Vatican Vendetta

by Peter Watson

  Next morning it was such a lovely day he walked from Bess’s flat, across the Tiber, to the Vatican Archive. The archive was a wonderful place to work. He had been given a desk in a small room, stacked high with manuscripts. There was no view, but the Roman sunshine streamed in through the window carrying with it the noises of birds, airplanes, traffic. It sounded like a view. The Boltraffio file was, of course, less voluminous than the Leonardo ones but still, there were many documents: contracts, odd bits of drawings, letters from patrons. David settled to his task, making a careful note of all persons mentioned in the papers. There were other sources to try if Boltraffio proved a dead end.

  The Vatican Secret Archive was only open in the mornings so, around twelve thirty, David made preparations to leave. He went to the librarian to hand back the file and to request some photocopying. The librarian was not at his desk so he waited. Suddenly he noticed, across the room, two figures seated together. With a shock he realized one of them was Rome’s foremost newspaper columnist, the cadaverous Cardinal Massoni himself. With him was Diego Giunta, the head archivist, who was holding a piece of paper and speaking in rapid Italian. The pair hadn’t noticed David. He heard the word ‘Papa’ several times and several references to ‘i lettere segreti’, the secret letters. David recalled that Giunta was writing the official life story of the previous Pope, Pius XIII. Presumably he had discovered some unpublished letters. David smiled to himself. Though he was no fan of Giunta’s, still less of Massoni’s, he well understood the excitement of the scholar who has made such a discovery.

  The librarian came back and David explained which documents he wanted photocopied and sent to London. Bess had a business lunch that day so he planned to eat alone. He left the Vatican by the Porta Sant’ Anna, turned left and walked to the Piazza del Risorgimento. Just off the piazza was a little trattoria he had once stumbled across where they deep-fried fresh anchovies as part of their antipasti. He had never forgotten the taste and went there now.

  The restaurant was quiet and, more to the point in view of the high Roman sun, cool. David made his way to the back of the restaurant where he could read, as well as eat, in peace. He had with him I. B. Hart’s book, The World of Leonardo da Vinci. If Boltraffio failed him, he wanted to be ready to pick up with other friends or, thinking of Townshend, who had given him the idea, enemies of the great man. He settled to his book and the anchovies. He had plenty of time. Bess would run him to the airport later and perhaps they could carry on their discussion about what they should do now that Sarah was dead.

  Enjoying his book, David lingered over his veal, and ordered a second cup of coffee. By the time he paid his bill the restaurant was beginning to empty. On his way out, he noticed the vivid scarlet piping of a cardinal’s soutane. He looked across—it was Massoni again. But his companion this time was not Giunta but a Slavic-looking man with jowls and hardly any hair. David vaguely thought he’d seen the man before, but couldn’t place him. Perhaps he was Massoni’s newspaper editor.

  In the afternoon he paid a visit to Hamilton’s Rome gallery. Massimo Vittrice welcomed him but had no news. No good news anyway. There was no shortage of bad news. The Italian government had decided to go into the art market itself. Faced with the export of Vatican works, the government had given instructions that any good Italian art that came on to the market in other countries it would seek to buy back. Several agents had been commissioned, among them Steele’s in London. But not Hamilton’s.

  The firm was still being discriminated against, both in Britain and Italy. There were those on the board, Averne of course among them, who thought the Holy Father should be asked to compensate Hamilton’s for this loss of business. David didn’t agree—his view was that Hamilton’s had done very well out of the Vatican sales. They couldn’t complain now. Still, it meant that, on this, as on almost every issue, Sam Averne and he were on different sides.

  On his way back to Bess’s flat where he was to meet her and pick up his luggage, David bought an English newspaper. In the taxi he read that on the previous day, the British Prime Minister had referred to Sarah Greener’s assassination in a party political broadcast. In placing blame he hadn’t mentioned Pope Thomas by name but his meaning was clear enough. Speaking on behalf of his government, the Prime Minister had described its achievements in Northern Ireland—new roads, new schools, a new reservoir. Then he had added: ‘Some people seem to think of Northern Ireland as a depressed area, like Sicily or Vietnam. Those of us who know the province recognise that to be unholy rubbish.’

  On their way to the airport David read the speech to Bess. ‘Coming from a Prime Minister whose party has made a mess of the Irish question for decades, I think that’s a bit rich,’ she said. ‘Still, for once we’ve had some good news at our end, today, thank God. The “Invisible Vatican” in Hungary appears to be flourishing. Reports are coming in which show a growing demand for religious services across many rural areas. The authorities are desperately searching for our secret cardinal. They haven’t found him yet, though. Nor will they.’

  Bess’s conversation turned to the China trip. ‘That’s Thomas’s next great adventure and I have to be sure that nothing goes wrong.’ She was driving and swung the car on to the annulare, Rome’s ring road. ‘An advance party is going out in October to check the Holy Father’s itinerary and to see for themselves all the places he’ll be visiting on the tour. Besides mainland China, we shall be going to Hong Kong and Taiwan—’

  ‘Bess!’ cried David, interrupting her. ‘We have to talk. About us. Are you avoiding it?’

  She manoeuvred the car into the fast lane. ‘Of course not. But let’s not get heavy and emotional all the time, honey. We have so little time together—let’s enjoy it.’

  David’s earlier reservations returned. But he said nothing. It was no use insisting with Bess. He sat back and looked out at Rome’s sun-baked suburbs.

  They reached the airport in what seemed like a few minutes. She pulled the car to a halt underneath the ‘Departures’ sign, leaned over and kissed him. ‘Give my love to Ned and tell him he has to look after you. Because his father can’t have what he wants immediately, he thinks he’s never going to. And that’s nonsense.’ She kissed him again. ‘Come back soon. I’m missing you already.’

  He got out, and lifted his bag from the back seat.

  ‘I forgot, I’ve got something for you,’ she said, as he stooped to wave goodbye.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The official report on the first year of the St Patrick’s Fund investments. A draft for you to comment on before publication. It’s appalling, darling. I only hope Massoni hasn’t got hold of a copy yet. I didn’t really forget it, I just left it till now. Read it when you’re on the plane. It’s really bad.’

  As Bess had said, the report was bad. It was worse than bad, it was a disaster. The bland wording of the chairman’s opening statement was bad enough: ‘The fund has performed below expectations. The investments in high technology have been especially disappointing, with the computer market, at the moment, apparently saturated. But shipping and airlines are all underperforming and our holdings in these areas have barely kept pace with inflation.’

  You could say that again, thought David, as he glanced at the figures on the next pages. When this news got out Thomas was going to come under even more pressure. Especially if Massoni got his hands on it. Neither he nor the Romans had liked the sale of the treasures and this would confirm all their worst prejudices.

  The following day, back in London, David looked more closely at the figures, making a few notes on a pad at his side. He was in his office and it was by now the last week of the season. Only two minor sales—of portrait miniatures and stained glass—remained before the staff ran for the beaches of Europe. What he had on his desk was not the financial report that would eventually be published. He had a much fuller account, showing among other details the dates on which shares had been bought and sold. After five minutes he tore his page of notes off its
pad and got to his feet. Sally Middleton wasn’t in her room, so he left her a note: ‘Gone to London Library, back in an hour.’ He took the Vatican report with him and walked across the square to the Library. A wind swept down King Street, deep yellow clouds gathered. He loved the London Library, the best club in London, with the best staff of any library he had ever come across. Inside he went down to the basement, where the newspapers were kept. He had the place to himself, and he was there for more than an hour, nearer two. He went back over the previous months, checking company news, share prices and the dates on the fund document. Once he found the pattern, and he knew what to look out for, his job became much easier.

  But his horror only grew. He walked back across St James’s Square feeling as stormy as the day around him. If he was right, and he was pretty sure he was, the St Patrick’s Fund had not merely failed—it had been made to fail deliberately.

  13

  August arrived. In Italy Thomas left for Castel Gandolfo, south of Rome in the Alban Hills. Massoni kept up his sniping in Il Messaggero, attacking the Holy Father’s ‘Invisible Vatican’ programme as ‘provocative’ and the China trip as ‘supping with the devil’. But so far he didn’t seem to have got hold of any advance information about the St Patrick’s Fund report.

  In America the election race was beginning to heat up. According to the opinion polls, Roskill was ahead but Fairbrother was well supported and gaining ground.

  In Brazil, meanwhile, one of the party of blind schoolgirls who had sat on the stage with Thomas at the audience in the Nervi hall, had slowly begun to see again. Juliana Caratinga, now nine, had been blind since she was three when some paint had been spilled into her eyes. It was quite possible that her eyes had somehow now recovered from the paint in a perfectly natural course of events. But that wasn’t how many people thought of it. That wasn’t how the young girl thought of it herself. To her and to many others, her recovery was a miracle, a miracle performed by the Holy Father that day in the Nervi hall when Thomas had touched and blessed all the girls from Rio and sat them on the stage with him. Juliana’s school was in the Olaria section of Rio, not so far from where Thomas had set up the devolved Vatican in the Prato and it was fast becoming a shrine.

  Thomas had not encouraged this: he wasn’t in favour of cults, especially those which concerned living people, but there wasn’t much he could do about it in Rome. Bess was less negative about the development than Thomas. She kept an open mind concerning the causes, natural or supernatural, that had cured Juliana Caratinga. But the episode undeniably showed how differently the Holy Father was viewed in the west and in the Third World.

  In England David was thankful for the peace of August. There were no auctions, many of the galleries were closed, the dealers already on the beaches of Sottogrande or Castiglione della Pescaia. Most relaxing of all, Sam Averne was away on Long Island until the Memorial Day weekend in September.

  Ned had come home from school still feeling very low but Anthony Wilde remained convinced that he was on the mend. ‘Take him away somewhere you can spend a lot of time together. Get his mind off home—England, school, his mother’s world—for as long as you can. Do things with him but also give him his own space.’

  David’s plan was for them to spend three weeks in Rome with Bess. They could all explore the city, and go out to the beach whenever they felt like it, while he—David—could spend a few days in the Vatican Archive.

  But first, David put on paper his suspicions about how the St Patrick’s Fund investments had been made to fail. He was now convinced of this: the pattern recurred too frequently for anything else to explain it. Shares had been bought in companies well after they had begun to sink, even after warning notices had appeared in the press. Other shares had been sold while they were still rising. In some circumstances that might be good business, but the fund managers had been getting off the roll far too early for it to make sense. One question remained: who was masterminding the operation? It wasn’t clear from the document David had. The fund was managed on a day-to-day basis by two Swiss banks with close Vatican connections, but David knew nothing about them. His plan was to show the report to Bess and, if she agreed, give it directly to Thomas on his return from Castel Gandolfo at the end of the summer. That way only the minimum number of people need know of his discovery.

  As soon as he and Ned arrived in Rome he gave Bess his confidential report. She was so disturbed by it that she decided to pass it on to Thomas immediately. Until he reacted there was nothing else either of them could do.

  For the first few days in Rome Bess looked after Ned while David visited the Vatican Archive. As always, he enjoyed himself enormously, so much so that he half-wished he could have the academic life permanently. Then, at least, Sam Averne would be off his back. It was only a half-wish, though. He loved the auction business, and he knew that he would find life as a full-time academic irksome.

  Boltraffio didn’t produce what he’d hoped for. He turned to another of Leonardo’s aides, Marco d’Oggioni. Like Boltraffio, he had worked in da Vinci’s studio in Milan and just might have taken possession of some papers belonging to the master. The file on d’Oggioni was as thick as that for Boltraffio and so for nearly a week David happily ploughed through his papers.

  At the end of that time, though, Bess and Ned were growing weary of the hot, sticky Roman days. Together they had visited the Central Institute for Restoration where Ned had been able to see picture frames and antique furniture being re-gilded. Bess took him to the archive, near where his father was working, and where the Vatican’s great collection of books is kept, so that he could study the bindings, many of them decorated with the most sumptuous gilt tooling.

  The three of them now decided to take a complete break—and headed for Sicily, to a place none of them had ever been, Agrigento on the south coast, looking out towards Africa. They found a small hotel just outside the town, at Porto Empedocle, from where they could see the many Greek temples halfway up the hills which overlooked the sea. They found a quiet beach just along the coast towards San Leone and went there most days, lazing in the sun and flopping into the water to cool off when the heat became too much. There was only one good restaurant in the town, overlooking the port, so they went there every night. They read, ate ice cream, didn’t make it to the Greek temples, didn’t take any boat rides to the off-shore islands, and didn’t bother with English language newspapers. Bess could have scoured the island for Sicilian silk but didn’t get round to that either. They did notice that there appeared to be a slight resurgence of Mafia activity on the island—there were a couple of articles about it in the local Sicilian press and Bess cut them out, intending to show them to Thomas later. They went to mass.

  In the evenings they systematically worked their way through the Sicilian specialities on the menu—maccheroncini, swordfish, cannolichi, ruote, and a white wine from the slopes of Mount Etna. After dinner each night they went for the same walk, out towards the end of the jetty. The stars seemed very close this far down Europe. There was also constant movement out at sea. David had no idea there was so much traffic off the coast of Sicily. They would watch the lights of ships steaming by and imagine who was on board and where they were headed.

  One evening they were strolling back from the jetty, past the fashionable end of the port, where the bigger yachts overnighted, when suddenly Bess stopped. ‘Look!’ she said, pointing.

  The others followed the direction of her arm.

  ‘Jeesus!’ said Ned. On the side of one enormous yacht was painted a name and a black silhouette they knew all too well: the ‘Pietà’.

  ‘It must be Wilkie’s boat,’ said David. ‘That’s just the kind of thing he’d do.’

  Just then, as if to confirm David’s supposition, Wilkie himself came on deck. David and the others made to hurry off, but they were too late. ‘Colwyn! Is that you? Hey—that’s really something. What are you doing here?’ He answered his own question. ‘Having a vacation, I guess, just like m
e. Don’t run away, come aboard, have a drink. I’ve got something to show you.’

  They were caught, unable to escape without being rude. A crewman appeared and slid a gangplank between the stern of the boat and the jetty. Ned went first and the others followed.

  ‘Come below,’ said Wilkie after David had introduced the others. ‘It’s air-conditioned and cooler.’ And so, regretfully, they foresook the warm, sensual night outside, the stars and the breeze, for the clammy interior. Wilkie fixed them all drinks at a flashy brass and mahogany bar in the saloon. Then said, ‘I suppose you noticed that I’ve renamed the boat? Neat, eh? There’s more than that up my sleeve, though. You’d better just come along with me. Have I got something to show you.’ He led the way forward to a cabin that was obviously his office. Here he reached into a wide, shallow map drawer and took out a series of designs. ‘What do you think of these?’

  David stared. So did Bess and Ned.

  They were architectural drawings of Michelangelo’s ‘Pietà’ set in several different, recognizably American scenes. There was the ‘Pietà’ outside the Pentagon, outside the White House, near the ice rink at Rockerfeller Centre in New York, with San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge in the immediate background, as part of the Bel Air Hotel complex in Beverly Hills, as part of the waterfront in Chicago, in the main hall of Caesar’s Palace hotel in Las Vegas.

  ‘What is all this?’ David asked, knowing the answer. Bess was silent.

  ‘My plan’s to get the “Pietà” maximum exposure. I need eventually to find a permanent home for it. I don’t think my own office building in Washington is the right place, after all. Not enough people can see it. So, I’m planning to send it on tour—three months in each of these sites. Then, wherever it looks best will be its permanent resting place.’