The Debt

by Glenn Cooper

  ‘How long will you be in Rome?’ Cal asked.

  ‘Only till Thursday. The C10 meets tomorrow and then I have a series of additional meetings. My calendar has no white spaces, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m glad you made time for lunch.’

  ‘This is my recreation, Cal. Seeing an old friend is always a pleasure. Tell me, will you see the pope during your visit?’

  ‘I don’t want to bother him. I doubt he knows I’m here.’

  ‘I’m sure he does. Nothing at the Vatican escapes Monsignor Moller.’

  ‘Is he well?’

  ‘I’d say so. Physically he is strong. Emotionally – well, the job takes its toll. He’s been much involved with finances. It’s a job too large for one man and he hasn’t enough true allies to lean upon. The C10 will try to lend its support but there is only so much we can do.’

  ‘I’ve read the articles. Cleaning up the Vatican financial mess is like Hercules mucking out the Augean Stables. Mythic quantities of manure.’

  ‘Ha! You’re right about that. Well, he views this as part of his legacy. We shall see how he does but he’s certainly up for the good fight. So tell me, what are you working on? You’re always chasing something interesting.’

  ‘I was doing research on Pope Gregory’s secretary of state, Luigi Lambruschini, a prominent anti-revolutionary figure during the Italian Revolution.’

  ‘I note the past tense.’

  ‘That’s the beauty of having browsing rights. I happened upon something potentially more interesting.’

  ‘Come on then, let the cat out of the bag!’

  As Cal spoke about what he had found, Da Silva made a good dent in his mound of pasta.

  ‘Is there no record of this loan to the Vatican?’ the cardinal asked.

  Cal tried to catch up on his salad. ‘Not that I’m aware of. The Rothschilds made some sizable loans to Pope Gregory in the 1830s. I wrote a paper about papal lending and usury laws several years ago but I’m no expert. I only found this letter from Lambruschini to Antonelli mentioning the loan an hour ago. I need to run it to the ground to see if there’s any mention of it in the historical record. As far as I know, there’s a Sassoon Bank that’s still in business. Whether it’s the same one – I don’t know yet. Anyway, I’ll be back in the archives after lunch. If I’m lucky, at the end of the rainbow I’ll have a nice paper to publish.’

  ‘Well, Cal, your excitement is contagious. Promise me you’ll keep me informed. I love a good mystery.’

  Cardinal Antonelli’s papers were far more voluminous than Lambruschini’s since his tenure as cardinal secretary spanned almost a full three decades to his death in 1876. Diving in, Cal’s first observation was that the correspondence and documents were meatier than Lambruschini’s, reflecting an administrator in his prime dealing with the tumult of a turbulent period. During his tenure, the Vatican had tried desperately to hold on to the Papal States in the midst of the Risorgimento, the unification movement that would eventually succeed in creating the new Italy.

  Cal hadn’t been at it for more than an hour when he found a tantalizing breadcrumb in a note dated 18 September 1858 from a Monsignor Parizo to Cardinal Antonelli.

  I have received a rather sharp letter from the banker regarding the loan. I have been in communication with the Duke and have provided him with the documents he requires. When he is done he will return them and I will have them destroyed. The Duke assures me that we need not concern ourselves with the outcome. In my opinion the matter is in capable hands.

  Cal pulled out his notebook and copied the letter in its original Italian. He presumed that the duke was Tizziani, the fixer recommended by Lambruschini. He resumed his search, finishing the 1858 papers and making it all the way through the end of 1860 without another mention of loans, Sassoons, or the duke.

  Sensing a presence, he looked up from his spot on the floor to see Maurizio Orlando standing over him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just passing and thought I’d say hello.’

  ‘Good to see you, Maurizio,’ he said, standing up and stretching his lower back.

  ‘Please, I don’t wish to interrupt.’

  ‘Not a problem. I think I’ve reached the end of the road here. Actually, you can help me, if you’ve got a minute.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Cal opened his notebook. ‘Have a look at these. They’re transcriptions of some letters I found. I need advice where to go next.’

  Orlando read the series of letters and said, ‘So, you’ve shifted the focus of your research.’

  Cal smiled. ‘I think I may have a bit of a case of attention-deficit disorder. I often read something and head off in another direction. I want to see if I can find out more about this loan. Where would you go next?’

  ‘Well, I don’t recognize the name Sassoon,’ Orlando said, ‘I’m not completely certain but I don’t believe we have a folio on anyone by that name. As you likely know, it wasn’t unusual for the Vatican to take loans from merchant bankers in those days.’

  Cal nodded. ‘I’ve written a couple of papers on the techniques the Church used to circumvent usury laws on its borrowings.’

  ‘I am always impressed at the breadth and depth of your knowledge, Professor.’

  ‘I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’

  Orlando nodded, slightly embarrassed. ‘If the lender were the Rothschild family I could point you to an abundance of archival material,’ he said. ‘Likewise, I don’t recognize this Monsignor Parizo. So many faceless bureaucrats over the centuries. Now this Duke Tizziani. I shouldn’t imagine we have all that much on him as I don’t believe he was a major player. Most of the material on noble families from this period is kept at the State Archive of Rome, not here. However, we might be in possession of correspondence or documents sent to the Vatican from this Tizziani. I suggest you go to the Bunker to the section devoted to nineteenth-century nobility. We can assist you further, but I suspect you will wish to use your own resourcefulness.’

  ‘Trolling the stacks is half the fun, Maurizio.’

  Orlando patted his sleeveless sweater over his small paunch. ‘Also excellent exercise.’

  Well into the afternoon, Cal was regretting turning down Orlando’s offer of help. The Bunker was a vast basement space of endless metal bookcases and it was all too easy losing one’s way in its sameness. Simply finding the right shelves was devilishly difficult but waving the white flag wasn’t his style.

  It was four-thirty, a half-hour before closing, when he finally found two comparatively slender volumes on the Tizziani family, seemingly misfiled as they bore no alphabetical or temporal relationship to the other books on the shelf. The label on one spine was faded so that only a Ti was visible and its companion volume had no label at all. He almost hadn’t discovered them before closing time because when he passed by a massive section on the illustrious Borghese family, he had almost succumbed to its gravitational pull.

  Now with the first Tizziani volume in hand he stood, flipping pages, in the narrow space between two rows of shelving. They were extremely uninteresting, concerning seemingly minor legal disputes for which Duke Tizziani was enlisting Vatican support. But one of the last documents in the book was far different. It was a letter from the duke to Monsignor Parizo dated 2 September 1858. He read it slowly, particularly this one paragraph.

  I am in receipt of your gracious letter. Please assure the Cardinal that I am willing to assist in this delicate matter. I understand that I am to persuade the Sassoons using any means at my disposal that it is not in their best interests to call in the loan. I further understand that I will endeavor to obtain their signed copy of the loan contract and its annex. Once the documents are in my possession I will put them to the fire. As you suggest I will require your copy of the loan contracts so that my agents may know they have located the correct documents. When the matter is closed I will return the Vatican copies per your instructions. Finally please tell the Cardin
al that I appreciate his kind offer that I might receive a blessing from the Holy Father when the task is concluded.

  Cal grunted in frustration. So all copies of this enigmatic loan were probably destroyed. Pity. There might have been something interesting at the end of the rainbow but now he’d probably never learn more. Historians were used to that. Not every inquiry led to an answer. On the bright side, he’d only blown two days chasing the goose. Tomorrow he’d get back to work on his original topic. He transcribed the letter into his notebook then thumbed the last pages in the volume before putting it back on the shelf. He almost didn’t bother with the companion volume but he thought better of it and with only a few minutes until the archives closed, he began skimming the remaining pages.

  Late that night Cal was back at his room at the Grand Hotel de la Minerve, his favorite haunt in Rome, partly because it was right next to the Pantheon, partly because it was an elegant old converted palazzo that suited his taste. His mind had been racing ever since he’d left the archives and draining the minibar hadn’t remotely slowed it down. He was online, furiously working his keyboard, when at ten o’clock Cardinal Da Silva finally returned his call.

  ‘Cal, I just got your message,’ the cardinal said. ‘I hope it’s not too late. I was at a reception. Excellent, excellent veal dish. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I was only calling because I promised I’d let you know if I found anything more about that loan. I have. It’s interesting stuff – I mean really interesting – but it can wait. I know you’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m back at the guesthouse now with my shoes off and my feet up. Tell me what you found.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Cal said, ‘because I’ve been dying to tell someone.’

  An hour later Cal’s room phone rang again. He thought it might be the cardinal with one more question but it was a voice he didn’t recognize.

  ‘Good evening, is this Professor Donovan?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘This is Monsignor Moller, Professor. I hope I haven’t woken you.’

  ‘I’m very much awake.’

  ‘Very well then. Could you please hold for Pope Celestine?’

  SIX

  Rome, 1848

  ‘We leave in an hour,’ Monsignor Campo announced to the prisoner. ‘Have your breakfast and prepare yourself for a journey,’

  Jean Sassoon was lying on his thin mattress, his arms tightly folded across his chest, the posture of defiance he assumed whenever he heard the iron lock clunking open. He had been at Cardinal Lambruschini’s house in Rome for a week. When he had demanded to know why he had been moved from the Vatican, the reply – ‘for your safety’ – had been unsatisfactory. But now he was reluctantly becoming accustomed to his fate resting in the hands of others. The dour priest at the doorway was carrying a tray of food. He found room for it at the foot of the bed.

  Cardinal Lambruschini had chosen Gaetano Campo as his private secretary a few years before the 1846 conclave, elevating him from the obscurity of rank and file ambitious young men who populated the Apostolic Palace. He had become aware that Campo shared his anti-republican political views and that the eager Tuscan priest, when in the employ of his previous bishop, had developed a reputation for loyalty and discretion. Lambruschini was secretary of state at the time and one of the papabile cardinals. Had he prevailed, Campo would have had a clear path to a glittering career. But Lambruschini, the conservative choice of the conclave, fell short and the liberal and arguably glamorous Cardinal Mastai-Ferretti had become Pope Pius IX. Campo had been left to tend to an aging cardinal whose best days were behind him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Jean asked Campo.

  ‘You will know when we arrive.’

  ‘How long is the journey?’

  ‘Less than a day but who knows? I understand the roads are treacherous.’

  Jean stared at the priest. His black cassock was scraping the top of his well-polished shoes although in his haste one of the thirty-three buttons was undone. The two men were similar in age, both devout in their faiths, but they were a world apart.

  ‘You look scared,’ Jean said. ‘I can hear the gunfire perfectly well. They are coming for you, I think. The republicans.’

  Campo turned away. ‘One hour, no more.’

  The priest locked the door and hurried to the cardinal’s study to finish bundling up Lambruschini’s papers. For all he knew the mob would be inside the house by nightfall and the last thing the Church needed was for confidential papers to land in the hands of the rabble. The housekeepers were nailing the lids on the filled crates to be carted to the Apostolic Palace for safekeeping. Campo cleared the top of the desk then tackled the desk drawer. Inside was the letter they had received the day before from Cardinal Antonelli.

  Nothing is more important to him than the safety of the banker.

  He put the letter into the last crate and heard the sound of hammering before proceeding to the cardinal’s chamber to assist him with final packing.

  They worked together, they ate together, they prayed together. Their houses in Cannon Street in London shared a common wall. Behind their backs their employees wondered wickedly whether brothers Claude and Mayer Sassoon slept in the same bedroom, leaving their wives to sort things out for themselves.

  Inside the counting room of the Sassoon Bank the brothers faced each other at opposing standing desks. Chairs were banned at the firm. Far too slothful. Claude was older by a mere eleven months but that sliver of time meant all the difference. Mayer was arguably better looking, had a better head for numbers, was a better schmoozer, but oh those eleven months.

  There was no denying that they were born to be bankers. Their father, Herschel, had founded the bank in Paris some fifty years earlier in the aftermath of the French Revolution. His principal competitor had been the Rothschild Bank, which had gotten an earlier start and an earlier foothold in European banking, handling payments from Britain to hire Hessian mercenaries in its war against France. Although Mayer had been his father’s favorite – his name was a nod to his father’s great rival, the founder of the Rothschild Bank – it was Claude, in his position as first-born, who inherited the majority of the equity, precisely fifty-two percent. The Sassoon Bank had thrived but in the troubled aftermath of the French Revolution of 1830 the brothers decided to pick up stakes and move to the more stable environs of London, opening their business a short distance from St Swithin’s Lane, the headquarters of the Rothschilds.

  To the aspirational Sassoons, the Rothschilds were their North Star. They were far wealthier, their bank far better capitalized. After all, it was a hundred years older. While the Rothschilds were able to make loans to nations of millions of pounds, the Sassoons had never lent more than half a million to one party. The Rothschilds, despite the impediment of their religion, had managed to crack into the aristocracy and had become proper Jewish Englishmen. The Sassoons had not achieved that level of distinction and lived unassimilated lives steeped in Jewish rituals.

  The two brothers wore almost identical single-breasted frock coats and black neckties. Claude’s muttonchops were as gray as the ashes in the fireplace and his hair had largely receded, leaving a few tufted patches like insignificant islands in a lake. Mayer’s features were finer – he might have passed for an Anglican – and his head of hair was thick and curly with only a smattering of gray. His reading spectacles pinched the end of his narrow nose and he removed them to rub at the red indentations.

  He waved the letter in his hand and said loudly, ‘This is an outrage, Claude! An unlawful seizure and imprisonment.’

  His brother had opened the letter only a few minutes earlier and was clutching the desk to support his wobbly legs.

  ‘My son, my son,’ Claude wailed and the men in the counting room who understood French could only presume that a calamity had befallen the house of Sassoon.

  ‘I never supported the Italian venture,’ Mayer said. ‘There is plenty enough
business here. Birmingham or Liverpool, yes. Venice and Rome, no. Italy is a nest of vipers and the pope is, well, you know what he is.’

  ‘Would you be quiet, Mayer!’ Claude shouted. ‘It is but wasted talk. All that matters is that we must secure Jean’s release.’

  SEVEN

  Monsignor Ludwig Moller, first private secretary to the pope and prefect of the papal household, left his office, a converted guest room across the hall from the pontiff’s rooms, to greet Cal at the reception area of the Sanctae Marthae guesthouse.

  ‘Professor, it’s good to see you. Let me take you down the hall. The Holy Father is running a little late.’

  Moller, an Austrian cleric in his early fifties who was said to be an excellent violinist, had been at the pope’s side from his first days at the secretariat of state. Moller was lean and athletic, although in a priest’s loose cassock his physique was well hidden.

  Cal had met him on a few occasions and addressed him warmly. ‘I trust you’ve been well, Monsignor Moller.’

  ‘Very well, thank you. Busy as always. But I’m sure you’ve been quite busy too. Happy hunting in the archives?’

  ‘I’m like a kid in a candy store.’

  Arriving at the pope’s office adjoining his bedroom, Moller assured Cal that the wait would be short. ‘I’d offer you a coffee, Professor, but we wouldn’t want to spoil the Holy Father’s pleasure, would we?’

  Cal knew exactly what he was talking about.

  The very fact that the pope lived and worked in the Vatican guesthouse, an establishment that had it been a public hotel would only garner two, maybe three stars, told some of this pope’s story.

  In the view of many who had known Aspromonte before his elevation, the cardinal who had chosen the name Celestine VI had changed the moment the ring of the fisherman slipped on to his finger. The seemingly sober and measured churchman had become something of a bomb-thrower.

  The first small signs of Celestine’s coming radicalism occurred within the confines of the vestment room next to the Room of Tears, the plain chamber where new popes, fresh from their election, pause to pray and contemplate their fates prior to showing themselves to the faithful. The master of ceremonies had come to fit Aspromonte with garments to accommodate his more than ample frame and it was there that the new pope rejected the red mozetta, the traditional papal shoulder cape, and declared he would wear only a simple white cassock. Then viewing an assortment of red slippers, he mumbled that his brown crepe-soled shoes would do just fine. Appearing at the balustrade over St Peter’s Square he spoke plainly, using homespun language, and uttered variations of the word charity multiple times in his brief remarks.