“Good evening, Cardinal Bertoli. Sorry to interrupt your evening, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped.”
“I trust it’s something important.”
“I’ll let the Holy Father explain.”
He was seated at his little writing desk, a stack of papers before him. He gave hissostitutono more than a cursory glance. “Please have a seat, Matteo. We need to talk.”
“About what, Holiness?”
“I said sit down.”
Bertoli drew away as though he were avoiding a blow. “I demand to know the meaning of this.”
“Trust me, you are in no position to make demands.”
Bertoli held his ground for a moment longer before settling into one of the overstuffed armchairs.
“Where were you this evening, Matteo?”
“I was at dinner.”
“With whom?”
“Nico Ambrosi.”
“Your investment adviser?”
“Ourinvestment adviser, Holiness.”
“The man who convinced you to pay four hundred million dollars for an office building in London?”
“I fail to see how that is relevant.”
“You will shortly. But tell me something, Matteo. Did anyone else join you and your friend Nico Ambrosi for dinner this evening?”
“It was just the two of us.”
“There wasn’t a third person at your table? A banker named Franco Tedeschi? He was the one who lent you the money to purchase the New Bond Street property.”
Bertoli recalibrated. “Signore Tedeschi joined us briefly, Holiness. But how did you possibly know that?”
Donati handed Bertoli a leather-bound document bearing the emblem of the Secretariat of State. “I assume you recognize this. After all, you were the one who prepared it.”
“It is this year’s first-quarter report on the secretariat’s investment portfolio.”
“Open the report to page one, please.”
Bertoli complied with the request, laboriously.
“Please remind me what it says, Matteo.”
“It states that the total value of the secretariat’s portfolio is three point eight billion euros.”
“And the cash reserves?”
“Slightly less than five hundred million.”
“Very impressive,” said Donati with mock admiration. “Now have a look at page twelve.”
