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But who had made the perfect copy of the Leonardo?

And how had General Ferrari of the Art Squad learned that the painting had been stolen in the first place?

Tedeschi was confident the general hadn’t been tipped off by the young British art conservator; a gentleman from Naples had taken care of that problem up in Venice.

And the same gentleman from Naples had made quick work of Giorgio Montefiore a few weeks later in Florence when greed got the better of him.

“Who else could it have been?” asked Cardinal Bertoli.

“It had to be someone inside the Vatican.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that I had something to do with it.”

“Of course not, Eminence.”

“Who then?”

Tedeschi jotted a name on the back of one of his business cards and slid it across the table. Bertoli looked down briefly, then turned the card over.

“I thought your associates put the fear of God in him.”

“Not the fear of God, Eminence. The fear of the Camorra. God forgives, but the Camorra never forgets.”

“Truly inspiring, Franco.” Bertoli pushed the business card across the tablecloth. “Words to live by.”

The proprietor appeared and with considerable fanfare welcomed the three men to his establishment.

By all appearances they were a distinguished group—two prosperous financiers and a powerful Vatican prelate.

But the two financiers were in the business of laundering money for Don Lorenzo Di Falco, leader of the Camorra’s richest and most powerful clan.

And the Vatican prelate, through his own actions, had made the Roman Catholic Church an unwitting partner in the enterprise.

When they were alone again, Cardinal Bertoli asked, “But how did the police know that you were the one who had the painting?”

“In order to sell it, we had to show it to potential buyers.”

“It was my understanding they were required to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

“They were. But someone must have managed to trace the painting to the bank.”

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

“It was transferred to an account at Oschadbank in Kyiv.”

“By whom?”

“A hacker who somehow managed to penetrate our computer network.”

Bertoli fingered his gold pectoral cross. “And when your Russian buyer discovers that he paid a half billion dollars for a forgery?”

“Obviously he will want his money back.”

“Which means you will be out a grand total of one billion dollars.”

“For your sake, Eminence, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“My sake?” Bertoli smiled coldly. “The Russian oligarch is your problem, Franco. I lived up to my end of the bargain.”

“My investor doesn’t see it that way.”

“He’s your problem too.”

Tedeschi leaned across the table. “Let me make this clear, Cardinal Bertoli. You owe Don Di Falco four hundred million dollars. And you have exactly seventy-two hours to come up with the money.”

“Forgive me, Franco, but I’m afraid I don’t have four hundred million lying around at the moment.” Bertoli looked at his financial adviser and said, “Isn’t that right, Nico?”

Ambrosi allowed Tedeschi to answer on his behalf.

“The money or the building, Eminence. The choice is yours.”

“New Bond Street? It’s worth far less than what the Vatican originally paid for it.

And if you foreclose, it will result in a scandal that will undoubtedly lead to my dismissal as the sostituto , which will in turn lead to your arrest on charges of embezzlement and money laundering.

To avoid a lengthy prison sentence, you will be tempted to implicate your investor in Naples, Don Di Falco.

Therefore, Don Di Falco will almost certainly have you both killed before you go to trial. ”

The two Camorra moneymen exchanged a long look but said nothing. Cardinal Bertoli used the silence to check his phone. He had two missed calls, both from the same number.

“Will you excuse me, gentlemen? I’ll try to be brief.” He dialed the number and lifted the phone to his ear. “Good evening, Father Keegan. What seems to be the problem?... Is it urgent? I was just sitting down to dinner.... Yes, of course. I’m on my way.”

Bertoli tapped the phone irritably, severing the connection. “I’m afraid I have to return to the Vatican. It seems the Holy Father would like a word.”

“We’re not finished,” said Franco Tedeschi.

“We are, actually.” Bertoli rose solemnly to his feet and looked down his El Greco nose at the crooked little banker from Lugano.

“My advice to you, Franco, is that you forget about that four hundred million dollars. Otherwise we will all go down together. And that includes your investor from Naples.”

Bertoli turned without another word and, blessing hand raised, glided serenely across the dining room and out the door.

“Now you know how he got to be a cardinal,” said Nico Ambrosi.

“His Eminence is playing a dangerous game.”

“So are we, Franco. Never forget that.”

Tedeschi drew a phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“Who are you calling?”

“Who do you think?”

“He’ll kill him, you know.”

Tedeschi shrugged. “God forgives, but Don Lorenzo Di Falco never forgets.”

“Words to die by,” said Nico Ambrosi.