The museum guard glanced at his wife, then said, “Hidden under our bed.”
“How much is left?”
“All of it. We didn’t spend a single euro.”
A careful count of the newly minted banknotes, conducted by Luca Rossetti at the kitchen table, confirmed that to be the case. Some twenty minutes later the money was in the trunk of Rossetti’s unmarked Alfa Romeo, bound for central Rome. Ottavio Pozzi, however, was still in his apartment. In a few hours’ time he would stop at Caffè Roma for adoppio, then board the first of two Metro trains that would deliver him to the Vatican Museums.
“I’d feel better if he were locked inside Regina Coeli with his brother,” said Rossetti.
“So would I,” replied Gabriel. “But if we arrest him, it will alert Signore Bianchi and his associates in Naples that we’re on to them.”
“You noticed that too?”
“Rather hard to miss.”
“It seems we’re dealing with the Camorra.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Lucky us.”
“It would explain how Signore Bianchi knew about Sandro. The Camorra has the prison system wired.”
“But it wouldn’t explain how Father Bagman managed to get inside the Vatican.”
“How do you suppose he did it?”
“Either he scaled the walls,” said Gabriel, “or someone let him in. I’m betting it was the latter.”
***
It took Rossetti nearly an hour to battle his way through the rush-hour traffic to St. Anne’s Gate. A halberdier in a simple blue nightuniform stood on the Vatican side of the frontier, his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back. To his immediate right was the main entrance to the Swiss Guard barracks. In the reception area, a duty officer sat ramrod-straight behind a half-moon desk. Before him was a bank of closed-circuit video monitors. On the wall behind him were a crucifix and the flags of Switzerland’s twenty-six cantons.
“Where’s your boss?” asked Gabriel.
“In his office.”
“I need a word.”
“Do you remember the way?”
“First door after the suit of armor.”
The duty officer smiled and reached for his phone. “I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
Gabriel made his way along a narrow corridor to an internal courtyard where two fresh-faced halberdiers were hacking old dress uniforms to pieces with heavy axes, the Guard’s most common form of punishment. The building on the opposite side of the court was dull brown in color and contained the comfortable living quarters of senior officers, including Commandant Alois Metzler. His office was on the ground floor.
Gabriel removed the sketch from his attaché case and laid it on Metzler’s desk.
“Who is he?” asked the commandant.
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”
Metzler picked up the sketch and examined it at length. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize him.”
“I have a feeling that at least one of your men might.”
“Why?”
“Because our priestly friend walked out of the Vatican a few weeks ago with a painting under his arm.”
