Petroni unzipped his soft leather briefcase. Normally it contained crimson files with gold Papal coats of arms emblazoned on the centre of the covers, but the file he handed Giorgio Felici was dun coloured. When it suited, no matter what the target, Petroni was a master of the smallest details of indifference.
‘Some further information on Dr Allegra Bassetti, the one you already have under surveillance for us in the Middle East.’ Other than a photograph and the bare details of her scholarship, Petroni had avoided providing Felici with too much background information on the bothersome ex-nun. The fewer people that connected her with the Omega Scroll the better, but circumstances had now changed dramatically and the wily little Sicilian would have to be brought into the loop.
‘She used to belong to one of our convents but regrettably she has now succumbed to a life outside the Church. She and her companion, the Israeli archaeologist Dr David Kaufmann, are in possession of a Dead Sea Scroll that belongs in the Rockefeller Museum. We would, of course, pay handsomely for its return.’
‘What is her background?’ Felici asked. Originally he had been happy to organise surveillance on the Italian woman without too many questions. It had been money for old rope, but now he was more than a little intrigued as to why a Prince of the Church might have a personal interest in eliminating an ex-nun and recovering an ancient parchment.
‘Southern Italy. A little place called Tricarico. Poor farmers mostly. Decent law-abiding people, although clearly there are exceptions.’ Lorenzo sniffed pointedly. ‘After we accepted her into the town’s convent we made the mistake of sending her to the State University in Milano to further her education, which is where she went off the rails.’
‘Don’t you normally send your priests and nuns to Catholic Universities?’
‘Normally yes, but against my advice the Holy Father decided that the Church should better understand the youth in a secular world, and Bassetti was part of the pilot program.’
‘She is a doctor?’
‘Chemistry. After she resigned from her Order she took a research doctorate in applied archaeological DNA. The details are in her dossier,’ he said, pointing to the file. ‘Kaufmann’s details are in there, too.’
‘Ah yes, from the reports we are getting they seem to spend a lot of time together. Any relation to Professor Yossi Kaufmann, the Israeli mathematician?’
‘His son.’
Conversation was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of the main course. Petroni had ordered his favourite dish, bucatini all’Amatriciana; thin hollow tubes of pasta with a sauce of tomato, garlic and ham. This time it was delivered by a young boy who could not have been more than sixteen. Had the other patrons been remotely interested it would not have escaped their attention that Petroni gave the boy more than a casual look as he topped up the wine glasses and then quietly withdrew.
‘Does the fact that he is Professor Kaufmann’s son matter?’ Petroni probed, suddenly wary of how much P3 might know about Professor Kaufmann and the Dead Sea Scrolls.
‘It might,’ Giorgio responded. ‘The recovery of anything in the Middle East these days is not without difficulty, Lorenzo, and this David Kaufmann is obviously very well connected. His father is not only a world-famous mathematician and archaeologist, he is a General in the Israeli Defense Force Reserves and an honorary Director of the Shrine of the Book. And you are no doubt aware that he is also running for Prime Minister.’
Cardinal Petroni reflected that Giorgio Felici was extraordinarily well briefed. He said nothing.
‘It might be quite an expensive operation, Lorenzo.’ Again, the quick, mechanical flash of uneven white teeth.
Petroni had expected nothing less. On previous occasions when it had been necessary for someone to meet with an accident, Giorgio Felici had never come cheaply, but he was the best in the business and the protection of the Holy Church demanded nothing less. Whatever it took, the Vatican Bank would pay.
‘It is essential that we recover this scroll quickly,’ Petroni replied, leaving the issue of Felici’s expenses and undoubted profit unanswered. ‘I want you to see to it personally.’
‘As difficult as that might be, we are not without our contacts, Lorenzo, and for a price I am prepared to go to the Middle East and oversee the operation.’ Giorgio Felici didn’t elaborate but he knew that terrorist groups had a constant need for funds to buy expensive arms and ammunition. Even a group like Hamas could be distracted from blowing up buses for long enough if the price tag was sufficiently attractive. ‘But it raises another issue.’
Petroni was immediately on guard, although he was careful not to show it. ‘Oh?’ he said offhandedly.
‘My colleagues in P3 have been considering offering you membership. Again,’ Felici said pointedly. ‘We met last night and that offer is now confirmed and I’m very happy to be the one to pass on their decision. I’m sure there will be just as many benefits for you as there might be for us,’ Felici opined casually.
‘Membership of P3 is out of the question,’ Petroni responded, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘Freemasonry has long been banned by the Vatican. Have you forgotten 1978?’
‘You will not be surprised to learn, Lorenzo,’ Giorgio continued quietly, ignoring Petroni’s protest, ‘that once again we count amongst our members some of the most influential men in Italy and the United States. But perhaps you would be surprised to know that several of them are cardinals?’
Petroni was not surprised at all. He had a very good idea of who was on Felici’s list. That sort of information could be valuable currency should a cardinal or bishop be reluctant to take a particular direction.
‘That does surprise me, Giorgio,’ he said. ‘You must have been very persuasive.’
‘We have our means, my friend. I won’t divulge any names of course, but let me give you an example. One or two of our members are quite prominent in the Comune di Roma. It is perfectly normal for a very senior cardinal to have a luxury apartment outside the Vatican. But,’ Giorgio added pointedly, ‘if, come si dice – how do you say? – the “other arrangements” were known publicly there might be some very awkward questions.’ For once Giorgio Felici’s mechanical smile held a touch of mirth. Like a fisherman who had just hooked a very large fish.
Petroni’s lips compressed into a thin line as he felt a rush of cold, hard anger. He eyed his adversary with barely disguised contempt.
‘Clearly I have been careless.’
‘Not really,’ Giorgio replied. ‘It’s just that P3 has very good intelligence. Keeping track of someone as important as you is nothing personal, Lorenzo, purely business. Besides, we’re all men of the world, and look on the bright side: when it comes to dealing with rivals for the Papacy, it is much better to have P3 backing you than the other way round.’
Cardinal Petroni had chosen his apartment with the same meticulous care he had chosen the restaurant. Via del Governo Vecchio was close, but across the Tiber and far enough away from the Vatican. It was fashionable, but eclectic. On one side, the narrow twists and turns housed expensive and richly decorated apartments and exclusive jewellery salons and designer fashion stores. On the other, there was anything from Abbey’s, the Irish pub, to a servizio for motor scooters. Anonymity, but apparently, not anonymous enough.
Lorenzo Petroni’s housekeeper was petite with dark shining hair. Quiet but determined, Carmela was used to his odd hours and she was waiting for him. He would need to leave before the grey winter dawn reached the dome of St Peter’s, but that thought quickly evaporated. Carmela caressed Lorenzo gently with her tongue until he was wet and hard. She had a way of using the forbidden ‘ il preservativo ’ to heighten Lorenzo’s arousal and without losing the moment she fondled him as she reached for the already prepared condom in the bedside drawer. She murmured softly and took him inside her.