* * *
—
Before his talk with the captain, Father Matteo had truly looked forward to spending his few minutes each day with Carlo Campinelli. And he had chatted freely, without inhibition of any kind. Never about anything of real consequence, of course. Just about art, artists, and the art world itself—Father Matteo loved it. Of course, the world of high-profile gallery openings and the social swirl of the accompanying scene were things he knew about only secondhand, mostly from the art periodicals he read. It had been very pleasant to speak with someone who came from that world, knew those people, and their conversations had been open and agreeable.
But now that he was supposed to be chatting freely in order to uncover some unnamed something sinister, the father found that he was completely constrained, awkward, unnatural, uncertain. Every remark he made seemed forced, stupid, completely out of sync. All the joy he’d taken in Campinelli’s company fled, and Father Matteo felt like doing exactly the same thing.
But he did not flee. As a Jesuit, he believed that he should be clever and wise enough to do such a simple thing, and that his order had always excelled at justifying small political deceptions for a greater and more important end. He persisted, out of a sense of duty and a growing conviction that there was absolutely nothing abnormal about Campinelli and that his mission from the captain was ruining what had promised to be a very enjoyable friendship.
With increasing reluctance, he had his chats with Campinelli, seeking to draw him into some indiscretion, which, Father Matteo was quite sure, he would not recognize as such even if it ever came. And with even more reluctance, he duly reported the details of the conversations to Captain Koelliker. He was morally certain that nothing would come of it.
Until Captain Koelliker proved him wrong.
They were sitting in the captain’s office, sipping espresso, thoughtfully provided by the captain’s assistant. Koelliker was taking notes, looking up occasionally. And suddenly he frowned, flipped back a page in his notebook, and looked up again.
“This is not the first time he has mentioned the Urbino Bible,” Koelliker said.
“What? Isn’t it? I didn’t notice,” Father Matteo said. “Is that significant?”
“Possibly,” Koelliker said.
“I believe he simply asked where it is at the moment, and perhaps how easy it would be to look at it, or—I really don’t recall what else, but . . .”
He stopped speaking because Koelliker was clearly no longer listening. He was whipping through all the pages of his notes, and when he was done he stared fixedly at the wall behind Father Matteo’s head. “Hmp, three times, each time asking for a little more information,” he said—clearly speaking to himself, so Father Matteo said nothing until the silence had gone on long enough to be uncomfortable.
“Capitano . . . ?” he said hesitantly.
Koelliker flicked his eyes to the priest with an almost audible click. “Tell me, Father,” he said. “If you wanted to steal one of the holy relics we have here, how would you go about it?”
“What? Why would I ever—that’s preposterous, Capitano—!”
“Indulge me,” Koelliker said. He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Suppose you are not a priest but a thief. What would be the best approach? Some plausible reason that would get you close to your target without the need for stealth, breaking in, attempting to get past all of our security. Which I believe is excellent? Some way to get in and grab something without all that bother. How would you go about it. Hm?”
“Well,” Father Matteo said. He frowned, thought for a moment. “I suppose I would fabricate some legitimate reason for being inside the museo. Not too close to my target, since that would be too obvious, but close enough to move quickly. Oh—and once inside, I would wait for a certain period of time, so everyone was accustomed to my presence.”
Koelliker applauded. “Very good, Father! You would make a fine thief!”
“I am sure I hope not.”
Koelliker leaned forward and looked very serious again. “Let us assume further that you will do whatever you must to lay your hands on this treasure,” he said.
“Certainly,” Father Matteo said mildly, “I can assure you that, as a Jesuit, I am familiar with the idea that the end can sometimes justify the means.”
“Just so,” Koelliker said. “And so, if some person discovered your true purpose—if they found that you were not at all what you claimed to be but instead you were our hypothetical thief—what would you do then, Father?”
“I believe I would probably flee,” Father Matteo said.
“Ah! But you cannot!” Koelliker said. “You must obtain this treasure! But you are discovered—and this person will expose you to the authorities unless you stop them. How do you do that?”
“I suppose persuasion would be rather a long shot,” Father Matteo said.
“Indeed it would. And what does that leave?”
“Well,” the priest said, “if I am the unscrupulous rogue you postulate, I suppose I would have to—”
Father Matteo paused and gaped at Koelliker. Because Father Matteo was not a worldly man, but he was a smart one. And although he would certainly phrase it differently, the nickel had just dropped. “Capitano,” he said, and the shock showed in his voice, “are you suggesting . . . ?” He could not bring himself to say it. “Do you mean Berzetti . . . ?”
“That is exactly what I mean,” Koelliker said.