Private Rome

Chapter 33

Eight priests.

Eight good men.

At least that’s what the dossier told me. I slept poorly that night. Dreams of the helicopter crash in Afghanistan that ended my military career morphed with the heart attacks and accidents that were supposed to have killed these priests. Apart from Brambilla, who had clearly not died from natural causes or by accident, the other men had met early, but seemingly not suspicious, ends. Only Faduma had picked up a connection: the men had all died in and around Rome in the last three months while on missions from their home dioceses overseas. They were travelers visiting the city on what one might reasonably assume was Church business or else pilgrimage.

I was still waiting for Mo-bot to report, but there didn’t seem to be any other obvious link between the men, at least not according to the information Faduma had provided.

I woke many times in the night, haunted by the faces of the priests who merged into the memories of fallen comrades and victims of past crimes I’d investigated. I finally fell into a deep sleep as dawn broke, waking a couple of hours later as tired as if I’d never slept at all.

I gathered the photos and papers scattered across my bed and returned them to the envelope. After showering and getting dressed in one of my new lightweight suits, I went downstairs, walked a few blocks in the morning sunshine, and hailed a cab to Vatican City.

I picked my way through the crowds of pilgrims and tourists gathered in front of St Peter’s and passed through the security checkpoint by the north colonnade.

I walked along Via Sant’Anna until I reached the Vatican Bank headquarters.

“I’d like to see Joseph Stadler,” I said to the receptionist. “My name is Jack Morgan. I don’t have an appointment.”

I waited in the luxurious vaulted lobby, admiring the paintings, until Christian Altmer came through the lobby security gates. He wore a navy blue suit and a matching shirt and was as somber as an undertaker. When he saw me, he pinned a fake smile on his face.

“Mr. Morgan,” he said, offering me his hand. “Mr. Stadler has a busy day, but he can give you ten minutes.”

“I’m grateful,” I replied.

I followed him through to the ancient building and there was no small talk this time.

We took the elevator and passed through the outer office where Stadler’s executive team studiously ignored me while Altmer led me into his boss’s suite.

Stadler was by the window, looking out over Via del Telegrafo, but he turned when we entered and greeted me with a warm smile.

“Mr. Morgan, this is a welcome surprise.”

“I’m sorry to intrude, but I need your help with something.”

“Please have a seat. Drink?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be long,” I replied, and stayed standing. “I have reason to believe Father Brambilla was one of eight priests murdered here in Rome.”

Stadler’s eyes widened, and Altmer’s mouth gaped in shock.

“I believe Filippo Lombardi started looking into these murders,” I said, taking care not to reveal Faduma’s role in identifying the victims. “I think that may be why he was killed.”

“Priests?” Stadler asked incredulously. “Eight priests?”

I nodded.

“Such a thing would be an outrage against God,” he suggested.

“A great crime,” Altmer agreed.

“If I give you their names, can you arrange for Church records to provide me with any details of how these men might be connected?” I asked.

Stadler nodded emphatically. “Of course. Christian will get you whatever you need.”

Altmer nodded. “I am here to help you, Mr. Morgan,” he said, with all the sincerity of a fairground barker.

I pulled a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and gave it to the younger man. “These are the priests. Beside each name is their diocese and the date of their death.”

“I will get to work on this immediately,” he said, before leaving the room.

Stadler walked slowly toward his desk and eased himself into his chair, clearly shaken. “I hope you’re wrong, Mr. Morgan. I truly do.”

“So do I,” I replied. “So do I.”