The Dead Man's Brother (4 page)

There were no irregularities in the books. He had been too clever for that. In fact, everything he had done seemed perfectly legal from the face of the record. He had employed a financial maneuver developed by the late Bernardino Nogara, with a few added twists of his own. The basic difference, though, was that Nogara had used it to benefit the Church.

In 1929 the Holy See had received $90 million as a result of the Lateran Treaty. Pope Pius XI had entrusted the administration of this money to banker Bernardino Nogara, who proceeded to invest it with enormous skill and equal success. At times, though, currency restrictions were imposed on the export of Italian capital. Nogara, however, had set up Vatican accounts with the Credit Suisse of Geneva. When the restrictions were in effect he would order the Swiss bank to deposit money in a New York bank in its own name. He would subsequently apply for a loan from the New York bank in the name of a Vatican-owned company in Italy. The Swiss bank would inform the New York bank that they were underwriting the loan, the money would be lent and, of course, repaid with interest. Thus, additional funds were released from the country despite the currency restrictions and made available for investment elsewhere.

All legal and proper, albeit tricky, for Nogara was an honest man.

In the case of Father Bretagne, however, the funds had flowed from Switzerland to a bank in Rio where a loan was then approved for a company Father Bretagne had had investigated and personally approved. It was only later that several missionaries and concerned laymen had gotten word back to Rome as to the condition of the company. They expressed concern over the fact that it consisted of an old warehouse hardly worth the stick it would take to poke through its moldy walls, filled with non-functional machinery and operated by a staff of two—a manager and a secretary, both illiterate. Oddly enough—or not so, depending on how you look at it—this report was referred to Father Bretagne, who killed it. Subsequent reports came in, however, and were eventually seen by others. In due course, an investigation was begun. The fact finally emerged that the company was wholly owned by a corporation controlled by an Emil Bretagne, the priest’s brother. After several pairs of eyebrows were returned to their normal positions, further information was requested. Word of this apparently reached Father Bretagne, though, and he vanished shortly after the inquiry was begun.

I took another sip of my drink, mashed my cigarette, lit another one.

If that had been all there had been to it, I thought. If only that had been all there had been to it I could be back in my comfortable apartment rather than aboard a flight bound for Rome. I could have my shoes off and my feet on a hassock, with some decent music swimming around the room, perhaps a fresh apple and a cognac at my right hand, a good book in my lap…Sigh.

But this was not to be, for a number of reasons. The main one, I feel, was that the Vatican did not want another Cippico affair. I can see the headlines in various anticlerical periodicals: PRIEST EMBEZZLES $3 MILLION, SKIPS ROME. They wanted to keep it quiet to kill bad publicity, which is why the civil authorities had not been notified. But they also wanted their $3 million back, which is why they aroused CIA interest in the case.

The Vatican’s inquiry had come up with information showing that Emil Bretagne was once friendly with several revolutionary leaders, both in São Paulo and in Rio. When they were tipped, the CIA was not especially interested in this, as they felt they had matters down there pretty much covered. But some people up the ladder— leftovers from the old OSS days, I guessed—while feeling as I did that the money was the real issue, also felt they owed the Vatican a few favors from World War II times. It apparently was decided that while, on the basis of the evidence presented, they could not get officially involved in the thing, something ought to be done.

I daresay they found some reason for putting a few of their men in Brazil to scrutinizing things a bit more closely. A guess on my part, as is a lot of this, but an educated guess. From what they did tell me it was not too difficult to arrive at conclusions as to things omitted.

Their unofficial involvement obviously extended to digging through files to locate a person with some sort of half-assed background in this area, and then narrowing the field till they found someone who could be blackmailed into taking this stupid piece of a job. As to the job itself, it promised to be quite routine and dull. I was not to get mixed up with revolutionaries or thugs. I was simply to poke around Rome and its environs, speaking with everyone I could who had any knowledge of or association with Father Bretagne. I was to submit a full report concerning this, drawing any conclusions I might as to his departure route and present whereabouts, and then I was to come home. I had a contact man at the embassy. Not a very hush-hush thing: he was a security officer there. I was also to visit a few museums and galleries, to make things look good. Everything completed, my temporary employer would move in his strange ways and the charges which might be made against me in New York would not be made. I did not appreciate this form of coercion any more than I did the fact that the cost of this trip was to come out of my own pocket rather than their fat, secret budget.

I could not help but think that there might be a little more to the job than they had indicated. I cannot subscribe to the notion of sending out a half-armed trooper when he could be fully armed, but I am familiar with the need-to-know business—now observed like a religious ritual in classified matters, but also often used as a coverup. If I suddenly needed to know something more, I supposed they would tell me at the time, if they could reach me, if I were still living. It seems to be a law of life that whenever there is something illegally obtained and valuable in any given place, the carrion birds tend to congregate at the site. I did not wish to encounter any unexpectedly if I could have been warned. That’s all.

"Star light, star bright," I addressed some nameless point of light within the darkness, "it would be nice if Berwick were right on that charmed life business. Just in case."

*

Rome. Memories. Stuff like that. Gone. Not really lamented. Nostalgia for youth and circumstances past. I guess. At least that is why I had made reservations at the Massimo D’Azeglio on the Via Cavour. My old favorite.

After tipping, unpacking, bathing and changing clothes, I went to walk the ancient streets, to fill my head with happy sights and sounds and my stomach with lunch. It was a sunny though somewhat brisk day, but my clothing was warm and my shades adequate. For a time I simply wandered, up wide, tree-shaded sidewalks and down narrow streets that passed buildings both impressive and dirty. I watched the Vespas weave in and out of traffic and enjoyed the play of sunlight on yellow plaster walls. Here, pigeons bobbed at crumbs before a sidewalk café; there ropes of dark-leafed vines escaped across a garden wall. And the girls—I watched the pretty dark-haired, dark-eyed girls, heels clicking on cobbles and concrete, large breasts thrust almost arrogantly forward, and when they passed near enough I sniffed pungent perfumes and occasionally got a faint smile. I stopped in a small restaurant for soup, chicken cacciatore and some white chianti. Then I walked on, winding up finally at the National Museum, though this had not been my intention when I had begun my stroll. After a while, I lost all track of time and managed, somehow, to forget the messy situation which had brought me to Rome. I was shocked when I happened to glance at my watch and realized that I had spent over three hours in the place. I departed then, the bells of history still chiming in my head, and made my way slowly back toward the hotel. It grew chillier as the sun wandered west, over and out, but I did not mind it. I was happy to be in Rome again, no matter what the reason.

The night was high, cool and cloudless, stars like a bucket of soapsuds splashed across the sky. Heading upward, I eventually reached the inevitable bulk of the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. For a long while I studied it and the area about it. Turning, I regarded the direction from which I had approached. This section, the Monti area, is the oldest and largest region of Rome. It covers three of the famous seven hills—the Quirinale, the Viminala, the Calio—and in times long gone three of my dad’s old favorites had lived in the area: Ovid, Virgil, Horace. Also, one of the roughest, most corrupt quarters of the city once existed between the point where I stood and Colle Oppio. I wondered what my namesake would say were he to be released from Elysium to come stand beside me at that moment and share my thoughts. Doubtless, he would chuckle and not be surprised in the least as to my undesired undertaking. The old boy was too sophisticated not to appreciate that while a few of the props have been shuffled, human nature itself has remained unchanged throughout that series of betrayals and calamities we call history. He could appreciate the juxtaposition of genius and corruption, art and crime. Shrugging my shoulders at this profundity, I turned and made my way along the Via Cavour in the direction of my hotel. The sickle moon had risen, clear and clean, was poised before me now as in Time’s hand. If I were lucky I might be able to get in at
La Carbonara
for dinner. I’d call and see.

Tomorrow the Vatican.

*

At ten o’clock the following morning I phoned a number I had been given. After several delays, I was connected with Monsignor Zingales, the man in charge of the investigation. His voice was pleasant, though he had a tendency to wheeze, and after I had identified myself he arranged to see me at three o’clock that afternoon. He was quite aware of who I was and why I was calling as soon as I mentioned my name, but he did not want to discuss the case over the telephone. Bugs at the Vatican? Or at this end already? I wondered. Highly unlikely, but I appreciated his position. I thanked him and hung up.

I stopped for a heavy brunch on my way to the Casina Borghese, where I wanted to view the Berninis once again while my mind was still reasonably uncluttered. I consider him the greatest sculptor who ever lived, and I wanted to see his
Rape of Proserpine
and
Apollo and Daphne
while I was in town, not to mention the rest of the things in that fabulous place. I was often annoyed, especially in recent days, at Carl Bernini being his namesake. Not half so much as at my own situation, though. It makes one feel inferior to wear the name of his better, especially if he has been told about it almost daily, over a period of years. There are those who create things, those who admire them and those who don’t give a damn. As my own poetry was dull and my painting, while technically accurate, mediocre—reminding me of Browning’s
Andrea del Sarto: A common grayness silvers everything
—I was almost driven into the last category by constant, thoughtless and doubtless well-intentioned reminders of these facts. So I became a thief of, and ultimately a pimp for, art. It was only in recent years that I realized I was a second-category man, rather than a third.

This time I kept an eye on my watch and left after an hour and forty-five minutes, pausing only a moment to admire Canova’s reclining nude of Pauline Borghese, Napoleon’s sister, which had so offended Hitler’s delicate morals that he had ordered the figure covered. I am surprised he hadn’t reached for his gun. If I’d known his current address I’d have liked to send him a postcard.
Ars est celare artem
, or something like that.

While it was warmer than the previous day and the sun still shone bold and bright, a mass of ominous clouds had appeared on the horizon. I returned to the hotel for my raincoat and umbrella, and took a cab to St. Peter’s.

I arrived with tons of time to spare, so I wandered about St. Pete’s for a time, slaying minutes. Too much like oceans and deserts and mountains for my taste. I retreated before I got depressed and converted. Smoking, I watched the clouds continue to mass for their assault on the afternoon. Then I hurried on toward the Vatican itself, to locate the Prefecture of Economic Affairs, Office of Administration for the Patrimony of the Holy See, before the downpour began.

I was let in. I did not have to wheedle or poke, but I finally had to produce my letter of introduction before I was shown into the presence of the Monsignor. He rose, gave me his hand, showed me to a seat. He was a brown-haired, youngish, countrified type person, with an engaging smile and strong hands. I had expected an older man.

I smiled back, and he started out by asking about everything from the weather to my trip. I let him lead slowly toward the central question.

"…about this business concerning Father Bretagne…" he finally said.

"Yes?"

"…you must understand our reasons for wanting it to remain—well—somewhat quiet."

"Of course."

"I have several photographs of the man," he said, passing me an envelope.

The man in the picture had dark hair gone light at the sides, a cleft chin and a mouth that looked used to smiling. He wore clerical garb in all of the photos. He looked like a nice guy.

I nodded, handing them back.

"Those are for you," he said. "They’re copies."

"Okay."

"He was born in Newark, New Jersey," he told me. "Parents were French immigrants. Very intelligent. Scholarship student. He went through Harvard Business School before he decided to study for the priesthood. Apparently quite devoted to his parents and his older brother, Emil, who took care of him when their parents died. No other children in the family. Emil seems at least partly responsible for his entering the priesthood. Emil had contemplated it for some time himself and probably communicated the enthusiasm. But he changed his mind later and went into business instead."

"I see," I said. "And now he’s associated with this—uh—questionable outfit in Brazil."

"That is correct."

"Then that would seem the place to start—the receiving end."

"We have already begun action in that respect," he said. "But we desire more than a simple recovery of the funds. We want to locate Father Bretagne himself. It is still difficult to understand all the details of the operation. We are of course anxious to prevent its recurring."