“Do you have a record of who was working that night?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I need their names, Alessio. Their personnel files as well.”
“I’m sorry, but those files are confidential.”
“Shall we call the Holy Father?”
“No, Signore Allon. That won’t be necessary.”
16
Ostiense
The five names and their accompanying personnel files were by eleven thirty that morning in the hands of Luca Rossetti. He subjected each of the names to an invasive background check—the same check the Art Squad conducted on all applicants seeking employment at one of Italy’s many national museums, especially security guards. At half past two, as Gabriel and General Ferrari were enjoying a late lunch in the Campo de’ Fiori, Rossetti found his man. He collected Gabriel fifteen minutes later in an unmarked Alfa Romeo. They headed south on the Corso Vittorio.
“It’s Pozzi,” said Rossetti. “Ottavio Pozzi.”
“What’s he hiding?”
“His older brother Sandro.”
“A troubled soul, is he?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Rossetti inclined his head in the general direction of Trastevere. “Sandro is currently residing at Regina Coeli.”
“How long is his lease?”
“He’s doing twenty-five to thirty years for armed robbery, the sale and distribution of illegal narcotics, and murder. None of which Ottavio mentioned when he applied to work at the Vatican.”
“How is it possible that no one noticed?”
“You know how the Vatican operates. As long as someone says he’s a practicing Catholic, he’s in. Even the Swiss Guards receive almost no vetting.”
“Tell me about it,” murmured Gabriel.
Luca Rossetti rounded the Colosseum, practically on two wheels, then raced past the Circus Maximus. His destination was an apartment block in the working-class district of Ostiense. The ground floor was covered in graffiti. Thick metal bars defended the windows and the street-level entrance.
“How shall we handle it?” asked Rossetti.
“Good cop, bad cop?”
“Which one am I?”
“Since you’re the one with the badge, Luca, I suggest you play the role of bad cop.”
Rossetti had two files in his possession. One was the Vatican personnel file. The other, the thicker of the two, was Sandro Pozzi’s extensive criminal file. He carried them over to the entrance of the apartment block and jabbed at the weather-beaten intercom panel. A woman answered at once.
“Buongiorno.”
“Signora Pozzi?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Capitano Luca Rossetti of the Carabinieri. I’m here to see your husband.”
“Can you come back later? Ottavio is sleeping now.”
