by Tom Fox
“I simply don’t know how your institution has made it two thousand years,” Caterina finally said. “If I ran as loose a ship as yours, my firm wouldn’t have lasted two months.”
“This isn’t the time for insults,” Cardinal Viteri answered. He wanted to bark out that this bitch might have tremendous power, but he was the Secretary of State of the oldest nation state in the Western world and she should show at least a modicum of respect. But she owned him, through and through, and he knew it. There was nothing he could do to change that.
“This can be fixed,” he said instead. “We’ll find a way to—”
“You’ll do nothing.” Caterina cut him off, her voice dropping. Viteri felt a shiver rush up his spine at the emotionless manner in which she delivered her next words. “I’ve had enough of your help. Get your missing cardinal back into the Vatican. I’ll take care of the rest myself.”
48
Café Barberini: 12:59 p.m.
Cardinal Trecchio reopened his eyes and stared again at the photograph on Alexander’s smartphone. “Tell me what this is,” he finally demanded, a twist of despair in his voice. “What are you showing me?”
“The body of a man our forces discovered deceased this morning,” Gabriella answered. “He was found by two officers in the Tiber, after it was reported by a local.”
“But he looks identical to . . . to our . . .” Cardinal Rinaldo faltered.
“To your visitor at the Vatican.” Alexander finished the sentence for his uncle. “We’ve noticed. Which means that others will have spotted the resemblance as well, though by some miracle nothing’s leaked to the press yet.”
“Who is he?” Rinaldo set down the phone, pushing it across the table with a sudden revulsion. He kept his eyes averted, as though it might somehow cease to exist through sheer force of will. “And why haven’t I heard anything about this? This should be . . . news.”
“We don’t know who he is,” Gabriella answered, “but I’m sure our labs and forensics are running prints and dentals now. As to why you haven’t heard, it appears the central force is keeping a tight lid on this discovery. No one’s been made aware. I don’t know why, but even I was only able to find out through some intra-office schmoozing.”
The cardinal’s jaw moved, words almost on his tongue. But the sounds didn’t come.
“Uncle, it’s time to tell us what you know,” Alexander pressed. “We’ve shared what we’ve learned. Why did you call me? What do you know?”
“I know nothing about this,” Rinaldo answered. Anger made him turn his attention back to the device he had been avoiding so assiduously, the photograph glowing on its display.
“Your call and your warning came before we found out about this,” Gabriella interjected. “Why were you so nervous?”
The cardinal shook his head. He looked to his nephew.
“Since the moment the stranger arrived and the Holy Father was healed, I knew something was wrong. I’ve suspected the situation would be, how shall I put it, taken advantage of.”
“Meaning?” Gabriella asked.
Rinaldo glanced around, looking even more nervous than he had a few moments before. “Both of you need to understand, there are more forces at play in Vatican City than just the curia and its official offices. To know who these men are, you need to know . . .” He stuttered to a halt. After a moment he began again. “I trust you’re both well aware that Pope Gregory has made enemies since he was elected to St. Peter’s throne?”
“I thought he was a deeply loved man,” Gabriella answered. “Respected almost universally. Even Alex likes him.”
At any other moment Alexander would have raised the corners of his lips at her combination of truth and sarcasm. Maybe even shot back a retort. In this instant, however, he only wanted to know his uncle’s response.
“It’s true,” Cardinal Rinaldo answered, “but it’s not the whole story. Pope Gregory is a man on a mission. That mission has a single point of focus: clean up the Church and everything over which the Church has an influence.”
“A noble aim,” Gabriella muttered.
“You and I are in agreement on that point, young lady. But not everyone shares our opinion. Noble aims are inspiring if you don’t have any skeletons in your closet or anything to lose by upsetting the status quo.”
“You’re saying there are groups within the Vatican that do?” Alexander asked.
“Of course there are, Alex. Don’t be naïve. The Vatican has operated in its own world for centuries. There are men who are answerable to none, accountable to no one but God. One can get used to those kinds of freedoms.”
“So who precisely is against the Pope’s reforms?”
“I can’t give you names because I don’t know them. But it’s a long-held belief within the walls of the city that there exists a brotherhood of high-ranking Vatican officials who work to preserve the old ways in the face of threats of change and reform.”
“The old ways?” Gabriella asked.
“Ways that don’t involve asking questions, that don’t include holding people to account. Ways that allow things to happen under the table as they’ve done for a very, very long time.”
“And this group would threaten an individual involved in such change? Even if he’s a pope?”
“Especially if he’s a pope,” Rinaldo affirmed. “The Pope might not have the kind of absolute power within the Church that the world assumes, but he’s definitely got the highest pulpit and the loudest voice. Therefore he poses the greatest risk.”
“This brotherhood—you don’t know any names at all?” Alexander asked, pushing his uncle in the hope of more details. The cardinal only shook his head.
“I’ve known Gregory too long and am far too close to him. I’d be the last person such a group would let into their circle.” He leaned in to the table. “But these men are extremely dangerous. And if the rumors are true, they’re allied with others. There’s talk of them being arm in arm with groups outside the Church. Groups who, let’s just say, do what they need to do to get their jobs done.”
Alexander processed the information. “The kind of groups that might send hit men after us?”
“Or after a couple of professors who threatened to expose them,” Rinaldo affirmed. “The brotherhood itself wouldn’t dirty its hands directly with those sorts of actions. There’s a modicum of a moral code in place, however flimsy. But others would have no problem with bloodshed.”
“But why were you so worried about us going to the IOR?” Alexander asked.
“Because, Alex, the old saying holds true: money breeds corruption. However this group is organized, it’s somehow connected to the bank. Traipse around there, you’re going to step on somebody’s toes.”
Before the cardinal could continue, an electronic beeping began to emerge from his pocket. He reached down and extracted a pager. The device looked like it had emerged directly out of the 1980s. He glanced at its tiny display and his features immediately changed.
“We’re being summoned to a meeting of the College of Cardinals. Twenty minutes.”
“Can’t you skip it and stay with us a little longer?” Alexander asked. “There’s so much more we need to know.”
“I have to go,” Rinaldo answered. He was already sliding toward the edge of the booth. “We’re cloistered, remember? I had to sneak out to get to you. If I don’t show up at the meeting, they’ll know I’ve gone. Worse, they’ll send someone to look for me.”
He stood peering around the café, his nervousness returned. After a moment, he glanced back to his nephew.
“Please be careful, Alex. These are not people who play games, you know that now. With what’s at stake after what you’ve shown me, they’re going to be at their most aggressive.”
“What will you do back inside the Apostolic Palace?” Gabriella asked him.
“I’ll try to feed you what I can from the inside, about this . . . this deceiver.” He seemed genuinely pained to admit that the stranger was n
ot the holy man he’d previously sensed.
“And I’ll pray for you.” He glanced back to Alexander. “I’ll pray for us all.”
Central Rome: 1:11 p.m.
Caterina Amato shut the door to her office behind Umberto and Maso. The two men had arrived only minutes after the ten-second phone call through which she’d demanded their presence. Umberto looked annoyed—hardly unusual—and Maso looked nervous. He generally was.
“I’m not a religious woman,” Caterina announced, “but I don’t at all mind playing God. And in my limited understanding, God’s commandments are generally expected to be followed. Are they not?”
The two men stood silently, the tone of the meeting having been quickly set. Umberto’s annoyance gave way to trepidation. Maso looked like his legs might give out beneath him. The few crow’s feet at the corners of Caterina’s eyes seemed to deepen.
“Your failure to eliminate the two targets last night, then again today, less than an hour ago, has opened the door to the biggest risk of this whole operation,” she said flatly. “You’re supposed to be the best. Is there a reason you come to me bearing the kind of news I’d expect to receive from a pair of amateurs?”
“We’re—”
“That wasn’t a question requiring a response,” Caterina spat out. She waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no excuse for failure.” Her breathing was deep and angry, but gradually she straightened her back and slowed the pace of her words. “There is, however, the opportunity for repentance. I’m going to give you the chance to repair what little remains of your reputation.”
Umberto looked outraged, but held his tongue.
“I’ve had a call from Cardinal Donato Viteri inside the Vatican. Our friends there have a leak. A leak that needs to be plugged.” She returned to her glass desk and leaned over it, her palms flat on its surface. “The man’s name is Rinaldo Trecchio, and he wears a red hat.”
Umberto’s expression began to change as he recognized what this instruction meant.
“He’s the uncle of the little bastard you keep failing to kill. A man who’s working, if I need to remind you, with a police officer.” A long, ominous, accusing pause. “You’re to take the nephew and his associate out immediately. Then I want you inside the Vatican, by whatever means are necessary. I want the cardinal eliminated.”
She paused, dressing down both men with stony eyes. Then she reached into a drawer of her desk and drew out a vicious-looking handgun of a make Umberto didn’t recognize. But he couldn’t fail to recognize that when she laid it on the desktop, its barrel was pointed directly at him.
“This time,” Caterina said, “I will allow no excuses.”
49
Headquarters of the Swiss Guard: 1:31 p.m.
Christoph Raber laid four single pages on the black surface of his desk. Despite his fluency with the technology the Swiss Guard used in their investigations, at a certain point he always felt more comfortable with paper and ink. This afternoon, he’d come to that point.
The first three sheets each contained details of medical firms for which his men had drawn connections to the Vatican Bank. The first was a company called CygnaGen, which performed research into cures for various genetic conditions, including child blindness.
The second was Arseniy Kopulov’s Alventix Ltd., whose chairman Raber had interviewed earlier in the morning. The man had had no explanation for the twenty million euros that had arrived in his account only days ago. Moreover, he’d seemed genuinely shocked to learn of the sum. Raber had seen men fake surprise many times and he could usually spot the signs—a certain twitch at the temples, a subconscious straightening of the back, a repositioning of the eyes. He had seen none of these with Kopulov. Despite his inherent dislike for the man, he suspected that he had been telling the truth when he said he knew nothing about the funds.
The implications of that realization had only caused more questions for Raber. Questions that he had been investigating in the hours since his meeting with Kopulov. Was something going on behind the scenes at the IOR? Did the people heading those connected companies know as little about what was going on as the Russian seemed to?
The third page suggested that might be the case. Dr. Marcello Tedesco, head of the Lisa Tedesco MCL Research Unit, had announced the previous day that his cancer treatment group had been healed. Tedesco had been legitimately working on the disease for years, but his links to Alventix were deeply suspicious. These suspicions had only been reinforced when Raber and his men had started looking into the doctor’s financials. His primary personal account appeared clean. A second private account, however, had received a wire transfer of twenty-five thousand euros three days ago, and another twenty-five only hours after his announcement.
Connections, clear as day.
Raber stood. He’d summarized his conclusion, as tentative as it was, at the bottom of the third page. Kopulov and his company are connected to, or responsible for, the curing of Tedesco’s patients. There was no other conclusion to draw. CygnaGen must be responsible for the healing of the blind patients in Pescara, he’d written just after it. He didn’t have a direct connection to the doctor there yet. But the firm itself had been involved in suspicious funding transfers, just as Alventix had. Then again, Kopulov had seemed genuinely surprised about the money. As if he had no idea . . .
Raber suddenly froze. Numbers and tracking routes flashed through his mind.
These “miracles” are the manipulations of the medical firms themselves, or some group behind them. The thought came like a revelation. They’re companies with the technology, power and ability to effect these cures. They’ve created the appearance of individuals being paid off, so that if there should be any investigation into the cures, it will look as if these men have propagated a fraud—keeping the companies’ involvement hidden.
But why? Why effect healings and stage them as miracles, taking pains to make it look as if individuals had been behind them if they were ever discovered? Raber could see no clear motive, or how anyone could benefit from such a plan.
And he still didn’t know what to make of the IOR’s involvement. Two of the payment tranches he had tracked down had immediate ties to the Vatican Bank. He peered at the fourth sheet on his desk: a printout of financial transactions his men had covertly snatched from the IOR’s computers. There was no question: someone inside Vatican City was manipulating these events.
But that was not all the information meant. While two of the payments had been routed through the IOR, the others that Raber had been able to identify had not. And that meant that whoever was operating within the Vatican was working with someone outside it.
50
Café Barberini: 1:42 p.m.
Alexander stared at the empty space where his uncle had been seated. They’d hugged as Rinaldo departed, and a few seconds later Alexander had sat back down, numb from the encounter. Gabriella remained beside him in a long silence.
“Alex,” she finally said, “we need to figure out what we’re going to do.”
He nodded slightly.
“The group your uncle spoke about . . . if he’s right, they’re aiming at nothing less than taking down the Pope. He’s a man dedicated to reforming the very kind of irregularities that give them their influence. And yet there’s something I still don’t understand.” She hesitated. “How does staging a healing of Gregory work against him? It seems instead like the whole world is more devoted to him than ever. He’s become the suffering servant, cured for his labors.”
Alexander had a hand at his chin. He’d shaved in the morning at her aunt’s, but already the dark roughness was returning beneath his fingers.
“How do you take down a pope?” he asked abruptly. “What would it really involve?”
Gabriella pinched her eyebrows. The question wasn’t one she’d been expecting. “You can’t just oust him from power,” she offered. The concept seemed to offend her piety, but it was also a puzzle. “The Roman Catholic hierarchy isn’t designed like tha
t. Popes hold their positions for life.”
“With little option for removal.”
“We always said at school that the only one with the authority to remove a pope from office is God.”
Alexander didn’t take the statement as a joke. “Which means death is the only way out.”
Gabriella’s eyes went wide. “You’re not thinking that—”
“It’s not as if it hasn’t been tried before,” he interrupted. “John Paul II took a bullet in 1981.”
“He lived. God protected him.”
“Maybe. But that was only the most famous attempt. There have long been rumors that another, made not long before, was more successful.”
Gabriella knew immediately what he was referring to. “You’re talking about John Paul I?”
“Or Albino Luciani, as he’d been only a month before. He died just thirty-three days after his election. Rumors have persisted ever since that his death was not accidental.”
“The nuns at school used to joke that the cardinals had made their choice for the right man to succeed St. Peter, but God had disagreed.”
“God maybe,” Alexander answered humorlessly, “but there were plenty of other candidates. There have been speculations of poisoning, of plots by the Vatican Bank, by the Masons and the Italian P2 Lodge. By members of the curia who were worried over his theological reforms.”
Gabriella hesitated. “You think we’re looking at an assassination attempt?”
Alexander turned to face her more directly. “It’s a possibility. We can’t rule it out. Though if my uncle is right about the motives of this group, the death of the Pope would probably work against them.”
“It would eliminate their enemy pretty effectively.”
“True, but with the legacy of suspicion since John Paul I, any assassination would provoke conspiracy theories and investigations. For people trying to avoid scrutiny and attention, it’s not the best way to go.”
“So what do you do instead?”