by Sam Cabot
“They come off?”
“So I’ve read. I’ve never tried it.” Still she didn’t move, just stood gazing up at the flowing marble.
“Well?” Thomas said. “If that’s where it is, shouldn’t we go get it?” By “we” he meant she, and he was sure she knew it. She was clearly the better of the two of them at climbing on things.
Livia glanced around her. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I’m always so taken with this work. You’re right, of course. I’ll need something to stand on. I wonder if there’s a ladder in the sacristy—”
“What are you talking about? You can reach it from there.”
“From where?” she said, so he pointed. Her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. Stand on a Bernini?”
Thomas stared at her. “You climbed onto Santa Teresa’s altar. You stood on a collection box!”
Livia blinked. “But this is a Bernini.”
They traded looks of mutual incomprehension. With a huffed breath, Thomas turned, approached the sculpture, and said to her, “Then this time you make the distraction.” He took a quick look around. No one was near; this was the moment. Without waiting to see what Livia came up with, he slipped off his shoes, turned back to the beatified Ludovica and her angelic escort, grabbed a fold of her marble garment, and hoisted himself up.
59
Livia watched, appalled, as Thomas Kelly clambered across the supine marble body of Ludovica Albertoni to reach the angel head. On their way here, she and he had both made improvised efforts at disguise. She’d borrowed pants, a bag, and an Io Nuova York T-shirt from Ellen; she’d bought tiny round Yoko Ono sunglasses and braided and pinned up her hair under a floppy white canvas hat. Thomas had bought a Roma sweatshirt—black; he was still a priest—and a baseball cap. They’d both ditched their cells and bought new, pre-paid phones. Thomas had fought doing that, in case the Cardinal called him; when finally persuaded that their GPS chips were like neon signs (“Even when the phone is off?” “Yes, Father. Thomas. Yes, Thomas”), the first thing he did when he got the new phone was to call Lorenzo Cossa from it. And got no answer.
What all this meant was, Thomas Kelly wasn’t wearing his clerical collar or tabbed shirt anymore. Crawling over the sculpture, he didn’t even have that air of authority to separate him from a common vandal. Of course, climbing on a Bernini did just about make him a common vandal, so maybe any separation would’ve been beside the point. Livia wanted to shout at him to stop, to come down, to be careful, but she clamped her mouth shut: she certainly did not want to alert anyone else in the church to what was going on. A distraction. She needed to cause a distraction. She turned to leave the Albertoni chapel.
The distraction caused itself.
The Noantri clerk from the Library, Jorge Ocampo. The man who, according to Spencer, had killed the old monk. Jorge Ocampo stood right smack in front of her, grinning.
She’d barely registered his presence when he lunged for her. No, not for her. For her bag. He’d wrenched it off her shoulder before she realized what was happening. She reached for it, grabbing nothing but air. Holding the bag high, Ocampo spun away. Livia leapt and tackled him for the second time that day. They both went down, rolling, tangled in each other’s clothes. Ocampo’s sharp elbow slammed painfully into Livia’s cheek. He stank of some disgusting cologne and was slimy with sweat; but though thin, he was strong and determined. She gave him a knee to the gut, tried to yank the bag back. His grip was like glue. He shoved her; her head smacked the chapel railing. She was stunned only for a second, less; but it was enough. Ocampo sprang to his feet and took off with her bag.
He collided, in the aisle, with a broad-shouldered, yellow-haired man.
Jonah.
Dumbfounded, Livia could only stare. Hallucination caused by concussion? Were hallucinations this detailed, carrying scent, glints of gold, the precise web of tiny wrinkles beside laughing eyes? For his part, Jonah, or his phantasm, had no time to acknowledge her presence or answer any of the thousand questions racing around in her head. Livia watched Ocampo try to shove Jonah aside, saw Jonah push back, then sweep his right fist into the clerk’s chin and pump his left into his stomach. When Ocampo doubled over, Jonah grabbed the shoulder bag, but Ocampo held tight to the strap and punched Jonah’s nose.
With a shout Thomas Kelly jumped from the sculpture to land beside her. He charged forward and grabbed the clerk’s arm as Ocampo was pulling back for another blow. Ocampo spun around snarling and threw Thomas hard to the ground. He raised his leg to stomp Thomas’s face. Thomas rolled; in that extra second Jonah slammed his fist into Ocampo’s neck. The clerk staggered and loosened his grip on Livia’s bag. Jonah yanked it away.
Livia suddenly realized that beyond all this chaos she could hear not only shouts and horrified screams, but sirens. They heralded the law; two officers burst into the church. She rose clumsily to her feet. Jonah, with a grin, tossed her her shoulder bag. He leaned down, helped Thomas up, and then yanked Ocampo to his feet, also. And socked him again. And then, instead of delivering a coup de grâce, he just stood, arms at his sides, and gave Ocampo an opening. The clerk couldn’t resist. He threw a punch. Livia stood, openmouthed, until Thomas, shoes in one hand, grabbed her elbow with the other and dragged her down the aisle, saying, “Now that’s what I call a distraction. Let’s go.”
60
The bread was nothing but crumbs, the salumi and formaggio gone. Giulio Aventino finished his coffee and signaled for another, and for a second for his sergeant, also. Raffaele Orsini drank caffè macchiato, into which he stirred sugar, producing a sweet, complicated drink. Giulio preferred the bitter simplicity of espresso. But that was Raffaele. Everything was multilayered and everything was for the best.
They sat at a café in the piazza opposite Santa Maria della Scala, working the phones. Raffaele had been all for dashing out into the streets immediately, but Giulio had suggested mildly that they might do better if they knew which direction to dash in. Carabinieri and polizia all over Rome were on the lookout for the suspect, that Vatican Library clerk, and for his associates. Since Giulio and Raffaele both had street sources they cultivated for exactly this type of situation, why not explore whatever assistance the criminal underworld might be able to offer?
Before they’d settled in to run through their contact lists—Giulio wondered if Raffaele had a subfolder labeled “informant” on his cell phone, organized alphabetically or perhaps by specialty—Giulio had called the maresciallo to give him a report.
“The Curia’s not happy, Aventino,” the boss had said darkly.
Giulio stopped himself from asking why a holy friar gaining admission to heaven should displease the Vatican, saying instead, “We’re doing what we can.”
“Do it faster. Is the Gendarme any use? Or is he in the way? I could get him called off.”
“No, don’t. I think he’s worth having around. But what you could do is tell Central to alert me to any odd goings-on in a church anywhere in the city.”
If anyone else had spoken that way the maresciallo would probably have reminded him who was boss. Giulio could hear the gritted teeth as he asked, “Why? Is something else about to happen?”
“I have no idea. Just a feeling.”
The maresciallo allowed himself a snort, but Giulio didn’t care and they both knew that.
“All right, but be judicious in what you respond to. I don’t want you to waste your time on wild-goose chases.”
“Oh? Well, in that case, we won’t.” Giulio clicked off.
The Gendarme, Luigi Esposito, had gone off on his own. He wasn’t under Giulio’s command so Giulio couldn’t stop him. Esposito had told them his own sources were better consulted in person. That could be true, but Giulio suspected the young man was just plain excited at the prospect of spending his time on the bustling workaday streets of Rome, instead of the sedate corridors and tourist-choked public rooms of t
he Holy See.
Giulio himself would have gone out of his mind there.
He’d admonished Raffaele when the sergeant had snickered at the news a Gendarme was coming to join them, but in the pecking order of Roman law enforcement there was no question the Gendarmerie was at the bottom. The Rome polizia crowded the middle step, as local lawmen did everywhere in Italy: clumsy, slow-moving bureaucracies at best, or in some places, corrupt and dangerous. The constabulary pinnacle, of course, was occupied by the Carabinieri. A branch of the Italian military, they were well trained and well armed, charged with fighting crime all over the country and occasionally overseas: on any given day you could find Carabinieri on secondment to other nations, and to international agencies; and Carabinieri had been called up for, and had died in, service in the Middle East. Giulio himself had served in Africa, many years ago, and he knew this about his partner: as devoted as Raffaele was to his job and his young family, if called up he’d go proudly. And acquit himself well, Giulio had no doubt. For all Raffaele’s religious piety, Giulio had long suspected devotion to duty—to his family, to his job, to his country, and yes, to his Church—was Raffaele’s real faith.
Giulio’s own faith was simple: that he loved his wife and kids, and they were worth loving; that he was good at his job, and his job was worth doing. Anything else—the next life, or the one after that—would have to take care of itself.
What Luigi Esposito was devoted to, Giulio didn’t know. But the young Gendarme had impressed Giulio with his energy, pleased him with his thoroughness, and more or less convinced him with his theory. More or less because hard evidence was the only thing that ever convinced Giulio Aventino of anything. But Esposito’s stolen-art-ring idea intrigued him, and tentatively answered some otherwise confounding questions: What had gone on this morning at the Vatican Library? How was it connected to what had happened at Santa Maria della Scala? And why had Raffaele’s cardinal uncle requested a surveillance of Professoressa Livia Pietro?
That last would have been easier to answer if the cardinal uncle would answer his cell phone, but even his secretary, Father Ateba, when reached at the Vatican, had no idea where Lorenzo Cossa might be.
Giulio nodded his thanks as the new coffees were delivered and dialed the next source on his list, the owner of a fine-art framing shop whom Giulio was sure, but had never tried hard to prove, had a sideline in forged Old Masters. The shop owner was grateful for Giulio’s lack of diligence, and Giulio had long since calculated that the man’s value as an informant vastly outweighed any potential gain from shutting down his operation, which, after all, only made fools of people drooling after bargains anyone without larceny in his heart would recognize as too good to be true. On this occasion the shop owner had nothing to add, though, beyond promising to contact Giulio immediately should the street start buzzing with tales of audacious, highly professional art thieves.
Giulio thumbed off the phone and grunted. “That makes seven,” he said to Raffaele, whose phone was likewise temporarily idle. “And they all claim they haven’t heard a thing. You finding anything?”
“Niente di niente. I’m beginning to wonder if Esposito’s wrong. Or are these people just really good?”
“I’ve never known Roman crooks to be adept at hiding their traces.”
“Well, only one of these three is even Italian.”
“Supporting Esposito’s international-gang theory. Though you might expect Interpol would’ve had something on them, then.” Which Esposito had said they didn’t. The young Gendarme had searched the relevant databases—interesting to find someone so apparently techno-savvy in those hidebound holy halls—and found nothing. Giulio himself, a Luddite, nothing to be proud of but he was too old to change, had done some old-fashioned research: he’d called a friend, Paolo Lucca, who’d been promoted out of general larceny to the elite Nucleo Tutela Patrimonio Artistico, the Carabinieri’s own stolen art bureau. Paolo was no help: none of the suspects were known to Il Nucleo. He was interested, but the only actual theft had occurred at the Vatican, outside Carabinieri jurisdiction. He’d promised to sniff around, and also, at Giulio’s request, to look into unsolved cases involving Church-related art anywhere in the country.
“Around the world, come to that,” Giulio told him. “These people may be new to Italy. You’re buddy-buddy with the hotshots at Interpol, I assume.”
“I thought you said you’d already checked with them.”
“Checked their database. The Gendarme did. But—”
“But he doesn’t know anyone over there and you’re afraid if he calls them they won’t give him the time of day.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No. They’re worse than we are. Though I have to admit, the last Gendarme I worked with was a bona fide idiot.”
“This kid’s sharp, Paolo. He’s wasted over there.”
Giulio sat back now and sipped his coffee. “I wonder what the point is.”
Raffaele looked up. “Point of what?”
“These particular thefts. They’ve obviously got a specific agenda. And they’re in a hurry.”
“That could just be because they screwed up this morning and now they’re exposed.”
“Then why didn’t they lay low for a while instead of heading over here? I wish I knew what they were looking for. A notebook from the Vatican Library, some target in the Reliquary Chapel . . .”
“Monsignor Conti said nothing was missing.”
“That only means they failed. Possibly because they didn’t want that irritating historian to know what they were up to and they couldn’t get him to leave.”
Raffaele grinned. “If that’s it, I sympathize with them.”
“What is it they’re doing, Raffaele?” Giulio leaned back, staring at the sky. “What’s the connection? Come on, you’re the church guy. What do you see?”
“Nothing,” Raffaele admitted. “But I wonder if they do.”
“If they do what?”
“See the connection. Maybe all they have is a list.”
Giulio was silent for a moment. “They’re working for someone.”
Raffaele noddded. “Not just theft, theft to order. For a client who doesn’t want to wait.”
“All right. I’ll buy it. But that just makes the question: What’s the client after?”
“I wonder,” Raffaele said, “if the client’s impatient enough—or important enough—that they’re willing to risk going on now. Accident or not, they did kill someone.”
From the table beside his coffee, Giulio’s cell phone rang.
“Ispettore, this is Dispatch,” a woman’s voice said. “We’ve just sent two officers to a fight inside San Francesco a Ripa. There was a bulletin asking that you be alerted to—”
“Yes. Hold on.” Giulio looked over at Raffaele. “San Francesco a Ripa. Close, right?” Raffaele nodded. “Thank you,” Giulio told Dispatch.
He was about to click off when she said, “Ispettore? I have another report here, from an hour ago, before your bulletin came in. I didn’t handle the call but when I saw what you wanted I looked back through our files just in case. There was a disturbance in Santa Maria in Trastevere. Nothing seems to be missing but our reports are that a woman stood on the collection box and opened the aumbry. Were you told about that?”
“No. Opened the what?”
“The aumbry, it says. I don’t know either.”
“But nothing’s missing?”
“According to the priests, no.”
“Thank you. Good work.” By the time he said, “Keep me updated,” he’d jumped up and dropped ten Euro on the table. To Raffaele he shouted over his shoulder, “My car’s closest. Call Esposito.” They took off across the piazza, reached the Fiat, and yanked open the doors at the same moment. Raffaele was poking buttons on his cell phone as they climbed into the car. Giulio fired the engine and peeled out. To Raffael
e, holding the phone between ear and shoulder and struggling to buckle his seat belt, Giulio added, “And what’s an aumbry?”
61
Livia Pietro tripped. Thomas, his heart pounding, had to grab her to keep her from falling as they ran down San Francesco a Ripa’s center aisle. She kept turning to look back; you’d think she’d never seen a fight before. He surveyed the narthex as they neared it. No one there but horrified tourists. The two officers were charging down the left aisle toward the Albertoni chapel, where the clerk and the other man were still brawling. He and Livia could make it out the door. Gripping her arm, he tried to pull her along, but she dug in her heels and said, “No!”
“No, what?”
“We can’t leave.”
“You made me leave Santa Maria della Scala, and you were right! This is the same. We can’t stay here. There’s nothing we can—”
“That’s not what I mean. There are more police coming. I can hear them. They’ll be pulling into the piazza any second.”
As if to prove her words, the wail of a siren and the screech of brakes reached Thomas. Livia, with a look of longing, had turned back toward the fight, which had expanded: now both the clerk—Ocampo, was that his name?—and the blond man were mixing it up with the officers. Thomas tightened his grip on her arm. He stared around desperately, then said, “Come this way!”
The Catholic Church had, over the centuries, evolved many different practices for the administration of its sacraments, and reasons and explanations abounded for each choice. The sacrament of confession, for example: some theologians thought it best that the penitent’s side of the confessional be open, with neither door nor drape. Thus the entire congregation could see a fellow believer offer contrition for his sins and seek absolution. They could be a support for him, he an example to them. There was an argument to be made in that direction, to be sure. Right now, however, Thomas was unutterably relieved that the designers of the ecclesiastical furnishings in San Francesco a Ripa had not shared this approach.