They decided it would be easier to pry off the very old hasp than deal with the modern lock. Montfort got a letter opener from his desk and Brian jimmied the hasp which broke in seconds. He opened the door and looked inside.
“Take a look,” he told the librarian.
Inside was a white binder. Underneath it was a laptop.
The men wondered out loud why Arthur Borland would have purposely hidden the book he should have returned, and why he would have left his laptop.
They didn’t notice the man who had come in earlier. He now stood just outside the closet door, listening to every word they said.
Chapter Thirty-One
Vatican City
The head of the Gendarmerie Corps fired questions at Cardinal Conti for half an hour. He had been briefed on everything that Special Agent-in-Charge Jack Underwood knew. So much for the FBI’s promise to keep Conti’s involvement under wraps, the Cardinal reflected.
I suppose there’s a code of honor among international law enforcement agencies, Conti thought. It was foolish to think I could remain anonymous. But as the questioning continued, the Cardinal found it easier and easier to settle in to the lie he had created.
Yes, he had used Moretti as an intermediary to get the manuscript. No, he wasn’t aware of the man’s past. No, he had no idea how he got a Vatican passport or that he was actually John Spedino, the escaped prisoner whose identity had been altered immediately prior to his arrival in Europe.
Dominic Conti felt more and more confident as he smoothly fielded every question with a glib answer. This is going quite well, he thought, becoming ever more bold and fearless with every lie he tossed out.
Suddenly the Pope spoke. He hadn’t said a word in over twenty minutes and his quiet voice startled Dominic.
“How much money did you spend to get this Templars manuscript?”
Dominic quickly considered if there were any way to trace the five million US he had transferred to John Spedino’s account in Turkey. His confidence was solid. He had made sure things were well covered.
“Only a few thousand dollars, Holiness. A pittance compared with the historic value of such a unique document.”
The Pope thought about Conti’s answer. “Only a few thousand dollars. That’s surprising. Almost unbelievable, in fact, that you could get it for that. Why did you deem this old book so important?”
“Your predecessor generously allowed me to read the four Knights Templars volumes which reside in the secret vault, Holiness. I believe I was the first to determine that one volume was missing from what had been a set. As head of the Templars today I thought it important to find this priceless manuscript and obtain it for the Church’s archives to complete the record of Templars exploits.”
“Where is the book now?”
Dominic Conti lowered his eyes. He couldn’t look the Pope in the face as he uttered a blatant lie. “It’s in my office, Holiness. I’m reading it in my spare time. There’s nothing special about it. It’s simply part of a chronology of a thousand years or more of Templars history. This volume covers the Middle Ages and the Renaissance period.”
The Pope’s words were stern now. “I understand that you want to read it. However it doesn’t belong to you. Finish reviewing it by this time tomorrow. Then contact the FBI in New York City and ask what they want you to do with it.”
There was nothing Dominic could do but nod. He’d have to get the book photocopied. Once it was out of his hands he’d never see it again.
The policeman waited respectfully until the Pope gestured for him to proceed, then resumed his inquiry. “Many people died in New York the day that manuscript was stolen. At what point did you become aware that Signore Moretti, directly or through others, was committing multiple crimes to obtain the manuscript you ordered him to get?”
“I, uh…I saw the news of the Fifth Avenue bombing on television like everyone else. At some point after that Moretti told me he had the manuscript. It wasn’t until later that I realized that book must have been the one that was stolen from the gallery when the explosion occurred.”
“With all respect, Eminence, I have listened to the recording you made of Giovanni Moretti’s meeting with you. In that recording you tell him you did not authorize him to use force to obtain the manuscript. So at that time you were aware he was probably behind the bombing. Is that correct?”
Nervous again, Conti backpedaled. “Of course. By then I had put two and two together, as they say, and concluded that Moretti was behind the bombing. That’s why I recorded our meeting, which was fortunate. Thanks to my foresight a major Mafia figure has been brought to justice.”
The policeman pushed harder. “Excuse me, Cardinal Conti, for my not completely understanding everything. You told Agent Underwood that Signore Moretti had in the past been a major benefactor to the Church. I believe you also stated you knew that he had an interest in rare books. Are both those statements accurate?”
Conti stopped and looked at the pontiff. “I’m not sure where all this is going, Holiness. Am I under investigation here? Should I retain an attorney? I thought I had done something beneficial for the Church in obtaining the missing manuscript. I was also instrumental in bringing a criminal to justice. Why do I suddenly feel as though this man” – he gestured at Officer Messina – “considers me a criminal too?”
The Pope said nothing.
“My deepest apologies, Eminence,” Officer Messina responded quietly to the Cardinal. “My only desire is to understand exactly how everything happened so that we may put this matter to rest. I had earlier asked His Holiness if he would allow us to request you come to our offices for an interview but he declined.”
“Dominic,” the Pope said. “I told Officer Messina we would talk here in my office instead of making this a formal interrogation. There’s no need for outsiders to question why a Cardinal, the head of the Vatican Bank nonetheless, is being questioned at a police station. I refused to allow that.”
The pontiff spoke harshly, a surprising change from his typically quiet demeanor. “You must understand that it is this man’s job to solve this case. You are here, Cardinal Conti, because of your own actions. Without seeking advice or approval from your superiors, you chose to involve the American FBI in an operation to catch a criminal on Italian soil. The FBI in turn called upon the Italian anti-Mafia police to capture Signore Moretti, or Signore Spedino as we now know. It is imperative the Vatican police ensure nothing further needs to be done. We are keeping our own house clean. A high-ranking Church official is involved in apprehending a criminal. Very strange, you’d agree. And you’re out of line, Cardinal, in your protest of what is nothing more than a fact-finding mission by the police.”
The officer was trained to listen to words and hear more than what was being said. The pontiff didn’t trust Conti. He was sure of it. His face remained impassive as he watched the Pope dress down this senior Church official.
“I’m sure you have nothing to hide, so I’ll ask Officer Messina to keep going now. We must move along as expeditiously as possible.”
Messina picked up the questioning again, emboldened by the pontiff’s tacit approval of his interrogation. “Let’s see, where were we? I think I asked about two of your statements. I believe you said Moretti was a major benefactor to the Church and that you were aware he had an interest in rare books. What is the basis of those statements and how did you know these things?”
Weaving a web of deceit is not an easy matter. Lies pile upon lies and one must be on his toes to keep from being caught in one’s own web. Dominic Conti had come into this meeting unprepared for questioning by a member of law enforcement. He hadn’t completely thought through his stories and at this point he was frankly getting tired. His answers became less structured, more vague.
“I really don’t recall, Officer Messina. I heard some time ago that Giovanni Moretti was a generous man to his church and that he was a bibliophile. I think it may have been…”
The officer stoppe
d him. “Pardon me, Cardinal Conti, but Signore Moretti was only in Italy less than a year before he was captured…with your significant help, as you pointed out. Before that he was John Spedino, a Mafia chieftain in prison for murder in Guatemala. Are you saying you knew John Spedino was generous to the Church, or Giovanni Moretti? If the latter, his generosity must have appeared only very recently. He wasn’t using that name for very long.”
“Possibly it was Spedino…” Conti was backing himself into a corner. “No, I’m obviously mistaken. I had no idea Moretti was actually John Spedino. So of course I couldn’t have known.”
The Cardinal turned to the Pope, sitting impassively behind his desk, his hands folded over his waist. “Holiness, I respectfully ask that we terminate this interrogation. I have nothing to hide but I feel as though I’m on the witness stand. I’m angered at this man’s insinuations.”
The pontiff said, “I’ve listened to every word, Dominic. I heard no insinuations. I heard a man of the law ask a man of the cloth questions about some things he doesn’t fully understand. I’m willing to accede to your request to stop now because I have other matters at hand. Gentlemen, this meeting is concluded for today. Officer Messina, if you have further questions you may contact Cardinal Conti directly. For the time being you will not require him to come to your police headquarters. Any discussions will be held here in the Vatican and you, Eminence, will make yourself available on reasonable notice from Officer Messina. I will be involved in future conversations if I deem it necessary. Should your interest in Cardinal Conti become more than it is today, you will notify me and I will give further direction then. Please give Signore Messina your contact information, Cardinal Conti.”
Everyone stood, the visitors bowed and left the room. In the hallway outside the papal offices Conti handed the policeman a card with his email address and office phone number. Messina said, “I appreciate your help, Eminence. I apologize if I seemed aggressive. I certainly meant no disrespect.”
Conti looked at him stonily and said nothing. He turned and strode angrily down the hall.
Officer Messina walked to a staircase fifty feet away and took the broad stone steps down three flights to ground level.
“I wonder what Cardinal Conti has to hide,” he thought to himself as he walked back to police headquarters. “He’s definitely lying about something. And I think even the Pope knows it. I’ll have to find out what it is.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
London
Brian and the librarian returned to the front desk with the things they’d discovered in the locker. They noticed the other visitor walking to the restrooms.
Jeffrey Montfort glanced inside the binder and confirmed it was the one that hadn’t been returned. He then handed it to Brian. “I know you’re going to want to peruse this. Hopefully something here will help figure out what Lord Borland was doing.”
Brian carried the laptop and binder to the carrel he had been assigned. He tackled the computer first; although an older Lenovo it powered up promptly then asked for a password. He had no idea what Arthur might have used so the laptop would have to wait until he could talk to Carissa Borland.
He turned to the book. The binder’s spine was blank. On the front cover someone had written “Journal des Pauperes Commilitones.” He opened it and gasped. The title page said Opus Militum Xpisti. The Work of the Soldiers of Christ. Excitedly he turned to the next page – the entry was dated 1475. Brian was ecstatic. This was the missing book, a copy of the manuscript that had been stolen in the Fifth Avenue bombing. He flipped quickly through pages to the end. It looked as though it had a couple hundred pages. This could be a complete copy!
He looked at Google on the computer in front of him then said, “Jeffrey, take a look at this.” The librarian walked from his desk to the carrel. “You said the library’s description of this book is ‘Journal des Pauperes Commilitones’ and it’s dated 1699. Right?”
“Absolutely correct, Brian.”
“I looked it up. Do you know what Journal des Pauperes Commilitones roughly translates to in English? It’s the diary of the poor soldiers.”
“From my rusty schoolboy French I think that’s accurate. And your point?”
“Arthur said that the original Knights Templars were called the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. So it doesn’t really matter what the listing in your records showed. This is what matters.” He opened the book to the first page. Opus Militum Xpisti.
He spoke almost in a whisper. “It’s the missing volume, Jeffrey. It’s a copy of the book that was stolen when my gallery was bombed.”
“My God, Brian. Is this what Arthur was looking for?”
“I think it must have been. I need to do more work on this but I have to go to a meeting at the gallery shortly. Do you have a high-speed copier here?”
“Yes. Even better, I could scan it.”
“Excellent! Can you get to work on that while I call Lord Borland’s wife? I know I don’t need to tell you to be careful. That’s the only copy in existence, I’ll bet.”
The librarian smiled and said nothing. He would be careful. He always was.
Jeffrey Montfort took the binder back to his desk, snapped the rings open and removed the pages. He turned on a scanner and got everything ready. He hit the green button and the pages rapidly began to feed into the machine.
The man who was using the other carrel had heard everything. He entered a text message into his phone.
“There’s a copy of the manuscript. Sadler has seen it.”
“Take care of it. Get me that copy. Do you understand?”
“Affirmative, Eminence.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Vatican City
It was nearly five pm when Dominic got back to his office. His secretary was wrapping things up for the day. Conti gave him a curt nod, walked into his office and slammed the door. He turned the lock on it, walked to the pantry by his office and put two cubes of ice in a highball glass. Sitting at his desk he reached into the bottom left drawer and pulled out a fifth of Chivas Regal. He poured the glass half full, knocked it back in a few steady gulps and fixed another. His heart rate slowed as the alcohol did its work.
What the hell was this guy doing? How dare he treat a senior official of the Catholic Church like a common street thief? I didn’t appreciate his condescending attitude but I have to be careful now. He’s asking questions that could get me in trouble. I need to think this entire thing through, come up with an airtight story and stick to it. I can outwit this man.
Nursing his next drink, Dominic Conti took out a legal pad and began to make a list. In one column were the events that had actually transpired with Moretti aka Spedino. Opposite those entries were the things Conti would say had happened. By the time the liquor began to dull his brain he had filled two pages – one side of each page with actual events and the other with fictitious explanations. Satisfied that he was on the right track, he hid the pad of paper where it would be safe. He turned off the lights, locked his office door from the outside and walked to his apartment.
At 2:30 am Conti sat straight up in bed. A million hammers banged inside his head. He shouldn’t have come home and had another scotch. Or was it two? He had awakened with a sudden dread in his clouded mind. He shouldn’t have left that legal pad at the office. It had everything on it that would create his alibi. No one could challenge it except Spedino and he was in jail. But he should have brought it home. It wouldn’t do for that to get in the wrong hands. What if it were missing? What if someone had taken it?
It was rare that a Cardinal would come to his office in the wee hours, but it wasn’t unprecedented. The security guard dutifully checked Conti’s ID even though he knew the man well. That was the rule and they both followed it. Conti signed in and noted the time – 3:13 am.
“I won’t be long,” he said. “I left something in my office that I need.”
He took the stairs to his floor then went to the wing w
here his office was located. Everything was completely quiet, the hallways and rooms dark. There were no security guards in this area; only the papal offices had such protection. Conti pulled out his key, unlocked the office door and turned on the light.
He walked to his desk and pulled the middle drawer wide open to get the legal pad from the back where he had put it.
But it wasn’t there.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Cardinal frantically searched his desk. He had forgotten exactly where he had hidden the notepad. He had been a little tipsy, in fact he still was, he admitted to himself. So he had put it somewhere else. He went through every drawer, examined folders and files in and on his desk and even looked in the wastebasket. It was empty; the cleaning crew had already been through. And he knew he hadn’t accidentally thrown it away. As fuzzy as his mind was, that little pad was too important. He wouldn’t have done that.
The cleaning crew! There’s a spy here! They took my notepad!
He spent ten minutes mulling that possibility in his addled brain, then decided he was making too much of all this. When people lose keys or other things it usually pays to forget about it. Then what you’ve lost turns up and you remember that’s where you put it in the first place.
He was nervous. But he wasn’t going to panic. He hadn’t been in the best of shape when he put the pad away. It was somewhere. He just needed to wait until the naked light of day. It would turn up.
Before he left he made sure the manuscript and decoder page were safely in a drawer of his credenza, well hidden underneath a stack of mundane reports no one cared about. Then he went home to bed, tossing and turning the rest of the night.
The next morning Dominic had pressing business with the bank. There was no time to think about the missing legal pad or the coded page in the ancient manuscript. Two ibuprofen and massive quantities of coffee had helped a little but he still felt sluggish and drowsy. Thank God the things on his agenda were handled via emails and phone calls. He didn’t need the hassle of face-to-face meetings this morning.
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