“Let me think more about this before deciding. If you do find him I may ask you to make initial contact. If I do need to speak to him I suspect a call from my office out of the blue would seem highly improbable. I may, therefore, need your introduction. I recall you said he spoke good Spanish.”
“Yes, he did. His mother was Spanish. He spent his early years in Madrid and Malaga before leaving to finish school and going to university in England.”
“That’s good. I’m not sure my English is quite sufficient for such a sensitive topic. And one other thing, please: do not mention to anybody that I want to make contact. If I do it will need to be outside the conventional channels available to my office.
“Now, let’s forget business and just enjoy our grappas and tell me what has been happening in your parish. We self-important princes of the church do need to hear about reality more than just occasionally.”
They started chatting more normally. Yet the Spanish Ambassador had noticed the tension. He wondered whether to call his colleague over the Tiber in his Ambassadorial Palazzo by the Spanish Steps. Perhaps they might have a coffee together. After all, their two embassies were close enough to each other in central Rome, being no more than 400 metres apart. But that would be a decision for tomorrow.
CHAPTER THREE
Thursday, Vatican City
He rose early. It was both his custom and a spiritual requirement. Having showered and shaved he made his way to his private chapel for his daily devotions, those that he preferred to observe in private. Some ninety minutes later, having made peace with himself and his Master, Cardinal Nelson da Ferraz entered his dining room to breakfast with his closer entourage. Unlike the previous evening, when Nelson was happy to be on equal terms with José Antonio, in his own palatial apartment he acted very much the cardinal. He had little compunction in exploiting his rank and presence, to maximise his effect. It was not for nothing that he was respected and even feared as a power broker within the Vatican City walls.
He was pleased to see that Michele Severino was there and not travelling on some banking task of his own design. That would make what he had to start today a little bit easier. To wait further would be unbearable. That sense of something wrong about the whole HolyPhone concept was becoming increasingly harder to suppress. If only he could find the certainty that his daily prayers provided.
He invited everyone – for there were at least ten who regularly chose to accept his open invitation to breakfast – to sit at table and nodded to his personal chaplain to say a modest grace, thanking the Lord for what they were about to eat. After that everyone helped themselves to whatever they preferred. He knew he was known for the variety of choice his cook prepared.
Nelson personally liked best the Catalan mix of toasted fresh bread with excellent olive oil and richly garlicked crushed tomato. It was not, however, the easiest of foods to eat without making a mess if you used your fingers. Inevitably the olive oil ran everywhere. It did not improve his humour to have to change immediately after breakfast having dripped olive oil onto his cassock. Instead, to the secret horror of his Spanish colleagues, he had adopted what he had once heard described to him as the English solution — using a knife to slice the bread and tomato and then conveying this, covered with the oil and tomato, to his mouth with a fork. Though not infallible when trying to avoid the dreaded drip it worked most of the time, for which he was grateful.
Once all were eating, he opened the conversation, asking what was expected for today and what issues had arisen since the previous day. This was the cue for his private secretary, Father Federico, to take control of the gathering. He liked how Father Federico managed this, although it privately amused him that what was to him a simple, practical exchange of ideas and commitments was known within the Vatican City walls as ‘Ferraz’s Breakfast Prayers’.
An hour later, and after two large caffes au lait, Father Federico brought the gathering to an end. It was only 8 a.m. but the discussion had indicated there was much to do, luckily more for others than for himself. As his audience began to leave he turned to Severino.
“Michele. Would you be able to spare me some time later this morning? I have to attend the Holy Father at ten thirty. Maybe at noon?”
Michele Severino’s Italian was good, though it carried a decidedly mid-Western twang, which to Nelson sounded odd, even contrived. Maybe that was what made him seem less than wholly trustworthy. Equally, to Severino, Nelson’s Italian still held a distinct taste of its owner’s Brazilian Portuguese background in a slum.
Severino replied, a touch nervously, for one did not generally deny a request from a cardinal of da Ferraz’s power: “Your Eminence, I have an investment meeting with JP Morgan and Deutsche Bank and Banco Santander at eleven. It could be significant and I would like to brief you at some later time on its outcome. My problem is that I am not sure how long it will continue. Is there any chance that we might make it before eleven or this afternoon? I am sorry if this is inconvenient for you.”
Nelson noted the deference and apology and smiled internally. It was so typical of Anglo-Saxons to apologise for seemingly the slightest inability to be able to do what others wanted. On the other hand, meeting sooner, rather than at twelve, was even better.
“Father Federico, would it be possible to fit Michele into my schedule from, say, nine thirty to, at most, ten fifteen?”
“Your Eminence, you have the meeting with Monsignor Helmut from Marburg at ten. If you might consider inviting him to lunch, then I believe he would be sufficiently flattered to agree to change his own schedule. You recall him? He’s somewhat of a stickler for precision, not least in time keeping.”
“Unfortunately, yes, I do remember him. Hmmm. I must, then, make it an expeditious lunch. I want to spend as little of my time having my ears bent with his obsessions as possible. Can you think of anyone else to invite who might dilute him, even distract him? If you do, just invite whomever you think might help.”
Turning to Severino he asked if nine thirty would work, which Severino confirmed.
“See you in just over an hour, then. And thank you.”
Nelson left with Father Federico, who was known to everybody, though for reasons now unknown, only as Father Federico and never just as Federico, to work in his study-cum-office.
Thursday, Monteverde
The usual busy start to the day, including celebrating an early Mass at 7 a.m., gave José Antonio little time to think about his dinner the previous evening. Now that he had had breakfast he went back into his parish church of Santa Maria Regina Pacis a Monteverde. It was not one of Rome’s treasures. But it was familiar, and it was home.
As he went in he looked over to the two confessionals, one on each side of the nave to ensure privacy. He could see that both were in use and that there was even a short queue of mostly elderly ladies waiting their turn on bended knee in nearby pews. Indeed, even as he looked, an anaemic-looking middle-aged man came out of one and headed nearer the altar to make restitution.
It was one of the strangest, at least to José Antonio’s way of thinking, aspects of the Santofonino phenomenon. Penitents seemed happy to talk on a specially adapted mobile phone — the Santofonino – to a distant priest located in the bowels of the Vatican, to confess and then receive absolution after agreeing the appropriate penances. Part of the genius of what Nelson had introduced was how the new confession using the Santofonino combined traditional penances, saying the Lord’s Prayer several times or saying the Rosary, with making a voluntary financial contribution to the church. Once you had confessed your confessor would tell you what you should do in the traditional ways to pay penance and then offer you an alternative, of making a financial contribution to Mother Church to reduce the traditional penances.
From his church’s nave he entered the parochial office and was relieved to find his youngest colleague there. Father Giorgio was from Venice, only twenty-five, and a relative rarity — a newly ordained priest. He had arrived the previous Jan
uary and was full of strange concepts that he called social media and which possessed strange English names, like Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube and Whatsapp. Father Giorgio thought all these, and any successors, should be harnessed to spread the word of Christ to a wider and younger audience. José Antonio liked this enthusiasm even if he really had no idea what Father Giorgio was talking about.
Yet his efforts did seem to be working. Attendance at Mass throughout the week consistently seemed higher than in previous years. Even confession seemed more popular, if that was the right description; certainly more were confessing as well as more often. Fortunately the church had not yet reached the point of measuring this though, if Father Giorgio was to be believed, this was going to happen — what he referred to as ‘an inevitable big data evolution’. Management-speak, computers and piety seemed a curious combination.
As an individual José Antonio also liked Father Giorgio. He possessed energy and willingness and wanted to help all. This was in pleasant contrast to his predecessor who had been in the Monteverde parish for more than ten years where he had become ever more miserable as well as descending into being something of a drunk.
In contrast Father Giorgio was to be seen out running or on his inline skates, which certainly attracted the attention of the parish young. He had gone so far as to have some special ‘sporting cassocks’ made for him by his mother. These made it easier to run or skate whilst still being obviously a priest. He was definitely a sight to see.
“Good morning, Father Giorgio. Done your 5K yet?”
“Good morning to you, Father José Antonio. No, I was with Signor Martelli who died early this morning. I didn’t feel like it, even though in his last hours he was able to smile at me and tell me to keep exercising and that he was going to keep an eye on me from above. He knew he was leaving and was pretty much conscious until right at the end. It was a good departure compared to many and I’m sure Our Lord will welcome him with open arms.”
“I thought I heard you go out last night. That would explain the door closing so late. I’m sorry and happy for Signor Martelli. He was a fine man, if lonely after Rosa died. Resquiescat in pace.”
They paused. A good member of their congregation had gone. He had been in his seventies but with vigour until these last months. His daughter would be relieved yet sad for she had been close to him once her mother had gone so many years earlier.
“Has Rosario decided when she’d like his funeral Mass? I would like to participate to give thanks.”
“More or less. She’ll come by later today to arrange it. She wants to wait a few days so that her first cousin can come from Canada. Vancouver I think she said. I hadn’t realised there was even anyone else in the family.”
“Nor I. But it’s good that she’ll have someone else beside her.
“Anyhow, I need to find something on the Internet. I think I can do it myself, if you will please start up your dreadful beast in the corner for me. You know that always makes me nervous. I might also need some assistance if I can’t find what I want.”
“Not a problem and the beast, as you insist on calling it, is already on. I was working on it yesterday evening when the call for Signor Martelli’s Last Rites came in. I am afraid that I rushed out and left it running all night, and logged in. Not the observance of good security that I keep trying to instill in you, Father.”
“I am sure the Good Lord will forgive you, even if the electricity company will make us pay. Okay, I must face my computing demons.”
José Antonio walked to the reasonably modern desktop in the corner, reacquainted himself successfully with his login screen, and managed to bring up Google. He wondered where to start to find his lunch partner of more than six years ago.
Thursday, Vatican City
Just before nine thirty Monsignor Michele Severino was rushing to the office of Cardinal da Ferraz. Though he was a regular at Ferraz’s Breakfast Prayers and had worked closely with da Ferraz for more than four years, he still never felt quite comfortable in the Cardinal’s presence. He could not work out why this was, although he had more than one worm of doubt.
Da Ferraz was a man with insight. He seemed to intuit what he did not or could not know, and then, when the evidence eventually appeared this would confirm the original intuition. For a man with Severino’s banking upbringing this was unsettling. With a sour inner grimace he admitted to himself that it might indeed be the Almighty offering a helping hand, not that he himself had as much use for the Almighty as he should have. Rather it was the fact that his church had provided an alternate career that mattered most.
When he was not bitter he knew he had been lucky. When Lehman Brothers had folded in September 2008 he had been one of the losers. As with so many others he had invested in the firm and lost pretty much all his savings as well as his job. He had returned to Catholicism without really thinking about it. With the absence of younger would-be priests he had managed to convince a seminary that he really did have a calling. His secret truth was that he did not really believe that but was happy to continue the pretence, not least because he had found that after being ordained the powers that be in his Archdiocese made him available to Rome as a financial expert who was now a member of the cloth.
On arriving in Rome, which compared poorly to the delights of New York, little by little he had insinuated himself into the Vatican hierarchy. Now he knew, with considerable self-satisfaction, that he was regarded as a Vatican financial expert who could arrange and look after the massive income that the HolyPhone generated. That success had brought him other successes, including an early elevation to Monsignore. He did not think he would be going much higher, but there were other more than adequate temporal rewards — not only all expenses paid travelling but also a comfortable Roman apartment in which to entertain. In addition he was making very sure that his personal savings would never again disappear on a market whim.
He arrived at the entrance of da Ferraz’s office suite and was met by Father Federico who conducted him into da Ferraz’s presence. Whereas at breakfast there was no kissing of the cardinal’s ring, this time Severino went up to kneel and pay his respects.
Nelson said, “Thank you for coming. I can be brief, mostly because what I have lacks substance and I need you to do some ferreting.”
“How can I be of service, Your Eminence?”
“A good question. I am not sure that I even know the answer. But I sense something is wrong somewhere in the Santofonino set-up.”
“What do you mean? Operationally? Financially? Spiritually, though I am not sure that is quite the way to put it? Are you running into more doctrinal challenges?”
“As I said, I’m not sure. No, let me correct that. The doctrinal problems are not going away. Those who dislike the idea of receiving income from sins confessed over a mobile phone are not about to disappear, to put it bluntly. They, however, will keep quiet so long as the finances of our church are being repaired and the past sins of some of our brother priests are being assuaged with that money. Our critics know the value the Santofonino brings, and not only in money. It has also attracted many back into the fold.
“No, what I smell is corruption somewhere. I cannot put any finger on what makes me feel this way. But something is not right and I need someone I trust to look into this deeper and very discreetly.”
“May I ask what makes you think as you do?”
“That is what is so difficult to explain, because I have nothing concrete. I did, however, receive some anonymous information — well, information is far too concrete a way of putting it — that not all of the monies that the Santofonino generates come to our church. If true this could be a nightmare. What I want is to prove that this is not the case. But I have no idea how to do this. Proving negatives is usually all but impossible. I hope you will have an idea. I also profoundly hope that you do not find any Mafia or other criminal involvement, and I mean from any of the various shades of those so-called ‘family’ organisations.
; “We both know that criminals would love a slice of the Santofonino’s income. I know we have tried hard to ensure that this is not possible. But what if there is a way? This is what worries me, and profoundly.
“Do you think you can investigate and, preferably, find a way to prove that everything is working exactly as we intended?”
“Your Eminence. You are right; doing what you ask is going to be tough. But are you sure that I’m the right person to do this? After all, I’ve been intimately involved with designing how the payment and banking aspects of the Santofonino work.”
“That is exactly why I want you to demonstrate to me that all adds up and that there’s no criminal or other involvement. Plus I want everything done with maximum discretion. I don’t wish you to talk of this to anyone except myself, unless I agree to each extra individual person’s involvement. That also rules out discussions with any external to the Holy See organisations, especially the Italian forces of so-called law and order. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Eminence, I do. I’ll try to do what I can. First I need to think. May I come back to you next week and describe what I think we should do?”
“Early next week would be good. Make an appointment through Father Federico.”
Severino rose from his chair to receive the ritual blessing at the end of such meetings. He left the room thinking feverishly.
Thursday, Monteverde
José Antonio thought back some years. He had been in his church before lunch time when a man of no special features other than the pale look of a foreigner entered. This man had wandered around looking at the building. He had an eye for the architecture even though he seemed to be mumbling to himself. Finally he had approached José Antonio and asked in indifferent Italian about the building.
The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis Page 3