by Tom Fox
“The CEO of Global Capital Italia is called Caterina Amato. She’s earned a reputation as an efficient businesswoman and tycoon. But off the press sheets and behind the glossy-magazine interviews, she’s known for absolute ruthlessness and the brutality she’s willing to employ to have her interests served.”
Photographs peeked up from Raber’s open file.
“I take it those aren’t from the public record, sir?” one of his officers asked.
Raber shook his head. “These are some of the figures who’ve gone up against Caterina Amato and her Global Capital Italia.” He flicked out the first photograph.
“That’s François Daniau, vice president of Paris-based Imperia Financiale, who resisted a hostile takeover in 2007.”
A second photograph. “David Bryx, COO of Bryx Management Industries, who wouldn’t allow a merger to go through without a full audit of Amato’s firm.”
A third photograph. “That’s Lila Borea, the head of research for London’s TriTechnica. She’d been charged with performing a thorough background investigation into Global Capital Italia’s overseas networks prior to authorizing a local contract.”
Raber halted. The folder contained several more photographs, but the three now on the desktop were sufficient to make his point.
They were all captains of financial industry. Men and women of significant power, fortune and ability.
And they were all dead. Individuals with no links to each other except through one person—Caterina Amato. A link so tenuous it would never have raised suspicion in an investigation. But a link that Christoph Raber was convinced was concrete, and deadly.
The commandant gazed up at his men. “I want the Guard posted everywhere. Everywhere. Someone is trying to take down the Pope.”
54
Headquarters of Global Capital Italia: 2:44 p.m.
Caterina Amato’s fruitful relationship with the brotherly team of Umberto and Tommaso had lasted for several years. They were the type of men whose loyalty could be bought and who considered it noble to do the dirty work others required with a degree of honor and dignity. Fine. She’d take them for what they were worth. They’d performed admirably many times in the past, and she still had confidence they’d be able to eliminate Trecchio and Fierro, despite recent setbacks in that particular project.
But Rinaldo Trecchio was a different matter. The brothers had a plan to get inside the Vatican, one they’d developed on the fly. But even if they were successful, she wondered now whether having two outside hit men kill the cardinal might represent a lost opportunity. It would look bad, yes. That was a plus. She wouldn’t stop them from making the attempt, even though she didn’t have high hopes of their success. But by God, more was in her reach.
She straightened her back, sat a little taller in her chair and ran her fingers along her cheeks. It was a pensive gesture that felt both comforting and contemplative. The wrinkles at the edges of her eyes were the only ones on her face—a remarkable fact for a woman in her mid-fifties. Caterina never wore make-up. Her skin was smooth, uniquely elegant and firm. Almost a physical affirmation of her power.
Umberto, Tommaso, the attack . . . The Pope would likely recover from the blow their assault would deliver. He would be stained by the mark of getting himself involved in affairs that brought hit men and assassins into the Vatican, but he would recover. And that prospect was no longer satisfactory. Neither was simply finding a way to take him down more permanently. Why destroy only the Pope, when it was now within Caterina’s grasp to bring down the Church as well?
Her fingers caressed the fine point of her chin, her skin like silk beneath her fingertips.
To bring down the Church, she needed to make the action internal: that was the strategy that would do it. The hit against the cardinal must come from within the Church, not without. She would assign it to the Fraternity’s ranks—force the men with their black dresses and white collars to get their saintly hands dirty. Then, when the curtain fell, the den of the old guard would look just as corrupt and inept as the den of the new.
Caterina let her fingers rest on her red lips, the edges of which were rising in the tight curves of a smile. The brothers could still make their way in, serve as back-up in case this new action failed. But it wouldn’t fail. It was perfect, and all it was required was issuing a new command.
She’d already made the call.
Vatican City: 3:08 p.m.
Deep within the walls of the Vatican, Father Taylor Abbate, “the American,” sulked quietly as he walked through dark, empty corridors. The cardinals had been recalled by the Secretary of State for their meeting. They’d gone over organizational and administrative matters, then they’d been sent back to their chambers to rest prior to the None prayers and an evening meal in common. Most were now sealed behind wooden doors, praying and planning.
Father Taylor had never felt quite so purposeful while walking the corridors of the Vatican. He usually felt a little sinister, of course. These were the avenues of ecclesiastical wheeling and dealing in which he’d always been keen to play a part. That meant keeping secrets and twisting truths. It meant manipulating people and events to suit the outcomes the right men required. His comfort with that interior flexibility of virtue had earned him a place in the Fraternity after only two years in the curia.
But today, at this moment, sinister took on a new level. He did not object to the task he’d been given. He understood it needed to be done and perfectly comprehended why he’d been chosen for it. The last person Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio might suspect of wrongdoing was his own secretary, a post that Father Taylor had held for eighteen months. The two men had a strong working relationship, even a friendly social banter.
So there should be no problems. Especially as Cardinal Rinaldo always took his tea a little early, just after three.
“Your Eminence,” Father Taylor said softly as he rapped a foot against the cardinal’s office door. His hands were filled with the silver service of the cardinal’s usual tea for one.
“Come in, Taylor,” an older voice answered. The priest pushed open the door and entered the softly lit room. Cardinal Trecchio had a penchant for Aztec-style rugs and warm furniture, giving his office a vaguely Central American flavor.
“That’s rather good of you,” the cardinal said, looking up from a small pile of paperwork and catching sight of the tea. “You can bring it here.” He shoved aside some papers to make room for the tray.
“A working tea today, Eminence?” Father Taylor asked.
“A lot to get through. I thought I might as well keep at it.”
Father Taylor set down the tray and arranged the cup and saucer as usual. He added a splash of skimmed milk before pouring in the darkly brewed Darjeeling blend the cardinal favored.
“I trust all is well, Your Eminence?” he asked politely, as he always did.
“All is . . .” Rinaldo sounded like he wasn’t quite sure how to finish the statement. “All is in the hands of a loving God, Father.”
“Isn’t that the way it always is?”
The cardinal smiled. He lifted the teacup to his nose and took in a long draw of its rich scent. “Indeed.” The familiar smell seemed to relax him. His shoulders dropped slightly.
“Then may his holy will be done,” Father Taylor answered, standing upright. With nothing left for him to do, he gazed at the cardinal for a pensive, reflective moment. His face was a mixture of respect, sorrow and duty.
“May his holy will be done,” he repeated as he turned and walked to the door. His hand slipped into the black pocket of his slacks. Between his fingers he rolled the tiny vial of poison. It was empty now, its contents steaming in the tea that Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio was even at this moment bringing to his lips.
TERZO
55
Taverna Due Alpini, northwest of Vatican City: 5:00 p.m.
When the time of their appointed meeting arrived, the sun was already beginning to move toward a traditional Roman evening. The light of
the city, always ancient and other-worldly, began to brown around the edges, turning its rays orange as they dimmed toward dusk. It could be romantic, it could be haunting. In this as in so much else, everything depended on perspective.
The Taverna Due Alpini sat on the busy street of Via Angelo Emo, just a few streets away from the northwestern section of the great wall that enclosed Vatican City. Alexander stood outside, wearing the same attire he’d been in since yesterday. He had contemplated changing, but the memory of the previous attacks was sufficiently fresh to keep him from returning to his flat. The only difference now was the abandonment of his suit jacket, which he’d set aside somewhere between the office and the café. For what he knew would lie ahead, he wanted to be as unencumbered as possible.
He stood within as much cover as he could find on the street corner—a clump of trees near a street lamp. His eyes constantly scanned about him. Ever since he and Gabriella had parted, he had felt as though he was being watched. He knew that the men who had tried to kill them twice already could be round any corner.
Gabriella approached, walking at a brisk pace down the pavement. She too was cautious in her movements. She kept one shoulder close to the side of the buildings, moving at an angle that increased her outward field of vision and allowed for easier backward glances. Her eyes moved in a constant sweep over everything around her.
Despite the situation, Alexander soaked in the sight of her approach. In all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, she was the one thing that brought him some comfort. Gabriella Fierro, the woman who had stood at the threshold of his departure from the clergy. The woman he’d once thought was forever relegated to his past. A memory, broken and disjointed. Their split had seemed so definitive.
Yet for the past two days, their lives had been thrust back together. The reunion hadn’t been the kind Alexander would have imagined. Car bombs and photos of floating corpses had figured little in their previous experiences together. But one thing didn’t surprise him, as much as he tried to deny it: the feelings he’d felt for her before were still there. Four years had passed. His priestly life was further away. He’d changed. His heart felt . . .
Gabriella stepped up to him, finally reaching the front of the taverna.
“You look lost in thought,” she said softly, a smile on her face in spite of the nerves she must be feeling.
Alexander looked warmly at her. Was he lost, he wondered, or was he being found?
He noticed a bundle of papers tucked into a plastic folder under Gabriella’s armpit. “Were you able to get anything useful?” he asked, bringing himself out of his reverie.
“More than I thought I’d manage,” she answered. “I met Tito outside the precinct office—it was the only way he’d agree to see me. But he produced the goods.”
“Kid’s got the hots for you.”
“Whatever it takes,” she answered, a devious twist to her eyes. She tapped at the folder. “Full details on the body. You want to read them yourself?”
“Give me the highlights.”
“His name is Benedetto Dinapoli. Identified from fingerprints in the birth registry of a small hospital in Portici, near Naples.” Gabriella had clearly gone over the details multiple times in her head. “Born the twenty-fifth of March 1982. Educated in his home town through to the end of primary school. Then at work ever since as a shipping hand for a local canned goods producer.”
She paused, but Alexander could tell from the glimmer in her eye that she was saving something.
“And?” he asked, eager.
“And he was born the slightly younger of a set of identical twins. His older brother, named Ottavio, was as close a match for facial identity as the doctors in the town had ever seen. There’s a side-by-side photo in this file that you’d swear was just the same picture duplicated.”
“Where’s his brother?”
“That’s just it. Ottavio was always the rebel of the two and left home shortly after school. He’s popped in and out over the years, usually to ask for money from the family. But he’s essentially been off the radar for the past eight years. No employment records. No medical records. Nothing. Just . . . wandering.”
Gabriella had finished her report, and for a moment Alexander stood silently.
“No one knows where he is now?” he finally asked.
“No one’s seen him in at least six months.”
Alexander turned slowly, gazing toward the wall of the Vatican that loomed beyond.
“I think they have,” he said. “And now we need to let the Pope know exactly who he’s dealing with.”
56
The Apostolic Palace: 5:03 p.m.
Christoph Raber pulled closed the door behind him as he entered the pontiff’s private study. At his request, the stranger had been led into a separate area, leaving the commandant of the Swiss Guard free to speak privately to the man he had pledged before God to protect.
“Your Holiness, I am duty-bound to inform you that we believe your life to be in immediate danger.”
Gregory’s brows rose slowly. The spoon with which he’d been stirring his tea came to a stop.
“Danger?” He was calm, but looked surprised.
“Yes, Holiness. We have reason to believe you and your office are currently under attack.”
“Who’s the ‘we?’” The Pope’s expression widened.
“Me, together with the full resources of the Guard. There is . . . evidence, Your Holiness.”
Gregory set down his teaspoon and waved Raber closer. His previous surprise gave way to his more usual demeanor.
“Let’s do away with formalities, Christoph. Speak frankly. What are you talking about? As you can see, my office is perfectly secure. I trust your men are outside the door, as they always are.”
Raber nodded. “Of course. I’m referring to the office of the pontiff. We now have information that makes absolutely clear that the miracles of the past twenty-four hours are the result of manipulation.”
“How do you manipulate a healing, Christoph?”
“By staging a scientific treatment in the guise of a religious event.” Raber stepped forward, pulled out a chair and sat opposite the pontiff. “By funding a medical firm, for example, that deals in genetic blindness and has been working on a cure for that condition for decades. By paying them off to apply this cure in a way that makes it look like a spontaneous act. An act people will interpret as divine.”
The Pope looked puzzled. “That seems a bit of a stretch—”
Raber interrupted him. “Or by paying off a doctor who works at a cancer research firm, convincing him to treat his patients covertly with a new regimen developed by a multibillion-euro company. A company you also control. We know the doctor’s name. We have his account details and clear evidence of pay-offs. Everything in place so that he could announce a healing that the world would interpret as a miracle.”
“Why would anyone want to do this?” the Pope asked. “Medical firms aren’t known for keeping their discoveries secret. If they could cure this cancer, surely they’d announce that fact, not hide it.”
“Why indeed, Your Holiness? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since yesterday.” Raber hesitated, but he knew he had to be direct. “I wouldn’t have an answer if it weren’t for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, Gregory.” For one of the few times in his life, Raber spoke with personal informality to a pontiff of the Church. “I have before me a clear set of data. We have fraudulent miracles taking place within hours of your recovery. We have the arrival of a man in the Vatican who many people are considering a divine agent, if not Christ himself. We have no reason to presume his innocence, given these circumstances. There’s only one conclusion I can draw. Someone is out to discredit you. To destroy you.”
Slowly the pontiff’s color began to match the white of his garments. “This is a very serious charge, Christoph.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t certain. We’ve identifi
ed the companies involved. We’ve tracked money changing hands. It’s not a theory, Your Holiness. This is a fact.”
“Who would do such a thing? Manipulating the faith and belief of millions . . . just to get to me?”
Raber gazed firmly into the Pope’s eyes. “You know full well that you have enemies, Gregory.”
The Pope nodded, but it was an affirmation of the obvious. “Every pontiff has them. Every world leader.”
“Yours are . . . closer to home.”
Now the Pope leaned in toward the commandant. “You’re suggesting this deception is being wielded from inside the Vatican?”
“I know it as a fact,” Raber answered. “Some of the funds we’ve tracked have come from our own Istituto per le Opere di Religione. It would appear that the Fraternitas Christi Salvatoris is no longer a myth with a whiff of substance behind it. They are real, active, and they’re at work.”
The Pope sat back, dumbstruck. “Our own people?”
“With outside help,” Raber added. He extracted a photograph from his valise and set it on the pontiff’s desk. “This is Caterina Amato. She’s the CEO of Global Capital Italia, a financial firm you have no reason to know anything about. But she’s been at odds with us before. The more I’ve looked into these interactions, the more I’ve see a pattern of consistent aggression toward the Church, though I’ve yet to determine its origins.”
Gregory paused, contemplating the details. “What’s her connection to all this?”
“Her company is linked to payments to the same medical firms, Your Holiness. She’s working together with whoever’s betrayed you here within the Vatican. And . . .” Raber’s voice faltered.