The Caravaggio Conspiracy (15 page)

The civil administration building of the Holy See, known as the Governorate, was like no other government offices on earth. A handsome, rather elegant structure, it looked from the outside more like a luxury Riviera hotel from the 1920s than the home of a leading multinational executive – an impression compounded by its ornate formal gardens, acres of surrounding parkland and immaculately tended paths.

The building appeared serene on the surface. Inside, it was an ants’ nest. In the week leading up to the papal conclave, its corridors pulsed with gossip as the workforce, both lay and religious, traded opinions on the identity of the next pope. Those who knew the Vatican as an absolute monarchy, in which power devolved from the top, would have noted the lack of an authoritative voice. But the
fisherman’s
ring was broken. While officials continued to deal with routine problems and queries from around the world, at the higher-function level there was only silence. The Secretary of State, the cardinal prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith; the heads of the dicasteries and the pontifical councils: none remained in place. All those who wished to continue in their previous roles, and those who hoped to replace them, had to await the emergence of a new head of state to learn their fate.

All save one. No such uncertainty attended the ambitions of the Camerlengo, whose power, uniquely, reached its peak during the
sede vacante
. Sat at the ornate desk of his spacious corner office, Cardinal Bosani took a moment to reflect on the luxury of his position. 

As Secretary of State, his principle base had been the Apostolic Palace. But he preferred it here, removed from the basilica and the Sistine Chapel, with its view, however distant, of the central mosque. It had always amused him that the very word
governoratoro
derived from the Arabic word
muhafazah
, meaning
administrative
unit. The Ottomans employed a similar term, as did the Nazis. Even amid the presumed purity of its position as the font of supreme power in the universal Church, the Vatican was historically compromised.

Rome in summer was unbearably hot and humid. Today, though, a light breeze blew across the city and there was a freshness in the air that brought welcome relief to the city’s three million inhabitants. Bosani rose from his leather-covered chair and moved across the parquet floor of his office to the windows that looked over the sumptuous lawns as far as the west end of St Peter’s Basilica. A few weeks ago, a Monsignor from Spain had asked him, only half joking, when he thought they would be adding minarets to Michelangelo’s masterpiece. That had made him laugh. ‘Don’t worry,’ he had replied, ‘I think we have ten years at least.’

Looking north, he could just make out a group of cardinals moving in stately fashion along the Via del Governatorato in the direction either of the Sistine Chapel or, more likely, one of the half-dozen or so top-class restaurants that lay just outside the Vatican walls. Squinting a little, he thought he recognized the distinctive loping walk of Cardinal Georges Delacroix, Archbishop of Reims, accompanied no doubt by his diminutive friend, Cardinal Alfonso Salgado from Valencia. The two men, ironically, were liberals when it came to the issue of Islam – so much so that ten years ago he would have courted them in the cause of
religious
tolerance.

Not any more. Bosani allowed himself the ghost of a smile, bearing the points of his teeth. Bigots were what was needed today. Under the revised rules of the papal conclave, as promulgated by John Paul II, a protracted stalemate during the election of a pope could now be broken by a simple majority vote. If all went well – if all, in other words, went extremely badly for the establishment of consensus among the cardinal electors – he would need just sixty-one votes to secure the emergence of a pope who would strike fear into the hearts of Muslims. At the last count, he already had fifty votes in his pocket, with several cardinals ‘
undecided
’. Tomorrow, following his planned lunch at Checchino, in Monte Testaccio – exclusive, yet discreet – he expected the number of undecided to fall by two. Delacroix and Salgado were liberals mainly because they feared what would happen to them and the Church if a pro-Christian, anti-Muslim policy were to be proclaimed from the Throne of Peter. But they were also ambitious. Both wished to be relieved of episcopal responsibility in the midst of such turbulent times; both had hinted strongly that they would welcome positions in the Curia. Bosani would accommodate them. Or perhaps he would not. It would depend. Either way, they would have served their purpose.

As he took in the sweep of the pontifical gardens, his eyes fixed for several seconds on the seclusion of the Teutonic Cemetery to his right, containing the remains of the late Cardinal Rüttgers. The German’s probing inquiries had posed an unexpected threat at a critical time. It wasn’t simply that he was intelligent and doctrinally adept; he also possessed a disquieting intuition. But he had been dealt with and, insh’Allah, all was well.

Bosani steeled himself mentally for the hurdles that still lay ahead. He prayed to God to help him and give him strength, remembering how the Prophet had patiently built up his forces before his triumphant return to Mecca.

It was as he raised his hands in prayer that he heard the footsteps behind him of the ever-faithful Visco.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Eminence. I just wanted you to know that I have booked your usual table for tomorrow at Checchino. I have informed Cardinals Delacroix and Salgado and they will both be there.’

Bosani turned round, beaming. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

‘There is another letter from the sister of Rüttgers.’

The Camerlengo frowned. ‘Draft a reply for me to sign. But make sure that I don’t have to hear from her again.’

‘Not a problem.’ A short pause followed. ‘There is just one more thing. I
hesitate
to mention it.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s just that a young historian has been engaging in some troubling research in the Secret Archive.’

Visco now had Bosani’s full attention. ‘What sort of research?’ he demanded.

‘He has been consulting details of your career, including your student days and your work to establish the central mosque. More to the point, he has
discovered
a connection between you and your illustrious precedessor, Cardinal Battista.’

‘How is that possible?’

The priest looked embarrassed. ‘When our people destroyed the files about the unfortunate business with Battista, they did not, it appears, wipe every trace. They were operating at a time when the computerisation of the records was far from complete and it appears that the classification stubs, indicating the fact that Your Eminence was the last one to examine the now missing file, were transferred as jpegs of the originals.’

‘And what was on these … jpegs?’

‘A brief description of the subject nature of the files, nothing more. They referred to an “investigation” ordered by Pope Paul V …’ 

‘But no mention of the nature of the investigation?’

‘None – save that His Eminence was the subject.’ Visco paused and looked down at his feet. ‘There was also a cross-reference to
The Betrayal of Christ
.’

Bosani shot Visco an angry look. ‘This “historian” … what is his name?’

‘Dempsey … Liam Dempsey – from Ireland.’ He handed over a high-
resolution
picture of the Irishman taken by the security cameras in the Archive as he sat at the receptionist’s computer screen.

Bosani stared at the picture. ‘Who is he? What’s he doing in Rome?’

‘That is what is interesting, Eminence.’

‘Explain.’

‘His uncle is Declan O’Malley, Superior General of the Jesuits. He provided the letter of introduction to the Library.’

‘O’Malley!’ Visco could see that his boss had begun to twist the episcopal ring on the fourth finger of his right hand between his left thumb and index finger – a sure sign that his temper was building. ‘And you tell me the nephew of Declan O’Malley has established a link between me and Battista? And that he has been putting together an account of my movements and interests over the last twenty years?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Bosani exhaled heavily. ‘That is unacceptable, Cesare. Unacceptable! And how exactly do the Jesuits fit into this?’

‘I’m working on that. I have asked Father Haddad …’

‘– The American?’

‘Actually he is Lebanese. But he has American citizenship.’

‘Yes, yes. But how can he assist us?’

‘He is our ears and eyes in the Society of Jesus.’

Bosani looked doubtful. ‘Is he any use? He must be eighty if he is a day. Anyway, I thought he had a drink problem.’

Visco ran his hand down his chin. ‘He has got over that, insh’Allah, and he has known the Father General for many years.’

‘Very well. But see to it that we find out everything we need to know. I have never trusted O’Malley. He cares nothing for the Church, only for his faith. Such men are dangerous.’

‘The matter has been dealt with, Eminence. There is no need for concern.’

Bosani frowned. ‘But the facts he has already – what about those?’

‘I assure you, everything is in hand. The Archive has been told what to do and what to say. If you want my opinion, Eminence, I sincerely doubt that after today Mr O’Malley will have the stomach to bother us again. It is much more likely that he will be on the first plane home to Dublin. In the meantime, to answer your question directly, it would appear that the apartment he is staying in here in Rome is about to be … burgled.’

‘Franco?’

‘Naturally.’

‘That is something. But we cannot afford to relax our vigilance. Time is precious and too much is at stake. Tell my friend from Spésa that for the next few days he is to keep a close eye on that young man. If he steps out of line even once, I am to be informed.’

‘Of course.’

‘And when Haddad has spoken with the uncle, tell him to report directly to me.’

‘Yes, Eminence.’

The cardinal picked up his pen and signed a couple of letters, both to leading cardinals newly arrived in Rome from the United States. ‘Have these delivered at once,’ he said. ‘Time is running out. There is serious business to be done in the next week and we can’t afford distractions – particularly if they involve the Jesuits. I shall rely on you to take all necessary steps. Do you understand me?’

Visco met his master’s gaze. ‘Perfectly,’ he said.

‘Very well, then. Let us get on.’

The prefect of the Secret Archive, Monsignor Domenico Asproni, was a small man and he stood on the balls of his feet as he faced up to the much taller figure of Dempsey. ‘Here is the problem,’ he said. ‘When our archivist, alerted by Security, sought to retrieve papers yesterday relating to Cardinal Orazio Battista – documents which you had precisely identified through the improper use of our internal computer network – what did he find? He found that they were gone. Papers that had been securely filed for more than four hundred years were now missing.’

Dempsey had been summoned to the prefect’s office an hour before. He had assumed he would receive a formal reprimand for his flouting of the rules the previous day. But he had not expected to face a criminal charge. He threw up his hands – a gesture that he had learned conveyed indignation to Italians much better than words. ‘So what are you saying? That I’m a thief? Is that it?’

‘The papers have vanished, Signor Dempsey. The file is empty. All that remains is a classification stub and a brief indication of the subject matter.’

‘Nothing to do with me. I only came across his name by accident. Who was Battista, anyway? And why is he suddenly so important?’

‘I think you are in a better position to provide that information than I. My question to you is much more simple and direct. Where are the documents? What have you done with them?’ 

Dempsey bunched his fists and tried to remain calm. This was a put-up job. It had to be. ‘What have
I
done with them? According to the computer record – which was all I got to see – the file on Battista had been missing for nearly forty years. The last person to see it was Cardinal Bosani, in January 1977.’

The prefect shook his head. ‘I have checked. What the computer says is that the file was identified by you yesterday morning and has since disappeared.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it, Signor Dempsey? Is it, really? I will grant you that this was an audacious theft. I cannot begin to imagine how it was achieved. But that is a matter for the police to resolve. We have no wish, as you can imagine, to bring
embarrassment
to the Father General of the Company of Jesus, who, as your uncle, provided you with a letter of introduction. I had hoped that you would appear before me this morning suitably contrite, bringing with you the missing file. Regrettably, you have not chosen that option. In the circumstances, my advice to you is to get yourself a good lawyer. The unauthorized removal of historical documents from the Apostolic Library, one of the world’s greatest repositories of knowledge, is a serious business – very serious indeed. You have left me with no alternative than to report this crime, and you as the sole suspect, to the Vatican Security Service. You may expect its officers, assisted by the detective branch of the Carabinieri, to call you in for questioning.’

Dempsey swallowed hard but stood his ground. ‘In that case, Monsignor, since you have obviously concluded that I am a thief and a liar, I shall await your pleasure. You already know where I live.’ He turned to go.

‘Just one more thing. Do you have your identity card?’

‘That’s no business of yours, if I may say so.’

The Monsignor pressed a button on his desk. Seconds later, the door to his office opened and two burly security men entered.

‘I would remind you, Signor Dempsey, that I represent the government of a sovereign state and have full jurisdiction in this matter.’