Private Rome

Chapter 13

After we left police headquarters, Gianna and I went our separate ways and I took a taxi to Piazza Adriana, the grand star-shaped park surrounding Castel Sant’Angelo, an awe-inspiring second-century castle in the heart of Rome. I asked the cab driver to drop me off at the western edge of the park, where I walked along the magnificent Via della Conciliazione toward Vatican City. The wide cobbled street was flanked by sandstone buildings in the imperial style. Some had been plastered and painted terracotta red or pastel hues; others had been constructed with their imposing stonework visible. None of them could compete with the dome of the Basilica di San Pietro — St Peter’s as it was known in the English-speaking world — which stood at the end of the street, perfectly centered to create a picture-postcard scene.

As I covered the four blocks from the park to St Peter’s Square, the grand buildings to either side of the basilica came into view: the bone-white, semi-circular colonnades that stood in front of the papal residence to the north and large papal audience hall to the south.

Some say the ancient Romans realized belief was more powerful than any army. That if you can convince a person you hold the keys to their redemption in the afterlife, they will subjugate themselves to your will without the need to resort to threats or further persuasion. And so, the Eternal City waxed ever-splendid and impregnable. Conquering without an army, imperious without empire, powerful without temporal responsibility. Vatican City isn’t just an architectural marvel, it is the embodiment in marble, stone and gold of the importance people set on the preservation of their souls.

St Peter’s Square was crowded with tourists and pilgrims, and here and there priests and nuns crossing the cobblestones from building to building. There was a time I would have felt awed to find myself in the Holy See, by my proximity to the heart of faith. Now, I was simply conflicted. I longed to believe all the things I’d been taught as a child, but afterward I’d experienced so much horror it was difficult for me to cling to abstract ideals like justice and goodness.

I crossed the gray setts that had been worn to a high shine by the passage of so many worshippers over the years, and headed for the Porta Angelica, a gate located behind the North Colonnade. I showed my passport to gain access through one of the lesser-used routes into Vatican City, away from the crowds. I was nodded through a metal detector by a uniformed member of the Vatican police force, who checked my credentials under the watchful gaze of four of his colleagues. These men were sartorially a far cry from the city state’s more famous ceremonial Swiss Guard, dressed in blue trousers, dark T-shirts and baseball caps, holstered Berettas at their hips.

I found the headquarters of the Vatican Bank not far from the North Colonnade, in a semi-circular, red-brick building that protruded from the Apostolic Palace and fronted Via Sant’Anna, one of the sidestreets that connected Vatican City with Rome. It was an unassuming place for an institution that controlled hundreds of billions of dollars in assets around the world, but such anonymity was likely deliberate. The faithful did not need to be reminded of the temporal riches of the Church. It would only encourage dissatisfaction and disgruntlement.

Unremarkable from the outside, the three-story building that housed the bank sang its opulence the moment I stepped through the smoked-glass door into a lobby constructed from marble with hardwood trim and gilt fixtures. Oil paintings by Old Masters hung from the walls, and on the ceiling was a fresco depicting a heavenly scene that might have been a warm-up for the Sistine Chapel. A couple of security guards in tan-colored suits stood by barriers that blocked the way to the elevators, and a lone receptionist in a white blouse and black skirt sat behind a long hardwood counter.

“Sì?” she greeted me.

“I have an appointment with Joseph Stadler,” I replied.

I’d arranged to come in at 11 a.m. during the call in which I’d accepted his commission to investigate Father Brambilla’s death. I checked my watch: 10:57 a.m.

“Please have a seat,” the receptionist replied, and I walked to a seating area near the windows. A huge oil painting of the Passion hung on a wall above a black leather corner unit. I didn’t sit but instead eyed the artistry of the piece. Fine brushwork had captured a photo-realistic depiction of Christ’s last moments, and the glee and horror of the onlooking crowd. It was a magnificent chronicle of a great crime, arguably the greatest of all.

“Mr. Morgan?” a man greeted me some minutes later.

I turned to see Christian Altmer, the executive assistant I’d met at the launch party. He flashed me his dazzling smile.

“Good to see you again,” he said. “Mr. Stadler is ready for you.”

I followed Altmer beyond the security gates, and we bypassed the elevators and went through another door that took us into a glass-walled walkway connecting the red-brick building with a much older white stone structure behind it.

“The Vatican is beautiful,” Altmer noted, his Swiss accent clipping his flawless English. “But it wasn’t designed with business in mind.”

“The bank isn’t a business in the strictest sense,” I responded. “It only has one client, right?”

He shook his head. “The Vatican Bank handles funds and transactions for people all over the world, Mr. Morgan. It is most definitely a business. We pride ourselves on the diversity of our client base.”

He used a key card to open a door at the end of the corridor.

We entered a small lobby that was unlike any business environment I’d ever seen. The walls and ceiling were covered in depictions of cherubs and heavenly scenes, and angels looked down on me from between puffball clouds.

“This way,” Altmer said.

He stepped into a solitary elevator and I followed him inside to see him press the only button on the panel. The doors closed and we rose through the magnificent old building. A chime sounded and the doors opened to reveal a large open-plan office containing four desks. There were two women and a man seated at these.

“This is where I work,” Altmer said, stepping out. He nodded toward the largest, unoccupied desk. “And these are my colleagues. Mr. Stadler is through here.”

We walked past the desks toward open double doors and stepped into a huge private office decorated like one of the finest chapels in Rome.

Old Master paintings covered the walls and sculptures were positioned around an opulent seating area, small library and Stadler’s huge desk. Large windows ran the length of the wall opposite offering a commanding view of Via del Telegrafo, one of Vatican City’s elegant side streets. I wondered if the Pope’s private office was quite so opulent.

“Mr. Morgan,” Stadler said, rising from behind his desk. “Please have a seat.”

He crossed the room, shook my hand, and ushered me to a trio of leather-covered Chesterfield couches. We sat opposite each other.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asked as Altmer closed the doors.

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

The younger man rejoined us and took a seat beside his boss.

“I’m very glad you agreed to take on the investigation, Mr. Morgan,” Stadler remarked.

“You said Father Brambilla was a friend. How did you get to know him?”

“He did some compliance work for the bank. He was a junior oversight officer for a while, one of the Church-appointed guardians, making sure we money men stay honest.”

Altmer scoffed. “It is an unnecessary level of regulation. The prospect of reputational damage to the Vatican brand keeps us honest. And most times, the priests the Church sends to watch over us don’t have the expertise to know right from wrong when it comes to banking.”

“Did Father Brambilla have that expertise?” I asked.

“He was a good man,” Stadler replied. Altmer’s expression suggested he didn’t agree, but he remained silent as his boss went on. “But I don’t know how much he understood of the world of high finance.”

“May I see what he worked on?” I asked.

“Of course, but these are old affairs,” Stadler replied. “Father Brambilla left his compliance role three years ago. My connection to him is purely personal now. Or rather, it was. I’m sorry, this is so difficult to accept.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’d still like to take a look.”

Stadler smiled sadly. “Christian will give you everything you need.”

“Of course,” Altmer added, though I sensed resentment at the imposition.

“Why did he leave?” I asked.

“Who can say?” Stadler replied. “The Church moves people around. One day the compliance officer at the bank, the next the shepherd of a flock in the Democratic Republic of Congo.”

“Is that what happened to Father Brambilla?” I asked.

Stadler shook his head. “No. He was appointed one of the Holy Father’s special envoys to South America. A high honor and a poorly defined role that gave him plenty of personal freedom.”

“You think he might have run into difficulties as a result of that?” I suggested.

Stadler shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. If he did, he never mentioned it to me. That’s why I need you. I want to know why my friend was murdered.”