‘Ask Monsignor Garibaldi to come in.’
The double doors were opened and the Head of the Vatican Bank was shown in to the Secretary of State’s opulent and spacious suite.
‘Pasquale, how good to see you again. It’s been a very long time. Please, have a seat.’ Monsignor Garibaldi was shown one of three crimson couches, the soft approach.
‘Thank you, Eminence,’ Pasquale responded, nonplussed as to why he had been summoned on the Cardinal’s second day in office.
‘I was reading your report on the Latin American Bishop’s Conference in Quito. Very insightful, but I fear not much has changed.’
‘A sad indictment, Eminence.’ Pasquale was wary but, who knew, despite Cardinal Petroni’s reputation for ruthlessness, perhaps this Prince of the Church would finally give some support to the desperately poor people of South America. ‘I am preparing a paper as to how we might better use the resources of the Vatican Bank to sponsor the programs they need.’
Petroni already knew that. Given half a chance this bothersome humanist priest would no doubt suggest opening a branch of the bank in downtown Bogota.
‘I would find that very interesting, Pasquale, and when you have finished it I would be grateful if you could submit it directly to my office for my personal attention. Regrettably there are some in these corridors who might oppose your plans. They guard His Holiness’s vaults as if they were their own, non e vero! ’ Petroni’s diplomatic laugh held not a scintilla of mirth.
‘But of course, Eminence. I understand.’
‘Which brings me to the reason I’ve asked you to see me. I think we need a closer look at the problems in Latin America. An independent view. I wondered if you would be prepared to return, as one of my emissaries?’
Pasquale was taken aback and more wary than ever. He had been Head of the Vatican Bank for less than two months.
‘I don’t know what to say, Eminence. Would it be for long? The bank… There is so much to do…’ Pasquale had a sinking feeling that he was being comprehensively sidelined.
Petroni smiled his practised, reassuring smile. He had predicted Garibaldi’s reaction and he smoothly applied his rehearsed response.
‘You will forgive me, Pasquale, but for this task I need people who not only have an understanding in here,’ Petroni said, tapping his forehead, ‘but who really care, from here.’ Petroni clenched his fist and held it to his soutane. ‘Bankers are easier to find.’
‘Of course, Eminence,’ Pasquale responded coolly. ‘Wherever I can be of best service.’ It was a line Petroni himself was fond of using but when he did, it lacked sincerity. ‘You mentioned emissaries. Can I ask if there are others?’
‘Not initially. We have to get the right people and that will take time, which is one of the reasons I would like you to leave as soon as possible. We are making arrangements for you to travel to Peru, which I think you will agree is at the very heart of the Liberation Movement?’
Despite his misgivings Pasquale felt a strange pang of excitement. Peru! It was the home of the founder of Liberation Theology, Gustavo Gutierrez.
‘Of course, Eminence.’
‘San Joaqun de Omaguas. A parish in the eastern part of the country. You will shortly receive some written directions on the more precise requirements, but I am sure you will be pleased to know that I have allowed scope for you to administer the sacraments to the local people and to gain some first-hand experience of the conditions. If only I were in your shoes instead of being stuck here in these dusty corridors, but don’t tell Il Papa I said that.’
Petroni got to his feet, confident that the chances of Monsignor Garibaldi and Il Papa having a conversation in the next five years were about zero.
Pasquale left the Secretariat of State enthused about the prospect of bringing the aims of a church ‘for and of the poor’ to greater prominence in the corridors of power, but the uneasy feeling that he’d been ‘got out of the way’ wouldn’t leave him. He realised that his concern over what he had found, or more to the point, what he had not found in the accounts, was well founded and disturbing, but he needed more time and more proof. Once he had left for Peru he felt sure Petroni would remove anything that might be remotely questioned. Well, he thought bitterly, at the very least the photocopier could do some overtime in the short time he had left. San Joaqun de Omaguas? He had never heard of the place and he headed in the direction of the Vatican library and an atlas. He would find that discovering details of the more remote areas of the Amazon would take a little time; places that were inaccessible by road often did.
Lorenzo Petroni put in a very long day, intermittently monitoring the news for any signs of an escalation of interest in the Rosselli case, but the carnage on the autostrada was overshadowing everything else. It was nearly midnight by the time he turned in, and he slept fitfully, tossing in the large bed in his apartment in the Vatican, trying to push back his recurring dreams.
Lorenzo Petroni’s dreams were hidden memories. Lorenzo at ten, a lonely only child. His father, Emilio, was a small, bald man with a small black moustache, a small man’s complex and a big, violent temper. Lorenzo’s mother, Marietta, was tall, very thin and very, very timid. The Petroni family lived in a run-down house in Pianella, a small town in the foothills of the Abruzzo Apennines. Every day Emilio would travel up and down the east coast, making a meagre living selling shoes, his samples in the boot and stacked on the back seat of his little Fiat. Lorenzo was a difficult and petulant child, prone to violent tantrums followed by long periods of sulking if he didn’t get his own way; and the source of constant tension between his mother and father. On rare occasions his parents would make up and Marietta would go with Emilio on one of his trips. Lorenzo would then be dropped off to stay with his bachelor uncle, Gustavo.
Petroni groaned in his sleep and pushed himself up against the wall, but it was no use. Uncle Gustavo pulled back the covers and climbed into bed with him.
Two days later he would be home again and the next morning he would creep out to the laundry to wash his sheets, terrified that his father would appear from the ramshackle outside toilet.
‘ Stronzetto inetto! You useless little shit!’ his father would snarl, grabbing Lorenzo by the hair and reaching for the big strap that was kept on a nail behind the laundry shed door.
‘You’ve wet the bed again, haven’t you! Haven’t you! Answer me you useless piece of dogshit!’
Lorenzo would say nothing, his bottom lip quivering as his father shoved him on top of one of the donkey’s bales of hay and hit him with the heavy strap.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Lorenzo would sob hysterically.
‘ Stronzetto inetto! You will never amount to anything! Never!’
‘Emilio. Please…’ Marietta would appear at the back door and plead for her son.
‘ Vaffanculo! Testa di cavolo! Butt out, cabbagehead! Or you’ll be next. Il tuo filio e un frocio! Your son is a fairy!’
Suddenly the alarm woke him. Petroni sat up in bed, sweating, a hatred for a father and the curse of never amounting to anything burning deep within his soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Acre
T he waters around Acre were clear and calm. Yossi’s neighbour Khalil had let him borrow his boat and the big single cylinder in the old side-valve engine chugged away contentedly, pushing the heavy boat slowly out of the harbour. The ancient stone walls caught the morning sun, lapped by the smooth green waters. A score of old fishing boats were tethered to stone jetties, nets piled underneath palm trees. A solitary lighthouse stood guard at the entrance to the harbour where the Romans had placed massive blocks of stone to protect their ships.