by Glenn Cooper
In the days that followed he had set tongues wagging in the Curia by eschewing the papal apartment and moving into a tiny two-room suite on the second floor of the Sanctae Marthae guesthouse and ditching the papal fleet of stately sedan cars for an economy Fiat with thirty thousand kilometers on the clock.
Of course, the Curia had learned quickly enough that these public-relations gestures, as some called them, were the tip of the iceberg. Celestine had bigger fish to fry.
When the pope arrived he greeted Cal with a soft clasp to both shoulders. Moller found a chair in the corner and sat motionless like an obedient hound awaiting his master’s orders.
‘I have to tell you, Professor, I am so delighted Da Silva called me last night,’ the pope said in Italian, remembering Cal’s fluency. ‘I am pleased to find these few minutes to speak with you. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.’
Cal returned the sentiment and the pope offered him a chair.
‘You should have told me you were coming to Rome. I would have made room for a dinner but alas I have so many engagements and so little time. Would you like a coffee?’
Cal knew from experience that Celestine would want him to say yes so that he could make a show of putting the capsules in the machine himself and making coffees for the both of them. He would be only half-shocked if, at the end of the day, the pontiff washed the cups himself.
‘I would love one,’ Cal said.
The pope happily pushed the buttons on the espresso machine and served Cal before dropping back into his desk chair and folding his hands over his prodigious belly. His desk was plain, the kind that schoolteachers use, but the chair was incongruous, a modern Aeron model donated by a local supplier to soothe his balky back.
‘I think the sisters count the number of spent capsules every day and report back to my doctor,’ he said. ‘My blood pressure, you know. Do they count the capsules, Moller?’
The monsignor replied, ‘Certainly not, Holy Father.’
‘Well, Professor, I have to tell you this: a man in my position has many acquaintances but few friends,’ the pope continued. ‘Yes, I have some true friends from my youth in Naples, but they seem to be dying off and those that remain – well, I cannot see them very often. That is why I greatly value our friendship. It was providence that brought you to me when I needed your help with our dearly departed stigmatic, Father Berardino.’
Cal felt his face flush. ‘I feel the same way, Holy Father. It’s an honor to be called your friend.’
‘So, I am eager to hear about your latest project,’ the pope said. ‘Da Silva tells me you started to explore one topic but have shifted to another.’
‘The power of serendipity, I suppose. I came to the archives to do research on Cardinal Lambruschini, the secretary of state under Pope Gregory XVI.’
‘And what was it that interested you about this cardinal?’
‘In 1848 he was an arch-foe of the revolutionaries and encouraged the French to intervene in the conflict. To put it mildly, he wasn’t one of the heroes of the revolution. I was looking for fresh material on his activities.’
‘And did you find fresh material?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘And instead you’ve discovered an enigmatic loan.’
‘I have indeed. It seems that Lambruschini was involved in securing a sizable loan during the reign of Pope Pius IX – three hundred thousand pounds sterling.’
‘A considerable amount in those days.’
‘Very considerable. Do you know much about the Church’s history of borrowing money?’
‘Only that it was done,’ the pope said, his eyes twinkling with interest. ‘I hope you’ll enlighten me.’
‘Well, I’m not a bona fide expert but I’m familiar with the subject. Over the centuries the Church borrowed money with some regularity to meet its obligations. I’ve published two papers on Vatican borrowing. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a third.’
‘Ah, publications. The mother’s milk of academia.’
‘Exactly that.’
‘Da Silva tells me you don’t believe this loan was ever repaid. How is that possible?’
‘I really don’t know. One of the transactions I wrote about is a loan made in 1831, during Gregory’s pontificate, by the Rothschild Bank. It was for an even larger amount, four hundred thousand pounds sterling. That’s about fifty million euros in today’s currency. Gregory had inherited a massive fiscal deficit and needed a loan to prop up the Vatican. By turning to a Jewish banker, inevitably, he became the target of criticism. Carl Rothschild, the brother of the head of the bank, was summoned from Naples to a papal audience to discuss the terms of the loan and afterwards a well-known Lutheran wrote, “A Jew kisses the pope’s hand while a poor Christian kisses the pope’s feet.”’
The pope’s chuckle was slightly wicked. ‘Was this loan repaid?’
‘It was. The historical record is clear.’
‘But not your loan.’
‘I don’t think so. What I found yesterday, contained within the papers of an obscure noble, Duke Tizziani of Romagna, is a contract, signed by Cardinal Antonelli, Pius’s secretary of state. It’s dated 1848 and lays out the loan amount and various nonfinancial understandings between the parties. The document is countersigned by someone named Claude Sassoon. There’s a reference in the document to an annex to the contract that provides the repayment terms.’
‘Da Silva tells me you almost didn’t explore this duke’s final book of papers.’
‘I was losing steam, I admit, but I guess it pays to be on the compulsive side.’
‘Why would there be a need for an annex?’
‘This was typically done to maintain the farce that the papacy wasn’t violating the usury laws that prohibited charging or paying interest on loans. It gave the Vatican an element of deniability because the repayment terms weren’t in the main contract. It was a bit of Kabuki theater, really.’ Cal reached into his briefcase. ‘I transcribed the loan document, if you’d like to see it.’
Celestine took the lined notepaper and waving off Moller, who sprang from his chair, he managed to find his pair of reading glasses himself. ‘Interesting,’ he murmured several times before giving the notepaper back.
Cal gave him another few sheets. ‘These are my transcriptions of letters written by Lambruschini, Antonelli, and Antonelli’s secretary, Parizo. They provide some context.’
When Celestine was done with the pages he said, ‘There seems to have been a remarkable display of cloak and dagger behavior.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘It is curious,’ the pope said. ‘The secretary wrote that all copies of the contract were to be destroyed, yet you found this loan contract very much intact.’
‘Only the main contract. For whatever reason it seems that the Vatican’s copy was not destroyed. But there was no sign of the annex.’
‘I see.’
‘I knew I’d never heard of this loan,’ Cal said, ‘but as I mentioned, I’m not an authority on Vatican debt. I spent last night searching online and couldn’t find any records for this or any other loan between the Vatican and the Sassoon Bank, which was owned by another Jewish family not as prominent as the Rothschilds. This morning I called someone who’s a real expert, a professor of finance from the Wharton School in Philadelphia. He also had never heard of the loan or its repayment. It seems to have vanished into the mists of history.’
‘A lovely way to put it. Does this Sassoon Bank still exist?’ the pontiff asked.
‘It does. The Sassoons are still less grand than the Rothschilds but from what I’ve read, it’s a significant merchant bank.’
‘So I put to you this question,’ the pope said. ‘Is there a possibility the loan is still valid?’
Cal had wondered the same thing but admitted he had no way of knowing.
The pope looked pensive as he refolded his arms over his cassock. ‘If it carried interest that continued to accumulate, I would imagine it would be worth a
considerable amount today.’
‘I imagine so but without knowing the terms in the annex it’s only guesswork.’
‘Would you do something for me?’ Celestine asked after an unusually long pause.
‘I’m at your disposal, Holy Father.’
‘It may be a difficult task if, as this Monsignor Parizo had requested, the Sassoon copies of the loan were destroyed, but I would like you to see if a signed copy of the annex exists. Do you think it could be possible?’
‘I suppose so but we don’t know if Tizziani succeeded in finding and burning the Sassoon copy. We also don’t know if the Vatican destroyed its copy. I’ll spend more time in the Secret Archives and if that doesn’t pay off, I may have some other ideas.’
‘Please have the archivists deliver to me the original documents you found, if you would be so kind.’
‘I’ll do that immediately.’ He wondered if the question was appropriate but he couldn’t restrain himself. ‘Could I ask why you’re interested?’
The pope passed his reading glasses from one hand to another, seemingly deep in thought until he said, ‘These days I have been immersed in an examination of Vatican finances. There is, how shall I say, a lack of transparency in some departments but I can tell you we are not on a strong footing. A sizable loan such as the one you’ve discovered, if unpaid and valid, could be precarious to our current situation.’
‘I can see that,’ Cal said.
‘Yes, very precarious. If you were able to find this loan, others could find it as well. Isn’t that so?’
‘I got lucky but I’m not the only one in the world who likes to crawl around archives. The loan contracts could be anywhere.’
‘I would prefer that someone such as yourself, a friend of the Vatican, find the annex, rather than an individual with adversarial tendencies. That way we might have the time to thoroughly engage with our legal advisors on the issue of validity and prepare the appropriate defenses.’
‘I understand,’ Cal said, his hopes of a timely publication fading.
‘Very well, then,’ the pontiff said, rising. ‘Please keep me informed of your progress.’
Cal and Monsignor Moller stood in unison.
‘Actually, Moller,’ the pope said. ‘I wonder if you could give me a moment in private with the professor. I have a personal matter I wish to discuss with him.’
EIGHT
London, 1848
Claude and Mayer Sassoon argued into the evening.
‘Listen, my brother,’ Mayer said, ‘what the pope is proposing is not a loan. It is a demand for ransom. Holding Jean on the pretext of violating usury laws is a joke! Nobody violates usury laws more than the papists themselves. We cannot bend to this blackmail.’
‘What choice do we have?’ Claude moaned.
‘What choice? We don’t pay.’
‘And then what? Wait for them to kill my son?’
‘This Cardinal Lambruschini doesn’t say kill. He talks of unfortunate consequences, whatever that may mean.’
‘It means that they will kill my eldest son. Tell me, what would you do if it were Edouard?’
‘I didn’t send my son to Italy. I sent him to Manchester.’
Claude hatefully stared across his desk, prompting Mayer to apologize.
‘I should not have said that. But look at these terms they propose. Unacceptable! Insane!’
‘We have no choice. We have the liquidity.’
‘I cannot support this,’ Mayer said. ‘I love my nephew but we will set this bank back years, decades perhaps. If there is a downturn in business, we might not even survive. Yes, you have a responsibility to Jean but also to young Andre and the rest of your family and my family too. At least let us endeavor to negotiate. We should propose a flotation of Vatican bonds rather than an outright loan. Standard terms, not this insanity.’
Claude asked for the letter back and referred to it. ‘You read what they wrote: “The existence of this loan must remain an absolute secret.” There is nothing secret about a bond flotation. You know why they demand this, no?’
‘Of course I know,’ Mayer said, pointing in the general direction of St Swithin’s Lane. ‘It is an open secret that the Rothschilds slipped a clever provision into their 1831 loan to Pope Gregory. What was it, four hundred thousand pounds? The Vatican was prohibited from going to any other bank for their next loan. The penalty was rumored to be one hundred thousand pounds. If the Rothschilds find out that Pope Pius went around them, they would sue and they would win. The Vatican is being clever and ruthless, Claude. The pope has been run out of Rome by the mob. There is no possible market for Vatican bonds for the foreseeable future. The Rothschilds would never do a bond deal in the midst of a revolution and they would never do a deal with the structure the Vatican has proposed. Ever. So the pope kidnaps the son of another banker.’
‘They call themselves men of faith,’ Claude said weakly.
‘At least let me negotiate with them.’
‘I want my son back. What will I tell his mother?’
‘Are you saying you would accept these terms?’
‘I cannot take the risk otherwise.’
‘My God, Claude. I must object.’
Claude folded the letter, replaced it inside the envelope, and stepped away from his desk. ‘It is my decision. I have the majority.’
‘Always the majority,’ his brother said bitterly. ‘All right, Mr Majority, at least let me have our lawyer draw the contract to our liking.’
Claude walked toward the Cannon Street exit.
Mayer called after him, ‘Do you agree?’
Without turning around, Claude said, ‘Do it.’
When Claude was gone Mayer muttered, ‘Like hell I will.’
He was weary to the marrow but Genoa was his home and even though he couldn’t let his guard down it was better to be a hunted man in his own city than an exile in a foreign country.
Earlier, his mother, once a glorious beauty, had come to see him in the small house by the docks he had rented under an assumed name.
‘Giuseppe, how thin you are. How tired you look. Please stay in Genoa for a while and rest. And eat. I will come every day to bring you more food.’
Mazzini looked more like a university professor than a revolutionary. The middle-aged lawyer had a high forehead unattractively accentuated by a severely receding hairline. His clothes were of good quality, London-bought, but at this point they were worn through and almost shabby. After all, he was perpetually on the run and short of resources. Only a week before he had been flushed out of his safe haven in Switzerland after the Austrians attacked.
‘I will not be able to stay long,’ he had said, accepting a piece of fruit. ‘I have some urgent business here and then must move along.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘It is best you do not know.’
She had been sad but had understood. After all, she could hardly criticize the life he had chosen to lead. When he was only twenty-nine she had helped found the secret society, Young Italy, the banned organization that called for a united Italy and the insurrection to cast off the yoke of the Austrian occupiers in the north. Now her son was a hunted man.
Shortly after she left there was a light knock on the door. One of Mazzini’s associates parted a curtain to see who was there. It was dark but there was a nearby streetlight and the man’s features were distinctive enough. Satisfied, he let him in.
‘Is he here?’ the visitor asked.
‘He’s at work.’
Mazzini was in the chilly dining room seated at a long table. A pair of candelabras illuminated his writing papers.
‘General,’ the man said.
‘General,’ Mazzini replied. Both men laughed and embraced.
Giuseppe Garibaldi was forty-one, the younger of the two by five years. He moved across the room with an athletic, loose-limbed fluidity, tutting at the paltry fire and bending to stoke it with the skill of a man who knew his way around a campsite. While
Mazzini was the intellectual, Garibaldi was the man of action, an accomplished, unafraid soldier. Brains and brawn, they were, bookends of a revolutionary movement. They had both been made generals this year. Garibaldi, appointed to the rank by the provisional government of Milan, Mazzini, by the Lombard Army, although the lawyer insisted his rank was merely honorary. The two men had not been apart for long; both had shared recent exile at Bergamo.
Garibaldi was in civilian garb with a concealing, wide-brimmed hat. Wearing his brigade shirt around the city would have been like waving a red cape at the King of Sardinia’s men.
‘No problems getting here?’ Garibaldi asked.
‘Nothing too extraordinary. You?’
‘A skirmish or two. We lost one man. My brigade is camped in a thicket on the outskirts of the city.’
‘How many?’
‘Some four hundred.’
Mazzini fished a sheet from his stack of papers. ‘Have a drink and read this letter.’
‘Who is it from?’
‘A Jewish banker I knew from my years in London. The letter was sent to Bergamo and was delivered here by one of our men. I think you will find it interesting.’
Garibaldi poured himself a brandy and read it by the light of the improved fire. He tossed the letter back on to the table and had more brandy. ‘So what?’ he said, dismissively. ‘The son of a banker gets in trouble with the pope and they expect us to help? We have our own troubles.’
Mazzini agreed but added, ‘One of our troubles is a dire lack of funds. You told me yourself how you struggle to provision your brigade. A revolution needs money like a man needs food. When I was in London I approached the bank for loans for Young Italy. This man, Mayer Sassoon, was cordial but the question was always, what is your collateral? We had no collateral then and we have none now. Do you see what he writes? Free my brother’s son and you will have all the credit you require on good terms. It is a godsend, Giuseppe.’