The Caravaggio Conspiracy (22 page)

O’Malley was genuinely surprised. ‘No, I hadn’t heard that.’

‘It was in 1933. I was at the seminary in Belluno. My bishop, Monsignor Giosuè Cattarossi, who had confirmed me fourteen years before and knew me well, didn’t think I was suitable material.’

‘He must have had a premonition that your life would take a different course.’

‘No doubt. Now tell me, when does the next issue of
La Civiltà Cattolica
come out?’

The reference was to the Jesuits’ principle newspaper, edited each week in Rome. ‘Next Thursday, I believe,’ O’Malley replied.

‘Would there be time, do you think, to include an article by me on this subject?’

‘On the Patriarchate? Of course, Holiness. I have no influence myself. The Society has always considered the paper a prerogative of the Italian membership. But I cannot imagine that they …’

‘Excellent. Very good. Perhaps you could ask the editor to contact me.’

‘Of course.’ 

It seemed a natural end to the conversation and, after a short pause, O’Malley rose to leave. As he did so, the Pope spoke again, appearing, the Irishman thought, a little hesitant.

‘One more thing, before you go. Have you met Bishop Bosani?’

‘From the Secretariat for Non-Christians? No, Holiness, I have not yet had the pleasure.’

‘Ha! Yes. “Pleasure” is one way of putting it. He is very … energetic. Full of ideas. Not, though, the easiest man to get along with. He does not approve, I think, of restoring the Patriarchate. I get the feeling that he is pursuing his own agenda, which he prefers not to confide to me. So be it. What matters is that I am looking for a personal adviser on relations with the Muslim world – a cross between a representative and a confidant. And I should like to know, Father O’Malley, if would you be prepared to accept the role? The choice is between you and Bosani, who, it must be said, has his advocates within the Curia. He knows how the system works and which levers can be pulled with what results. But I have to say, at this stage, I favour you.’

O’Malley drew back, genuinely moved. ‘You do me great honour, Your Holiness, but I … I beg you to reconsider …’

This show of reluctance made the Pope giggle. It was a musical, almost
child-like
sound. ‘No, no, my son. Diffidence did not work for me and it will not work for you either. Put simply, it would be a great weight off my mind if you were to stand next to me on what I am sure will become one of the great issues in the years ahead. You would have to be promoted, of course. A Monsignor at the very least.’

‘How is that possible? I am a Jesuit …’

‘… And thus bound by your oath of allegiance to me.’

To this there was no answer. The new Pope may have been straight as a die, but he was also slippery as an eel. As a courtesy, he told O’Malley, he would raise the issue of his appointment as a senior adviser with the cardinal secretary for Non-Christians. ‘I wish to restore the Patriarchate of Constantinople as quickly as possible. And I intend it to be residential, with proper diocesan authority. A true bridge into the Islamic world – just as the new mosque here in Rome connects Muslims to the Vatican. To achieve this, we have to deal with Turkish and Muslim sensitivities, and I believe that you are the perfect man for the job. Get back to me as quickly as you can. Do I make myself clear?’

O’Malley nodded. He said he would speak with the editor of
La Civiltà Cattolica
, as well as to the head of the Irish College and the Superior General of the Jesuits, and report back in person at the end of the week.

Three days later, it made no difference. The Pope was dead.

Father Visco was disturbed when he read the report from Monsignor Asproni, prefect of the Secret Archive, indicating a wider police inquiry into the missing papers than he had expected – or wanted. He was puzzled. Scajola and Drago, young and devout, from good Catholic families, were personally selected for their loyalty to the Camerlengo, as well as their discretion. He telephoned both men on their personal mobiles to find out what was going on and was assured that neither raised the issue of the theft with anyone else.

‘If I were you,’ Scajola said, ‘I would find out who Dempsey has been talking to – or maybe his uncle.’

‘Agreed. But I need you to discover what information concerning this matter has reached your superiors. Drago should do the same.’

‘Understood.’

Minutes afterwards, Visco knocked on the door of Bosani’s office and walked in, taking with him his internal Vatican post, a small pot of espresso and a Meissen cup and saucer – all on a silver tray.

‘I hope I am not interrupting, Eminence,’ he said.

The Camerlengo looked up. ‘Cesare! Not at all. Come in, come in. How are you? I must say, I feel confident today. Things are moving in our direction.’ He paused, eyeing the priest up and down. ‘But I know you and I recognize that hangdog expression. I hope you are not the bearer of bad tidings.’

‘Not at all, Eminence,’ the secretary replied briskly. There was no point in spoiling the cardinal’s mood. ‘Everything is in hand.’

The older man looked doubtful. ‘So what do you have for me – apart from that coffee, I mean?’

‘Oh … yes. My apologies.’ He stepped forward and placed the tray on the cardinal’s desk.

Bosani poured a half-cup of espresso and raised it to his lips, breathing in the rich aroma. ‘Do you know, Cesare, one day – probably long after we are gone – Italians will corner the market in coffee throughout the caliphate.’

‘It would make up for the decline in the wine market, I suppose.’

‘Indeed. Pope Clement VIII had the right idea. Did you know that he came under pressure to ban it as the “bitter invention of Satan” simply because of its popularity among Muslims? His Holiness – the man, we must not forget, who promoted my illustrious predecessor, Battista – was not to be cheated. Coffee was so good, he ruled, that he would cheat the Devil by baptizing it.’

‘I was unaware of that.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me, Cesare. For you are all business. That is your strength. So what do you have for me today? Have we heard from Delacroix and Salgado?’

‘Their letters are at the top of your pile. They were hand-delivered five minutes ago.’

‘Excellent. So there’s nothing further to report?’

‘Nothing that should concern you.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. But remember, if that young man Dempsey continues to give us trouble, you should not hesitate to call on Franco.’

‘I’m hoping it won’t come to that.’

‘So are we all. The Prophet – peace be upon Him – offered mercy to all, far and near, friend and enemy. But he also knew when to strike in defence of the faith. You understand me?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘That is good. Now leave me to read the letters from Their Eminences.’

As soon as his secretary left, clicking the door behind him, Bosani picked up a monogrammed paper knife from the paraphenalia arranged in front of him and slit open the letters from the French and Spanish cardinals. There were times, he had to confess, when he almost didn’t want the Church to fall. His life here in Rome was almost … perfect. But God’s will be done. He prised out the first letter – on scented paper, he noted – and began to read.

He had not been wrong about the two prelates. Though mindful of the strength of the Muslim lobby in their countries, they could see the benefits accruing from a policy that pitted the Catholic Church against the increasing arrogance of Islam. More to the point, perhaps, they were glad to note that, in the event of the arrival on the Throne of Peter of Bosani’s candidate, places would be found for them in the uppermost reaches of the Curia. All priests divided into those who could devote themselves to pastoral care and those who were, in essence, managers. In Bosani’s long experience, managers were increasingly in the majority. It was hard to care deeply, day after day, about a flock most of whom no longer even believed in the Christian story. Secularism now had such a grip across Europe that priests, instead of being central to their communities, were isolated and often lonely. The French and Spanish cardinals may have risen to the top of their national
hierarchies
, but they, too, had to face up to the reality of their irrelevance in the
twenty-first
century.

It would be different when the caliphate was restored. There would be respect for religion, which would once again be at the heart of society.

Bosani’s one regret – though he did not expect it to to affect him personally – was the lack in Islam of a recognized priesthood, with an upwardly mobile power. To that extent, he had to admit, he was a Vatican man through and through. But then again, who knew how things would evolve in the future. Perhaps when the Vatican, twenty years from now, became the centre of European Islam and St Peter’s was transformed into the new Hagia Sophia, the values of sound
management
and good organization would enter into the soul of Islam.

In the meantime, Delacroix and Salgado were content. He smiled and once more congratulated himself on his ability to see right into the hearts of his colleagues. Ten minutes later, he pressed the large button on his telephone console. Visco shimmered in like a ghost. This time he carried with him a small basin of hot water. A simple white towel hung from his left arm.

‘Good news,’ the Camerlengo announced. ‘Our friends Delacroix and Salgado are safely on board. They will vote for our man and, as the primates of France and Spain, will surely bring most, if not all, of their fellow countrymen with them.’

‘Allah be praised!’

‘Precisely.’ Bosani held his hands out in front of him, like a surgeon about to scrub up. Visco placed the basin of water on the desk and waited with the towel while the cardinal washed his face and hands. Next, he removed his shoes and socks and washed his feet. As soon as he was done, the prince of the Church rose from his chair. Visco, himself barefoot, had already fetched the prayer mats and rolled them out on the floor, facing Mecca.

‘Is the door locked?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then let us remember our God and seek His guidance.’ 

It was the middle of the afternoon when Visco heard back from Sergeant Drago. In order to further his inquiries, he had, he said, managed to place a ‘bug’ in Dempsey’s telephone at the apartment on the Via della Penitenza.

‘Doesn’t he used a mobile?’

‘Local calls are free. It makes sense when he’s at home.’

‘And ..?’

‘And he left a message this afternoon on the voicemail of a young woman.’

‘Which young woman?’

‘Well, Father, that’s the strangest part. We traced the number and it turned out she was Maya Studer, the daughter of Colonel Otto Studer, commandant of the Swiss Guard.’

‘
Merda!
’

‘What was that, Father?’

‘Nothing. You are sure of this?’

‘Quite certain.’

‘And what was the message?’

‘It was to tell her to join him and his uncle – the Father General – tonight at the Caffè Giolitti.’

‘The Giolitti? What time?’

‘Eight o’clock.’

‘Was that all?’

‘I’m afraid so. Like you say, Father, most people these days use their mobiles. And listening in to those is … what is it the Americans say? … above my pay grade.’

‘Very well. But keep me informed.’

‘Of course, Father.’

Visco briefly debated with himself whether or not to tell Bosani about this latest melancholy discovery. He would have to, he decided. It was unavoidable. But not yet. Not until he had something to report. Instead, he called Franco on the cheap, pre-paid mobile he used for the purpose – a different one each time.

The assassin took the call in his exclusive downtown gym, where he had been working out for most of the afternoon. Later, after he had showered and changed, he planned to head out to a club in Trastevere where two of his younger associates and a group of well-brought-up young girls – one of them was the daughter of a cabinet minister – would be waiting.

‘
Pronto
!’

‘His Eminence begs a favour.’

‘I am at your service.’

‘The usual terms.’ 

‘Of course.’

Visco then told him about Dempsey and O’Malley and the danger they posed to the election of a new anti-Islamic, pro-Italian Pope.

‘We not not require you at this stage to deal finally with Dempsey. But there is no doubt that he is a thorn in our flesh. I need to know what he knows and what insights he may have into the nature of our campaign.’

Franco thought about this. ‘What if I find that they have discovered your plans and intend to frustrate them? Time, after all, is pressing.’

‘In that event, we leave the final decision to you. But in respect of Dempsey only. Do not approach O’Malley.’

‘Understood.’

‘You will be remembered in our prayers, my son.’

‘And in my bank account.’

‘As you say.’

‘Then please tell His Eminence that I am on the case.’

‘And may God go with you.’

A storm – rare this early in the season – was breaking over Rome. Dempsey had set out on foot to meet Maya and his uncle, expecting another balmy summer’s evening, and was wearing only light cotton trousers, open-toed sandals and a t-shirt. But dark clouds were already racing in from the northwest as he closed his apartment door, and by the time he reached the Ponte Mazzini the first
drum-rolls
of thunder had begun to reverberate across the roofs and towers, followed by prolonged and heavy rain.
Like bloody Ireland
, he thought, as he hurried along, keeping to the inside edges of the pavements, dodging in and out of colonnades.

He didn’t notice that he was being followed, at a discreet distance, by a stocky, thickset man dressed in a light-blue suit that, though crumpled and marked by sweat, looked as if it had cost its owner a small fortune. Franco Luchesse had been as good as his word. He had arrived at Dempsey’s apartment less than a minute before the Irishman set out for wherever he was going. The ex-Special Forces sergeant hadn’t been sure how things would proceed. If the Irishman had been home, he would have buzzed through on the entry phone, then, once the door was opened, shouldered his way in and ‘persuaded’ him to tell him everything that he knew – a sequence of events that could only have one outcome: the subject’s death. He would have enjoyed that. Alternatively, had the apartment been empty, he would have made himself a sandwich, maybe had a glass of wine, and waited. As it was, Dempsey had come bounding up the steps just as he was checking to see there was nobody about. This had left him with no other option than to follow him – something he had become surprisingly good at over the years.

Dempsey was now scurrying along the Via del Pellegrino, still dodging the rain. O’Malley hadn’t let him down. He had called Maya and explained to her that his nephew had been cleared by the police of the theft of Vatican documents. Afterwards, with her permission, he had spoken to her father and assured him that neither he nor Liam were engaged in activities in any way contrary to the interest of the College of Cardinals, still less the Catholic Church. Studer had rather grumpily accepted what he was told. He was, after all, a good Catholic and O’Malley was, after all, the Superior General of the Jesuits. As a result, Liam and Maya had been reconciled, which pleased everybody, except, possibly, Studer. A gathering at the Giolitti, originally intended to affect this reconciliation, was thus redefined. Now it would be a council of war.

By the time Dempsey reached the Pantheon, there was hardly anyone in the square. Everybody had crowded inside the cafés and bars, avoiding the
unexpected
downpour that danced off the cobbles and poured in sheets off the awnings. Running his fingers through his hair and brushing off his neck and shoulders, he walked on up the narrow Via Maddalena and turned right into the Via degli Uffici del Vicaro. The Giolitti, a favourite meeting place for Romans for more than a hundred years, was just a few metres along on the right-hand side.

He went in, past the ice-cream counter and turned left into the main
salone
, hung with crystal chandeliers.

‘Over here, Liam!’

He looked down the rows of tables. Uncle Declan had secured one of the favoured window seats out by the far wall, overlooking the street. Perhaps they had recognized him as the ‘Black Pope’. Being a Jesuit, even in these hard, secular times, was no disadvantage in Rome. Maya was seated next to him. She looked stunning.

He made his way through the throng of customers, dodging the waiters in their white jackets. ‘What sort of weather do you call this?’ he asked of no one in particular.

‘A good night for the ducks,’ his uncle said. ‘Sit down. We saved you a seat.’

Maya stood up and kissed him lightly on both cheeks – a habit that still entranced him. She was dressed in a short denim skirt and a white, patterned t-shirt with the legend ‘Spend an Eternity in Rome’ emblazoned in English across her chest.

‘You’ve already met my uncle, then,’ he said, stating the obvious.

‘Yes,’ she said, grinning. ‘I looked around and I saw this distinguished man dressed from head to foot in black, and I just took a chance.’

‘Maya’s been telling me all about you,’ his uncle said. 

‘Oh yes.’

At this point, a young waiter approached, and Dempsey ordered a glass of Frascati.

‘Just bring the bottle,’ his uncle countered.

None of them noticed a stocky, hard-faced man with blonde hair who’d come in out of the rain a couple of minutes after Liam and occupied a nearby table, ordering a double espresso while seemingly engrossed in his copy of
L’Osservatore Romano
.