Conti forced himself to be calm. His mind raced – at first he thought this was about his breaking into the Pope’s office – somehow he had been caught on camera or otherwise compromised. But if that were the case the head of the Swiss Guard would have been here, not Frederico Messina. So this was about something else. But what?
The Pope introduced the two then said, “Please sit. May I arrange some coffee for you, Cardinal Conti?”
He declined. The pontiff sat behind the desk.
“A matter has come to my attention, Dominic, and I thought it best to get first-hand answers to a few questions Officer Messina has.”
“Of course, Holiness. Anything I can do to help…”
The Pope interrupted. “Officer Messina, please take over from here. I’ll interject when I feel it necessary.”
Dominic Conti could feel drops of sweat beading up on his neck and in his armpits. Where was this headed?
Within a matter of seconds he knew the answer.
“Eminence,” the policeman began, “does the name Giovanni Moretti ring a bell with you?”
Chapter Thirty
London
Brian spent the morning at the gallery, ate a quick lunch at his desk, wrapped up and took the tube to the Club. At three pm he walked into the library. A man dressed in khaki slacks and a sweater stood at the front desk, completing a short check-in form.
Jeffrey Montfort was helping the man. He looked up and said, “Good afternoon, Brian. Ready to tackle our project? I’ll be with you in a moment. Let me get this gentleman situated.”
Jeffrey seemed eager to get to work. He hummed as the man at the desk handed in his paperwork and requested a couple of books. He led the stranger to a carrel, held up a finger to Brian to indicate he’d be right back, and trotted off to the stacks. He returned in a couple of minutes with two books, handed them off to the new guest and returned to his desk and Brian.
“All yours!” He was effusive, Brian noticed. Working on a mystery was likely the most interesting thing that had happened in the Monument Club library in years. And Jeffrey Montfort was ready for some detective work.
“The easiest way to start will be to provide you with everything Lord Borland was working on that last few days before his death. I’ll print out a list of the items he had checked out that last week. He was here every day. As excited as he became there at the end I’m sure he was on to something. He’d come in every morning around ten, have a cup of tea with me then get started. He checked out several things each day and returned them every evening. That’s our policy, you know. Everything checked out gets returned the same day. That’s my job! Library policeman!”
Brian listened patiently to Jeffrey Montfort ramble. He craved conversation – that much was obvious. He was friendly and probably very intelligent, but his pasty skin and disheveled appearance revealed a man who got outdoors very little and cared nothing for how he looked.
Jeffrey Montfort went to work. “All right then,” the librarian said shortly, “here’s our printout. I’ll find all these things for you. Meanwhile let me stick you in a carrel – here, let’s just use the same one Arthur worked in for the last few months. Seems fitting, don’t you think?” The carrel was twenty feet away from the only other person in the library. That man had his head buried in a book, hard at work in his own cubicle.
The librarian scurried away, perusing his list as he stuck a pencil behind his ear. In his carrel Brian unpacked the case he had brought, putting pen, pencil, highlighter and paper on his desk.
“I haven’t sat in a carrel since college,” he thought, remembering the old days at Oklahoma University with his roommate Harry Harrison. Harry had followed his father’s political career, ultimately becoming Vice President of the United States, and then assuming the highest office when his predecessor went missing in Mexico. Brian had been instrumental in helping find the former President some time back.
The librarian returned with an armful of things – a couple of books, several three-ring binders filled with papers and a couple of magazines. But he looked puzzled.
“Find everything OK?” Brian asked.
“Not exactly. This is odd. Yes it is. This is odd.”
As Brian’s grandfather would have put it, the man was in a tizzy. He was upset about something; he kept looking at his printout, then the items he had in his arms, then back to the sheet. He shook his head. “I can’t explain how this could have happened.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, it appears our friend Lord Borland broke the rules. Or more accurately, we both did. It looks like that last day he forgot to turn in one of the things he checked out. And I’m an accomplice! I neglected to double-check what he returned. Instead, I must have simply marked off everything as back in its place.”
“So one of the items isn’t on the shelf?”
“Exactly. Lord Borland must have forgotten to turn it in.”
“Could he actually have handed it back, and you either misfiled it or someone else took it off the shelf where it belonged?”
Jeffrey Montfort became miffed. “I haven’t misfiled an item in ten years, Brian. Some people call me OCD. I prefer to call myself meticulous, careful even. I care deeply for each one of these sixty thousand documents. They’re my family, you might say. I treat each with respect and care. And I ensure our members do the same.”
This is a little creepy, Brian thought. This guy really needs a life.
“And no one took this item off the shelf. Before Lord Borland asked for it no one had requested it in the entire time I’ve been here. Twenty-one years next month.” Obviously distressed, he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his brow. He was sweating profusely. Brian was afraid he was going to have a heart attack.
“Let’s just think this through. What is the thing that’s missing?”
“It’s a two-inch three-ring binder, one of several copies of books that Marco Caboto’s heirs donated to the Club in 1930. I told you earlier that Arthur was very interested in the Knights Templars manuscripts, the ones Caboto turned over to the Vatican around 1875. The Club received copies of those manuscripts in 1930 along with the rest of Marco Caboto’s library. One day or another over the past few weeks Arthur Borland had checked out every Templars copy we had, but lately he began requesting unrelated things. This missing binder is one of those. I think he was looking at every copy of anything from the Caboto collection. Not original volumes, mind you. Just copies. I figure he was probably making sure none of them might accidentally be the copy of that last volume – the Templar manuscript that was stolen from your gallery. The name of the item that’s missing is ‘Journal des Pauperes Commilitones’. It’s a copy of an original which was dated 1699.”
The title meant nothing to Brian. “So Arthur had to have put this binder into his briefcase in order for it to be missing? Correct? Do you inspect the carrels before closing at night to ensure no one left anything out?”
Jeffrey Montfort puffed up like a balloon. He was livid – Brian could see veins in his temples and his face was red. His voice rose slightly and was strangely high-pitched.
“Mister Sadler! I would think from what I’ve told you that you daren’t question my diligence in maintaining this roomful of my children, my books. Of course I check everything at night. I make sure every chair is pushed back beneath its carrel. I turn off every single light. There was nothing left behind. Nothing.”
Brian had unintentionally gone too far. “I apologize, Jeffrey. I’m just vocalizing every thought I can come up with, trying to conceptualize what could have happened. I met Arthur downstairs for lunch the day after his last visit here. If the briefcase he had then is the same as he carried here I don’t see how he could have put a two-inch binder in it. It wasn’t big enough to hold a binder that size.”
“He always carried the same brown case.”
“That’s the one. Do you have storage lockers here?”
“No. Well actually, yes. But no one
’s used them in years.”
“Can we take a look at them?”
“Follow me.” Montfort led Brian to a closet near the entrance to the library. He opened the door; inside was a dusty room lined with shelves of cubbyholes, each one covered by a hinged wooden door. Each was perhaps a foot square and two feet deep. The librarian was right – they looked as though nobody had been in the room for ages.
“Look,” Brian said, pointing to the floor. There were shoe prints in the dust. They led into the room four feet to a wall of ancient wooden lockers, some doors open with hinges hanging askew. Others were closed and one had a small padlock on it. Brian pointed at the lock.
“I’ve never seen that before in my life,” Montfort said.
“It looks pretty new, at least a whole lot newer than the shelves in this room,” Brian replied. “Can I open it?”
“Absolutely you can. Whoever put that lock on did so without my permission. We need to see what’s in there.”
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 mo
ve 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 stopped 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.”
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 81
