Vatican Vendetta

by Peter Watson

  David had made his name in the art world by being a scholar-detective as well as an auctioneer. His discoveries, his ‘coups’, had won him international recognition. The first had been made early on in his career when he had discovered a set of documents belonging to an old Roman family which had set him on the trail of a missing sculpture by Gianlorenzo Bernini, the great Baroque master. He had tracked that down to a family in Germany who hadn’t a clue what treasure they housed in their conservatory. The second had earned him promotion over the heads of at least two older colleagues. This was his discovery of a small ‘Madonna’ in a private collection in Sweden. It had been miscatalogued, but David was able to show it was a Raphael that had once belonged to the Hapsburg Emperor, Rudolph II of Prague, and then to Queen Christina of Sweden, whose troops had looted the Prague pictures in the Thirty Years War. The delighted Swede had sold the picture, through Hamilton’s, of course, when it had fetched over ten million pounds. So yes, he reflected, he did know the pictures in this room quite well. He gazed at the painting above the Pope. It showed a Madonna and Child in its top half, the Virgin seated in a large golden halo surrounded by clouds in the shape of cherubs. In the bottom half several saints craned their necks upwards. The picture was full of rich reds, gold, smoky blues, deep lush greens.

  The Holy Father still looked at David, still waiting. For a moment, David was mystified by the silence. He looked again at the picture in the middle of the wall. This was Raphael’s great ‘Transfiguration’. On the far side was the equally arresting ‘Coronation of the Virgin’. Then it came to him. Rehearsing the titles of the pictures did it, helped him make the link the Pope was waiting for. How could he have been so slow! The picture above them was Raphael’s ‘Madonna of Foligno’.

  ‘I want to sell this picture, Mr Colwyn, and give the proceeds to the victims of Foligno.’

  ‘What!’ David half-shouted. The Pope put his hand on David’s arm as if to steady him. David looked at Elizabeth Lisle: her expression was concerned but she was smiling faintly. He looked at Massoni: that famous cold stare. At Venturini: a sad, almost hunted look.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the newspapers today, or the television, or listened to the radio. You will know that I was shouted at—screamed at—by the mayor of Foligno, a man who happens to be a communist. I should be thankful, perhaps, that so much of the press appears to be on my side. But it’s a poor leader who starts believing the publicity about himself, especially when he’s only been in the job for a few months. Like me you may have noticed that, in some cases, the news of Signor Sirianni’s outburst outweighed even the news of the disaster itself. A sad reflection on our times.’

  The Pope shifted his stance and rubbed his thigh. David remembered now that he had been shot at and injured as a young man while on church business in Kampuchea which had left him with a weak left leg. ‘You’re in shock and my leg’s playing up, Mr Colwyn. Let’s sit down.’ He pointed to some wooden Roman-style chairs on the far side of the gallery, beneath the tapestries. They crossed, and sat down side by side. The rest of the party hovered about them.

  ‘Tecce! Am I allowed to smoke in here?’

  ‘Of course, Holiness.’

  The Pope reached into his cassock and took out a packet of cigarettes. He offered one to David, who shook his head.

  Thomas flicked the lighter and breathed blue smoke into the gallery. ‘You know, being a smoker these days is lonelier than being Pope. I don’t know anyone except me who has this dreadful habit.’ He smiled. ‘Are you on the trail of any other missing paintings just now?’

  David shook his head. ‘No, I’ve become seduced by one of the oldest mysteries in the art world. I spend all my spare time investigating that.’

  ‘Oh yes, tell me.’ Thomas was being polite, letting David get used to the outrageous idea he had just put forward.

  ‘It concerns Leonardo da Vinci. You may or may not know, Sir, but the National Gallery in London and the Louvre in Paris each has a picture by him called the ‘Virgin of the Rocks’. They are nearly identical. The puzzle is: one of them is real, but the other is not, and no one knows which is which. Leonardo left so much unfinished work it is inconceivable he produced two highly finished paintings of the same subject. He got bored so easily: he would never have finished two. The problem is the documentation which exists suggests that the London picture is genuine, but the Paris picture, in terms of style, is the earlier.’

  ‘And what have you discovered so far?’

  ‘Well, there’s a missing year in Leonardo’s life—1482. I have found some documents, in the Vatican here, relating to that year. They may throw light on the great man’s activities.’

  ‘I was going to be a scholar once. Archaeology. But I was led astray—and ended up here.’ The Pope smiled again and drew on his cigarette. He let a short silence hang between them. Then he said: ‘The point is, Mr Colwyn, the Foligno mayor was right. He wasn’t speaking as a communist, but as a man, a tired and frustrated man who had seen his town destroyed. And he was right to say that the Church—like the Government—doesn’t do enough for the victims in a tragedy such as this one. Remember the Naples earthquake in 1981?’ The Pope punched a fist into his hand. ‘A disgrace. It took hours—days—for any relief supplies to arrive. Even when they did the Mafia stole half the blankets, much of the food—whole lorries disappeared.’ He fingered the pectoral cross on his chest. ‘Think back to the Ethiopian famine of 1984. What did governments or the churches do then? Not very much, I can tell you—I’ve looked it up. It was left to the people. Remember that mammoth concert—Live Aid? That was followed by Fashion Aid, Sports Aid, all manner of events which, in toto, raised millions of dollars.’

  Thomas changed tack. ‘I am told by my Secretary of State here, who is an experienced man, that it would be wrong for a Pope to be seen to be influenced by a communist mayor. That it makes me seem weak and it admits the Church has done less than it can—or should—do.’ He drew again on his cigarette. ‘I think the Church has been wrong, Mr Colwyn. That we could have done more. And I don’t see it as being weak to be influenced by someone who is correct in what he says, whatever his politics. I prefer to see it as an example of the Church’s humility. If a Pope can’t be humble, who can?

  ‘This is why I want to sell the picture. The world at large thinks that we have enormous riches. In a sense, we do. But that doesn’t mean we have a lot of ready cash to give away. We have investments which generate income, but we have commitments, too—schools, hospitals, missionaries, the churches themselves. As a going concern—as a management consultant might put it!—the Holy See loses a little money each year. If it were not for bequests and the St Peter’s Pence collection every year we should be even deeper in the red. As it is, those things help us to break even, more or less. By selling this picture I can kill several birds with one stone. I can convince the world that, whatever theoretical riches we have, they are not in liquid cash. At the same time this is a perfect occasion to show the world that the Catholic Church is humble, but caring.’

  David suddenly noticed what he should have noticed before. There was no one from the financial side of the Vatican in the Pope’s entourage.

  The other man was speaking again. ‘The match between the disaster and the Raphael is perfect. The painting was commissioned as an offering of thanks to the Virgin by someone who believed she had saved his home from a bolt of lightning. For many years it hung in the church of Santa Anna in Foligno. It was brought here after Napoleon looted it, but a copy hung in the cathedral which was destroyed yesterday. You know Raphael better than I do—that’s why we chose you—but for my part I am sure even he would have approved what I have in mind. Now, how much do you think it will fetch?’

  David’s brain, normally nimble, was numb. It was as if there was a black hole at its centre. Was the Pope being entirely serious? Would he be allowed to be? Sell a Vatican Raphael! It was impossible, disgraceful. It was also sensational, fantastic, spectacular. David tried to sha
ke those last words out of his head, but couldn’t. He was a businessman, after all, not just a Catholic; but he understood why Venturini looked so miserable.

  The Pope’s green eyes were on him again. Elizabeth Lisle was staring too, and the others. David took a deep breath.

  ‘I am sure you have done your homework, your Holiness. So you know that prices have been rising steeply. Lord Clark’s Turner was sold in 1984 for over seven million pounds, and that the Northampton Mantegna fetched eight point one million pounds in 1985. The Swedish Raphael I discovered fetched ten million pounds. In 1987 there was a jump, when Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” fetched nearly twenty-five million. Since then we’ve had the De Schael Van Eyck and the Orresman Duccio.’

  The more David thought about it, the more fantastic this conversation was. The Pope couldn’t sell a Raphael. Could he? The outcry would be enormous. But he pressed on. ‘A Raphael of any kind has to be worth those prices at least. Only this isn’t just any Raphael. It is one of the Vatican’s three great Raphaels. It is not just a picture, it’s part of the Church’s history, has hung in the Vatican itself for more than a hundred years. Napoleon looted it, it was returned. It is now being sold by a Pope for a most unusual reason. Quite frankly, sir, there are no precedents for this kind of thing. It could fetch forty million pounds, even more perhaps.’ David smiled. ‘Even the thought of it brings me out in a sweat.’ Before anyone else could say anything, he spoke again. ‘Your Holiness, it would be a tremendous honour for Hamilton’s to sell this picture on your behalf, if that is what you have in mind. But … but is it right? There will be a massive outcry, surely. Selling off the Vatican’s heritage, and Italy’s. Can you do it—legally as well as morally, I mean?’

  Massoni, Zingale and the others moved closer now. Clearly this was their view, that the Pope had no right to follow the plan he proposed. David began to realize that he had found himself slap in the middle of the first split between the Pope and his Secretary of State.

  Pope Thomas put his hand on David’s arm once more, this time as if to offer moral support.

  ‘It will be controversial, Mr Colwyn, that I grant you. But there is no doubt in my mind that it is right. The Church has been losing members, no secret about that. Worse, perhaps, it has been losing authority. We have to try to put both things right. Here is a clear-cut opportunity.’

  ‘And legally?’

  Pope Thomas flushed slightly at this challenge but all he said, very gently, was: ‘Legally, I can do as I wish, Mr Colwyn. There are no muddy waters there. There are traditions and customs, yes. But as Pope I am, in temporal matters, an absolute monarch. In the Vatican City State, what I say is the law.’ He went on more loudly, ‘But that’s not the real point. What matters is what’s right. We have to act—and be seen to act. And we have to act promptly. We have to give the people of Foligno hope.’

  Another thought occurred to David. ‘I may not be right about the exact figures, your Holiness, but one thing I do know is that it will take weeks—months, even—to mount the sale. It will be ages before the money comes through. By then it will be too late for the people of Foligno.’

  The Pontiff’s eyes twinkled. ‘I am ahead of you there, Mr Colwyn. The Vatican could borrow the money against the sale of the picture, if it came to that. But I have a better idea. I’m told that auction houses operate as bankers themselves these days, in order to secure business. That’s what I want you to do now. You say the picture is worth—let’s talk in dollars: say sixty million. I want you to advance me a third of that—twenty million dollars, much less than you think the picture will safely achieve—as a condition of getting our business.’

  In theory, and until that day, David had always been in favour of the new Pope. He also believed the Church needed to change, to modernize itself. It was ironical, he reflected, that he had been drawn so precipitously into that very modernizing process he had thought he approved of. But the Pope’s banking ideas were a little too modern for his taste.

  He was aware of the others waiting for him to say something. But what?

  His brain was at last beginning to boil with ideas. There would be an almighty rumpus when this news got out, no doubt about that. Whatever the Pope might say, however he might dress it up, many Catholics would be outraged. For a start, the Italians would be livid. All European countries, Britain, France, Spain, Greece, Italy most of all, had strong legislation, and strong pressure groups, to guard their artistic heritage from being exported. That the Pope was prepared to sell off a Raphael would appal every one of them. So far as Hamilton’s was concerned, such a commission would bring enormous publicity. It would be the biggest sale ever—certainly since Napoleon’s adventures. It would firmly establish Hamilton’s as the premier auction house across the world. That, too, would be put beyond doubt. Yet what if the publicity backfired? What if the Pope’s plan met with such resistance that, once announced, the picture had to be withdrawn? What if the sense of outrage was so strong and so widespread that demonstrations took place outside the Hamilton galleries? These days it could happen. Yet for all his doubts, David’s instincts still told him to say yes. It was a bold idea, imaginative and good in the best sense, and it deserved to succeed. What’s more, if it worked as well as it might, and millions of pounds reached the earthquake victims, it would do Hamilton’s no harm to be associated with it.

  ‘How long have I got? When do you want your answer?’

  ‘Now, of course. I must give the victims hope. To do that I have to make an announcement very quickly. If not tomorrow then the day after. I’ve given you first refusal, Mr Colwyn, because you know Rome, are a scholar and not just a businessman—and yes, because you are a Catholic, though an unhappy one, I am told. But if you can’t handle the business, I need to move on quickly. I’m sure someone from the other London salerooms can be here by tomorrow night.’ The Pope’s green eyes burned into David. ‘Well, what do you say?’ Thomas smiled. ‘Is it white smoke or black smoke?’

  David got up and walked back over to the ‘Madonna’. It certainly was beautiful. So serene, balanced, crisp. Twenty million dollars. He could raise the money, no doubts there. Hamilton’s overdraft facility with its bankers—a pompous set of peacocks, in David’s view—would amply contain even this development. Strictly speaking he was supposed to consult the board for any expenditure over five million pounds, but he also had emergency powers and this was certainly that. He turned to face the rest.

  ‘The answer is yes, your Holiness. It will be a great honour to help. I’m sure I can get your money here to Rome by the close of business on the day after tomorrow, at the latest.’

  ‘Splendid! I was told I could count on you.’

  David looked at Massoni. He appeared to have grown more cadaverous than ever, his lips drawn tightly into a straight narrow line. He would not meet anyone’s eye. Yes, thought David, another round in the old battle inside the Church—liberals v. the conservatives—it starts here, tonight.

  His Holiness was speaking to Elizabeth Lisle and O’Rourke, his secretary. ‘I want to make an announcement tomorrow, in time for the evening news on television and for Wednesday morning’s papers. Make sure everyone in the press has a photograph of the painting. In a few days this is going to be the most famous picture in the world.’ He turned to Venturini. ‘Giulio, I want the “Madonna” taken down right away and packed up. We don’t want tourists interfering with it.’ He came over to David, shepherding Elizabeth Lisle with him. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mr Colwyn. You are a brave man and I hope your bravery is rewarded. I am sure there are many details to sort out. Unfortunately, I have another engagement now but I suggest Elizabeth and you go through the problems that are likely to arise. You can trust her, Mr Colwyn. I do.’

  O’Rourke was trying to snatch the Holy Father away. He was already late. But before Thomas went, limping off back down the smaller galleries, he insisted, like any businessman, on shaking hands on the deal.

  David sat back, drank his wine
, and looked around the restaurant. On the wall opposite, rows of deep red jugs caught the light. Above them, a line of portraits—eighteenth-century engravings of much earlier originals, he judged—stared back at him. Beyond, the restaurant stretched on and on, the noise and the smells forming a rich, thick, comforting cloak.

  They had a table in Manetti’s on the Via Piedmontese, just off the Borghese Gardens. It had been Elizabeth Lisle’s idea. To begin with she had suggested that they meet next day in her office in the Vatican. But David had wanted to get back, to alert Hamilton’s board before the Holy Father made his announcement, so he had pressed for a meeting tonight.

  She had allowed him time for a quick shower at the Hassler, then had picked him up and brought him on here. ‘Nowhere too touristy tonight,’ she had said. ‘We can’t have you being recognized. And nowhere Vaticany either. I don’t want to be spotted. Manetti’s is somewhere we can talk.’

  There had been an embarrassing mix-up over the seating. The head waiter, misreading the situation, had shown them to a banquette, where they could sit side by side. They insisted on sitting at an ordinary table, face to face, where they could talk. The wine waiter had misread the situation, too, giving David the Merlot to taste. Elizabeth had put the man firmly in his place.

  But at last they were settled. David drank more wine and closed his eyes in pleasure. ‘Who—or what—is Manetti?’

  ‘An enemy of Savonarola’s. The restaurant is based on the idea that the proper use of burning is cooking. It’s a rather bloodthirsty Italian joke. But there’s no need to make conversation, Mr Colwyn. We have enough to talk about, don’t you think?’

  David nodded. ‘I’ll say.’ He defused her tartness with a grin. ‘But I talk—and think—better on a full stomach and all I’ve had today is an Alitalia whisky and soda. Let’s order first and get it out of the way. Then we can concentrate.’