

  “Damn it all! A reporter, asking about Tosi and Crossler. With a police officer?”

  His fists smashed down on the desk a second time, papers taking flight at the jolt and a reading lamp jostling dangerously close to falling.

  Cardinal Viteri was breathing heavily, his nostrils flared.

  “This changes everything! The whole point of this venture is that materials get released when we want them to. They could ruin everything! It will be San Sebastiano two years ago all over again. Only this time, the stakes are substantially higher. We cannot afford to be exposed!”

  Few had ever seen the Fraternity’s leader this angry, or this concerned. The appearance of both traits was worrying.

  “Any threats were already supposed to have been taken care of,” Viteri added a moment later. He clenched his fists. “Presumably the two professors were deemed such threats. They were dealt with. Now the reporter and the police officer will have to be handled the same way.”

  The statement frosted the air in the already frozen room. Given the stakes, there was no question as to what the words meant.

  “We can’t be involved in, in . . . that,” one of the membership said timidly, his voice at a whisper. “Such action,” he stumbled around the clumsy words, “it’s not in our character to dirty our hands directly.”

  “Our character, in these situations, is to do as we’re told,” Viteri spat back. He shook his head angrily, though he agreed in principle with the other man’s hesitation. Few things troubled Viteri’s conscience, but killing was one of them. “I’ll contact the firm myself. It’ll be their men, not us, who do what needs to be done. Just as it always is.”

  He peered up at the other men, his face suddenly hard.

  “Bear up, brothers. We all accepted long ago that sometimes even men of God have to play with the devil.”

  36

  Central Rome: 10:24 a.m.

  When revelations come, they tend to come fast. Gabriella felt the truth of that maxim as a ringing emerged from her mobile phone only minutes after Alexander had made the connection between the IOR records, medical research and the miracles consuming the public interest.

  “Yours?” he asked, the ringtone indistinct in the car’s interior.

  Gabriella was already reaching into her pocket. “I haven’t shared this number.” Her face was concerned. “I’ll take it while you drive. Let’s skip the coffee. Take us to your office. We can do a bit more digging there.”

  Alexander nodded his agreement. Performing a quick, illegal U-turn, he began heading toward the city center.

  Gabriella opened the phone and held it to her ear. Habit almost made her announce her name by way of introduction, but she caught herself and spoke only a guarded question.

  “Who is this?”

  “Is this Inspector Fierro?” a male voice questioned back. Young. It didn’t sound menacing, but that meant nothing.

  “Who is this?” she asked again, refusing to answer.

  “Inspector, this is Assistente Tito Tonti. From the central station.”

  Gabriella tried to place the ridiculous-sounding name. There was something vaguely familiar about its absurd alliteration, but she couldn’t put a face to it.

  “You have the wrong number,” she said. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “I don’t have the wrong number, Inspector Fierro,” the man cut her off. “I’ve just spent the past half-hour trying to figure out how to contact you. Your registered mobile is going straight to voicemail.”

  Gabriella remained silent.

  “I’m a friend,” the man called Tonti continued. He sounded keen to gain her trust. “And a colleague. We met a few months ago at the officers’ banquet at Tre Scalini.”

  “Ah, Tito,” Gabriella answered, the memory triggering. Kiss-ass boy who looked l
ike he graduated from the academy before he hit puberty. The thought was followed by an internal sign of the cross. Profanity was profanity, even if unspoken.

  “How did you get this number?” She might recognize the man, but that still didn’t explain his calling her on a phone she’d owned for only a few hours and which she’d registered under a false name.

  “I may be young, but I’m good at my job,” Tito answered. “You can call yourself Anabelle Cross on your new phone’s record if you want, but you paid for it by card, Inspector Fierro. Amateur hour. It didn’t take me long to track it.”

  Gabriella shook her head, annoyed at her own stupidity. She represented the law; she wasn’t used to living in the avoidance of it.

  “Okay,” she finally admitted, “you found me. What’s so important for you to track me down like this?”

  “There’s something I think I can do for you.” The boy was rekindling the kiss-ass reputation she remembered from their previous encounter. “Something’s come in down here that I think will be of interest to you.”

  “Is there some reason you would know what’s of interest to me? I didn’t realize we’d become that close at the banquet.”

  Alexander eyed her from the driver’s seat. She peered back at him awkwardly, realizing how curious that phrase must have sounded on its own. His expression beamed the slightest hint of jealousy, and for an instant it pleased Gabriella to see it.

  But Assistente Tonti was eager to bring her to his point. “I’m assuming it will interest you because of the case you’re working on. Or not working on, as the situation might be.”

  Gabriella’s focus suddenly intensified. How would a junior officer know that she’d been asked not to participate in a case?

  “You’ve got something connected to the Crossler murder?”

  “Something bigger. Much bigger. Something to do with the story you were blacklisted for pushing.”

  “Blacklisted?” Gabriella exclaimed without restraint. “What are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t heard? Deputy Commissioner D’Antonio sent round the calls this morning. You’re suspended from duty for insubordination. The whole force has been instructed to maintain no contact with you unless it’s through him.”

  “Un-fucking-believable,” she answered. The cross was getting its workout today. “He hasn’t even told me!”

  “Whatever you’ve done, Inspector, you’re not on his good side.”

  Gabriella’s suspicion was suddenly back. “If that’s the case, you’re putting your neck on the line tracing my new number and ringing me.”

  “D’Antonio’s been a hard-ass with me since the day I arrived,” Tonti answered. “Call this a favor.”

  “A favor it is.” Gabriella suddenly liked the kid a lot more than she had a few minutes ago.

  “Does your new phone receive picture messages?” Tonti asked.

  “No, but I’m with someone whose mobile does. Can I give you that number?”

  A moment later she was reciting Alexander’s number from memory. Only when it was complete did she remember that his old phone was gone, tossed out the window with her own. She blushed as she looked over to him, but the look on his face suggested that he was not unhappy that his private number was still in her mind.

  “Scratch that,” she said, shaking her head, her blushing deepening. “Give me a second.” She signaled for Alexander to pass her his new phone and a moment later read his new digits off the set-up screen and handed it back to him.

  “Great,” Tito answered. “I’ll send the picture over now. It’s of a body found in the river earlier today.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Inspector Fierro, just look at the picture.” Young Tito Tonti paused. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  Before Gabriella could thank him, the young man was speaking again.

  “And Inspector, if for whatever reason you’re trying to play hard-to-find, just remember . . . if I could track you down, others can too.”

  She prepared a reply, but before she could speak, Tito had hung up.

  A few seconds later, Alexander’s new mobile pinged the arrival of a message and he passed the phone back to Gabriella.

  “You want to tell me what this is about?”

  “I’ve no idea. A junior sergeant at Rome Centrale said he was sending me a photo of a body found in the river. His voice suggested I’d understand the relevance when I saw it.”

  “Not the traditional way to impress a good-looking superior,” Alexander teased. Gabriella merely rolled her eyes, sliding her finger across the screen to unlock the phone and opening up his messaging app. There was one new message from a number in the central Roman dialing code. It had to be Tito.

  A second later and the message opened. There was no text, only a photo downloading at an excruciatingly slow rate. It took a few seconds to complete, then Gabriella clicked the thumbnail to view it.

  “Oh, hell.” The words came from her mouth on impulse, before thought.

  “What is it?”

  She held up the phone, angling it toward Alexander. He tried to look, but the motion of the car made it hard to focus on the image. He snatched the phone from her hand and held it directly in front of him.

  “What is this?”

  On the small screen was a male face, whitened and blued from the lack of life. The skin was wilted with the after-effects of long submersion in water, but the features were still immediately recognizable.

  It was the face Alexander had watched on the video feeds that had started his investigation. The face that millions all across the world had become familiar with over the past twenty-four hours.

  It was the face of the stranger.

  37

  Headquarters of Global Capital Italia: 10:38 a.m.

  “The Pope intends to speak to the media?” Caterina Amato couldn’t hide her surprise. “Do we have any idea what he’s going to say?”

  “Our men inside the Vatican have only been able to determine that he’s set on speaking, and that the press event will take place soon. The Pope’s not told anyone what he intends to say.”

  Caterina’s mind churned through the potential outcomes of this news, annoyed that the Fraternity hadn’t provided more concrete information. She was constantly exasperated by the group, furtive and secretive as they were, and utterly consumed with a project that was of the least possible interest to her. A fraternity of the Roman Catholic Church’s old guard, dedicated to rooting out the influences of modernity and reform on their beloved magisterium. Christ, could there be a more loathsome, pointless undertaking? Or one that less convincingly masked these men’s real character? They were individuals driven by their lusts and desires, just like everyone else.

  Lusts and desires. Old memories flashed back. Caterina was eleven, her brother Davide was fifteen and her mother had only recently sent them both off to the Sisters of Perpetual Mercy boarding school near San Vittorino. Caterina could still smell the stench of that place: stone and wood and pine cleaner lingering in the air of dark, seemingly endless corridors. But what she truly remembered was what had taken place there—not to her, but to her brother.

  Caterina had been treated like every other young girl in the school: harshly, lovelessly, indiscriminately. But the boys experienced the place very differently. She remembered Davide being taken off to see the school’s ecclesiastical supervisor, a twenty-eight-year-old priest who would come to the institution intermittently to make his inspections. Those invariably included special meetings with hand-selected students, always boys.

  She remembered how Davide trembled each time he was called to those encounters. How he came back from the distant inspector’s office pale, unable to speak, faltering in his walk. She never asked, but she knew what happened to him there, and to others like him, at the hands of “our reverend father.”

  And she never forgot the abusive priest’s name: Father Donato Viteri. It burned its way into her mind as she watched
her brother grow wearier and wearier, his love of life stolen from him. When, three months after Davide had graduated from the school and departed into the world, news reached her that he had committed suicide, her world changed permanently. Davide had bled out, alone in an alley, his wrists slashed by the fragments of a beer bottle that was found still clutched in his grip. Caterina had been fourteen.

  She had run away from school within a week, making her way to the capital. She found work in Rome at a bare wage until she’d earned enough to buy a cheap camera and a few rolls of film, then she’d put the first career plan of her life into action. She’d returned to the Sisters of Perpetual Mercy. She’d broken into the grounds undetected and hid herself away in the garden outside the inspector’s quarters. She’d lain in wait for two days before Father Viteri arrived, and when, a few hours later, he called a boy into his office for the kind of meeting that had driven her brother to his death, Caterina caught it on film. Every repulsive, horrible dimension of it.

  From that moment on, she knew she had something of which she could never be deprived. Power. Father Donato Viteri was elevated to the rank of monsignor on his thirty-fifth birthday, and a few days later, a young woman he didn’t know from Eve had appeared in his office. She’d laid a series of photographs on his desk in silence. Within that silence the monsignor had come under her complete control, a control that remained as he rose through the ranks—becoming bishop, archbishop, cardinal, even Secretary of State. And through it all, a member and then leader of the Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris.

  Deep breaths. Calm. Caterina forced herself back into the present and the new unknowns facing her. Of the possibilities emerging from news of a papal speech, almost all were good.

  “All the financial preparations are in place?” she asked her assistant.