by Gary McAvoy
Chapter 22
Everyone had gathered for breakfast the next morning, the main topic of conversation being one that disturbed them all.
“Who would want Livia’s computer?” Dominic asked, already knowing the answer. “Maybe someone who wanted the decoded Vivaldi cipher? Which likely means the Camorra. And doubtless they have ways of getting into hotel rooms undetected. But how did they know Livia had it in the first place?”
“Having it means they must now know we understand what they’re up to,” Marco said, a shadow of concern on his face. “I don’t like this at all. Hana, is it really necessary that you and Livia need to be here?”
Livia was first to speak. “Well, apart from getting my computer back—which doesn’t seem likely now—I think I’ve done all I could to help out with the Vivaldi manuscripts. Besides, good luck to them trying to figure out my password.
“I should head back to Rome anyway.”
“I think that’s wise, Livia,” Hana said. “And thanks for your help. But as for me, there’s no way I’m leaving. I’m seeing this through to the end. Whatever that might look like.”
Marco moved closer to her. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked softly, his eyes searching hers. “It may not be easy going.”
She placed her hand on his arm. “Michael and I have been in far worse situations than this, Marco, but thanks for your concern.”
Noticing the hint of intimacy between the two, Dominic rose from his seat and moved around the room, rubbing his hands together.
“Livia, thanks so much for your help,” he said. “I hope you at least enjoyed yourself for the most part. Sorry about your computer, though.”
“No need for you to apologize, Michael,” Livia said. “But if you do find those miscreants, try to get it back. I’ll be leaving this afternoon, then.”
“Hana,” Dominic asked, “are you up for tracking down this Feudatario with Karl and me? Marco is going to question the police about Carlo, and I figure that’s a good use of our time.” Karl nodded in agreement.
Hana glanced at Marco, then turned back to Dominic. “Sure. Let’s see what we can find.”
It was just past noon when the rusty hull of an orange and white delivery barge eased up to the blue-striped pali da casada canal poles jutting from the water in front of Palazzo Feudatario. Two boatmen stepped off the barge and onto the dock. A long, wheeled utility cart stood nearby.
Two other men on the barge carefully picked up the huge 4-meter by 3-meter wooden container in transit, then all four helped guide the crate onto the utility cart while steadying the boat. It was a well-practiced, time-honored maneuver for delivering goods of all kinds throughout Venice for centuries. Three palazzos up the canal, ten men were performing the same offloading procedure for a massive black grand piano on a larger barge, just business as usual in the floating city.
Its cargo unloaded, the barge pulled away from the dock as four of the palazzo’s guards wheeled the hefty crate into a freight elevator in the building, taking it to the upstairs studio for unpacking.
Don Angelo Gallucci watched as the curator and his helpers removed the painting from its secure packing material and hoisted it onto a prepared wall hanging.
Measuring 3.3-meters by 2-meters, Raphael’s dramatic Madonna of Foligno hung before them.
“Spettacoloso,” the curator marveled, standing back to take in the full picture.
“Spectacular, indeed,” Gallucci admitted. “This is one of our finest acquisitions yet, at least in my lifetime. Take the very best care in its reproduction, Giuseppe. Give me your time estimate once you have it, will you? We may already have a buyer lined up.”
“Si, signore,” said Giuseppe. “We will do our finest work on this masterpiece.”
“Feudatario?” repeated the hotel concierge in response to Dominic’s question. “Si, Padre, Palazzo Feudatario is in the Dorsoduro sestiere, next to Ca' Rezzonico museum. They are known worldwide for their historical art restoration services.
I’ll bet they are, thought Dominic. He thanked the woman, then he, Hana, and Karl went outside to hail a water taxi on the fondomento, the paved walkway alongside the canals. Finding one available, they boarded the craft. Dominic gave the driver instructions: “Palazzo Feudatario in the Dorsoduro, per favore.”
The boat gently pulled away from the dock, its bow turning south under the Rialto Bridge for the ten-minute trip. All three sat on the aft seat, taking in the splendors of Venetian life on the water as the craft made its way down and across the Grand Canal, the sun warming them against the cool breeze crossing the water.
The Venice Carabinieri headquarters near Campo San Zaccaria was quiet. Venice being a fairly safe place, there was little occupying the police’s time as Marco entered the station. Two uniformed officers were sitting at a table playing Scopa, a popular Italian card game, as they waited for their services to be needed.
Even though the officers were a mere three meters away from the reception desk, Marco knocked on the counter a few times to get their attention. A few moments later, one officer cried out “Scopa!” as he gathered all the cards on the table. After winning the hand, he got up to greet the visitor.
“Si, signore, what can I do for you?”
Marco reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket and removed a small leather case with a badge and ID card, which he flashed to the officer.
“I am Commander Picard with the French Sûreté. We understand you retrieved the body of Father Carlo Rinaldo from a canal two days ago. Do you have any determination yet as to the cause of death?”
The officer inspected the credentials, then asked, “And how does this concern the Sûreté, Commander?”
“Father Rinaldo’s parents are important French citizens. We are working with them to help resolve the matter of their son’s death here in Venice.”
“Ah, si, I understand now. The coroner has ruled Don Rinaldo’s death to have been a drowning, plain and simple.”
“But Father Rinaldo was a young man, and an expert swimmer in college. It is very unlikely he drowned. Has an autopsy been performed? Was there any evidence of foul play?”
“The coroner sees many of these deaths in the canali each year, signore. And what makes you think foul play might have been involved?” It was clear the officer showed little interest in pursuing other possibilities, especially with a card game waiting.
Marco took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Okay. But may I have a copy of the coroner’s report, for the parents?”
The officer considered this for a moment, then sighed. He went to a filing cabinet against the back wall, rifled through the folders, found the documents he was looking for, then placed them in the copy machine. A couple minutes later, he handed several stapled pages to Marco, who thanked the officer.
Marco grinned to himself as he exited the building. Amazing what a badge can do, he thought. He hadn’t been with the Sûreté for some time now, but kept the credentials for just such uses. He knew Italy was all about badges and seals and rubber stamps, the whole ‘official protocol’ thing. He also knew that Carlo’s parents were not French, but Italian-American—but those guys wouldn’t know that. Besides, as one of the clergy, official notification for a priest’s death would have gone through the church, so the Carabinieri would not have pursued next of kin beyond that.
The water taxi pulled up to the dock at Palazzo Feudatario. After Hana paid the driver, she, Karl, and Dominic stepped off the boat and headed toward the entrance.
An obstinate guard stood in the way of their entering the building.
“Excuse me,” Dominic said pointedly. “We have business here.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the guard asked gruffly.
“I did not know one was needed. This is where art restoration is done, yes? We’d like to speak with the manager.”
“May I have your names, please?”
“Father Michael Dominic with associates. From the Vatican.”
The gua
rd’s eyes opened wider. “One moment, Padre.” He turned, opened the door, and closed it behind him.
“Not suspicious at all,” Dominic smirked at Karl.
“Well, I can imagine having guards if they’re protecting valuable artworks,” Hana said. “At least that would make sense. And guards aren’t paid to be nice.”
Dominic grumbled something unintelligible, folding his hands in front of him as he waited.
A moment later the door opened, and a dour older woman greeted them. “Please, do come in. We normally do not receive visitors without appointments. I am told you are with the Vatican, Father Dominic?”
“Yes, I am Prefect of the Apostolic Archive. And these are my colleagues, Hana Sinclair and Karl Dengler.”
“I am Valentina Calabrese, manager of Feudatario Restorations. Please, have a seat. How may I help you?”
The four took a seat in the cozy sitting room on the ground floor of the four-storied palazzo. Hana noticed the building had a tall open atrium in the center of it, leading all the way up to a glass ceiling above the fourth floor, making for an airy, light-filled ambience. She also saw that the staircase leading up had its own glass door secured with a digital keypad. And CCTV cameras were placed in strategic positions. Security here was taken seriously.
“I apologize for not having an appointment, signora, but we would like a tour of your palazzo, if it is not inconvenient,” Dominic said pleasantly.
“I am afraid that will not be possible, Padre. We do not give tours to anyone, being a secure facility for the work we do. And, being from the Vatican, you should know Feudatario has been proudly serving the Vatican Museum’s restoration needs for hundreds of years. We have many customers, of course, but the Vatican is our most prized and distinguished client.”
“Actually, I work in the Archives, not the Museum, so I was unaware of our mutual relationship. May we at least see some of your work, while we’re here?”
“Again, I am afraid not. You would need to get permission from His Eminence Cardinal Abruzzo. He is the Patriarch of Venice, as I am sure you know.”
“I see,” Dominic muttered, somewhat confused. Undaunted, he kept pushing. “What if I had permission from the Pope himself?”
The woman was startled by the challenge. Her hands slid down her dark gray skirt as she resettled herself in the chair.
“Even then, I believe approval from Cardinal Abruzzo would still be needed. I suggest you start with him. May I give you his number?”
“That’s alright, I know how to reach him.” He and the others stood up.
“Thank you for your time, signora. I’m sure we will see each other again soon.”
After exchanging goodbyes, they left through the door they came in. The guard stepped aside to let them pass, an unfriendly smirk on his face as he did.
When they were out of earshot, Dominic said, “Next, we pay a visit to the Patriarch of Venice. Want to bet he lives in a grand palazzo himself?”
From his fourth floor office, Angelo Gallucci watched the security camera monitor as Dominic, Karl and Hana left the building.
“What did they want, Valentina?” he asked his manager.
“A tour of the building, signore,” she said. “I told him he needed Cardinal Abruzzo’s permission, but he asked if the Pope’s would suffice! Do you think he could do that?”
“It would not matter, though I give him credit for the bold suggestion. The priest is aware of our activities now, of that I am certain. I must speak with His Eminence. Would you get him on the phone, please?”
Earlier, having said her goodbyes to everyone, Livia placed her luggage next to her on the fondomento, waiting for the water taxi the concierge had called for her.
As the boat slowly glided to the dock, a boatman jumped off the bow and secured the lines.
“Signora Gallo?” he asked.
“Si. To the train station, please.”
Helping her aboard the vessel, the boatman collected her luggage, then signaled the driver they were clear to depart.
The boat pulled out of the dock, heading toward the Santa Lucia station as directed. Then it took a right turn onto the Rio di Roale canal, heading in the opposite direction of the train station.
“Excuse me,” Livia said, pointing west to the driver. “You took a wrong turn. The station is that way.”
“We are taking a shortcut, signora. The traffic is too heavy on the Grand Canal. This is a back way.”
While she was talking, she didn’t notice the other man coming up behind her, a strip of duct tape in his hands. Reaching quickly around her face, he slapped the tape over her mouth, then pulled her below into the cabin as she tried to scream.
Chapter 23
Sister Lorraine, the cook and housekeeper for the Patriarch of Venice, was in the kitchen preparing a steaming tureen of Venetian Fish Soup for Cardinal Abruzzo’s lunch when the telephone rang.
Answering it, she listened for a moment, then set the phone down.
“Your Eminence,” she called to him in the dining room, “it is Signor Gallucci. Shall I tell him you are taking pranzo and will call him back?”
“No, sister, I will take it in my office, grazie.”
The portly man lifted himself from the dining table with some effort, his Prada slippers softly padding the way to his office in Palazzo San Silvestro. Once there, he sat down and picked up the phone.
“Si, Angelo, what is it?” he asked with a long sigh.
“Father Dominic came to the studio just now, Eminence, asking for a tour. He brought the reporter woman with him. Of course, Valentina told them they needed your permission, but I’m wondering how long we can put him off. He said he might ask the Pope for access.”
The cardinal considered for a moment. “Father Dominic does have close access to His Holiness, but I doubt he would take the pontiff’s time for such a ridiculous request. It is my decision alone, and since you store such pieces of value, we must make him understand that we give no tours to anyone. The Vatican is not our only client.”
“I think there is a larger issue at stake here, Salvatore,” Gallucci said quietly. “I do not think he wants a tour at all. His interest in Contessa Vivaldi’s Giulia Lama painting is my concern. The Vatican Museum’s own curator, Marcello Sabatini, was at the contessa’s party too, inspecting the painting when Renzo entered the room. What if he returns to Rome and discovers the switch? It could be the first thread that unravels our entire operation.”
“Let me deal with these issues, Angelo. My family has been doing this for a long time now and we have yet to face any major obstacles. I would advise you not to worry. If things get out of hand, you have ways of dealing with it. And you don’t need my permission for that. Now I must go. My lunch is waiting.”
Before he had Sister Lorraine prepare his soup, Cardinal Abruzzo had one more call to make, to Bishop Gustavo Torricelli in Rome, head of art conservation at the Vatican.
“Gustavo, this is Salvatore in Venezia. Yes, I am fine, grazie. My reason for calling is… well, we may have a potential problem with your Marcello Sabatini. He was here this week inspecting one of our special project pieces. Would you monitor him for me? Let me know if he poses issues about our business together.”
Marcello Sabatini sat on the sofa in his Vatican Museum office, nervously caressing a string of rosary beads in his hands as he prayed on what to do next. Should he tell someone about his discovery? Would his career be over if he did—or didn’t? How long has this been going on?
How long has this been going on? That’s it… but where to start?
Moving to his desk, he turned on the computer. First, he did a database check of Giulia Lama’s painting, reviewing its Condition Report and all recorded history on it since its arrival in the Vatican.
The database showed the Vatican Museum had originally purchased the piece in 1754 from the Venetian poet and noblewoman Caterina Dolfin, whose father had squandered the family fortune such that she had to sell off her personal collect
ion to survive. It showed little activity since then, apart from the occasional special exhibition and, of course, its periodic need for restoration.
Restoration. When and where did we send this for restoration?
Regardless of how well a particular painting is cared for—and Vatican works of art are cared for very well—it will still suffer from the effects of natural aging and accumulating dirt and airborne pollutants. The restoration process, always handled by trained experts, repairs such paintings, including those damaged by smoke, insects, paint loss, weakened canvases, and even minor tears.
The records showed specialists performed the last restoration on Crucifixion with Apostles in 1967. In Venice. At Palazzo Feudatario.
Sabatini knew of Feudatario’s unimpeachable reputation, and their collaboration with the Vatican for centuries, so surely there could be no problem there. Perhaps it was switched during transit? But that wouldn’t give forgers enough time to do anything like the quality reproduction he had seen.
No, Sabatini thought, the only place a forgery could occur over time would be during restoration. He must look more closely into the work at Feudatario.
The water taxi pulled up at its dock near the Rialto Bridge. Dominic and Hana stepped off and walked the short distance to the old Church of San Silvestro, through the throng of tourists and Carnivale celebrants, until they reached the Patriarch’s palazzo.
Responding to the doorbell, Sister Lorraine opened the door.
“Buona sera, sister,” Dominic said, smiling. “Father Dominic and Hana Sinclair to see Cardinal Abruzzo.”
“I will see if he is taking visitors, Padre. Would you be so kind as to wait here for a moment?”
The door closed, leaving Hana and Dominic standing in the sunshine on the Campo San Silvestro. Young boys rode their skateboards around the concrete square as a foursome of older couples sat under the shade of a giant nettle tree, taking in the sights of the busy Rialto.