“I’ll be sure to bring you something tougher next time,” I responded, and she smiled.
“The suit conceals so much spirit,” she said, before turning her attention to the screen. “There is one SMS message. The phone was never used for anything else.”
She opened Google Maps. “Looks like GPS coordinates and a time—8 p.m.”
She pointed at a little red marker on her screen that showed a location: a courtyard in the heart of Rome.
“It’s in the Vatican,” she noted, and I looked at the screen and the overhead view of St. Peter’s and wondered why an assassin would be given a location inside the spiritual center of the Eternal City.
CHAPTER21
I HAD A time but no date, and it was impossible to tell whether the appointed hour referred to something that had already happened or something that was yet to take place. I didn’t have any immediate leads. After a day spent at my hotel reviewing the background files Mo-bot had sent me on Joseph Stadler, Christian Altmer and Luna Colombo, I took an evening walk to Vatican City.
It’s impossible not to picture the history of Rome. Its humble beginnings as a farming community, its emergence as a territorial power, unbounded riches flowing into the capital of an empire and leading to a grandeur that became the stuff of legend. The tiny alleyways threading between bars and cafés were once used to run details of intrigues or shield plotters on their way to clandestine meetings. The old churches witnessing countless confessions, the hidden sins of the city long lost within their thick stonewalls. The old mansions and villas, monuments to commerce and conquest, and the modern infill in gaps created by World War Two. Unsightly post-war office blocks and apartment buildings dotted here and there, evidence of corruption in the city, the infamous nexus of construction, politics, and organized crime that took hold of Rome during the 1970s and 1980s.
I walked the streets intrigued by the history of the place, each corner a detective’s dream, full of stories, every building a trove of clues for the inquisitive investigator. All around me were the sounds and smells of a city winding up for the evening.
Tourists ambled, photographing the sites, and locals sought out their favorite eateries and bars. The tourists became more numerous as I neared Vatican City and I joined a steady stream of people heading for a late-evening service. Instead of following them toward the dome of St. Peter’s, I walked along the North Colonnade until I reached the pedestrian checkpoint that would allow me into Vatican City.
Joseph Stadler had put my name on a list of visitors who could pass as they pleased. Once I was through security, I walked round the back of St. Peter’s, past the beautiful gardens in front of St. Mary’s Chapel, to the Campo Santo Teutonico, the courtyard garden that occupied the coordinates Valentina had discovered in the dead man’s phone.
I went to the center of a small bone-dry lawn and looked around. To the north lay the great basilica, to the east the chapel dedicated to St. Mary, to the south a red-brick building with high arched windows. It looked institutional, like a school or hospital. To the west was the Museum of St. Peter. I couldn’t see any reasonfor an assassin to come here, other than the fact it was a relatively secluded location.
I waited until 8 p.m. to see if there was some temporal reason for this hour being specified, something that happened only at that time, but apart from the sound of bells near and far chiming the passing of the hour, the courtyard remained undisturbed.
I lingered awhile longer and at 8:15 p.m. a figure came through the arched entrance to one side of me. As he passed from shadow to light, I saw a priest dressed in a black cassock. He was tall and slim, with salt-and-pepper hair and the dark eyes and olive complexion that marked him out as southern Mediterranean. From his hair and lined face, I put his age in the late forties.
He smiled warmly when he saw me.
“Mi scusi, mi dispiace disturbarla,”he said.
“I’m sorry,” I responded. “I don’t speak Italian.”
“American,” he said. “I love America. I spent many happy years there in Boston. I was apologizing for disturbing you and intruding on your meditation.”
“I wasn’t meditating. Just sightseeing.”
“One doesn’t need to be of the faith to recognize a person seeking answers,” he said gently.
I thought about that. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But I wouldn’t call my quest for answers meditation. That sounds way too peaceful.”
“Meditation can be active,” he replied. “It need not be passive. My name is Vito.”
He offered me his hand.
“Jack.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack. Are you Catholic?”
“I was.” I hesitated. “Am still, I suppose. In some ways.”
“Faith is like a tide. The ocean is never constant, is she? She comes in and goes out, and in our lives faith does the same thing but is always there. Sometimes high, sometimes low, but always giving us what we need.”
“And the ocean never runs dry?” I asked.
“Never,” Father Vito replied. “It is ever-present.”
“What brings you here?” I asked. “What is this place?”
