by Gary McAvoy
Ah, but those side jobs. They made more money for him than being a cop ever could. And with ready access to the right materials he needed, he could still employ the skills he’d trained for years to perfect. Plus, he had gained a respectable reputation in discreet circles, not only as an accomplished freelancer of those skills, but owing to his superior sniper marksmanship training, an excellent assassin.
Perez had little time to prepare for Gustavo Torricelli’s job. He didn’t get off work until 5 a.m. But as long as he had the package prepared, he should be able to get it in place before Signor Sabatini left for work the next morning.
He already had a passable selection of standard plumbing pipes stored in his garage and picked out a small one that would suffice for the job.
Once he arrived at the factory, with everyone gone home for the night, he began his work. First, he turned off the CCTV cameras for the areas he needed access to.
Since security guards had complete access to the entire facility, the large round keyring on his belt opened every door in the building, including the chemical storage unit. All he required was a little nitroglycerin, a good amount of ammonium nitrate and a tiny bit of collodion cotton, plus a few alligator clips. All easy acquisitions which took only minutes to locate.
Using the workbench in the back shadows of the factory floor, he carefully prepared the materials, then tightly packed the pipe, attaching an electrical blasting cap to one end while securing both ends with duct tape. As he worked, he played out the scenario in his mind: when the car key is turned completing the ignition system, the bomb would explode.
With the pipe completed, he exited the building around midnight, hid the package under the front seat of his truck, then returned to his post, turning the CCTV system back on. The entire process only took an hour.
When his replacement arrived just before 5 a.m., Perez clocked out, then made his way to Signor Sabatini’s home in the Trastevere neighborhood just south of the Vatican. It was still dark outside, but the sun would rise any minute now. He had to act fast.
Bishop Torricelli’s secure email indicated Sabatini drove a light blue Fiat Panda, a boxy little car and one very easy to break into. Sabatini would be carrying the evidence that needed to be destroyed with him when he left in the morning. Since the wide alleys to apartments on the Via Benedetta were too narrow for parking cars, the Panda was parked at the end of the quiet lane next to a Fiat Cinquecento on the passenger side.
Parking his truck behind the Panda, Perez checked for lights on in nearby apartments. Nearly all of them were still dark.
Sliding a Slim Jim lock access tool down the driver’s side window panel, the door lock popped open. Perez got in, squeezed himself down onto the floor, and placed the pipe in the hollow cavity behind the dashboard. He then attached the alligator clips to points along the electrical ignition cables.
His work here was done.
Chapter 27
Marcello Sabatini helped his wife attend to the children’s breakfast, and with his package of evidence for Cardinal Petrini in hand, kissed his wife goodbye and walked the kids down to the school bus stop near where his car was parked.
Glancing at the Panda, it frustrated him to find it tightly wedged between two other Fiats, both Cinquecento models. There was no way he could squeeze inside himself, so he decided it being such a nice day anyway, the 20-minute walk up the Via della Lungara to the Vatican would do him good.
A little later that morning, Dino and Gino Rizzo, 17-year-old twin brothers well known to the Carabinieri for their string of shared misdemeanors, had taken the bus from their ramshackle flat in Tor Bella Monaca, Rome’s seediest district east of the city, to the working class neighborhood of Trastevere, where their search for Fiat Pandas was sure to pay off.
With twelve cars stolen every hour of every day in Italy, the Panda was the most popular for thieves to target. Easy to break into and hot-wire, the cars were promptly taken to chop shops and stripped down for their parts. It was a lucrative business for the Camorra, and the Rizzo brothers—new initiates in the organization—had their scheme worked out to an easy science. This was their way of moving up; in time, they would both become ‘made men.’
The bus stopped at the end of Via Benedetto, a quiet residential street with little business traffic, where the boys got off and began walking, searching for opportunity.
They hadn’t been off the bus for even five minutes when Dino pointed to their quarry: a light blue Panda sitting next to a Fiat 500 closely parked on the passenger side. Using a Slim Jim blade, Gino popped open the door lock. They both jumped into the front seats from the driver’s side.
Gino pulled out a flathead screwdriver from his back pocket, jammed it into the ignition, and pounded on it with the palm of his hand. That’s all it took. Now just a turn of the screwdriver, like a key, and they would be off.
Grinning, the Rizzo brothers turned to each other and high-fived their success. Then Gino twisted the screwdriver.
Giuseppe Franco, the most talented painter and lead forger at Palazzo Feudatario, started with the largest and oldest canvas they had in stock from a vast collection of such materials the studio had acquired and stored over the past three hundred years.
Trimming the canvas to a size similar to the Raphael painting, Giuseppe then affixed it to antique stretcher bars taken from other old paintings, using small iron nails appropriate for the Baroque period. Once mounted to his satisfaction, it was time to prepare the canvas.
The first step was to further age it. He prepared a mixture of diluted bleach, brushing it over the entire back of the plain-woven cotton and the wooden stretchers. Once that had dried, he mixed a compound of brown umber paint diluted with thinner, along with a little rainwater from which old cigarette butts had been soaked in for days, rubbing that mixture onto the back of the canvas to produce a more rustic appearance.
Reversing the canvas, he first brushed it with several thin layers of a white zinc dioxide undercoating as a substrate for the top layers yet to come.
Then he began the actual work. Using time-honored oil pigments—and creating those he needed using common chemicals and other natural elements available in the 18th century—Giuseppe started the long process of applying his keen eye and fine hand to replicating Raphael’s Madonna of Foligno which hung next to him on the wall.
Having used these same processes for decades, Giuseppe Franco was considered a master among masters for the few who knew his genuine talents. Not only was he paid well for his efforts, but he truly loved his work, believing he was channeling the original artists in recreating their beloved masterpieces.
That each of his own paintings would go on to others who could not possibly appreciate them as much as he did saddened him. But this was, after all, his life’s work. Maybe someday he would find the time to make one for himself, if Don Gallucci would allow it.
Chapter 28
As he sat in the Vatican Secretary of State’s office waiting for Cardinal Petrini to finish his phone call, Marcello Sabatini leafed through the documents in the folder on his lap, rehearsing how he would explain the technology in lay terms.
His own phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a call from his wife, he noted. He let it go to voicemail. He would call her back later.
Petrini ended his call and hung up the phone. “So, Signor Sabatini, what news do you bring on our duplicate painting problem?”
“Your Eminence, I am afraid the matter is far worse than we had thought. While I was in Venice, I examined Contessa Vivaldi’s Crucifixion with Apostles closely, even taking a tiny sample of the pigment for analysis here in our lab. What I discovered proved to be most shocking—the contessa’s painting is authentic, but the one in our inventory is an excellent forgery. Too good. Here are the analyses to prove it.” He opened the folder and removed the documents he had prepared, laying them out in front of the cardinal.
He explained to Petrini the technical components of his forensic investigation, which indisputab
ly proved his conclusion.
“But I have worse news, Eminence. I went back through our records for the past ten years and discovered that at least thirty-four paintings had been sent to Feudatario for restoration and returned to us. Given the extensive time involved, I tested only six of those—and all proved to be forgeries as well, in addition to the Giulia Lama.
“We must presume, then, that Feudatario Restorations in Venice is engaged in the business of expertly creating duplicates of our paintings, and sending forgeries back to us here in Rome. I understand that is a strong accusation, yes. But this would also imply, of course, that someone in the Vatican is involved in facilitating the operation. It sickens me to have discovered this, Eminence. What do you suggest we do now?”
By the time Sabatini had finished, Petrini was shaking with a quiet fury. He stood up and walked around his office.
“This is outrageous!” he shouted. “How dare these people betray the Church in such an obscene operation.”
The door opened and Father Bannon, Petrini’s secretary, looked in.
“Is everything alright, Eminence?” he asked.
“No, Nick, it’s not. Cancel my meetings for the day. I’ll explain later.” He waved the man out.
As Petrini continued to walk and think, Sabatini’s phone vibrated again, this time with a text message from his wife. He glanced at it.
Marcello! They have bombed our car, with two men inside it! The Carabinieri are here and want to see you. You must come home now!
Sabatini turned pale. His hands began shaking as he stood up unsteadily.
“Eminence, I… my… my car has just been bombed!”
Earlier that morning, after running a couple loops around Piazza San Marco, Dominic took off west from the gothic Doge’s Palace along the Riva del Schiavoni for two kilometers. Though many tourists were already out walking along the water, or having espressos and biscotti at kiosks on the fondomento, the path was wide enough to accommodate most any size crowd along with devoted runners. And there were many out this sunny morning.
Passing the Victor Emmanuel II Monument, the Church of the Pietà, and the Naval History Museum, Dominic entered the grounds of the Giardini della Biennale public gardens. After another kilometer, he passed into the quiet Sant’Elena neighborhood, with its pleasant paths lined with topiary yews and cypress trees. As he jogged through cobblestone back alleys and over quaint arched bridges crossing the narrow canals, his thoughts turned to sorting out all the facts he knew.
So… The Camorra’s Don Gallucci runs Operation Scambio from Palazzo Feudatario, which is owned by Cardinal Abruzzo. Renzo Farelli owns an art gallery, and was involved with Carlo’s death. He’s probably also in league with Gallucci and the Camorra acting as a front for selling forgeries since he sold the original stolen Lama painting to the Contessa. And Vivaldi’s message said there were two Vatican conspirators and a rogue cardinal. Of course, that was a couple centuries ago. But we know Operation Scambio is still in operation, so it must still involve at least one cardinal. Abruzzo? How could it not be! Feudatario is his family’s business and has been for decades. But who would the two conspirators be in Rome? That accusation from Vivaldi was so long ago, and much has probably changed. Everything could be a lot bigger now with even more people involved than in Vivaldi’s time.
By the time he approached Ca’ Sagredo hotel, his t-shirt was clinging to his chest and his hair was stringy with sweat. The workout felt great, but his mind was still swirling with details he couldn’t piece together.
As he headed toward the hotel’s entrance, two beautiful women dressed in chic spring dresses and wearing fashionable sunglasses eyed him admiringly; one of them called out “Che bella figura!” as they both applauded his fit build and handsome features.
Suddenly thrust out of his own thoughts, Dominic laughed, blushed, then turned and applauded them in return as he walked backward a few steps. Italian culture can be refreshingly straightforward like that, without the pretense of false modesty. Much like how Livia and Hana had openly complimented him … and in his mind’s eye he recalled that occasion and the look right after that which had passed between Hana and Marco. What’s going on there?
After showering, Dominic checked his email before meeting with Hana and the others to plan their next steps.
Finding a message from Marcello Sabatini, he opened it. As he read it, a tingling sensation made its way up his spine. This was bigger than I’d imagined! he thought. It was time to call Cardinal Petrini. He dialed his direct line at the Vatican.
“Michael, I was just about to call you. Have you heard what’s happened?”
“Yes. I just read Marcello’s email about the forgeries, Eminence, and I have much to tell you as well.”
“No, not that. Marcello had a bomb placed in his car this morning, likely by the Camorra, the Carabinieri told him. Marcello was here talking with me when it happened. Two young men were in the car when it exploded, both of them known to the police as small-time Camorra operatives involved in a car theft ring. Either they were stealing the car or setting the bomb. Either way, clearly the bomb was meant for Marcello.
“Michael, both he and I believe this is related to the forged paintings operation coming out of Feudatario. Since you haven’t spoken with Marcello yet, here’s what we know….”
Petrini gave Dominic all the facts Sabatini had given him, including the forgeries coming back to the Vatican, with the originals likely being sold discreetly by galleries run by the Camorra in Venice and possibly elsewhere.
“Mostly these are well-known paintings,” Petrini added, “so someone must carefully vet the buyers, knowing they are purchasing an original work that belonged to respected institutions. Which means they would never be able to display them, else they would be recognized and exposed. But as we know, many private art collectors will do anything to gratify their most potent desires.”
“Well, that doesn’t account for the contessa, though,” Dominic said. “She certainly believes her acquisition of the Giulia Lama was legitimate, otherwise she wouldn’t have hung it in such a conspicuous place and so proudly explained its background.”
“Perhaps that’s just an oversight on her part, or she did not know the true provenance of what she was acquiring,” Petrini added. “In any event, I’m surprised the Camorra hadn’t noticed it and taken some kind of action. Marcello said the contessa’s Carnivale party looked to have many of their people in attendance. Wouldn’t they be more concerned? In fact, that painting is part of what started all this!”
Dominic thought back to something Sabatini had told him. “As I understood it, that painting had been in the Vatican’s storage unit for many years, since the Lama wasn’t sufficiently prominent for exhibition. Maybe they also use the works of lesser known artists to sell to buyers unaware of the work’s potential origins. Taking the gallery’s word for legitimate provenance.”
The magnitude of the problem brought a pause to their conversation.
Then the cardinal noted, “Marcello left to attend to this bombing incident, but he said his next move would be to see what paintings are scheduled for restoration at Feudatario, and elsewhere, since we can’t be fully certain other restorers aren’t in on this as well.”
At that point Dominic reviewed with Petrini their activities in Venice, including discovery of the Vivaldi ciphers, the probable murder of Father Rinaldo, Dr. Gallo’s laptop being stolen, the historical outlines of Operation Scambio, and their unproductive meeting with Cardinal Abruzzo.
“Abruzzo,” Petrini growled. “He’s a piece of work, arrogant and self-seeking. Hardly a virtuous man of the cloth, in my opinion. If it weren’t because he’s the Patriarch of Venice, and not simply another cardinal, it would be easier for the Holy Father to just move him elsewhere. But there is a long tradition in the Venetian Patriarchy that even I may not be able to impose on.”
“In the meantime, Eminence, what are you going to do internally there? How to find out who is coordinating
this activity in the Vatican?”
“I think once Marcello has done a bit more research, we may have more to work with in that regard. I’m putting a security man on him immediately. He’s already in fear for his life. But now that he’s told you and me, that danger may subside. I imagine he was only a threat to them until he could share what he knew. They will already know they failed to stop him from seeing me today. I’ll let you know what he comes up with.
“Meanwhile, you and the others take good care there, Michael. I want nothing to happen to you. Get back here as soon as you can.”
Chapter 29
Cardinal Abruzzo trembled with rage as he stood looking around the room. Angelo Gallucci, Renzo Farelli, Giuseppe Franco, and Valentina Calabrese all sat stiffly in the Patriarch’s library in Palazzo San Silvestro, waiting for Feudatario’s owner to unleash his wrath.
“Not only have we shown our hand without resolving the situation, in a terrible twist of fate we lost two loyal boys in that now senseless explosion. And Sabatini is still alive! As a result, Bishop Torricelli tells me that Petrini is now aware of Operation Scambio! Heads will roll in the Vatican soon, possibly Torricelli’s first, a tragic loss to us if he’s discovered. And it’s only a matter of time before everything my family has worked for generations to build comes tumbling down upon us all. This is unacceptable!
“Angelo, I want your team to take care of these people nosing around Venice. This Father Dominic and his friends can only cause more trouble for us. I suggest whatever you do, it’s discreet and permanent. Make sure their bodies are taken out into the Veneto Lagoons beyond Burano and weighted down in the waters there. Or whatever it is you people do for such things. ‘Concrete boots’ I believe our friends in Sicily call them.”