Vatican Vendetta: A thrilling battle of power and politics

by Peter Watson

  ‘I shall need it. I feel nervous already.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’ll be fine. Remember, Massoni’s the one with the troubled conscience. He’s the one at your meeting tomorrow who’ll have had a rough night, not you. Goodnight, darling. Again, good luck.’

  Despite what she said, and despite the fact that it was well after two when he climbed into bed, David was wide awake, and up, by six the next morning. He was immediately on edge, not sure what to expect at his meeting with Massoni, not sure what approach to adopt. Moreover, there wasn’t any research he could do that would make his task easier. The best he could do was to take refuge in the papers.

  Most of them showed the same instincts. It had been hundreds of years since two men had claimed to be Pope so the image of two men in white, Thomas on a balcony in Palermo, Massoni leaning out of a window in the Vatican, was simply too good to pass up. But David was more interested in what the morning papers had to say. For example, the Italian government’s response to the crisis. The Prime Minister had thrown his weight firmly behind Massoni, saying disparagingly that Thomas’s antics in Palermo merely showed how unfit he was to rule as Pope. To be on the safe side, Italian troops, with Massoni’s permission, had been drawn up on the perimeter of the Vatican in Rome, to stop any anti-Massoni agitators from getting in. The Mayor of Rome had also weighed in on Massoni’s side, allowing himself to be photographed kneeling in front of the new pontiff. There was no doubt where the political muscle was. Some of the papers also carried historical articles on the anti-Popes of the past. David knew about the great schism vaguely, when one set of Popes had reigned from Rome and another from Avignon, but he hadn’t realized there had been so many.

  It was a sunny day but cold, November-cold. Even so, he sat outside Gina’s in the square. He had asked her to warm some croissants for him and she had brought a large pot of coffee.

  ‘Signorina Bess – you hear from her yet?’ To David, Gina’s voice had always been more beautiful than her face.

  David told her about their late night conversation. Enough of it to reassure her.

  Gina looked down at him. ‘You know why Signorina Bess and me get on?’

  David pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘You both like fettucine?’

  Gina shook her head, unamused. ‘No. We have something else in common. We talked about it one night.’ She paused. Then, going inside, she said over her shoulder, ‘Each of us, we love two men. It’s hard to decide between them.’

  David buttered his croissant. It was the first he’d ever heard of Gina’s love life. And what did she mean about Bess’s two loves? The other man, he supposed, was the pontiff. Ah well, that was a different kind of love. He peered at Gina, now inside the bar. She did mean that, didn’t she? It was a funny thing to say.

  He finished his food. He had nearly two hours to kill before his meeting with Massoni – the cardinal would never be the Pope to him. Should he call the office in London? No – Sally would ask questions: he wanted to keep his mind clear for his meeting with the cardinal. On an impulse, he felt like walking. It was a good way to pass the time. He shouted goodbye to Gina and moved off. He walked down the Via Monserrato and past the Palazzo Farnese. He crossed the Via Arenuta and went by the synagogue. Over the Ponte Palatino and into Trastevere. The Via Luciano Manaro, he knew, led to the Janiculum, the wooded hill overlooking central Rome and the Vatican. A perfect place to clear his brain. He walked up the passeggiata to the Piazzale Garibaldi, which overlooked the slopes, and sat on a bench. What would the grand old soldier have made of these latest twists? Garibaldi would rather have had no Pope: now there were two.

  David got up and wandered slowly down through the trees to the back of what was now the Palazzo Corsini but was once the Palazzo Riario. Here Queen Christina of Sweden had lived for many years after abdicating and converting to Catholicism. Would Thomas abdicate, perhaps? David didn’t know. He looked down on the Riario. Christina had been a great collector – pictures, sculpture, bindings. Yet she had died unhappy, had never adjusted to her abdication, and had tried several times to gain other crowns. Once you have power, he reflected, it always hurts to give it up. What would Thomas do? He would never be the same again if he failed. And neither would he, David, if Averne beat him at the board meeting next week. Today was make-or-break day for them both. The meeting with Massoni was less than an hour away. And Michael Stone arrived from Milan tonight to authenticate the Leonardo.

  David moved north along the Lungara towards St Peter’s. As he had read, the army were out in force, their grey-green uniforms and squat, angular vans posted at every crossroad, every bridge, every traffic light. He followed the Lungotevere and turned left into the Corridori Borgo Sant Angelo. This brought him, at ten minutes to twelve, to the Porta Sant’ Anna. As on other – if very different – occasions, he was expected. A Swiss guard, in blue breeches, took him up the slight slope to the papal apartments on the left and rode with him in the elevator. At the third floor, when the elevator stopped and the doors had opened, he was received by a figure he didn’t recognize, presumably one of Massoni’s new secretaries. The papal apartments were subtly different from the last time he had been here, to discuss the big sale all that while ago. Two Swiss guards now stood in the corridor. Either Massoni was making the most of the ceremonial his new position entitled him to, or he really was afraid of being invaded. There were other differences, too: pictures had gone from the walls and there were no flowers anywhere. The place was as austere as a monastery.

  David was shown into the same office where Thomas had first produced the list of art works which he wanted to sell. The same large table, the same view down on to St Peter’s Square, though the weather now was different: the early morning sunshine hadn’t lasted, the sky had clouded over and threatened rain.

  David was kept waiting: the psychological game had begun. Eventually he heard movement beyond the double doors at the far end. They opened and Massoni swept through. He seemed taller in white. Taller but paler, a deathly pale. His high, cadaverous skull seemed about to break through his skin at any moment, so thin, so transparent did it appear.

  There were no formalities. He stood by his desk and said, in Italian, ‘Mr Colwyn, I forget how good your Italian is. Shall we need an interpreter?’

  ‘No.’

  Massoni turned to the young man who had entered with him and nodded. The young man left, closing the double doors behind him.

  Massoni sat and David did the same, opposite him across the desk. ‘Well,’ said Massoni. ‘I am told you are here on behalf of the – of Thomas Murray.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ David couldn’t, wouldn’t, call Massoni ‘Holiness’, but that was no reason to be needlessly disrespectful.

  Massoni was silent. He wasn’t about to make things easy for David.

  Outside the window a helicopter clattered by. Somewhere someone was whistling. David said, ‘Thomas feels that since the St Patrick’s Fund was his doing, his own idea, and that since it is so closely identified with him, he feels he should be allowed to take it with him.’

  What then happened David had never seen before. Massoni grinned. It was alarming. His lips curled back to reveal teeth which were long, slightly curved, slightly too big for his mouth. It was an ugly sight, reminiscent of an ape’s war grimace. ‘He would, would he? Seven hundred million dollars? He would like me to give him seven hundred million dollars? Just like that? He is crazy. And what would he do with the money? – no, don’t tell me, I can guess. He would carry on spending, the same as before. So the world would be plagued with these ill-advised schemes of his for years to come.’

  Massoni slapped the desk between them. ‘Not only is he mad, Mr Colwyn, but you are, too, for accepting such a hopeless assignment. Does he, do you, really think I will hand over cash like that, just for the asking? I tell you: you are still living in the past, Mr Colwyn. It’s over. Thomas is no longer Pope.’ He drew himself up. ‘I am.’

  David reached into his jacket and took out a s
lip of paper. He placed it on the desk between them.

  Massoni glanced down. He looked more closely. Then he snatched at it.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said David. ‘Your Swiss bank account. And your personal fortune, as of last evening.’

  ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘So it is yours?’

  ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘You are not the only man with friends in Switzerland, sir.’

  Massoni stared at David. ‘There’s nothing wrong with cardinals having bank accounts. I shall close it now, of course. Now that I am Pope.’

  ‘It’s not the account itself, or the very large balance, that I have come to discuss, sir, but rather how certain payments – from the St Patrick’s Fund – found their way into that account. You will recall it was I who noticed the pattern of investments in the first place – a pattern that was suspicious and drew attention to your brother’s involvement. Now we have a pattern of transfers into your account. That is suspicious also. More than suspicious. While you were conducting your own crusade against the fund, and against its achievements, at the same time you and your brother were stealing from it. That is frankly criminal. I’m not surprised you feel so insecure that you need the Italian army guarding your doors. If – when – this is all made public, even they won’t keep you in that chair.’

  Massoni still held the scrap of paper. For a long time he stared at it, as though the writing were hard to decipher. Eventually, he looked up. ‘This is all you have, isn’t it? A set of figures, and some dates perhaps. If you could prove the slanders you have just uttered, you would have the documentation with you. But you haven’t. You haven’t because there isn’t any. Not since your own report. Your own interference warned us to destroy a lot of the evidence, Mr Colwyn.’

  Calmly Massoni looked across at David. ‘There’s no documentation is there?’ His stare burned into him. ‘Is there?’

  When David didn’t reply, Massoni scrunched up the slip of paper and threw it contemptuously into a waste basket. He began to rise, terminating the meeting.

  David improvised desperately. ‘Thomas says he won’t leave Sicily until he’s got the fund.’

  The cardinal lowered himself slowly back into his seat. The toothy grin reappeared. ‘Let him stay,’ he said at length. ‘You know what will happen if he stays on, Mr Colwyn? He will outlive his welcome. Oh, there’s high emotion down there at the moment, I grant you that. But it won’t last. It can’t. Nobody lives at that emotional intensity for long. Then, when the emotion has died down, one of two things will happen. Either the government will arrest him and deport him – they are firmly on my side, Mr Colwyn, and will do everything they can to support me. Or, the Mafia will get him. He may have wonderful friends in Sicily but that’s where his most vicious enemies are too.’ He got up and stood above David. ‘If I gave Thomas the seven hundred million he’s asking for, there’d have been no point in all that has happened in the past forty-eight hours. He’d be afloat in the world somewhere, and still able to do whatever damage he wanted.’

  ‘Some people don’t see charity work as damage,’ said David.

  ‘But damage it is. Can’t you see that? Selling off all those wonderful treasures was damage. Interfering in Central America was damage. Meddling in Beirut was very damaging. Tampering in Northern Ireland was damage. Taking on President Roskill was both damaging and foolish. Plotting behind the Iron Curtain was in some senses the most damaging of all, potentially the most dangerous certainly.’

  As he was speaking, Massoni sat down again and turned on the chair so that it was his profile David saw. David gasped. It was the same view he’d had that day in the restaurant off the Piazza del Risorgimento, when he’d eaten deep-fried anchovies and Massoni had been at another table with a jowly man David thought he’d seen before but couldn’t place. Now he could: Massoni’s action in sitting and turning had cleared his memory. That and the talk about damage behind the Iron Curtain. David made the connection and gasped. A quiet strength gripped him.

  ‘You’re not the one to talk about damage, cardinal.’

  Massoni looked across, suddenly wary.

  ‘I now understand the damage you have worked to cause.’ The certainty in David’s voice carried him over Massoni’s objection. ‘And I think you will give Thomas the money he wants.’

  ‘Never –!’

  ‘Oh yes! You see, I know who it was who tipped off the Hungarians and the Russians about the Vatican’s secret cardinal. I know who divulged the identity of Cardinal Kharkov.’

  Massoni’s face had frozen.

  ‘And I know how you did it, Massoni. I was there, watching you.’

  Still Massoni didn’t move. His reaction, as loud as any words, said that David was right.

  ‘I should have worked it out before. It was Dorzhiev, the new director at the Hermitage, wasn’t it? I saw him eating with you at that restaurant off the Piazza del Risorgimento. I should have smelled something when he so quickly replaced Shirikin. Or when I saw him in the same photograph as the spy Edgar Seton. I mean, it’s a perfect cover. A Russian museum director can mix in the most capitalist company without raising the slightest suspicions. He can travel a lot, to conferences, exhibitions, auctions.’ David closed in. ‘You told Dorzhiev about Kharkov. You destroyed Thomas’s plans. You were willing to commit murder, simply to thwart him. You sent innocent Hungarian men and women to their certain deaths when you informed on Kharkov.’

  ‘You . . . can’t prove it.’

  ‘I won’t need to. I have all the times which will check out. You knew Kharkov’s identity, you talked with Dorzhiev. Coming after Seton’s defection the world will know I’m right. Don’t think Roskill will stand by you then, or the Italian government. Nobody will want a Pope who betrayed his own. You’ll be a prisoner here. Maybe there’ll be yet another Pope elected.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating. And bluffing.’

  ‘Okay, risk it!’ David pointed to the door. ‘Let me walk out of this room and start calling my friends in the media. Thomas will be told in time for his speech tonight. A speech the whole world is waiting for. Then see what happens.’ David got up, as if to leave. Massoni was right; he was bluffing. It was the greatest bluff of his life. But Massoni couldn’t be sure and that uncertainty was all David had on his side. He picked up his coat and put it on. He did up the buttons. He picked up his briefcase where it had been leaning against his chair and turned.

  Massoni said, ‘Sit down, Mr Colwyn.’

  David sat.

  Massoni’s eyes moved rapidly in their sockets. David couldn’t tell whether it was through fear or anger. He knew the emotions were very similar, since he himself was experiencing both. ‘You are a bad actor, Mr Colwyn. Stick to auctioneering. However, although you are obviously bluffing I choose to play safe. Therefore if Thomas leaves Sicily today – and he never mentions the Kharkov business – I will send the St Patrick’s Fund, less one hundred million dollars –’

  ‘Why the deduction?’

  ‘The “Pietà”, Mr Colwyn, it’s on the market again. I want to buy it back.’

  David thought fast. Should he hold out for the full amount? No. His position was not strong. Still, there was one matter he had to press. ‘I accept. But you must transfer the money quickly. I will stay here to represent Thomas. If we receive nothing within forty-eight hours, Thomas will go public on Dorzhiev.’

  Massoni stood up. ‘Very well. Do you remember shaking hands with Thomas Murray, the first time you came to the Vatican? I remember the occasion very well. It started this whole sorry business. Will you shake hands with me, now? To finish it?’

  David got to his feet. Massoni’s arm was extended. David reached across the desk and clasped the dry, old man’s skin.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Once outside the Vatican David grabbed the first free taxi he saw and told the driver to head for the Via dei Banchi Vecchi as quickly as he could. He took the steps up to Bess’s flat three at a time. In the apartment he
shook off his coat and dialled the number Bess had given him. It was answered on the second ring – by Bess herself.

  ‘Yes or no?’ she said quickly as soon as she realized it was David.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But there are complications.’

  He heard her shout across the room, ‘It’s a “Yes”!’ A dim cheer and a murmur of approval could be heard. ‘Okay,’ she said, coming back to the phone. ‘What are the details?’

  He explained the deal he had struck with Massoni, the trade-off about Dorzhiev, the deduction for the ‘Pietà’, the fact that he would stay on in Rome over the weekend to handle the financial transaction.

  Bess was aghast at what Massoni had done to Kharkov. But this was not the time for looking back. ‘There you are darling. I told you you were the right person for the job. Great! You’ll probably get an anti-Papal honour now, to go with the Papal one you already have.’

  He smiled into the phone. ‘At least you’re joking again, Bess. Things must be looking up. What’s happening?’

  At the other end of the line Bess was shouting across the room again. ‘OK! Coming! David, I’m sorry. I have to dash. Things are really crazy here, as you can imagine. Look, watch Thomas on television. When it’s over give me half an hour to get back to this phone then call me. Or I’ll call you. We’ll have time to talk then, I promise. I really promise. OK?’

  ‘I shall need a good long fix. And no excuses. I miss the old Mississippi drawl.’

  ‘It’s a deal. Thomas will probably want to talk to you too.’

  David looked at his watch. It had already gone one. He went down the stairs and across to Gina’s for lunch. The rain had started at last, and the place was crowded. In the bar the television was already switched on. Government ministers who wanted their say about the two Popes were being interviewed but no one was paying much attention. The exact timing of Thomas’s speech was not certain, but no one wanted to miss it so they just had to hang around. Amid all the uncertainty there was only one thing beyond doubt: no work was being done in Italy today except for bars, television companies and the police.