The Lost Catacomb (39 page)
The clocks struck 3 AM in offices and bedchambers throughout
the Apostolic Palace.
Antique
cuckoo clocks that chirped dissonantly with Swiss precision.
Bracket clocks with buhl work, ornately
gilded.
Tall grandfather clocks,
dignified in their dark marquetry cases.
But their chimes were unheard by
the weary sleepers who rested tranquilly within its walls.
Inside the belfry of the domed basilica of San Pietro,
gleaming white in the moonlight, great bells began to chime, ringing out to the
heavens and the now drowsy Eternal City.
High above, in the black velvet of the nocturnal sky, a few stars
glittered and winked indifferently, in apparent disregard for the foibles and
sins of mankind.
Outside the heavily fortified ramparts of the Vatican, the
very heart of Christendom, a slender figure cloaked in black pushed on a flat
metal knob skillfully concealed near St. Anne
’
s gate and slipped through the narrow doorway that
opened at her touch.
Keeping close to the massive brick walls that had for so many
centuries protected the Holy See, she skirted the courtyard and made her way
cautiously to an obscure side entrance of the Apostolic Palace, an entrance
known to only a few.
Drawing an old
iron key out of the pocket of her cloak, she unlocked the door and passed
silently down a narrow, dimly lit corridor to a small room, her heart pounding
in her breast, the metallic taste of fear, as always, in her mouth.
Softly she tapped twice on a thick wooden door, which opened
a moment later.
A strong, but
gaunt hand, adorned by a heavy gold ring with a large amethyst stone embellished
with a golden cross, pulled her inside.
And her weekly nightmare began.
He had seen her from behind the darkened window of his
limousine two months earlier, on a street corner near the convent on the Via
Cicerone.
She had thought no one
could possibly notice as she deftly removed the wallet of an unsuspecting
tourist from his backpack.
Her name was Rosaura, and she was one of the many gypsies who
roamed the streets of the Eternal City in perpetual search of a
livelihood.
Some of them stopped
cars in the street and washed windshields, hoping for a tip.
Others, out of desperation, turned
tricks in dark alleyways, when pick pocketing could not secure them enough
ready cash.
His driver had immediately stopped the car and insisted that
she enter.
Terrified that he might
call the
carabinieri
, she had entered the dark vehicle without protest,
not knowing what to expect.
The
back seat was partitioned off from the driver
’
s area by a smoked glass divider.
To her shock, she found herself in the
presence of a priest
—
or
was he a bishop, perhaps a cardinal?
Not being a practicing Catholic, of course, she had no idea what his
position in the Church might be, at least not based on what he wore.
He looked dignified and somewhat past
the prime of his life.
But his eyes
were hard and pitiless, devoid of all expression.
After all these weeks, she still had not been told his name
and had come to realize that she would never know it.
All she knew was that once a week
she was expected to appear in this horrid, windowless chamber and perform a
wild gypsy dance in a state of almost total undress, covered only from time to
time, as the steps of the dance allowed, with a fringed shawl.
Her own freedom from arrest and the
safety of her family had come at this price of almost unbearable humiliation.
For he had told her that he knew everything about her.
And in her naivet
é
and ignorance, she had believed he was as
omniscient as the God he served.
Each week he sat in a corner and watched her closely, without
touching her.
His hands would move
rhythmically inside the folds of his cassock, back and forth, as his breath
came in thick, uneven pants.
And
each week, as part of this degrading ritual, he would then cry out harshly,
over and over again,
“
Puttana
!
Elena!
You whore!
”
“
Nicola?
It
’
s Matt,
”
said a tired-sounding voice on the other end of the line.
“
Matt,
what a wonderful surprise!
”
she cried excitedly.
“
Where are you?
Are you in Rome?
”
“
No,
I
’
m calling from
Athens,
”
he said
tautly.
“
There've been some new developments in my
investigation of the Greek artifacts I told you about, and Demetrios begged me
to join him here.
“
Look,
Nicola, we need to speak.
And I don
’
t have much time.
”
Mystified by the note of urgency in his voice, she wondered
uncomfortably if he was calling to ask if she
’
d given more thought to their relationship.
It would be unpleasant to do this over
the phone, but if he pressed her for an answer, she would have no choice but to
tell him about Bruno
—
who
had now become the center of her life.
It was not merely a shared intellectual passion for art that
sparked their relationship
—
as
was the case, she now understood, with her years of friendship with Matt.
With Bruno there was a shared personal
context, a sense of rootedness shaped by a common heritage.
A living history that she had just
learned was hers as well, that she too was part of.
Somehow with Bruno she no longer felt
like an orphan, dispossessed of all close relatives but Elena and ignorant of
her family
’
s past
and the external forces that had shaped her.
Bruno had become a part of her that she
simply could not live without.
But no, Nicola thought quickly, the purpose of Matt
’
s call was clearly professional,
not personal.
“
Matt,
”
she hesitated,
“
I don
’
t mean to pry, but you
don
’
t sound like
your usual self.
Why did you
have to fly to Athens so soon?
What
kind of new developments are you talking about?
”
“
Are
you free to speak?
”
he
asked in a hurried tone of voice.
“
Of
course.
I
’
m indoors, and I assume that my cell phone isn
’
t being tapped,
”
she quipped lightly.
“
All
right, then, Nicola,
”
he
said, sounding more strained than she
’
d
ever known him to be.
“
I
’
m calling you from a
public phone booth.
Not from my
hotel room or a cell phone.
And I
am
worried about my line being tapped.
Very worried, as a matter of fact.
“
I
came out here because Demetrios has found troubling evidence that artifacts
stolen from the Jewish communities in Greece were shipped out of the port of
Piraeus, near Athens, on a regular basis, to Italy.
”
“
What?!
How did he find that out?
”
she exclaimed.
“
Never
mind who tipped him off, Nicola.
We
can talk about that some other time.
It
’
s just
as well that you don
’
t
know all of the details at this point.
“
Anyway,
we
’
ve been tracing
artwork stolen from the Jews of Athens, Thessaloniki, Crete, and Corfu in the
early 1940s.
And we
’
ve found corroborative
evidence
—
copies
of invoices and bills of lading, all of them with specific dates and detailed
inventories
—
which
clearly indicate which shipping companies the Germans used to transport these
items.
“
This
is a much bigger story than we thought it would be, Nicola.
It
’
s not just that the Germans helped themselves to
Jewish property in Greece, as they did in every country they invaded.
The point is that we
’
ve uncovered a
clear-cut connection to Italy.
”
“
But
why Italy?
”
she
interrupted him.
“
Why
would the stolen goods have been shipped there?
I would have thought they
’
d be sent to Germany.
”
“
Me,
too,
”
he said,
with an uncharacteristic note of worry in his voice.
“
But apparently some of the shipments we tracked down
were slated for delivery to an organization headquartered in Rome that was
called Catholic Charities International.
The group was apparently operating, at the time, under the direct
auspices of the Vatican.
”
“
Are
you sure?
”
she
gasped in horror.
“
Absolutely.
So I need you
—
that is, I
’
m asking you
—
to
find any documentation of this that you possibly can in the Secret Archives.
And you
’
ll have to do this quietly.
I know you
’
ll be betraying the trust of your hosts at the
Vatican, but this is too important a discovery to be overlooked.
Even if I were to ask for permission to
enter the Archives, it could take weeks, if not months, for my request to be
processed.
And we just don
’
t have time for that.
”
He caught his breath and then continued.
“
Look,
I think you need to know that I
’
ve
gotten myself into something far more complicated
—
and possibly more dangerous
—
than I bargained
for.
“
Ever
since we visited the shipyard and combed municipal files for records of
shipping activity during the early 1940s, Demetrios and I have had the feeling
that we
’
ve been
followed.
And this isn
’
t a case of paranoia,
either.
We keep seeing the same two
or three cars, with the same license plates, wherever we go.
Demetrios was mugged last night on his
way out of a taverna and narrowly escaped losing his BlackBerry, where most of
the information, including digital photos of the original documents, is stored.
And just this morning I caught a maid
going through my drawers at the hotel when I returned to the room unexpectedly
after breakfast.
“
I
don
’
t want to
scare you unnecessarily, but I do need your help, Nicola.
I
’
ve come this far, and I
’
m not about to give up now.
I need to know who
’
s behind it all and
where the missing art has been hidden all these years.
I need to know in whose interest it is
that all of this continues to remain covered up.
And in this case, it looks as if all
roads do lead to Rome.
To the
Vatican itself.
”
He waited as Nicola took down the information and then asked
him pointedly,
“
What
exactly do you want me to look for in the Archives, Matt?
”
“
I
’
m not sure,
”
he replied.
“
Probably there are
records of art acquisitions at the Vatican museums or correspondence between
—
I don
’
t know
—
maybe the papal
nuncio in Greece and the Vatican Secretariat of State during the war.
Maybe there
’
s some information on Catholic Charities
International.
Maybe who headed it
back in the 1940s, for example.
I
’
m sure you
’
ll think of something.
“
In
the meantime, I
’
ll
try to forward our files to you by e-mail, over an encrypted channel.
I want someone, besides me and
Demetrios, to have the documentation, just in case.
”
There was silence at the other end of the line.
“
Nicola,
”
Matt asked,
“
are you still there?
”
“
Of
course I am,
”
she
answered.
“
I . . . I
’
m
just . . . stunned.
You will be
careful, won
’
t
you, Matt?
Please?
You
’
re scaring me.
No story is worth risking your life.
”
“
I
’
ve got to go, Nicola. I
’
m sorry.
I
’
ll call you when I can,
”
he said.
And the line went dead.