“I’m very glad you agreed to take on the investigation, Mr. Morgan,” Stadler remarked.
“You said Father Brambilla was a friend. How did you get to know him?”
“He did some compliance work for the bank. He was a junior oversight officer for a while, one of the Church-appointed guardians, making sure we money men stay honest.”
Altmer scoffed. “It is an unnecessary level of regulation. The prospect of reputational damage to the Vatican brand keeps us honest. And most times, the priests the Church sends to watch over us don’t have the expertise to know right from wrong when it comes to banking.”
“Did Father Brambilla have that expertise?” I asked.
“He was a good man,” Stadler replied. Altmer’s expression suggested he didn’t agree, but he remained silent as his boss went on. “But I don’t know how much he understood of the world of high finance.”
“May I see what he worked on?” I asked.
“Of course, but these are old affairs,” Stadler replied. “Father Brambilla left his compliance role three years ago. My connection to him is purely personal now. Or rather, it was. I’m sorry, this is so difficult to accept.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’d still like to take a look.”
Stadler smiled sadly. “Christian will give you everything you need.”
“Of course,” Altmer added, though I sensed resentment at the imposition.
“Why did he leave?” I asked.
“Who can say?” Stadler replied. “The Church moves people around. One day the compliance officer at the bank, the next the shepherd of a flock in the Democratic Republic of Congo.”
“Is that what happened to Father Brambilla?” I asked.
Stadler shook his head. “No. He was appointed one of the Holy Father’s special envoys to South America. A high honor and a poorly defined role that gave him plenty of personal freedom.”
“You think he might have run into difficulties as a result of that?” I suggested.
Stadler shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. If he did, he never mentioned it to me. That’s why I need you. I want to know why my friend was murdered.”
CHAPTER14
I DIDN’T LIKE Christian Altmer. There was something off about the guy, as though he wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. The easy charm, good looks, and winning smile couldn’t conceal that, and I’d learned not to ignore my first instincts. The moment I settled into the back seat of the cab I’d caught on the Via della Giuliana, I sent Mo-bot a secure email asking for background on Altmer.
Stadler seemed more straightforward: a conservative businessman of high standing within his profession, who was obviously motivated by concern for a friend. But a successful track record in business didn’t make him incapable of errors of judgment when it came to the people he worked with—something that had been brought home to me by Matteo’s arrest. It was possible that I’d been mistaken in appointing him head of Private Rome, though I still hoped to be able to prove otherwise.
I told the cabdriver, a cheerful guy in his thirties who hummed along to the Italian ballads blaring from his radio, to take me to La Rustica Mall on the eastern edge of the city. The neighborhood around Vatican City was alive with tourists, and the hot air thick with fumes from the heavy traffic. Rome was busy this scorching July day, but as we drove through the city the crowds and traffic thinned until we reached a mall that could have been in any suburb in the world.
Luna was waiting by the main entrance and jumped in next to me the moment the cab stopped beside her. She seemed skittish and glanced around nervously as the driver complied with my instruction to head east. We joined the slow-moving traffic rolling out of the parking lot.
“Thanks for doing this,” I said.
“You shouldn’t be thanking me,” she replied. “You should be getting on a plane and going back to America.”
“What are you afraid of?” I asked.
“Rome is full of enemies, old and new.”
“Who are your enemies?”
She smiled enigmatically, didn’t answer.
She relaxed a little once we reached the Autostrada 24 Roma a’ Teramo, a wide highway that stretched north-east of the city. The driver told me it was known locally as the Parks Motorway. We raced along it for about fifteen kilometers before taking a curling exit and joining the Via Polense, a narrow, single-lane road that snaked through countryside and up into the hills to the east of Rome.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
