The Secret Cardinal

53

Donoher’s driver dropped him off in front of a four-story townhouse in the Trastevere District of Rome. Like its neighbors, the building was well maintained for its age. The ground floor was clad in a rusticated base of cut stone blocks; the upper floors were dressed in tan stucco with smooth limestone trim decoratively framing the windows. An arched opening in the center of the symmetrical facade provided entry into the building. At shoulder height next to the opening was a polished bronze sign:

He rang the bell and waited. A small closed-circuit camera mounted off to the side of the door about twelve feet off the ground relayed Donoher’s image to a monitor inside the townhouse. A moment later, Guglielmo Cusumano appeared at the door.

‘Your Eminence, what can I do for you?’ Cusumano asked.

‘I am afraid I come bearing sad news.’

‘My uncle?’

Donoher nodded. ‘He passed just a short time ago. I was with him at the end.’

Cusumano withdrew into his thoughts for a moment, then collected himself once again. ‘My manners, please, come in. Can I get you anything?’

‘A glass of wine perhaps.’

‘I think I can find something suitable to toast uncle’s memory,’ Cusumano said.

The ground floor of the townhouse was laid out in large reading rooms and served as Cusumano’s place of business as a dealer in fine antique books. The air carried the barest scent of old leather and vellum; a state-of-the-art environmental system maintained ideal conditions for book preservation inside the townhouse. If the furnishings in the shop and the number of volumes on display were any indication, Cusumano was very successful at his trade.

They climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor, and Cusumano left his guest in his personal library while he went in search of the vintage he had in mind. He returned a few moments later with a pair of broad-bowled glasses and a well-aged Barolo. Cusumano poured two generous servings and handed one to the Camerlengo.

‘To my uncle, a man of faith and family all the years of his life.’ The nephew settled into a plush leather sofa.

‘To Cardinal Gagliardi,’ Donoher added. ‘May his soul find the rest that it deserves.’

The Barolo lived up to its reputation as one of Italy’s finest red wines, this mature example offering a rich bouquet to the nose and a complex, flavorful palate. In the Corktown of his youth, Donoher recalled the tradition of toasting the deceased with a fine whiskey. The Poles of Detroit’s Hamtramck enclave did the same, only with vodka. Spirits for the spirit.

‘Death came quickly,’ Donoher said. ‘His heart could take no more.’

‘I’m thankful you were with him at the end. No one should die alone.’

‘I agree. In the end, your uncle was able to make a full confession and unburden himself of all the troubles of this world.’

‘Then he meets God with a clear conscience.’

‘This is a fine wine,’ Donoher said, changing the subject, ‘and no doubt expensive. Thank you for sharing it with me.’

‘My uncle always said that wine, like talent, was meant to be shared. Wasn’t Christ’s first miracle the wine at the wedding feast in Cana?’

‘He also shared wine with his closest friends at the Last Supper, though I doubt it was a Barolo. Your uncle was quite proud of you, and I can see you’ve done well for yourself,’ Donoher said as he surveyed the room. ‘I would never have guessed the trade in old books was so financially rewarding.’

‘I deal in rare, prized volumes. Just this morning, I completed the sale of an exquisite first edition of Palladio’s I Quattro Libri dell’ Architettura to an American collector. Rare books are works of art as well as sound investments’.

‘Such a unique and profitable enterprise no doubt requires specialized accounting and bank services. Your uncle mentioned your interest in our bank at the Vatican.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes, and regardless of who becomes the next Pope, I’m sure you will be pleased to know that regulatory oversight of the IOR will be most exacting. Many of the laws governing our bank, though providing a desirable measure of privacy, also make it difficult to monitor accounts for criminal activity. The IOR is not just a bank, it is the Church’s bank, and we must hold it to a higher standard. Otherwise, some unscrupulous persons might try to launder money through our accounts or obtain valid letters of credit for fraudulent purposes. We won’t allow the Church’s bank to be abused by anyone.’

Cusumano leaned back, slowly swirling the deep red wine in his glass, his eyes narrow and fixed on the Camerlengo. A hint of a smile curled the corner of Donoher’s mouth, the message delivered.

‘Are you a religious man?’ Donoher asked.

‘In my own fashion.’

‘Then you are of course familiar with the concept of excommunication. Are you aware that of the grave sins resulting in this form of censure, there are twelve that only the Pope can absolve? Attacking or murdering a prelate, or aiding those who do so, is one. If you, for example, were to commit such a terrible sin, even I, the Camerlengo of the Church, could not restore you.’

‘Then it would be best to avoid such a sin, especially now when there is no Pope.’

‘It would indeed.’

Donoher finished his wine and set the empty glass on the table beside his chair. Cusumano did not offer to refill it.

‘One final matter, before I go,’ Donoher said. ‘The laws of the Vatican are not the same as the laws of Italy. One major difference is the death penalty. Though not imposed by a Pope for well over a century, capital punishment remains an option. And for murderous crimes against the Church, I don’t think Italy would quibble over extradition.’