The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

R OME , I TALY

5:45 P.M.

S TEFANO CROSSED HIMSELF AND STARTED HIS PRAYER.

He’d been hailed a hero at the end of the match, the goal regarded as somewhat miraculous. One hop, then up and in. And maybe it had been. He was the only Catholic priest among the four Calcio Storico teams.

A status he liked.

The Greens’ victory would be toasted until the wee hours of tomorrow morning, but a summons from Rome had required that he travel south immediately. The instruction had come by secure text.

Return. Home Church. 6:00 p.m.

Since he’d specifically taken three days’ leave for the tournament, the summons had been both unexpected and troubling.

The Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore sat outside the Vatican borders, technically part of Italy but owned by the Holy See, possessing the same immunity and political status as a foreign embassy. Its canopied high altar was reserved for use by the pope alone. A cardinal was always in charge of the site, overseeing assistant priests, a chapter of canons, along with Redemptorist, Dominican, and Franciscan friars.

He was kneeling in one of the empty pews, the building closed to visitors for the day. The solitude was welcomed. He had to come down off the high from the match. The euphoria, the crowds cheering, his teammates congratulating was in many ways like a drug, stimulating, but also distracting. That was over now. It had to be forgotten. Back to work.

Quiet always helped with his thoughts.

As did St. Pius V.

Pope at a time in the sixteenth century when Protestantism first swept England, Scotland, Germany, Holland, and France. Talk about challenges. But he was a tough Dominican friar. A former grand inquisitor who standardized the Bible, formed the Holy League, and defeated the Ottoman Empire. He even had the audacity to forbid horse racing in St. Peter’s Square, which the people loved. In day-to-day life he was highly ascetic and wore a hair shirt beneath his white robe, that color becoming a standard for all the popes who came after. The church canonized him in 1712. Fourteen years before that his body had been placed within a sarcophagus here in the basilica. A flap of gilded bronze, showing the effigy of the pope in shallow relief, could be swung open, revealing the remains, behind glass, adorned in papal robes. And here it had rested for over three hundred years.

Stefano lifted his head and stared at the sarcophagus.

Today the gilded flap was down, concealing the body.

Pius V also left another mark. One that had endured right up to the present. As in any other nation, security within the Vatican had always been essential. Since the early 1500s the Swiss Guard had been its public face. But the most secret agency within the Holy See had been specifically chartered by Pius V. Its purpose? To end the life of Protestant Elizabeth I and support her cousin, the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, for the English throne. Though Pius failed in that mission, what he created had served popes through schisms, revolutions, dictators, persecutions, attacks, world wars, even assassination attempts. First called the Supreme Congregation for the Holy Inquisition of Heretical Error, then the much shorter Holy Alliance. In the twentieth century the name was changed to simply L’Entitá , the Entity.

Its motto?

With the Cross and the Sword .

Never once had the Holy See ever acknowledged its existence, but it was the oldest and one of the best intelligence agencies in the world. A model of secrecy and efficiency.

And he was a part of it.

“Pardon me, Father,” a voice said behind him.

He turned his head but stayed on his knees.

Sergio Cardinal Ascolani stood in the center aisle.

Stefano immediately rose to his feet and smoothed out the folds in his black cassock. Not only was Ascolani the Vatican’s secretary of state, he was also the head of the Entity. Unusual, to say the least, for one man to occupy two high posts, but the current pope had seen no problem with such dual responsibilities.

“I appreciate your promptness to my summons,” Ascolani said, stepping into a row of pews and sitting. Stefano stayed standing, knowing his place.

“I watched the match,” Ascolani said.

He knew it had been televised across Italy.

“What a goal. That was quite a bold move.”

“I got a lucky bounce.”

“ Luck is where opportunity meets preparation. And, you, Father Giumenta, are always prepared.”

He appreciated the compliment.

“I am sorry you missed the celebratory dinner. I know how you love such things.”

He did. But, “I have enjoyed them before, and there will be others. I am curious, though, as to why the sudden summons. I was scheduled to be off for the next few days.”

“Eric Casaburi has finally surfaced.”

Really? They’d been watching for several months, ever since it was learned that Casaburi had cultivated a source within the Vatican. And an odd one at that. Jason Cardinal Richter. Who’d been making inquiries across the Curia about Casaburi and his new-right National Freedom Party. Apparently gauging their popularity for any tacit political support the church might be able to offer. Thankfully, the covert monitoring of phone lines and cell phones was not illegal within Vatican City. The situation had elevated once Richter’s possible involvement with the fraud trial was revealed by one of the co-defendants. Interestingly, the Swiss Guard had not reported that situation. Instead, more spies within the guard had alerted them. Friction between the two security agencies was not uncommon. One was domestic, the other foreign, though that line blurred on an almost daily basis. Richter was now under close Entity observation.

“Did Casaburi meet with Cardinal Richter?” he asked.

Ascolani nodded. “I had the room wired. All was recorded.”

Efficient. As always. And another example of that blurred line.

Nine years ago Stefano had been working out of the Archdiocese of Boston when he was reassigned to Rome’s Pontificia Accademia Ecclesiastica, where priests were trained as apostolic nuncios. The academy itself towered above the Piazza della Minerva in what seemed to be just another former Roman palace. He graduated the course and became part of what was considered to be one of the world’s elite corps of diplomats. He served three years around the world as a deputy papal representative. There he learned that the principal gatherers of intelligence for the Holy See were the apostolic nuncios, similar to ambassadors deployed by every nation-state. The only difference was that the Holy See, unlike other nations, did not make its intelligence officers known to the host countries. Why? Because the Entity did not officially exist and the Vatican did not employ intelligence officers. Stefano had caught the eye of his superiors, who recalled him to Rome and placed him in charge of the Entity’s Gruppo Intervento Rapido, the rapid intervention group, the people who handled the jobs that others could not, or did not want to.

Like Eric Casaburi.

“I was able to hear the entire conversation,” Ascolani said. “Casaburi first asked nicely for the church’s help then, once rejected, applied pressure.”

“How did Richter react?”

“To his credit, Jason said no. Quite decisively, too.”

He was impressed. “I did not see that coming.”

“Neither did I. And yet there were four hundred thousand euros in cash hidden inside a German residence that Richter controls.”

“So the information proved correct?”

“Apparently so.”

He’d known that the Swiss Guard had asked the Americans to assist them in verifying whether Richter might be dirty. Again, not a word of that had been passed up the chain of command to the Entity. That omission had drawn Ascolani’s attention.

“My source within the Swiss Guard,” Ascolani said, “sent me a photo the American asset took in Germany. A satchel full of euros hidden inside a priest hole, booby-trapped with a dye pack.”

All of which was interesting, but surely not why he’d been summoned.

“Another matter was raised during the conversation between Richter and Casaburi. A mention of something I thought I would never hear.”

He was eager for an explanation, but none came. Instead the face, with its sallow, pockmarked skin stretched over thin features, maintained a glacial control. He’d come to know that Ascolani was a man of patrician tastes and earthly language, who delighted in intrigue. Also tight-lipped. So he would only be told what he needed to be told.

His boss stood from the pew. “Before we have a much more detailed conversation on that other matter, there is a task I must complete. Please stay in Rome, readily available. I will be in touch shortly.”

Ascolani walked off.

He could not help himself and had to say, “You seem troubled, Eminence.”

The older man stopped in the aisle but did not turn back.

“I am.”