Bertoli turned to the appropriate page. “It states that the income from our property in New Bond Street is more than sufficient to cover the cost of the debt service.”
“Is that an accurate statement?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that you and your investment adviser failed to make a number of payments?”
“We didn’t, Holiness.”
“You’re lying to me, Matteo. Not for the first time, I might add.”
Donati handed over a single sheet of paper. It was an email from Franco Tedeschi of SBL PrivatBank to Nico Ambrosi of Piedmont Global Capital. Bertoli scrutinized the document without expression.
“Where did you get this?”
“Never mind where I got it. Just answer my question.”
Bertoli considered his response. “Forgive me, Holiness. But I cannot explain the discrepancy.”
“The only possible explanation, Matteo, is that the quarterly report was fraudulent. And every other report you’ve given me since I became pope has been fraudulent as well.”
The cardinal was suddenly on his feet. “This is an outrage!”
“I couldn’t agree more. But please have a seat. We’re only just getting started.” Donati turned to Father Keegan. “Perhaps you should ask our friend to join us now.”
***
Gabriel entered the papal suite without waiting for a summons. Cardinal Bertoli regarded him contemptuously, then looked to Donati for an explanation.
“You remember our friend Gabriel, don’t you, Matteo? He was in the Sistina the night of the conclave.”
“Yes, of course, Holiness. But why is he here?”
“I’m afraid I misled you this morning. You see, it wasn’t the Italian police who recovered the stolen painting. It was Gabriel. And Antonio Calvesi wasn’t behind the theft.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. But who could have done such a thing?”
It was Gabriel who answered. “You, Cardinal Bertoli.”
Bertoli emitted a dry Curial laugh. “You’ve obviously taken leave of your senses, Signore Allon.” Bertoli turned to Donati and added, “You both have.”
Donati, with a wave of his hand, instructed Gabriel to present the evidence of Bertoli’s guilt. He sat down opposite the cardinal and opened his laptop.
“The true valuation of the Secretariat of State’s investment portfolio is not three point eight billion euros, and you have nowhere near five hundred million in cash reserves.”
Bertoli lifted his gaze toward the ceiling and in a benedictory voice declared, “False.”
“A more accurate valuation,” Gabriel continued, “would be about two billion euros. But when you subtract the liabilities, namely, the money you owe SBL PrivatBank, it’s less than a billion.”
“Also false.”
“I can show you the statement that Nico Ambrosi sent you earlier this year. It paints an accurate picture of the secretariat’s investment portfolio, not the fiction you served up in your quarterly reports. To make matters worse, SBL PrivatBank was calling in its loan for the New Bond Street building, and you had almost no cash on hand. You needed money, and you needed it quickly. Otherwise your mismanagement and embezzlement of Vatican funds would come to light. You found a solution to your problems one afternoon during a visit to the conservation lab of the Vatican Museums.”
“I never saw that painting until this morning.”
“Antonio Calvesi was the one who showed it to you. He also told you about the hidden portrait and the suspicions of an apprentice conservator named Penelope Radcliff. You called your friend Giorgio Montefiore at the Uffizi, and Giorgio asked to see the painting. He told Antonio it wasn’t a Leonardo, but he told you that it probably was. And you, in turn, informed Nico Ambrosi that you had discovered a way to repay your delinquent loan.”
Bertoli feigned incredulity. “And how, Signore Allon, did I manage to steal the painting from the storerooms without anyone noticing?”
