by Gary McAvoy
“Pleased to meet you, Carlo,” Hana said, meeting his own light blue eyes with admiration. “What is it with all you handsome priests? A girl doesn’t stand a chance these days.”
Both Carlo and Dominic laughed as they held each other by the shoulders, clearly happy to be together again.
“Please, come into my office,” Rinaldo offered, leading the way. “Would either of you like tea or water?”
Both declined the gesture, each taking a seat on old brown leather wingback chairs in the priest’s office.
“To answer your question, Carlo, we’re mostly here for a bit of vacation. Hana is a journalist for Paris’s Le Monde newspaper and we go way back, so we’ll enjoy Carnivale while we’re here, something she has yet to experience.
“But I did have a little business to attend to, a meeting with your neighbor across the piazzetta, Paulo Manetti at the Marciana Library. The Vatican will contribute one of its manuscripts for the library’s upcoming exhibition, so I wanted to look at how they’ll be presenting it. And hopefully we’ll be meeting with Contessa Vivaldi this week as well.”
“Ah, yes, the lovely Donatella,” the priest remarked. “A most gracious patron of St. Mark’s too. You will find her pleasant company, I’m sure, with a stunning palazzo on the Grand Canal. This will be quite the Venetian experience for you, Hana. Everything worthwhile in one visit! Few visitors get the chance to see inside one of the great palazzos of our city. Where are you staying?”
“At the Ca’ Sagredo,” Hana said matter-of-factly.
“Well, you’re already enjoying the best Venice has to offer then.” His glance turned to Dominic. “And you, Michael?”
“I have a room there as well.”
Rinaldo’s eyebrows shot up. “They must pay very well at the Vatican nowadays!”
Dominic blushed as he looked over at Hana. “This is Hana’s treat. The style to which she is accustomed… As she would be the last to tell you, coming from a wealthy family has its benefits.”
“So, Carlo,” Hana said, modestly changing the subject, “how long have you been at St. Mark’s?”
“Going on two years now. It is a great honor to work here. I fell in love with Venice on my first visit, when I was just nineteen and serving in the US Air Force at Aviano Air Base, so it’s great I could one day make a home here. Though I was born in New York, I have dual citizenship since my parents are both Italian.”
The telephone rang. Rinaldo held up a pausing hand to his guests as he answered the call. He listened attentively as his demeanor changed from glad to serious, then said a respectful goodbye and hung up the phone. For a moment he was lost in thought, the room quiet. Then he looked up at Dominic, holding his gaze as he considered something.
“Hana, I hesitate to ask this, but would you be so kind as to give Michael and me a few minutes to discuss an important spiritual matter? I don’t mean to be rude, but—”
“Not at all, Carlo,” she said. “I’ll take in your gorgeous basilica and be back in a while, if that’s okay.” Rising, she left the office and made her way back to the church interior.
“What is it, Carlo?” Dominic asked. “Something I can help with?”
“Michael, that was Cardinal Abruzzo, the Patriarch of Venice, on the phone, or what you would know as our archbishop. I turned to him earlier today with a thorny problem, since it involves breaking the seal of confession. But he did not have an answer, leaving the decision to me.”
“Wait, I’m lost,” Dominic said, his eyelids fluttering in confusion. “Breaking the seal of confession? You mean as in, something that can never be allowed? And what would the archbishop be afraid of?”
“Well, under pain of potential excommunication, let me start from the beginning…” Rinaldo said, as he recounted the deathbed confession of Mafia boss Lucio Gambarini.
“Since the 18th century, the Camorra has administered a long string of Vatican art thefts and forgeries, involving a continuous line of corrupt insiders. The very idea is inconceivable to me, that something of this vile nature hasn’t been exposed long before now. Or maybe it has, and those potential informants either gave in to participating in the illicit operation or met with certain dark fates if they proved unwilling.
“The Camorra is like a monstrous octopus, Michael. Its criminal enterprises are vast and varied, and they ‘own’ many political and religious leaders throughout Italy, much like the Sicilian Mafia and the 'Ndrangheta do in their own regions. That fact is widely known, but most people simply turn their heads thinking, ‘Ah, just business as usual with the Vatican.’
“Don Gambarini’s confession is unique, though, in that he feared God’s eternal wrath unless he did what he could to expose the practice before he died. And he wanted me to be his executor in this matter!
“As I said, I turned to the Patriarch seeking his advice, and he just now flatly turned down my plea. Perhaps it was because he wanted none of the details, nor the name of the penitent, a quandary in itself.” Rinaldo glared at the telephone, recalling the conversation as he wrung his hands in distress.
After his friend finished, Dominic sat there, stunned at the enormity of the situation. And he now understood that, given permission by the penitent, perhaps the rules of confessional sanctity had been slackened a bit, though he was still dubious.
Rinaldo continued. “I share this with you for a couple of reasons, Michael. First, you’re the one friend I can turn to for unvarnished ecclesiastical advice. Second, you’re a Vatican insider, and must have some kind of influence on any prolonged and ongoing crimes that may take place there. That the Vatican Museum even today has an undercurrent of criminality to it must shake you to your core. It certainly does me. And the man is dying, so I know very soon my promise to help him must be fulfilled and these secrets revealed. So, what do we do now?”
After the word “we” surprised him, Dominic took a moment to reflect on the situation, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he resettled himself in the leather chair. He knew about the Camorra’s reputation and didn’t want to put anyone in their menacing path, least of all himself. If all this was true—and he had real trouble believing the practice had been ongoing for centuries—then yes, it needed to cease.
“You mentioned art forgeries, Carlo. Was Gambarini more specific about that? As in, what had been outright stolen, or which artworks had been replaced by forged replicas?”
“No, he spoke in broad terms, nothing specific. But can you imagine how much damage this will have to the credibility of the Vatican as having one of the world’s foremost museums? We’re talking about thousands of works of art from the greatest masters in history. Michelangelo, da Vinci, Raphael, Caravaggio… the list goes on. No doubt these would have all ended up in the most private collections worldwide, for they could never be put on the market.”
“Yes, I imagine someone could also store them in freeports, where many wealthy collectors keep their finest treasures for tax and security purposes.” He thought back to an earlier adventure, the Zharkov affair involving a veil from Mary Magdalene, reinforcing the likelihood that what Gambarini confessed could be true.
“I need to give this some thought myself, Carlo. Gambarini said take no action until he’s dead, correct? So I see no reason to rush into a decision right now, anyway. Time is on our side, regardless. I still cannot believe this has been going on for a couple hundred years. Maybe that’s just a legend the Camorra cooked up to build mystique around its reputation. It is the oldest Mafia organization in Italy, after all.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But that doesn’t mean we should just stand aside and let it continue unabated. The question is, how to stop it?”
Chapter 5
With its splendid panoramic terrace on the Grand Canal, the L’Alcova Restaurant at Ca’ Sagredo Hotel was the perfect way to end their day. Across the water was the famed Rialto Market, busy with locals searching for the day’s freshest ingredients to prepare their own homemade suppers for the evening.
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sp; Hana and Dominic had each ordered Punzoné vodka martinis, which they sipped while looking over menus.
“I’m famished, but there are so many fabulous choices here,” Hana enthused. “What looks good to you?”
“That Yellowfin Ahi Tuna seems to have my name on it,” Dominic said. “‘Caught fresh this morning off the waters of Sicily.’ No wonder it’s so expensive.”
“This is the Ca’ Sagredo, Michael. Everything here is pricey. But it’s worth it,” she said assuringly, “and don’t forget, this is on my expense account.”
Dominic felt a twinge of discomfort with Hana’s generosity, but accepted that if this was her comfort zone, he shouldn’t carry any burdens about it.
“I think I’ll have the Ahi as well,” she decided.
After the server took their orders, they both sighed contentedly and looked out over the canal. Gondoliers in their striking red and white striped shirts and beribboned straw hats dug their oars into the placid waters, their sleek, sinuous black gondolas escorting tourists to no place in particular, simply taking in the magnificent palazzos bordering the Grand Canal. The larger vaporetti water busses ferried hordes of tourists from one stop to another, creating large foamy wakes in their path which the expert gondoliers handled with ease.
Before long, the server returned with their meals. Each plate was an artistic masterpiece: thick slices of fresh seared Ahi Tuna, garnished with colorful dabs of garlic-lime aioli and soy ginger lemon dipping sauces, topped with a single red pear tomato and razor thin slices of mandarin orange, and a side of steamed asparagus with butter and garlic.
Both of them gazed at the displays before them, then looked up at each other with satisfied smiles.
“Isn’t this Venice at its best?” Hana asked. Dominic nodded as they dug into their meals.
They ate in silence, savoring each delicious bite, interspersed with sips of a fruity New World Pinot Noir the sommelier had recommended for the spicy, seared tuna.
Glancing at Dominic from time to time, Hana noticed a distant look in his eyes, as if his mind seemed to be elsewhere.
“Everything okay, Michael?”
Dominic lifted his head abruptly, interrupted in his thoughts. He considered her question for a moment, then relented. Looking around to see if others were close by, he leaned forward, speaking in a near whisper.
“Remember Carlo wanting to speak with me privately at St. Mark’s?”
“Of course,” she whispered, nodding. “I’ve become used to having to wander off like a tourist when your business calls.” She smiled impishly, as if it were a private joke.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Normally this wouldn’t be something I’d be permitted to discuss, but this situation tosses out some of the rules.
“Carlo told me he had just heard the confession of a dying man as he gave him last rites. But not just any man. This guy was a Mafia padrino, or godfather, head of the Veneto Camorra clan. And in the confession—which I tell you in the strictest confidence, Hana, only because the confessor permitted Carlo to relay certain information to others—he revealed an astonishing operation involving the theft of Vatican artworks, occurring over centuries! It seems inconceivable, I know, and yet this guy was in mortal fear for his soul, which understandably persuaded him to reveal everything before he dies.”
Setting her knife and fork down, Hana folded her arms on the table and leaned forward.
“Do you mean to tell me that for some hundreds of years the Vatican has been the victim of art theft? That can only mean it’s been an inside job for generations! How is that even possible? I agree with you. It seems inconceivable.”
“I can hardly believe it myself, to be honest,” Dominic said, shaking his head. “You would think someone, at some point in time, would have tried to put a stop to it. Somebody would have noticed the disappearance of such major pieces—though the Don did say it also involved art forgeries taking the place of the originals. That might be possible. There are some very talented forgers out there, fooling even the brightest experts for centuries.
“I’m not sure what to do in this situation, Hana. Where to even begin. Carlo also stressed the dangers of interrupting the Camorra’s business operations, and if we do get involved, that’s not something to take lightly.”
“We?!” Hana blurted.
Michael realized he’d done the same thing to Hana that Carlo had to him, involving him just by revealing the situation. However, he also knew her reaction would be the same as his had been. “Well, you asked what was on my mind, so now that you know, how can you walk away from something so intriguing?” Dominic offered an engaging smile.
“You do know me well, don’t you?”
“But think of it. If what he says is true—and I still have my doubts about his claim of this spanning centuries—there must be a well-tuned mechanism by certain forces within the Vatican who are aware of, if not enabling, what’s going on there! How do we go about finding them and stopping the practice? And if we do, how will the Camorra respond? This could be a pretty dangerous gamble.”
“So this godfather character is based here in Venice, meaning this is likely the center of their operations. And since he’s either dying or dead by now, someone else will take his place. We should do a little snooping first, see what the score is.”
“Listen to you, talking like some goombah in a gangster movie.”
“I just calls ‘em as I sees ‘em,” Hana said, continuing the impression.
“By the way, did you contact your friend who might know something about that Vivaldi manuscript?”
Hana brightened. “Oh, yes, I emailed Livia that photo I took and she replied saying she’d get back to me tonight.” She checked her watch, then opened the Mail app on her phone. Sitting there was an email from Dr. Gallo. Hana tapped on it.
After opening the message, Hana read it aloud. “‘Quite the mystery you have here, Hana, and I’m thrilled you shared this with me. I think I know what this is, but I’d rather explain it in person. May I join you in Venice tomorrow? I can take the train from Rome and be there by 1:00. Know of a good place I can stay?’”
“I think we have her interest,” Hana said, smiling at Dominic. “I’ll get her a room here at the hotel.” She tapped out a reply message confirming she’d be welcome to join them, and that her accommodations will be taken care of at Ca’ Sagredo.
“I wonder why she’s making the trip rather than simply talking about it on the phone?” Dominic asked.
“If I know her, she’ll want to get her hands on the original, to see it for herself, and such opportunities don’t come by very often for most people, wouldn’t you say? Especially one we’re asking a favor of.”
“No, you’re right. I understand the attraction of in-person experiences with ancient artifacts like that. I don’t think Paulo would mind at all, especially if she has some sensible solution for us. And for her to make the trip, I expect she does.
“But back to the Camorra and this art heist operation. I think I’ll call Cardinal Petrini and explain the situation to him. He’s likely to have some opinions on the matter.”
“That would be an understatement. If I were him, I’d go ballistic. I am a little concerned about messing with the Camorra though, Michael. Why don’t you ask him if he can send Karl and Lukas to join us here, just in case?”
Dominic considered this wise, and given the possible consequences if they started asking too many questions, hoped Petrini would agree. The guys would enjoy some time in Venice, too. He’d relied on them in past situations, trusting their guidance and assistance implicitly.
“Good idea. I’ll ask.”
Just then Dominic’s phone vibrated, signaling an incoming text message. He opened it.
“It’s from Paulo. Contessa Vivaldi has invited us to her palazzo tomorrow evening! This has been quite the day, hasn’t it?”
“No kidding! And tomorrow looks just as exciting.
“So, meanwhile, what’s for dessert?”
&nbs
p; Chapter 6
At the end of its four-hour journey from Rome, the glossy apple red Frecciarossa bullet train had just left the Venice Mestre station before crossing the long causeway across the lagoon and on into Venice, with its terminus at the Santa Lucia station on the Grand Canal.
Dr. Livia Gallo collected her suitcase and laptop bag and waited patiently for the low snout of the train’s locomotive to reach its buffer stop so travelers could disembark.
As she descended the steps, she heard her name being called from among the crowd of people on the platform. Looking up, she saw her former student Hana Sinclair and a priest walking toward her.
“My goodness,” she said as they reached her. “Do you always greet old friends with a priest at hand?”
They all laughed as Hana made introductions, and they exchanged hugs and handshakes.
“Michael is at the center of our Baroque mystery here, Livia, since his expertise is in ancient manuscripts. He’s Prefect of the Vatican Secret Archives and a good friend to have.” She glanced at him admiringly, pleased to introduce the two of them.
“I think I should get settled in at the hotel first, then let’s meet up and talk about your manuscript,” Livia said.
“I think you’re going to enjoy this evening, Livia,” said Hana. “We’re meeting with one of Vivaldi’s descendants, Contessa Donatella Vivaldi Durazzo, at her palazzo on the Grand Canal.”
“Oh, my! How on earth did you manage that?”
“The curator at the Marciana Library, Paulo Manetti, arranged the meeting for us. The contessa donated the manuscript to the library, and Paulo said she would be happy to give us more background on it. Michael thought it would be a good idea to get as much information as we can, if we’re to understand why Vivaldi wrote such an odd piece of music.”
“Well,” Livia added, “I think I may have an idea about that, which is why I brought my laptop with me. We can discuss more after I’m settled in.”