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W hile crossing the Piazza Santa Marta, Cardinal Matteo Bertoli found himself thinking, quite unexpectedly, about his decision to become a priest. As recounted in the pages of his unread autobiography, he had heard a clarion call from a cloudless Abruzzian sky commanding him to forsake earthly pursuits and spread the good news of the Gospels.

But that version of the story was apocryphal.

In truth, he had joined the priesthood because it seemed like an attractive alternative to a life of backbreaking physical labor in his hardscrabble village.

The local parish priest, Monsignor Grasso, was a man of considerable influence and lived a comfortable life, with plenty to eat and a Fiat motorcar at his disposal.

It was rumored, though never proven, that not all of the money the faithful placed on the collection plate each Sunday made its way to the archdiocese.

There were also whispers—again never substantiated—that the monsignor was the biological father of at least two village children.

Young Matteo Bertoli, for his part, did not regard the requirement of celibacy as an impediment.

He had never had much interest in women, nor they in him.

Bertoli’s unhealthy interest in money would begin many years later after he was appointed the apostolic nuncio to Angola.

Though life in the former Portuguese colony was dreary and at times dangerous, he lived in a walled villa and was looked after by a large staff of domestic servants.

He quickly grew accustomed to the luxurious life of an ambassador and to the attention of wealthy Angolan Catholics wishing to curry favor with the pope’s emissary.

A great deal of cash was thrown in his direction, always in the form of donations to the Church.

Most of the money Bertoli sent along to Rome, but a not insignificant sum he used for personal expenses.

They included the purchase of a villa by the sea in his native Abruzzo.

His sister Angelica was the property’s owner of record.

Bertoli was sent next to Nigeria, followed by the Philippines, Buenos Aires, and finally Madrid, where he was much admired by the Spanish elite.

One of his patrons was a corrupt businessman who wished to conceal a nine-figure sum of money in the Vatican Bank.

Bertoli personally opened an account for the businessman and was rewarded with a payment of two million euros, which he deposited in the Vatican Bank as well.

The money was a pittance, though, compared to the small fortune he had made through his association with Nico Ambrosi.

It was said that Ambrosi was a devout Catholic, a friend of the Vatican, a man of trust. As it turned out, Ambrosi was none of those things.

He was a criminal financier who was helping the Camorra launder its dirty money.

And so was his friend and associate, Franco Tedeschi of SBL PrivatBank.

The two moneymen had assured Bertoli they would take good care of the Church’s finances.

Instead they had weighted every transaction in their favor and in the process embezzled hundreds of millions in Church funds on behalf of the Camorra.

A case in point was the office building in New Bond Street.

Bertoli had paid twice what the building was worth, producing millions in fees for Ambrosi and Tedeschi and a windfall profit for Lorenzo Di Falco, who owned the building secretly through a shell company.

Nevertheless, when Bertoli fell behind on the interest payments, Tedeschi refused to renegotiate the terms of the loan.

Bertoli was in no position to challenge the decision; he had accepted millions in kickbacks and was in it up to his neck.

The painting had been the answer to his prayers.

And no one would have known a thing if it weren’t for that young British art conservator.

Bertoli slipped through the entrance of the Palazzo San Carlo and rode the lift upstairs to his apartment.

The main drawing room was larger than the entire papal suite in the Casa Santa Marta, with a fine view over the rooftops of Rome.

Yes, it was grand, but other princes of the Church lived better, including the traditionalist firebrand Cardinal Byrne, who dwelled rent-free in a spacious apartment across the street from the Vatican.

And then there was Ortolani, better known in the Italian press as Cardinal Seven Bathrooms. Bertoli reckoned he could count on the support of both men in the event of a showdown.

Otherwise it would be their heads on the block next.

For now, at least, he was alone. There was no question that an independent audit of the Vatican’s finances would find substantial wrongdoing on his part.

The punishment would be swift—he would be dismissed as the sostituto and cast out of the College of Cardinals.

A humiliating trial before a Vatican tribunal was not out of the question.

He supposed the best he could hope for was a lengthy stay in a remote abbey, the kind of place where the brothers wore sandpaper habits and subsisted on coarse bread and stone soup.

Yes, he had made mistakes, committed grave sins, but the likes of Archbishop Paul Marcinkus had done far worse.

The Polish pope had nevertheless stood by him, even after Michele Sindona was convicted of fraud and Roberto Calvi was found swinging from Blackfriars Bridge.

Bertoli could expect no such support from the pontiff he served.

His Holiness Pope Sanctimonious had vowed to root out Vatican corruption once and for all.

He was going to destroy the Church in order to save it.

But the fate of the Holy Mother Church, thought Matteo Bertoli, rested in his hands now.

It was he who was going to save it, not the charlatan who lived in the hostel next door rather than the Apostolic Palace.

His Saintliness had made his intentions clear; he wished to bankrupt the Church and return it to its roots, whatever that meant.

It was long past time for Bertoli to stage an intervention.

Who knew? Perhaps it was not too late for him, after all.

He extinguished the lamps in the drawing room, and the lights of Rome came into sharper relief.

So, too, did his thoughts. He had a narrow window of opportunity, a few days, no more.

It was by no means impossible; Bertoli knew better than anyone the vulnerabilities.

He had only to make a single phone call, and the deed was as good as done.

He would not issue a directive, merely a warning.

His conscience would be clear, his place in God’s heavenly kingdom secure.

He would save himself and his Church. There was no higher calling.

A single phone call, he thought, to the very man who had got him into this mess in the first place.

But not from his Vatican landline or his usual telefonino ; it was obvious the Holy Father’s clever friend had managed to hack it.

He would place the call from his second cell phone, the one he used for his most private affairs.

It was hidden in his dressing room, so thoroughly that not even Sister Eugenia, his meddlesome household nun, knew of its existence.

He fetched the phone now and carried it onto his rooftop terrace. A few words was all it took, a warning rather than a directive.

“You and your investor from Naples have a serious problem, Nico. Two, in fact. ”

Bertoli then recited a pair of names. Nico Ambrosi took note of the second.

“How is he involved in this?”

“He’s the one who switched the paintings. And if I had to guess, he’s the one who made five hundred million dollars disappear. He knows everything, Nico. And so does the Holy Father.”

“Is there a way to make these problems go away?”

“That’s entirely up to you and your investor in Naples.”

And with that, the connection died, and the deed was done. Bertoli switched off the phone and watched a layman of medium height and build stepping from the entrance of the Casa Santa Marta. Speak of the devil, he thought, and went to bed.