The Debt

by Glenn Cooper

  Celestine thanked her and turned to Boni. ‘So, Professor, it is your turn. What about the value of our art collections?’

  Boni began, ‘Holy Father, as others have said, it is not so easy to put a value on objects that have long been considered priceless. Works such as ours have rarely, if ever, gone to auction. Having said that, the art market is quite strong of late, particularly for modern art, although this is less relevant to our discussion. The highest price ever paid for a classical painting was in 2015 – three hundred million dollars for Gauguin’s When Will You Marry?, followed by the 2011 sale of Cézanne’s The Card Players for some two hundred sixty million dollars. I believe any museum curator in the world would say that we have many, many paintings and sculptures that would easily exceed these figures.’

  The pope scrunched his face and a question followed. ‘Can you explain something for me? I have never understood the concept of a work of art being priceless. Surely if there is a willing seller and a willing buyer a price may be negotiated.’

  ‘It is a loosely used term, Holy Father. I believe it relates to the fact that for some pieces there are very few museums or individuals with the capacity to pay an astronomical price, even if it is a fair price. But you are correct. If our collection were to ever come to the market, there would certainly be major museums – the Louvre, the Metropolitan in New York, the Getty, the Tate and National Galleries in London, among others, as well as assorted billionaires who would pull out their checkbooks.’

  ‘Do you have any impressions of the overall value of our holdings?’ the pope asked.

  Boni sighed, ‘Many, many billions.’

  Celestine clapped his hands together once and rubbed them. ‘Well then, I wish to thank you all for your kind attention and trenchant observations. This has been an excellent start. Please begin work on a comprehensive valuation exercise but do not involve outside experts at this time. Please respect my desire for secrecy. Outsiders to this process may not understand the intent of your work. Until then, no leaks. Is that clear?’

  He collected their nods and yeses like a nosegay of daisies and stood to leave.

  ‘Sister, a moment if you will,’ he said. ‘Moller, it’s OK, go on without me. The bodyguards will see to it I don’t get lost.’

  When alone he said, ‘So, Sister, I have taken note of this smile you can’t seem to get rid of. What’s on your mind?’

  She looked like a child caught passing notes in class. ‘Nothing really, Holy Father.’

  ‘Don’t lie to the pope,’ he said lightly.

  ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘It’s only that I was thinking you might have another motive for this exercise.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘It’s hard to sell treasure if you don’t know its value.’

  Celestine nodded. ‘You’re a wise one, Elisabetta. You always have been. Do you know Matthew 19:21?’

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds before answering. ‘If you want to be perfect go sell your possessions and give to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven.’

  He beamed like a proud father. ‘You and those like you are the true treasure of the Church and always have been.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  It wasn’t unusual for cardinals to gather after business hours for social gatherings but out of an abundance of caution the three of them purposely metered out their arrivals to Cardinal Leoncino’s apartment. The last to show up at the Palazzo San Carlo was Cardinal Lauriat. The residential building was within the Vatican grounds next door to the pope’s quarters at the Domus Sanctae Marthae and it was this proximity that contributed to their conspiratorial anxiety.

  Lauriat took the elevator to the third floor and entered Leoncino’s spacious flat to find the others sipping wine and sampling finger food. It was dark but he knew full well its glorious views over the Vatican grounds and the Eternal City beyond.

  ‘Sit, Pascal, sit,’ Leoncino said, sending an elderly nun to bring the cardinal secretary a glass of Prosecco. In the intimate lighting, Leoncino’s vitiligo looked positively Day-Glo.

  Cardinal Malucchi, a man with a physique worthy of his prodigious appetite, was buried in a soft sofa, with an overflowing plate of food balanced on his lap.

  ‘Save some room for supper, Domenico,’ Leoncino told the vicar-general. ‘The sisters have outdone themselves.’

  ‘I was busy. I skipped lunch,’ Malucchi groused.

  ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ Cardinal Cassar said, popping a piece of bruschetta into his mouth.

  ‘Well, only a small sandwich,’ Malucchi said.

  Lauriat settled in with them and asked Leoncino if he could ask the nuns to give them privacy.

  ‘They hear nothing, they see nothing,’ Leoncino said.

  ‘Please, Mario, humor me,’ Lauriat said.

  The nuns dispatched to the kitchen, Lauriat took a sip of wine and put down the glass. His host knew he wasn’t much of a drinker and would likely not touch it again. Leoncino lived lavishly but couldn’t shake his frugality. If it hadn’t been a sparkling wine he might have had it poured back into the bottle at the end of the evening.

  ‘So tell us, Pascal,’ Leoncino said. ‘How did your meeting go with Sassoon?’

  ‘As you might expect, he was cautious. I don’t know that he trusted me at first.’

  ‘But you’re a persuasive man,’ Malucchi said, his eyes dancing.

  ‘I try to be,’ Lauriat said. ‘Let’s just say that he came to realize that our interests were aligned.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Leoncino asked.

  ‘I told him that Celestine’s proposed foundation would never get off the ground. The blowback from within the Church would be too great especially when it became apparent that the legal framework for the validity of the loan was fatally weak.’

  ‘And how did he respond?’

  ‘He said he had commissioned his own legal analysis and that the preliminary view was that the loan appeared to be enforceable.’

  ‘Of course he’d say that,’ Cassar said.

  ‘It did not surprise me in the least,’ Lauriat said. ‘He’s a businessman. Lawyers are hired hands. They will say whatever their client wants them to say. But as to common ground, he also made it clear that he thinks the idea for a foundation is ludicrous.’

  ‘What does he want?’ Malucchi asked.

  ‘If it were his decision, and his alone, he would want the loan to be repaid. To the bank.’

  ‘But surely you told him that wasn’t going to happen,’ Cassar spat.

  ‘Of course I did, Joseph. I took his proposal calmly, as a negotiating position. After all, this, as many things in life, is nothing more than a negotiation. I told him we were confident in our legal position and that the bank was free to sue the Vatican. He replied that he’d happily do so.’

  ‘And what did you say?’ Leoncino said, clearly enjoying the conversation.

  ‘I asked him how old he was.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ Leoncino said.

  ‘I most certainly did. I pointed out to him that it was highly unlikely that the matter would resolve itself in Italian courts during his lifetime. So would you like to know how he replied?’

  The three cardinals nodded eagerly.

  ‘He said, “All right. My number is twenty-seven billion dollars and yours is zero. What’s it going to take to make both of us happy?”’

  Malucchi appeared spellbound, a wedge of salami hovering near his mouth. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to make the first offer, did I?’ Lauriat said. ‘I asked him, given the circumstances, what would make him happy. He quickly threw out a number as if he’d already thought it through. Two billion. That was his number.’

  Leoncino sputtered something unintelligible amid a clamor of groans.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lauriat said. ‘I told him that number could never be acceptable. His reply surprised me. He said he was con
cerned about an anti-Semitic backlash in any scenario where the bank received a payment from the Vatican for such an old loan.’

  ‘As well he should be,’ Cassar said.

  ‘He said that in his proposal, the bank would only net one billion. To mitigate the backlash, one billion would go to charity by way of Henry Sassoon’s charitable foundation. That way, his cousin would be induced to support the settlement.’

  ‘Clever fellow,’ Malucchi said.

  ‘Isn’t he?’ Lauriat said. ‘I told him the charity notion was sound but that I had in mind a figure significantly below one billion. However, I was not authorized to complete a negotiation at this time.’

  ‘I say, we pay no more than ten million to make this go away,’ Leoncino huffed.

  ‘I think we’ll probably have to go higher,’ Lauriat said. ‘He’ll know that if we have to defend ourselves in court, our legal fees will be enormous. In any event, I didn’t want to keep tossing numbers on to the table. We ended on amicable terms. He knows there’s likely a deal to be done provided, as he put it, “we’re able to get control of the situation on our end.”’

  ‘Is that what he said?’ Cassar asked.

  ‘That’s precisely what he said. He also said this: the current situation is that Henry Sassoon is the majority owner of the bank. When his cousin dies, he expects this to change per an agreement reached between them. At that time, Marcus Sassoon will have equal voting rights with Henry Sassoon’s side of the family. Eventually, he will be in a position to veto any debt-repayment deal he doesn’t endorse.’

  ‘How ill is the cousin?’ Cassar asked.

  ‘Quite ill, as I understand it, but I have no insight into his prognosis.’

  ‘Did he bring up the shooting at the bank?’ Malucchi asked.

  ‘We talked about it briefly. He told me the police believe it was a random crime of opportunity. The man thought he was robbing a bank and wound up inside an archive instead. They can find no evidence of a connection to Donovan’s document search.’

  All of them seemed shocked when Malucchi asked, ‘But tell us, Pascal, was there a connection?’

  Lauriat frowned and surprised Leoncino by reaching for his wine glass. He took another sip before answering, ‘I really don’t know why you are asking me this question, Domenico. Surely you don’t think that I was involved.’

  Malucchi was contrite. ‘I had to ask and now you’ve answered. End of story.’

  An awkward silence followed until Leoncino leaned forward a bit and said, ‘It’s my turn to ask you a difficult question, Pascal. Where are you getting your insights into Celestine’s recent activities? Who gave you the number for the C8 call?’

  Lauriat thrust out his jaw in a show of defiance. ‘Do you really want to know how the sausage is made? Isn’t it better if you don’t?’

  Leoncino used his eyes to seek Cassar’s help, a gesture not lost on Lauriat; the others had clearly been fussing behind the cardinal secretary’s back.

  ‘Go ahead, Joseph,’ Lauriat said. ‘It seems you’ve been called to action.’

  Cassar cleared his throat and said, ‘As I see it, Pascal, this fellow, Marcus Sassoon, has it right. It is up to us to get control of the situation. We have to get the pope to change his mind or at least delay any of his damaging actions long enough for nature to take its course. It may take a conclave to put an end to this nonsense. If we are to be your full partners in this – what shall I call it? – defensive strategy, then we feel we should know your sources of information.’

  Lauriat nodded while he thought and with a sigh he opened his kimono. ‘Room 206.’

  It was Leoncino who came to it first. ‘That’s Moller’s office at the Sanctae Marthae!’

  ‘However did you get him to be your pope whisperer?’ Malucchi asked.

  ‘The good monsignor was indiscreet,’ Lauriat said. ‘A gentleman within the Gendarmerie Corps received a photo of Moller deep in the bowels of an underground club in Rome. He’s a very fit man, our Moller. And quite flexible, as was the man he was – well, you get the idea. I kept the photo until I needed it. There you have it.’

  ‘Moller knows everything,’ Malucchi said, admiringly. ‘He writes it all down in his little notebook.’

  ‘Not everything,’ Lauriat said. ‘In recent days he’s been excluded from a few conversations. Celestine is being especially cautious with this loan business.’

  ‘For example?’ Leoncino asked.

  ‘Moller attended a meeting between the pope and Donovan in the early stages of Donovan’s document search. In Moller’s presence Celestine encouraged the professor to make further searches to ensure the loan documents were found by a friendly party.’

  ‘This is what Celestine told the C10,’ Leoncino said.

  ‘But then Moller was asked to leave so that the pope could speak to Donovan about a private manner. My guess is that this was the moment when the pope revealed his true intentions.’

  ‘You believe that he confided in Donovan first?’ Cassar asked.

  ‘I do,’ Lauriat said. ‘I think that’s why the professor was so determined in his efforts. There’s more. I’m also told that Celestine met privately with the nun, Elisabetta Celestino.’

  ‘He’s always taken a shine to her,’ Malucchi said wickedly.

  ‘Where was this meeting?’ Cassar asked.

  ‘I’ve saved the worst for last,’ Lauriat said. ‘The pope called for a meeting of several department heads including Cardinal Portolano, Boni from the museum, Thorn from the archives, Trevor Joseph from APSA, and the nun, representing her archeology commission. The meeting was held at the Palace of the Governorate, a venue about as clandestine as one can find within the Vatican.’

  ‘I can’t see what these people have in common and what Celestine would want from them,’ Cassar said.

  ‘Can’t you?’ Lauriat said. ‘Think about it. These are the officials tasked with managing the patrimony of the Church. They are the stewards of the true wealth of the Vatican.’

  ‘You can’t mean it!’ Malucchi exclaimed. ‘This is how he intends to pay the debt? It’s unthinkable. Was it discussed explicitly?’

  ‘No, he was more discreet than that,’ Lauriat said. ‘He set them off on what seemed on the surface to be a dry exercise to properly assess and record our assets’ values. Perhaps it was after the meeting when he confided his true intentions to the nun.’

  ‘What is wrong with him?’ Malucchi said. ‘Does the pope need a psychiatrist? We have to stop him.’

  Lauriat stood and brushed a few crumbs from his cassock.

  ‘Are you not staying for supper?’ Leoncino asked.

  ‘Unfortunately no. I’m meeting someone who might be able to help us put a stop to this.’

  ‘Who?’ Malucchi asked.

  Lauriat shook his head. ‘This is one bit of sausage-making you certainly don’t want to know about.’

  A man was waiting for Lauriat at the entrance to the cardinal’s apartment in the Apostolic Palace.

  ‘Come inside,’ Lauriat said, unlocking the ornate door.

  The man didn’t expect small talk and none was given.

  ‘Do you have it?’ Lauriat asked.

  The man nodded and produced a folder from his briefcase.

  ‘There’s a statement from her sister and a photograph of the girl when she was eighteen,’ he said. ‘She was pretty.’

  Lauriat opened the folder and inspected the photo. ‘How much did you have to pay?’

  ‘It was manageable. Short money for something like this. Who will publish it?’ the man asked.

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Will you need anything more from me?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. I know how to find you.’

  The man had a good laugh.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘A dozen books. Three hundred fourteen papers.’

  Cal wasn’t sure why he was here. He had a look around President Clarke’s Massachusetts Hall office while she flipped t
hrough his curriculum vitae. When he arrived for the meeting she had invited him over to the conversation area by an unlit colonial-era fireplace.

  Faculty members usually received an out-of-the-blue summons to the Harvard president’s office only when they had done something rather spectacularly wrong. He hadn’t been back in Cambridge for a full day when he’d gotten the call. He was certain he’d recall committing a recent horrible act but one never knew. He tried to think back to the last time he was very drunk in public. My God, he thought. Had he said something despicable to a grad student or a junior faculty member at the anthropology department Christmas party? He’d been relatively sober at the more staid Divinity School affair.

  ‘Every one of them has its own small war story.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Clarke said, looking up. She’d been elevated to the presidency, by way of university provost, from the ranks of the English department. An Emily Dickinson scholar, she looked passably like her subject.

  ‘The papers and books,’ Cal said. ‘There was somewhat of a struggle behind each one.’

  She smiled. ‘I know what you mean. Nature of the beast. So, Cal, I’m sure you’re wondering why I wanted to see you.’

  ‘I was trying to imagine what I’d done.’

  ‘It’s not that sort of meeting.’

  ‘Good, I’m relieved.’

  ‘Not that sort of meeting at all. In fact, quite the opposite. We’ve had our eye on you, Cal.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Your scholarship and the quality of your teaching place you in the upper echelon of our faculty. You’ve demonstrated an ability to cross the boundaries of multiple disciplines and pursue all your endeavors with excellence. You know what that means, don’t you?’

  He didn’t.

  ‘You’ve been named a University Professor, Cal. Congratulations. We have two thousand faculty members, nine hundred with tenure, and only twenty-four – excuse me – twenty-five university professorships. It’s a rarified club, as you know.’

  So that’s why his pal Frank Epstein at the business school had been prematurely congratulating him. Within the university, the appointment was a big deal. University Professors had the right to do research and teach courses in any department. There was probably a pay raise involved too, but he wasn’t going to ask about that. Bad form.