Authors: Adrian D'Hage
CHAPTER FIVE
Roma
T
he Swiss guard on Saint Anne’s Gate snapped to attention and saluted as the Secretary of State’s black Volvo slipped quietly out of the Vatican. Petroni, dressed in civilian clothes and seated in the back, waved dismissively. Rome had come to life and the traffic was heavy as the car headed into the tunnel under the Tiber and wound its way along the Lungotevere Tor di Nona on the east bank. Over on the west bank the grisly Castel Sant’Angelo maintained a silent vigil over the river, the floodlights playing eerily on the battlements that for centuries had protected her archers and ancient catapults. Within the castle’s grim walls, countless atrocities had been committed in the name of Christ – Pope John X had been smothered, Benedict VI had been strangled and John XIV poisoned. Tonight the Castel Sant’Angelo looked no less forbidding, but if there was a parallel between earlier atrocities and the ones Cardinal Petroni was now contemplating, it was a thought that did not occur to the urbane Secretary of State.
The car drove on towards the ancient part of the city. Towards the Colosseum that for nearly two thousand years had stood testament to the gory history of Rome. Past the Roman Forum and the ruins of the triumphal arches and the temples to the gods where at the height of the Roman Empire the marble pavements and steps were as busy as any modern city. Past the Circus Maximus that was now a public park. And finally, up the hill to an old Roman house on the Piazza del Tempio di Diana. Apuleius, Petroni’s choice of restaurant, had been deliberate. The food and wine were excellent, but more importantly it was small and relatively out of the way. Once home to an influential first-century Roman family, its décor had not changed much in the intervening millennia. Red marble pillars supported the low roof and the remains of marble tablets decorated the frescoed walls. The ancient fireplace was intact and Roman pottery had been tastefully added to the small alcoves in the two living rooms in which guests could now choose to sit.
Cardinal Petroni had reserved a table that was partly shielded from the main areas by an old leather screen. Just in case. Although Petroni was confident he was unlikely to be recognised by anyone other than Giorgio Felici, who was already seated at the table.
‘
Buonasera
, Eminence.’
‘No titles please,’ Petroni replied, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice.
‘
Mi dispiace
. Forgive me,’ Felici said, instant understanding combining with the shiftiness of his green eyes.
Giorgio Felici had been raised in the Sicilian hillside town of Corleone. At a young age he had moved to Palermo when the Felici family had taken a stake in the cattle and heroin trade. More than one member of the competing Bontate and Buscetta families had met a grisly death at the hands of the young Giorgio as the Felici family gradually took control. It was a skill he still practised with ruthless efficiency. When the business expanded the family needed a safe means of laundering the proceeds and Giorgio had moved into the banking sector. Short, fit and muscled, with smooth black hair and tanned skin, he was immaculately dressed in an expensive cream suit. Giorgio Felici had become feared around the corridors of La Borsa di Milano, but his contacts in merchant banking were not of interest to Petroni tonight. Giorgio Felici had also risen to be Grand Master of Propaganda Tre or P3, the successor to P2, the infamous secret Freemason’s Lodge of the 1970s. Like its predecessor, P3 boasted among its members Italian cabinet ministers and judges, the head of Italy’s financial police, several of Italy’s top bankers, industrialists and media executives, as well as serving and retired armed forces chiefs and two of the secret service chiefs. P3’s tentacles stretched into the most influential Mafia families in Italy and the United States, into the CIA and the FBI, and, more importantly for Petroni, into one of the terrorist groups in Israel’s Occupied Territories.
‘Your message sounded urgent?’ Giorgio ventured, coming straight to the point. Crooked white teeth showed in what was more a quick mechanical action than a smile. Petroni waited while the young waitress delivered their first course of scallops, sautéed to perfection in the finest olive oil and garlic, with just a touch of chilli, served on a bed of steamed spinach. The Cardinal was struck by the young girl’s face. Her olive skin was flawless, her hair as dark as her eyes.
‘
Vi verso il vino, Signor
?’ she asked, proffering a bottle of Vigna Colonnello Barolo for Petroni’s approval. Petroni savoured the bouquet. A powerful wine from the Italian nebbiolo variety, it was recognised around the world as being comparable to Burgundy and to the clarets of Bordeaux. Lorenzo Petroni had long been accustomed to the perks of high office.
‘
Sì. Bellissimo
,’ he replied. ‘I hope you don’t mind the break in tradition, Giorgio?’
‘
Scusi
?’ Giorgio asked, somewhat puzzled.
‘Red wine with seafood.’
‘Oh!
Non importa
. An unnecessary restriction.’
‘The contracts on Schweiker and Donelli are in place?’ Petroni asked quietly.
‘The journalist is under surveillance. If he gets too close to your past, he will be dealt with. The threat from the Cardinal is more difficult.’ Despite not yet having a solution for the troublesome Cardinal Patriarch of Venice, Giorgio smiled. He was enjoying the stickiness of the web that Petroni had woven around himself. As long as Petroni remained useful, and he might be very useful as Pope, Felici would continue to solve his problems, for a price.
‘We have another small problem, Giorgio.’
Giorgio Felici smiled once more, bemused by the powerful Cardinal’s ability to give other people ownership of his problems. ‘Small’ invariably meant blowing someone’s brains out, but he said nothing.
‘There is some property that may have fallen into the wrong hands and the Church would be grateful for its recovery.’
‘That does seem a small request, Lorenzo. What sort of property?’
‘You have heard of the Dead Sea Scrolls,
non è vero
?’
‘
Naturalmente
, but I thought they were international property?’
‘They are. The Catholic Church is cooperating with L’École Biblique et Archéologique Français, the French Biblical and Archaeological School in Jerusalem, as well as the Rockefeller Museum where these scrolls are rightfully housed for translation.’
Felici looked sceptical.
‘Are you a good Catholic, Giorgio?’ Petroni asked. It was a time-honoured attack. No matter how unscrupulous the target, there was always that small doubt of how one might fare in the afterlife. The theology of fear. It was something the Vatican had practised for centuries.
‘But of course.’ The uneven teeth flashed.
‘Then you would understand that anything that impinges on the Faith is properly in the domain of the Holy Father.’
‘And this clearly impinges on the Faith,’ Felici mused cynically. ‘So who might have these wrong hands?’
Petroni unzipped his soft leather briefcase. Normally it contained crimson files with gold Papal coats of arms emblazoned on the centre of the covers, but the file he handed Giorgio Felici was dun coloured. When it suited, no matter what the target, Petroni was a master of the smallest details of indifference.
‘Some further information on Dr Allegra Bassetti, the one you already have under surveillance for us in the Middle East.’ Other than a photograph and the bare details of her scholarship, Petroni had avoided providing Felici with too much background information on the bothersome ex-nun. The fewer people that connected her with the Omega Scroll the better, but circumstances had now changed dramatically and the wily little Sicilian would have to be brought into the loop.
‘She used to belong to one of our convents but regrettably she has now succumbed to a life outside the Church. She and her companion, the Israeli archaeologist Dr David Kaufmann, are in possession of a Dead Sea Scroll that belongs in the Rockefeller Museum. We would, of course, pay handsomely for its return.’
‘What is her background?’ Felici asked. Originally he had been happy to organise surveillance on the Italian woman without too many questions. It had been money for old rope, but now he was more than a little intrigued as to why a Prince of the Church might have a personal interest in eliminating an ex-nun and recovering an ancient parchment.
‘Southern Italy. A little place called Tricarico. Poor farmers mostly. Decent law-abiding people, although clearly there are exceptions.’ Lorenzo sniffed pointedly. ‘After we accepted her into the town’s convent we made the mistake of sending her to the State University in Milano to further her education, which is where she went off the rails.’
‘Don’t you normally send your priests and nuns to Catholic Universities?’
‘Normally yes, but against my advice the Holy Father decided that the Church should better understand the youth in a secular world, and Bassetti was part of the pilot program.’
‘She is a doctor?’
‘Chemistry. After she resigned from her Order she took a research doctorate in applied archaeological DNA. The details are in her dossier,’ he said, pointing to the file. ‘Kaufmann’s details are in there, too.’
‘Ah yes, from the reports we are getting they seem to spend a lot of time together. Any relation to Professor Yossi Kaufmann, the Israeli mathematician?’
‘His son.’
Conversation was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of the main course. Petroni had ordered his favourite dish,
bucatini all’Amatriciana
; thin hollow tubes of pasta with a sauce of tomato, garlic and ham. This time it was delivered by a young boy who could not have been more than sixteen. Had the other patrons been remotely interested it would not have escaped their attention that Petroni gave the boy more than a casual look as he topped up the wine glasses and then quietly withdrew.
‘Does the fact that he is Professor Kaufmann’s son matter?’ Petroni probed, suddenly wary of how much P3 might know about Professor Kaufmann and the Dead Sea Scrolls.
‘It might,’ Giorgio responded. ‘The recovery of anything in the Middle East these days is not without difficulty, Lorenzo, and this David Kaufmann is obviously very well connected. His father is not only a world-famous mathematician and archaeologist, he is a General in the Israeli Defense Force Reserves and an honorary Director of the Shrine of the Book. And you are no doubt aware that he is also running for Prime Minister.’
Cardinal Petroni reflected that Giorgio Felici was extraordinarily well briefed. He said nothing.
‘It might be quite an expensive operation, Lorenzo.’ Again, the quick, mechanical flash of uneven white teeth.
Petroni had expected nothing less. On previous occasions when it had been necessary for someone to meet with an accident, Giorgio Felici had never come cheaply, but he was the best in the business and the protection of the Holy Church demanded nothing less. Whatever it took, the Vatican Bank would pay.
‘It is essential that we recover this scroll quickly,’ Petroni replied, leaving the issue of Felici’s expenses and undoubted profit unanswered. ‘I want you to see to it personally.’
‘As difficult as that might be, we are not without our contacts, Lorenzo, and for a price I am prepared to go to the Middle East and oversee the operation.’ Giorgio Felici didn’t elaborate but he knew that terrorist groups had a constant need for funds to buy expensive arms and ammunition. Even a group like Hamas could be distracted from blowing up buses for long enough if the price tag was sufficiently attractive. ‘But it raises another issue.’
Petroni was immediately on guard, although he was careful not to show it. ‘Oh?’ he said offhandedly.
‘My colleagues in P3 have been considering offering you membership. Again,’ Felici said pointedly. ‘We met last night and that offer is now confirmed and I’m very happy to be the one to pass on their decision. I’m sure there will be just as many benefits for you as there might be for us,’ Felici opined casually.
‘Membership of P3 is out of the question,’ Petroni responded, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘Freemasonry has long been banned by the Vatican. Have you forgotten 1978?’
‘You will not be surprised to learn, Lorenzo,’ Giorgio continued quietly, ignoring Petroni’s protest, ‘that once again we count amongst our members some of the most influential men in Italy and the United States. But perhaps you
would
be surprised to know that several of them are cardinals?’
Petroni was not surprised at all. He had a very good idea of who was on Felici’s list. That sort of information could be valuable currency should a cardinal or bishop be reluctant to take a particular direction.
‘That does surprise me, Giorgio,’ he said. ‘You must have been very persuasive.’
‘We have our means, my friend. I won’t divulge any names of course, but let me give you an example. One or two of our members are quite prominent in the Comùne di Roma. It is perfectly normal for a very senior cardinal to have a luxury apartment outside the Vatican. But,’ Giorgio added pointedly, ‘if,
come si dice
– how do you say? – the “other arrangements” were known publicly there might be some very awkward questions.’ For once Giorgio Felici’s mechanical smile held a touch of mirth. Like a fisherman who had just hooked a very large fish.
Petroni’s lips compressed into a thin line as he felt a rush of cold, hard anger. He eyed his adversary with barely disguised contempt.
‘Clearly I have been careless.’
‘Not really,’ Giorgio replied. ‘It’s just that P3 has very good intelligence. Keeping track of someone as important as you is nothing personal, Lorenzo, purely business. Besides, we’re all men of the world, and look on the bright side: when it comes to dealing with rivals for the Papacy, it is much better to have P3 backing you than the other way round.’
Cardinal Petroni had chosen his apartment with the same meticulous care he had chosen the restaurant. Via del Governo Vecchio was close, but across the Tiber and far enough away from the Vatican. It was fashionable, but eclectic. On one side, the narrow twists and turns housed expensive and richly decorated apartments and exclusive jewellery salons and designer fashion stores. On the other, there was anything from Abbey’s, the Irish pub, to a
servizio
for motor scooters. Anonymity, but apparently, not anonymous enough.