“For all I know, given his Fascist past, or at least his suspected Fascist sympathies, maybe he’s even connected somehow to the stolen art. It would make sense, given his background and current professional interests. Maybe he also colluded with the Nazis. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”
“I don’t know what to say, Nicola,” Father Benedetto replied. “I’m . . . I’m at a loss for words. Shocked. Absolutely horrified. I have to think about what we can do. Do you know in which part of Rome your grandmother lived or where her family went to mass? Anything at all that would help me locate parish records?”
“Unfortunately not,” she answered sadly. “And I can’t ask her questions like these while she’s recovering from a stroke. She could have a relapse, especially if she were to realize that I might actually be working for the person who murdered her family in Italy. When I received the original invitation, I showed it to her—I was so proud to have been asked to come here—and she looked a bit unnerved for a moment. The signature only used a first initial, together with the last name, so she might simply have been taken aback at seeing the surname, a name that must haunt and terrify her even after all these years.
“At the time I thought she was simply upset about my being away for a possibly long amount of time. I’m sure she would've said something if she'd really thought it was the same Rostoni she'd known back in Rome.”
She took a sip of water and continued. “Is there any way for us to find municipal records of where her family might have lived during the war? I do know her maiden name. It was ‘Conti.’ Her first name is Elena. Her parents’ names were Guido and Luisa, and her brother’s name was Giulio. Maybe we can find something that would show that a Rostoni family lived nearby. Maybe there’s some way for you to find out where the Cardinal lived before his ordination—maybe in his file, if it still exists, at the Gregorian University.”
They sat in silence for a while, each absorbed in his own thoughts. It was now quite late, and the waiter approached the table somewhat hesitantly, asking them if they’d like to order coffee or dessert.
“No, grazie. Just bring us the bill,” Bruno replied. “I think we’ve had enough for the moment.” The others concurred and shifted in their seats.
As they left the restaurant, Bruno offered to drive Father Benedetto back to the Vatican, but he declined. “I’ll take a taxi,” he said. “I think it would be best if no one saw us together outside the Vatican. I’ll find a way to contact you tomorrow, probably from a public phone booth. I’m sure you know this already, but the Vigilanza taps all of the phone lines at the Holy See.”
“Yes, so we’ve heard,” Bruno answered for both of them.
Nicola held out her hand to Father Benedetto and shook his gratefully. “All right, then. We’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow.”
They waited until he had flagged down a taxi, and then walked off hand in hand in the direction of Bruno’s car.
“Let’s go home now,” Bruno said, putting his arm around her and hugging her. She leaned against him and suddenly realized that he’d used the word “home,” as if she really belonged there, as if she were a permanent part of his life.
She reached up to touch his face. “Bruno,” she said slowly, gazing into his eyes, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Nicola. Always, cara. Always.” And he held her close, stroking her hair and kissing her again and again in the amber pool of light that shone from the nearby streetlamp.
Chapter Eight
Father Benedetto pulled up a chair next to Bruno and Nicola, sat down, and handed them two massive files, the first labeled “Catacombs of the Via Casilina” and the second marked “Excavations—Viccolò San Sebastiano.” They were seated at a large refectory table in a corner, far from the central area where the librarians and assistant curators worked.
“Everything you need is inside,” he whispered, glancing around quickly to make sure no one was in earshot. “I found several files on Catholic Charities International, some bills of lading from several Greek shipping lines, dating back to the early 1940s—though the contents are unspecified—and a rather strange-looking confirmation of a delivery of sixty crates to a warehouse behind the Villa Wolkonsky back in 1943.
“I took only a superficial look at the contents, just to be sure that the papers hadn’t been misfiled or mislabeled. Try to look at these records first, rather than the ones actually relating to the catacomb excavations. If you can think of anything else you might need, based on what you find in the files—perhaps some related material that’s somehow hinted at in the documents—then I’ll search for those as well.
“I also brought along another decoy file,” he added, as he set down yet another heavy docket on an adjacent table. “Something relating to the excavations at the Villa Torlonia. I’ll sit here and read it while you check those other files. This way I can keep an eye out, to see if anyone approaches you on the pretext of offering assistance. The librarians are always helpful, as you’ve no doubt discovered for yourselves, but I think we need to take extra precautions. Just in case.”
Chapter Nine
“I’m going to take my lunch break a bit early, if that’s okay,” the young librarian told his supervisor. He looked at his wristwatch and added, “I’ll be back in about an hour.”
He hurried down the corridors of the Secret Archives and rushed outside towards the broad plaza in front of San Pietro. Sheltered behind one of the famous Bernini pillars, away from the crowds of tourists lining up to enter the basilica, he pulled out a cell phone and placed a call to Catholic Charities International.
“It’s Luciano,” he said quickly. “Can you patch me through to Giovanni? Immediatamente, prego.”
“I thought I told you not to call me here unless it was an emergency,” Giovanni barked at the other end of the line a minute later. “What’s going on?”
“Francesco Benedetto is in the Archives now with the American woman and the professor from ‘La Sapienza.’ I did what you asked and hooked up some tiny surveillance cameras near all of the sensitive files. The camera tapes feed directly into my cell phone, in real time.
“I can’t get near the table where they’re working, without arousing their suspicions. But I’d like to transfer the digital files to you now, so you can decide what to do next.”
He waited on hold for several minutes, looking anxiously around him as a group of young English-speaking teenagers walked by, and then Giovanni got back on the line.
“My Greek contact is waiting for confirmation. Send me the files immediately. I’ll get back to you with further instructions,” Giovanni said. “Meantime, keep an eye on the three of them if they enter the Archives again.”
Giovanni disconnected and turned to his assistant. “Would you get me the Cardinal over a secure line? And if he’s stepped out of his office, make sure to leave a message that an old friend has called and would like to interest him in a charitable endeavor. He’ll know what I mean.”
Chapter Ten
Bruno sat reading the International Herald Tribune as they savored their espresso in the richly decorated interior of Café Greco along the Spanish Steps. They were seated at a cozy corner table that nestled against dark wood-paneled wainscoting and claret-colored brocade wallpaper covered with sepia engravings and oil paintings from a bygone era. Suddenly Bruno turned pale and put the paper down.
“Is there something wrong?” Nicola asked in surprise.
“Maybe,” he said quietly, his brown eyes filled with concern as he folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “Look, cara, let’s go outside for a moment. I think we need to talk about something.”
“I don't understand,” she said, pushing her coffee aside. “We just got here.”
He signaled a waiter for the bill, and putting his arm around Nicola’s shoulder protectively, he led her out of the café in the direction of a nearby piazza. “Get inside, Nicola,” he said in a strained voice, as he unlocked his car and opened one of the d
oors. “Please.”
She looked at him uncomprehendingly, but slid onto the back seat without further question.
They sat down together and he handed her the newspaper, which had been opened to the obituary section. “Oh, my God,” Nicola gasped over and over again, as she crumpled onto Bruno’s chest and burst into tears. “Poor Matt! I don’t understand,” she sobbed. “He was perfectly healthy. It has to be a mistake. It can’t be true.”
“I’m sorry, cara,” Bruno said, as he held her close, stroking her hair while she wept helplessly. “I’m so sorry.”
Half an hour later, when she had finally stopped crying, he gently dabbed at her swollen eyes and cheeks with a handkerchief and opened the newspaper again. Together they reread the article.
Award-winning Reporter Dies in Greece
ATHENS—Reuters—Internationally acclaimed syndicated art columnist Matthew Osborne collapsed and died of an apparent heart attack in the Monastiraki marketplace in downtown Athens yesterday. Osborne, 32, was not known to have had any preexisting medical conditions, a reliable source at the New York Times confirmed today.
At the time of his death, Osborne had been investigating rumors that artwork stolen from Greek Jews during World War II had been shipped by German occupying forces to an unknown destination in Europe.
Athens police are investigating unconfirmed eyewitness reports that two men were sighted fleeing down a narrow alleyway off of Athinas Street, in the direction of Omonia Square, shortly after Osborne collapsed.
* * *
“I don’t want to frighten you, Nicola,” Bruno began slowly, choosing his words with care, “but you did mention that Matt thought he was being followed. I know you don’t want to hear this now, but it’s probably a good thing that he never managed to send you those files. Even though his BlackBerry apparently had a secure socket, your cell phone doesn’t. Anything he would have sent you could easily have been traced. At least no one knows of your connection to him or that he had discussed the details of his investigation with you.
“And I don’t think he died of a heart attack,” Bruno added quickly.
“What?” Nicola cried out. “But that’s what the obituary said.”
“I don’t think so, cara. It’s too much of a coincidence that he should die just when he was on the trail of such a major story. I think he might have been murdered. I think he was onto something so big that he had to be stopped. I just don’t know by whom.”
Red-eyed, she nodded in weary agreement, and her eyes filled with tears once more.
“We’ll have to get in touch with Father Benedetto again,” Bruno continued. “The information we saw in the files seems to confirm everything Matt told you about the shipping invoices and the warehouse in Rome. It seems pretty clear that Catholic Charities is connected to all of this and that it was fencing art for the Nazis in occupied Greece. And maybe if we dig deeper, we’ll also find that it’s somehow connected to the Swiss banks that stored stolen Jewish art during the war.”
She nodded again tearfully as he continued. “But we still don’t know who the mastermind was—the go-between who coordinated everything back then. And we don’t know what happened to the stolen Greek art after it reached Catholic Charities International. I wonder if it’s still here,” Bruno considered slowly. “Maybe somewhere in Rome.”
He grew silent for a few minutes, his brow furrowed in thought. “You know something, Nicola? Remember the yad that we found in the catacomb? The ceremonial Torah pointer? The lettering engraved on it corresponds to the Hebrew date of the Spanish Inquisition. Didn’t Matt say something about the possibility that Greek Jews who’d migrated from Spain and Portugal during the Inquisition may have had some Iberian artifacts in their private collections or in synagogue holdings?
“What if some of the stolen art that originated in Greece and seems to have been shipped to Rome was transferred to the catacombs for safekeeping and storage? Why else would there be a religious artifact, with this unusual provenance, in the Vigna Randanini?”
“My God,” she whispered in a choked voice. “Could it be possible?”
“What if there’s another secret chamber somewhere,” he reflected. “Or some sort of hidden underground passageway leading to another crypt or to another catacomb network near the Vigna Randanini? You know, it’s been years since anyone has known where to locate the entrance to the so-called lost catacomb of the Via Appia Pignatelli, which is supposed to be somewhere near the one we’ve been examining.
“Maybe the yad was somehow dropped along the way, by accident,” he theorized, “and then later shoved into a convenient crack in the tufa to avoid reopening the wall.
"Or,” he said suddenly, turning to Nicola in astonishment, “maybe it was meant to mark the place where a hidden doorway was constructed. That must be it! It’s the only plausible explanation.”
“Then I guess . . . I guess we’ll to have to go back to the catacombs and take another look,” she faltered, trying to focus her thoughts and get herself under some semblance of control. “But this time, I think we’d better do it after dark. Maybe even in the middle of the night, when the entire area is clear and the carabinieri are less likely to be alert.
“I’m frightened, Bruno. I’m really scared. But we can’t let this go,” she said with quiet determination. “This might be the most important discovery of all. Maybe there’s an entire cache of stolen artifacts that has been hidden since the war. And if there is, we have to find it and expose it. We owe it to the dead—to the Greek Jewish community and to Matt.”
And at the mention of his name, she began to cry again.
Chapter Eleven
Clearly perturbed, Cardinal Rostoni leaned forward in his seat as he spoke to Giovanni on a secure phone line. “I think it’s time to change tactics. I’ll need both Luciano and Josef, your German agent, to follow them outside the Vatican. We need tighter surveillance. We can’t take any chances of slipping up.”
“I understand,” Giovanni replied.
“The girl and the Jew are too close to discovering the truth,” Rostoni continued, with cold and deliberate emphasis. “And if Francesco Benedetto continues to meddle in my affairs, we’ll need to deal with him as well. Though that may prove to be a bit more difficult.”
He fingered his pectoral cross, rubbing the large cabochon ruby at its center, as if he were polishing it. “Please see to it immediately.”
Rostoni disconnected and sat back in his chair, flicking a dust mote off the sleeve of his cassock. Lost in thought, he toyed absently with his pectoral cross, glancing from time to time at the glittering jewel at its center.
Chapter Twelve
As Bruno and Nicola entered the lobby of Bruno's apartment building, the doorman called them over to his desk and handed them a large padded manila envelope.
“This came about an hour ago, Professore, by special courier. He said to make sure you got it as soon as possible.”
“Grazie,” Bruno said, turning it over to examine both sides of the package as he and Nicola walked towards the elevator. “I wonder what it could be. There’s no return address.” He studied the crudely printed address label in bewilderment. “I wasn’t expecting any packages. Certainly nothing that would need to be delivered by messenger service.
“My God,” he exclaimed suddenly, as he caught Nicola’s arm and lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s postmarked from Greece. From Athens. Do you think Matt could have sent you something? Some sort of backup evidence, in case he couldn’t transfer the files he and Demetrios had copied?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, her face pale and drawn. “But I hope so. He knew I was working with you. I did mention your name. And it’s not a problem to obtain an address over the Internet. Even an overseas address. All he had was my cell phone number. I hadn’t even told him I’d be staying at the Villa Mirafiori. Maybe it is from Matt. Or maybe Demetrios sent it and has gone into hiding.”
They hurried up to his apartment, where Bruno
double-locked the front door and closed all of the curtains and shades before leading Nicola into the kitchen. He flicked on a light and opened the package cautiously, spreading out its contents on the surface of a granite countertop.
“I guess we’re lucky it wasn’t a letter bomb,” he remarked tensely. “I probably should have been more careful.”
He picked up a faded piece of paper that was apparently a carbon copy and held it up to the light. “Dio,” he said under his breath and held it out to Nicola. “It’s an invoice for crates shipped to Catholic Charities International, from September 1943.”
He scooped up another form and scrutinized it carefully. “And this one seems to be a memorandum, in Italian, requesting that all records of the shipments be destroyed after delivery has been confirmed. It’s signed ‘M.R.’”
“Well, it’s not Mariamne Rufina, that’s for sure,” Nicola observed sarcastically. “Which leaves . . . Oh my God! . . . Mauro Rostoni!’ She looked at Bruno in shock. “Can it be possible?”
Bruno reflected quietly for a minute, his brows knitted together in thought, as Nicola grew more and more agitated.
“Well, who else could it be? We know he was highly connected at the Vatican in the 1940s. My grandmother says he was a Fascist sympathizer. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with the stolen Greek artifacts. For all we know, he’s kept some sort of secret collection hidden somewhere in Rome,” she added angrily. “Maybe that’s what we need to look for in the catacombs.”
“Actually, I think you might be right,” Bruno remarked pensively. “I think we may have found the mastermind behind all this. And maybe even the mastermind behind Matt’s death.”
The Lost Catacomb Page 29