by Glenn Cooper
‘Seven …’
‘Running out of time,’ Angelo warned.
‘Nine …’
‘Stop counting!’ Jean cried, throwing a handful of papers into the air.
He didn’t hear Piero say ten. He only heard the hideous thunder-clap and the high-pitched scream of his son whose small hand was no longer clutching his mother’s. Ricca was on the floor, her eyes open but blind, the blood flowing from her head.
‘I don’t think the contract is here,’ Angelo said to Piero.
‘Perhaps not, but we have to be sure. One, two, three …’
The pistol was pointed at Ephraim now.
With no warning and no plan, Jean charged Piero with a guttural roar. He made it within striking distance of the large man when one of Angelo’s bullets pierced his side, spinning him half a turn and sending him crashing to the floor. Ricca was close. He reached out to touch her and said, ‘Please, no,’ when, inexplicably he became aware that Piero was counting again.
‘Eight. Nine. Ten.’
The small body fell between him and Ricca.
Jean could only manage one word. ‘Ephraim.’
Mercifully, a moment later, a bullet tore into his brain too, ending his agony.
‘Now what?’ Angelo asked, peering nervously out the window into the dark, empty piazza.
‘Now I will have to look through all the damnable papers in this room.’
‘How long will it take? Someone could have heard the shots.’
‘I don’t know. Look at all of them,’ Piero said. ‘It could take all night.’
Angelo objected. ‘It would be dangerous to stay that long.’
Piero glanced around the room and found the rear door. ‘Wait here,’ he said.
Angelo stayed inside trying not to look at the bloody bodies of the woman and child. When Piero returned he was carrying a wooden crate.
‘There’s a stack of them down the alley behind a dry-goods merchant. We’ll load up the papers, steal a boat, and find a wagon on the mainland. Tizziani can personally go through them. It won’t be our problem.’
SIXTEEN
By the time Cal finished reading Mayer Sassoon’s account of the murder of Jean Sassoon and his young family, the effects of his boozy dinner were gone. He had never felt so sober in his life. He knew what Mayer Sassoon knew, which was not a lot. Who had done such a heinous thing, annihilating an entire young family? Thieves? A disgruntled merchant? Jew-haters? Or was there something even more nefarious? Could the Vatican have been involved? After all, the debt had disappeared from the annals of history.
Murders in Venice.
Signs of a fire at the Sassoon Bank.
Were the two related?
He got up and walked the stacks to burn off nervous energy. He no longer felt an ounce of fatigue. If he needed to pull an all-nighter, he’d be able to sail through.
Returning to the 1850s section he polished off the year 1858. There was nothing of consequence in the few remaining documents although many showed fire damage.
But he found a bombshell in the very first document in the volume marking the beginning of 1859.
Glued to a page of plain white paper was a yellowed newspaper clipping from The Times of London, a story dated 17 November 1858.
Cal read the clipping then looked up, blinking his eyes in disbelief.
Accident, my ass, he thought. The bastards couldn’t find the loan contracts in Venice so they came to London.
London, 1858
It was the coldest November anyone could remember and the streets of London reeked from the coal fires burning in most every hearth. It was late evening and most shops and offices were dark and cold, but the premises of the Sassoon Bank on Cannon Street were awash in the light of gas pendant lamps and the roaring central fireplace.
Mayer Sassoon had left the office hours earlier but Claude had refused to go home for supper. A single employee stayed by his side of the bank chairman as he stubbornly pored over his accounts.
‘Could I fetch you a plate of food, sir?’ the employee asked. ‘The cook has laid it in the warming oven.’
Claude peered over his spectacles. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘It’s frightfully late. Won’t your wife be needing your company?’
Claude barely concealed his irritation. ‘My wife is my concern, not yours. Look, man, why don’t you leave? I can shift for myself.’
The fellow didn’t need to be asked again.
‘Very well, sir,’ he said, taking his coat down from a peg. ‘And once again, please accept my heartfelt condolences.’
The moment the door closed behind him, Claude Sassoon broke down and sobbed, gripping the sides of his standing desk to keep his wavering frame upright.
The letter had arrived two days earlier, penned by a Venetian rabbi in rudimentary English.
Claude had opened it at his desk and had collapsed, shrieking on the floor. That had been his one and only public display of grief.
The Italian rabbi had offered the bald particulars. He supposed Jean and his family had been the victims of a robbery. He didn’t think they had suffered. Those responsible had not yet been apprehended. The burials had been done in accordance with Jewish law. The congregation of the synagogue had borne the expense. If Claude came to Venice, the rabbi would take him to the family gravesite.
Now alone, he peeled off his spectacles and cried, ‘Oh, my son, my son. What shall I do without you?’ Then he looked up, as if there were no ceiling, only heaven above. ‘Why have you forsaken me, Lord? Am I too great a sinner? Is this my punishment? Why did you not take me? I am an old man. Jean was too young to die. And Ephraim who I never met …’
A knock on the door brought his sobbing to an end. He supposed his clerk had forgotten something and as he approached the door, he dried his eyes then blew his nose into a handkerchief.
But it was not his clerk.
There were three callers, one at the door, a smallish man smothered by his greatcoat, two taller men at his heels in more fitted, Continental jackets.
The smaller man had the accent of a commoner. ‘Excuse me, sir, might we have a word?’
Claude had no interest in an interruption. ‘These offices are not open to the public,’ he said, swinging the door shut.
The three men advanced on him, pushing him backwards. He tripped on his own heels and stumbled to the floor, shouting at them to leave at once.
The commoner produced a long sheath knife and advised him to keep quiet if he knew what was good for him while his two compatriots closed the door then fanned out to see if anyone else was about. Claude heard them talking to each other in a foreign tongue; it took him several seconds to place it but when he did he picked himself off the floor and angrily addressed them.
‘Italians!’ he spat. ‘You men, you hear me. Were you the scoundrels in Venice? Did you kill my son?’
The commoner grinned. ‘They don’t speak much in the way of English. They give me a nice purse and your address. What their business is, what they did or didn’t do, I’ve no notion. But I’d say they’re ruthless sorts, if you know what I mean. They’ve got that look, don’t they?’
Claude shouted for help but only managed to say it once before the small man punched him in the gut with his free hand, sending him back to the floor, gasping and retching.
‘Now I could’ve hit you with me knife hand,’ the man said. ‘That would’ve caused you considerable more distress. Say one more thing and it’ll be your last, that I can promise you.’
Claude closed his eyes and grimaced in pain. When he opened them again he saw the piece of paper thrust in his face.
Piero said in broken English, ‘This. Where this? You say me.’
Without his spectacles, Claude struggled to read the paper but a hard squint brought it into enough focus to know what it was – the copy of the Vatican loan document.
He began to shake with rage.
‘You bastards murdered my son and grandson because of t
his infernal loan.’
The small man glanced through the dark windows. There were too many houses for comfort close by. ‘I told you to be quiet,’ he said. ‘I warned you.’
‘You can go to hell,’ Claude shouted. ‘The Vatican can go to hell. The pope can go to …’
Angelo plunged a knife into the old man’s flank once, and then a second time for good measure.
‘Hell,’ was the last word to pass Claude’s lips, sounding like a rush of air escaping from a punctured bladder.
Piero asked his friend in Italian, ‘Why did you do that?’
‘He wouldn’t shut up,’ Angelo said. ‘I don’t want to wind up in an English prison or worse – my neck in an English noose.’
The small man swore and mumbled that he hadn’t signed up to do murder. While the two Italians argued, he bolted out of the door and disappeared into the cold night.
‘How are we going to find the papers now?’ Piero said, surveying shelf after shelf of documents and ledger books.
‘I don’t know but we can’t spend any time looking. Someone could have heard all the shouting.’
‘What then?’ Piero asked.
Angelo snatched a sheaf of papers from the banker’s desk and took them to the nearest gas lamp. ‘This,’ he said. He lit them and began walking through the office, touching the flames to books and papers. For good measure he threw a few dozen ledger books on to Claude’s still-warm body and set them on fire too.
Piero tucked his copies of the loan contracts inside his jacket and said, ‘Very well then, let’s go home straight away and tell the duke we found them and burned them, which I expect will be the truth. I hate this damned country anyway.’
As the two Italians fled the scene, a tipsy fellow was turning on to Cannon Street heading home from a nearby public house. His first impression was that the bank offices were looking rather festive and bright on such a bleak night but then he realized what was happening.
‘Fire! Fire! Help, fire!’
There were thirteen firehouses in London, all of them under the umbrella of the London Fire Engine Establishment, a private firm owned by the city’s insurance companies. The Rothschilds’ Bank, located around the corner from the Sassoon Bank on St Swithin’s Lane, was a significant investor in the largest insurance company and the Rothschilds had seen to it that one of these firehouses was installed close to their premises. It was a company of men from that very firehouse that responded to the alarm with a modern, horse-drawn pumper that doused the structure and saved the building. Hours later, in the harsh light of the frosty morning, Mayer Sassoon used his walking stick to push at the charred and soggy debris. He stopped at the spot where his brother’s body had been found, the scorched floorboards stained with blood.
Claude’s clerk came up to him and said, ‘I never should have left him alone. Till the day I die, I shall regret doing so.’
‘The ruffians who did this would have killed you too. They were a determined lot. First Jean, now Claude.’
‘But who were they and why would they do this? Whatever was to be gained? As far as I can tell, nothing was stolen.’
‘Don’t you see?’ Mayer said bitterly. ‘It’s the accursed Vatican debt. We never should have made the loan. I didn’t want to do it but Claude had the majority. Now he’s paid the price.’
‘What will you do about it?’ the clerk asked.
‘Do? Why, I shall do nothing. If I were to press for repayment I have no doubt that my son, Edouard, and I, and Claude’s son, Andre, would all find ourselves in the graveyard. I will not forgive the debt. No, that I will not do. But I will never speak of it again. Now, collect all the documents that are not burned beyond recognition and place them in crates. We will rebuild these offices. The Sassoon Bank will survive and my side of the family will finally be equal partners.’
Emanuel Spiegelman was a study in probity. From his austere rooms on Threadneedle Street, to his starched collar and immaculately clean black frock coat, to his perfectly cropped muttonchops and his measured elocution, he was every inch the successful London lawyer.
Mayer Sassoon had always trod carefully around him. While he respected his judgment and the opinions he rendered on behalf of the firm, it was always clear where Spiegelman’s allegiances lay. He was Claude’s lawyer, first and foremost. Claude’s man.
Mayer had sought him out at the funeral, where he accepted his condolences before quietly asking him when his brother’s will and testament would be read.
‘When the mourning period is over, Mayer,’ he had said.
Mayer had grabbed both of the lawyer’s wrists and staring into his eyes he said, ‘Listen to me, Emanuel. Please. This is a volatile and dangerous period for the bank. Decisions must be made. Capital allocated. Strategies set in motion. I need to know with certainty how I must approach the future. No one respects our traditions as much as I do but I cannot wait for the mourning period to lapse.’
‘Then you must come by my office at your convenience. I will endeavor to be of assistance.’
The lawyer entered the anteroom and escorted Mayer to his inner chamber.
‘Difficult times, so difficult,’ Spiegelman said. ‘Tell me, what are the police telling you?’
Mayer took a seat and crossed his legs. ‘They seem to know nothing. If the bank were as incompetent as the police we should be in liquidation.’
‘And I must ask you, Mayer, as your lawyer and your friend. What do you think happened to Claude?’
‘He was murdered, Emanuel. He was cut down as Jean was cut down. I cannot say by whom.’
Although they were alone in the office, the lawyer nevertheless lowered his voice and leaned forward in an expression of privacy.
‘Yes, but surely you have an opinion. Surely you must suspect that this sorry business bears a relation in some direct or indirect fashion to the Vatican loan.’
Mayer and the lawyer had not spoken of the loan in years. When Jean Sassoon had been held hostage in Gaeta, he and Spiegelman had tried to persuade Claude not to bow to the pressure and agree to the Vatican’s unfavorable terms. But the distraught father had overruled them and Spiegelman had been pressed into service to draft the loan contracts.
‘You spoke with Claude after he received news of Jean’s death, did you not?’ Mayer asked.
‘Of course I did. I called on him that very day.’
‘And what was his opinion of a connection between Jean’s death and the debt?’
‘Indeed he believed there was a connection.’
Mayer sighed pitifully. ‘And so do I.’
‘What is your intention with respect to the obligation?’ the lawyer asked.
‘For the sake of the bank, my son, my nephew, I will not pursue repayment. It is a fatal business. I will not ask you to send a demand letter to Rome. I will not raise the matter. It is over.’
‘They never intended to pay,’ the lawyer clucked.
‘I fear not.’
‘Well, you and your brother did much these past years to place the firm on strong footings. I believe you are positioned to weather the storm.’
‘And that is why I am here, Emanuel. I need to know where I stand. For many, many years, Claude has promised me that he intended to rectify our partnership inequalities for the sake of the next generation. I will not ask you to enumerate all the provisions in Claude’s last will and testament. I can wait for the details. However, I cannot wait for this: please tell me once and for all if Claude abided by his promise to transfer the requisite shares to my side of the family so that we may be equals in the management of the enterprise.’
The lawyer stood, and in a gesture not lost upon Mayer, peered out of his window at the crush of horse-drawn carriages rolling down Threadneedle Street. In doing so, he turned his back on the banker.
‘I will tell you this, Mayer. Your brother loved you very much. Over the years we discussed the issue of his majority on multiple occasions. He knew the day would come when you or your son, Edouard, would
sit in this office to learn of his legacy. His love for you was strong but his love for the bank was even stronger.’
Spiegelman turned toward the sound of sobbing.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ Mayer cried, ‘look me in the eye when you deliver this death blow.’
The lawyer took his chair again. ‘I’m sorry, Mayer, although it is hardly a death blow. Nothing will change. Fifty-two percent of the shares will reside with Claude’s sole surviving son, Andre, and you will hold forty-eight percent. In the end, Claude felt that a majority was necessary to assure the efficiency of making critical business decisions. Resolving disputes in an equal partnership can be devilish and decremental to the firm. Furthermore …’
The lawyer’s words trailed off when Mayer pushed himself from his chair and slowly walked out of the room.
‘Mayer, please,’ the lawyer said, chasing after him and catching him in the anteroom with a hand to the shoulder.
Mayer wheeled around and said, ‘So, Andre, a fourteen-year-old boy, is the majority owner of the Sassoon Bank. Am I not to be his guardian? Not even this?’
‘He has had his bar mitzvah,’ the lawyer said. ‘By Jewish law he is a man and does not require guardianship.’
‘Goodbye, Emanuel,’ Mayer said. ‘I do not believe we need to speak again.’
Monsignor Raffaello Parizo was so ancient that no one, including himself, quite knew precisely how old he was.
‘I’m an eighteenth-century man,’ he would tell his colleagues. ‘This modern age confuses me. I don’t understand anything anymore. If I simply stick to my work and my prayers I can just about get through the day.’
He puttered around the corridors of the Apostolic Palace, shifting papers through ecclesiastical offices, gathering required signatures from high officials, and occasionally making tea for his boss, Cardinal Antonelli. Antonelli had inherited him from a now-deceased Vatican cardinal, whom he had served as an aide for decades, because, in Parizo’s own words, ‘he knew where all the bodies were buried’. Given that cardinal’s bruising style, some took him quite literally.
Stooped and shuffling, the old priest rapped on Antonelli’s door and entered when permission was given.
