Page 41

“All of it,” demanded Donati.

“The less you know, the better, Luigi.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Father Keegan.”

“Laws were broken,” explained Gabriel. “Many laws.”

“I would have expected nothing less. Now tell me the name of the bank.”

“SBL PrivatBank.”

“It’s headquartered in Lugano, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not. It got into trouble a few years ago when it tried to compete with the big boys. The Camorra saved SBL from collapse with an infusion of capital and took control of it.”

“The year, please?”

“Does it matter?”

“Humor me.”

“Approximately eight years ago.”

Donati appeared to file the date away in his memory for later reference. “But how did you learn about the loan for the office building in New Bond Street?”

“For the record, I never referred to the property as an office building. I described it as an expensive piece of commercial real estate. You’re the one who referred to it as an office building.”

“They’re rather the same thing. But please answer the question.”

“An associate of mine hacked into the bank and stole its most sensitive files.”

“Naughty boy,” said Donati.

“Naughty girl, actually.”

“And the five hundred million dollars the Russian oligarch paid for the fake painting?”

“My associate transferred the money to Ukraine.”

“Does the Camorra know their money is missing?”

“I can’t imagine they don’t,” replied Gabriel. “But you were about to tell me everything I needed to know about the Mayfair Group.”

“It’s a British-registered holding company that was created some time ago to manage the acquisition of several pieces of London real estate, including the building in New Bond Street.”

“Created by whom?”

“A pair of London lawyers, both of whom happen to be devout Roman Catholics.”

“And the beneficial owner of the British-registered holding company?”

“The short answer? Vatican Incorporated.”

“What would be the long answer?”

“The building is owned by an investment fund controlled by the Secretariat of State. The purpose of this fund is to generate the revenue needed to run the Roman Curia.”

“And the person in charge of the fund?”

“That would be the Substitute for General Affairs.” Donati lowered his voice. “Cardinal Matteo Bertoli.”

***

The original source of the money, Donati continued, was the Lateran Treaty of 1929, which established Vatican City as an independent sovereign state controlled by the Holy See.

As part of the treaty, the Italian government of Prime Minister Benito Mussolini agreed to compensate the Church for the loss of its feudal possessions known as the Papal States.

The Vatican used a portion of the settlement to conduct a renovation of the city-state itself that included the construction of the walls and an expansion of the museums. The remaining funds it invested, leaving the Holy See with controlling stakes in several of Italy’s largest banks and industrial enterprises.

“In retrospect,” said Donati, “the original settlement with Mussolini was a terrible deal. The Church received the equivalent of only ninety-two million dollars for sixteen thousand square miles of land that included much of central Italy. But the proceeds from that original sum of money now account for nearly the entirety of the Church’s wealth. ”

“How much is there?” asked Gabriel.

“We’re getting into sensitive territory.”

“We crossed that border a long time ago.”

Donati lit a cigarette before answering.

“One reads numbers in the less reputable press that bear no resemblance to the truth. Oh, I suppose we could dispose of all of our churches, convents, monasteries, schools, and hospitals, and it might add up to two or three hundred billion dollars. But we can’t exactly sell St. Patrick’s Cathedral to a property developer, now can we? ”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“Let’s call it twenty billion, give or take. Most of the money is controlled by the Vatican Bank and something called the Administration of the Patrimony of the Apostolic See.”

“How much does Cardinal Bertoli control?”

“Approximately three billion dollars.”

“That’s more than most professional fund managers handle.”

“Cardinal Bertoli has an experienced outside adviser looking over his shoulder, a man named—”

“Nico Ambrosi.”

Donati frowned. “How did you know that?”

“Ambrosi was the middleman in the purchase of the building in New Bond Street. My friends in the Carabinieri say his primary client is the Camorra.”

“Nico Ambrosi is a practicing Catholic who has proven to be an effective steward of our money.”

“How do you explain the New Bond Street deal?”

“That building is one of our most profitable ventures.”

“In that case, why did Vatican Incorporated default on the loan?”

“It didn’t. In fact, our most recent quarterly report indicates the property is generating higher-than-expected revenue.”

“And who prepared the quarterly report?”

“Cardinal Bertoli, of course.”

Gabriel allowed a silence to settle over the room.

“Careful,” said Donati at last. “You’re leveling a very serious accusation against a high-ranking prelate. All without a shred of proof.”

“I am doing no such thing. I would, however, like to see all the quarterly reports prepared by Cardinal Bertoli since his elevation to the post of sostituto .”

“I’m sure you would,” said Donati.

“I’ll also need to have a look at the cardinal’s account at the Vatican Bank.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Someone is lying, Luigi. And I have a feeling I know who it is. Let me see the quarterly reports. I’m sure I’ll be proven right.”

“You’re infallible, are you?”

“Only in matters involving my friend the supreme pontiff.”

Donati looked at Father Keegan. “Get him everything he needs.”

***

But where to stash the Leonardo? That was the question that Gabriel and the Holy Father debated while Father Keegan went in search of the documents.

His Holiness was of the opinion that the painting should be returned from whence it came—namely, the underground storerooms of the Vatican Museums. Gabriel respectfully disagreed.

There was little chance, he argued, that the painting’s recovery would remain a secret for long if it were returned to the museum.

Furthermore, there was every chance that the news might reach the ears of the very men who had stolen the painting in the first place, including Cardinal Bertoli.

It was at this point that His Holiness reminded Gabriel that Cardinal Bertoli, a prelate with a spotless record, was deserving of a presumption of innocence.

His Holiness conceded, however, that present circumstances warranted an unusually high degree of secrecy, perhaps even a touch of deception.

That was because Cardinal Bertoli was responsible for the day-to-day operations of the Curia and the city-state and had the place wired to the hilt.

“In fact, he’s the only member of the Roman Curia who can see me without an appointment. ”

“Is there nowhere in the Vatican he can’t set foot?”

His Holiness answered by escorting Gabriel into the papal bedroom and opening the doors of the ornate wooden wardrobe.

Which was where, at 9:20 p.m., they hid the painting for which a Russian oligarch had just paid a half billion dollars.

It was, thought Gabriel, a fitting end to a most remarkable day.

Father Keegan appeared a few minutes later with a stack of documents bound by a metal clasp—a decade’s worth of quarterly reports from the Curial investment fund. Downstairs, he escorted Gabriel to the Arch of Bells, where two Swiss Guards stood watch in their blue night uniforms.

“I don’t need to remind you that these documents—”

“No, Father Keegan. You don’t.”

“Where are you planning to review them?”

“The Hassler, if they’ll have me.”

“Do you have any dinner plans?”

“Room service.”

“That little place off the Via Veneto is open quite late.”

“Is it?”

Father Keegan turned without another word and headed back to the Casa Santa Marta. Sneaky little Jesuit, thought Gabriel, and went in search of a taxi.