The Caravaggio Conspiracy (28 page)

Rome was en
fête
. Nearly a million visitors had poured into the city, conferring, praying, celebrating Mass or simply gossiping. In the Vatican, Bosani, presiding over arrangments for the gathering, underlined his view that justice could only be served if Catholicism reasserted itself in the face of Muslim aggression.

‘Let me remind you, Eminences,’ he told the cardinal electors as they prepared for the spiritual ordeal ahead, ‘Of what we have seen in recent days alone. In Bologna, a judge – a respected member of Opus Dei – barely escaped with his life as he sought to deliver justice in a case of reckless Muslim aggression. There was also the case here in Rome itself of a bomb being thrown into the cloisters of the Lateran Palace – a bomb that killed an innocent gardener, depriving a wife of her husband and children of a loving father. Most recently, the Regina Coeli prison was stormed by a Muslim mob, demanding the release of those held on suspicion of the palace bombing and proclaiming the inevitability of a renewed European caliphate.’

A shudder went around those present.

‘A challenge has been issued, Eminences. And there has to be a Christian response. I do not call for the “repatriation” of honest Muslims. I do not call upon the Western powers to bomb Muslim nations. But I do say that we need upon the Throne of Peter a pope who will be a Catholic champion – truly the rock upon which we shall rebuild our faith. Your duty, Eminences, given you by God, is to honour the commitment you gave him when you became priests – to honour, glory in and proclaim the one Holy, Roman and Apostolic Church. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’ Later that morning, Visco left the Camerlengo’s office in the Apostolic Palace and made his way out of Vatican City in the direction of his tiny, two-room apartment north of the Via Andrea Doria. He turned left along the Viale Vaticano,
overlooked
by the massive ramparts, passing a number of large detached villas, until he reached a set of steps that led down to the church of Maria delle Grazie.

The Metro station just beyond the church was one of the city’s new
demarcation
points. The sprawling 1970s estate a few hundred metres farther on had once been lived in preponderantly by working-class Italians. Now, increasingly, it was home to a swelling immigrant population, many of them Muslim.

The priest’s mind, as he descended the steps towards the church, was filled with the enormity of what lay ahead. He had no idea that fifty metres behind him, wearing jeans, t-shirt and sneakers, her hair tied up, her green eyes concealed behind a pair of sunglasses, Maya was dogging his footsteps. It was another warm evening. The sun was setting, bringing a blush to the rooftops of the western city stretched out either side of the Via Cipro. Visco was sweating beneath his cassock. Crossing over the Via Andrea Doria, he again turned left until he reached his own street, the Via Venticinque. There were children playing football in the street. He ignored them, even when a stray ball came dribbling in his direction.

‘Kick it back to us, Father,’ one of the boys shouted. He pretended not to hear. Halting outside a down-at-heel-looking apartment building, he made his way into the front lobby, where he punched a security code into a keypad on the wall. The door buzzed open, admitting him to the main foyer. An ancient lift stood waiting to his left, looking as if it was installed in the 1930s. But it hadn’t been working that morning and he chose instead to walk up the three flights of stairs to his apartment.

As soon as he disappeared, Maya entered the building and discovered from the list of residents inscribed on the wall that Visco lived in apartment 4B. Her first instinct was to push any button on the list and pretend to be making a delivery. But there had been a spate of thefts throughout apartment buildings in Rome and she couldn’t rule out the possibility that the keyholder, instead of pressing the entry button, would alert the concierge, or even call the police.

Instead, she took a couple of unopened letters from her handbag and stood waiting. After a couple of minutes, an elderly lady came in. Maya jiggled the lock of one of the mail boxes with her own post key and opened a letter, as if she had just extracted it. As she did so, the old lady pressed her code into the key pad with a bony finger. The door again swung open. Maya followed her in, wishing her
buona notte
. Then she took the same stairs as Visco and a minute later found herself standing in the corridor outside his front door.

There was no one about and she was able to listen at the door, hoping, she realized, to hear Visco intoning the words ‘
Allahu Akbar
’. But she was out of luck. She wished Liam was with her. But he was recovering from his bad experience and was in no position to assist. It was time for her to step up and provide Father O’Malley with the evidence he desperately needed. Checking that she was still alone in the corridor, she bent down and lifted the metal flap of Visco’s old-style letter slot. She had to adjust her eyes to the interior gloom of the hallway, but after a second or two caught sight of the priest moving from what looked to be the living room of his flat towards the bathroom. Another minute passed. She heard the toilet flush, then the sound of a shower. He was obviously going to be some time and Maya released the flap and stood back up. As she did so, the door of the
apartment
opposite opened and a young man came out. He smiled at her, wondering who she was but at the same time taking in the swell of her breasts, her green eyes and generous mouth. ‘You just moved in, have you?’ he asked her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Just visiting a friend.’

‘Oh yeah? Anyone I know?’

‘I doubt it,’ she said, hurrying off.

The young man looked disappointed, but didn’t follow her. Three minutes went by. Maya waited patiently in the stairwell until she heard the lift creaking up the shaft, the snap of the concertina doors opening and shutting and the slow descent back to the lobby. Checking there was no one in the corridor, she returned to Visco’s door and resumed her crouching stance, gazing down the hallway, hoping for something – anything – that would confirm Visco as a practising Muslim. Then she remembered that as she had entered the building, a clock had struck 11.45. She checked her watch. It was three minutes to twelve, which according to the Father General meant it was time for the
Dhuhr
, or midday prayers.

She listened. For thirty seconds, maybe a minute, there was nothing. Then she heard something. From the living room at the back of the apartment came the muted, but distinctive sound of Arabic. There was a strange, alien beauty to the sound. It must be coming from a recording, she decided.

She froze. Even now, she could hardly believe it. Father Visco, a Catholic priest, trained for seven years in a seminary, truly
was
a Muslim. Which meant that Cardinal Bosani must be a Muslim. But what could she see? If only she could see something. Dry-mouthed, she rummaged in her handbag for her digital camera, with its inbuilt microphone and cine-action. Extending the zoom, she poked the lens through the letter slot and pushed the ‘on’ button. As she crouched, she drew a series of deep breaths. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. Thirty seconds later, the video mode reached its limit and stopped. She withdrew the lens and released the post flap, which slapped against the woodwork of the door.

Inside, startled by the noise in the hall, Visco jumped up and hurried to the door. At the same time, Maya ran towards the stairs. The priest reached the top of the stairwell just in time to see a young woman disappear from view. She was carrying something, but he couldn’t see what it was. Might it have been a camera? He set off in pursuit, then, having descended the first flight of stairs, pulled up, sweating. Even if he caught her, a crowd would gather and someone would call the police. Whoever she was, she must have followed him home and spied on him through the mail slot. He didn’t know what to do. All he could think of was to inform His Eminence and put the matter in his hands.

Meanwhile, almost collapsing with nerves, Maya found herself back outside. Rounding the corner of Visco’s street, she continued left along the Via Andrea Doria until she found a small café. She went inside and ordered a cognac. The adrenalin that had accompanied her unscripted little adventure was already wearing off and she started when a uniformed police officer sat on the bar stool next to her and ordered an espresso.

‘
Scusilo, signora
,’ the officer says.

‘
Per favore
,’ she replies. ‘
Nessun problema
.’

Later, at home, in her parents’ apartment inside the walls of the Vatican, she reviewed her thirty seconds of digital film, transferred it to her laptop and used iMovie software to enhance the quality. The sound was fine. A man was obviously at prayer. But what about the image? Her hands were shaking so much. Was there anything to see? She played the sequence a second time, and a third, until it hit her. There! In the top left of the picture: two arms descending, hands outstretched, to the floor. And, for one split second, a face. She froze the action, adding light and contrast. It was far from a perfect picture. But it was unmistakeably him. It was Visco. It was unbelievable. She rubbed her eyes and sat back in her chair. She had caught him in the act. There was no way he could explain this away. Time, she decided, to call Liam, who could then contact the Father General. But first she must talk to her father. He was bound to believe her now.

St Peter’s Square was thronged with tourists and pilgrims. Even in a secular age, the ceremony of electing a new pope was one of the greatest spectacles in the Western world and Rome’s hotels were heaving with visitors from every nation come to greet the new Vicar of Christ.

Superior General O’Malley, often cited as the Church’s second-most powerful individual but excluded from a process that belonged exclusively to the Sacred College, was visiting the gallery of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, behind The Wedding Cake, the hideous memorial to King Victor Emmanuel that he always thought of as The Typewriter.

He had come to the gallery to see Caravaggio’s
Deposition From the Cross
, in which, following his crucifixion, Christ is laid in his tomb by Nicodemus, watched over by a grieving Madonna. The veins in Jesus’ dangling right arm were clearly visible and the Saviour’s body had none of the grace normally accorded by previous masters. Nicodemus struggled to hold his Lord, as if he were truly a dead weight, while Mary looked old and worn, knowing that her destiny, and that of her son, had almost run its course. Only the young woman at the top of the painting – presumably Mary of Cleophas – looked as if she were infused with the love of God rather than grief for the departed.

This artist, O’Malley concluded, told the truth. In spite of his errant nature, he had been a true believer. The offence given to him by Battista’s treachery would have been real and must have run deep. There was no evidence that the painter ever spoke out against Islam or was critical of Muslims. More likely he would have wished people, Christian or Muslim, to be true to their faith. Inspired, the Father General said a prayer, then walked briskly from the gallery. As he did so, Father Giovanni called him on his mobile to remind him that he was expected to preside over Mass that evening on the eve of the conclave.

‘Honest to God, Giovanni – did you really think that a thing like that might have slipped my mind?’

‘Just checking, Father General. Better safe than sorry.’

‘Yes, well you can expect me at the Gèsu at 6.30 sharp. Between now and then I’ll be working on my sermon.’

‘But Father General,’ the young priest protested, ‘The sermon tonight is to be given by Cardinal von Stiegler, the new head of the German Church.’

‘Not any more,’ O’Malley retorted. ‘Did you not get the note I left this morning on your desk – or was that too low-tech for you?’

An embarrassed silence greeted his inquiry, which O’Malley had to admit, he rather enjoyed.

‘I’m sorry, Father General.’

‘A bit late for that. So you had better get moving. You will convey my regrets to His Eminence, but the sermon this evening will be given by me and no one else.’

‘But Father General …’

‘Obey me in this, Giovanni. Tell Cardinal Von Stiegler that I will be delighted to accommodate him on another occasion. But not tonight.’

‘Yes, Father General.’

‘And let the word go out that in the Gesù this evening, something very special is planned.’

‘Yes, Father General. At once.’

In the Via della Penitenza, Maya was showing Dempsey her video of Father Visco performing the
Salaah
. The Irishman played the thirty-second clip all the way through on his laptop, then sat back for several seconds and stared at the ceiling. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that clinches it. After this, there’s no doubt in my mind that Bosani is a closet Muslim. Well done, Maya. It’s brilliant, quite brilliant.’

‘Thanks. I nearly died of fright when he heard me and came running to the door. If he’d been just a couple of seconds faster, he’d have caught me. But the big question now is, what do we do with it?’

‘This is dynamite. We need to talk to my uncle. That’s the first thing.’

‘I’ve already told my father.’

‘Really? What did he say?’

‘He couldn’t speak at first. It was all too much for him. He said he’d think about what to do with the information. Ordinarily, he’d have gone straight to the Pope. But, of course, he can’t do that. And he can’t go to Bosani either …’

‘No. That wouldn’t be his wisest course.’

‘So he said he’d leave it to you and the Father General to advise him.’

Demspey’s eyebrows shot up at this unexpected piece of information. ‘That’s a turn-up. I thought he didn’t trust me.’

‘He didn’t,’ Maya said. ‘But he’s learning fast.’

As it happened, Colonel Studer was already reassessing his opinion of Dempsey. He thoroughly disapproved of the way the Irishman and his daughter conducted their relationship. But Maya’s extraordinary revelation that Father Visco was a Muslim, added to what he had learned earlier from Chief Inspector Aprea, had forced him to change his mind about Dempsey’s character, if not his lifestyle. From what Aprea had told him, Dempsey really had been framed by the Vatican, and just last night he had almost been killed by a professional assassin. Studer was a banker by profession and did not change his mind easily. But nor was his thinking set in stone. If Dempsey could convince him that, in addition to not being a
criminal
, he genuinely loved his daughter and was ready to pursue a career, then he was perfectly willing to welcome him into the family. In the course of the afternoon, before Maya had come to him with her news about Visco, he had spoken at length to the Superior General – a most charming man – who had vouched for the fact that whatever Liam had done, he had done to preserve the honour of the Catholic Church. Studer was greatly relieved to hear this. When O’Malley went on to outline his fears about Bosani – fears since borne out by the images of Visco praying aloud to Allah – the Swiss had agreed to keep a close eye on the Camerlengo, as well as on Visco, and to report anything out of the ordinary. But time was running out fast. From now on, while keeping this latest knowledge in his head, he had to focus his attention on the upcoming ceremony of the conclave and its aftermath, the inauguration of a new pope. Nothing was more important than that.

The Swiss Guard, together with the papal gendarmerie and security service, would work closely with the Rome police, not only to protect the new pontiff and his cardinals, but to ensure order among the vast crowd that was expected to fill St Peter’s Square. His own men, wearing their full dress uniforms, would also provide a ceremonial guard of honour. Studer did not expect to serve in Rome for more than another five years and was aware that the conclave would be his greatest test. He would be vigilant, he decided. He would be resolute. But he would not allow treachery and suspicion to mar for him the greatest Christian occasion of his life.

He had already said as much to the Father General. Was it not the case, he asked him, that the Holy Spirit would descend upon the conclave as it met to decide the next occupant of the Throne of St Peter? ‘And is it not true that not even the gates of Hell can prevail against the will of God?’

Such a show of faith had brought tears to O’Malley’s eyes. For the second time in as many days, he hadn’t known what to say.