“Well, since I just flew first-class, I guess I can’t fault you for the car. I don’t see why the Vatican spent so much money on my ticket when I would have arrived at the same time flying coach. How did you know I was coming to Rome?”
“I’m the one who sent for you.”
Leo stopped on the sidewalk and faced his friend. The content of the file he had just read on the plane was still weighing heavily on his mind. “But I … I received an urgent papal summons ordering me to report immediately to the Vatican. The documents contained material written by you, but they were in a sealed communication from the pope.”
“And did the communique also specifically advise you not to open the folder until you were on the plane and in the air?”
“Yes, but how did you…?”
“As I said, dear friend, I sent it. I knew I had to utilize the power of the Holy Father himself to get you here. I was afraid that, if you read my paper before you boarded the plane, it would arouse your curiosity, to say the least. I couldn’t risk having you call the Vatican.”
“I guess that explains the first-class ticket. What in God’s name is going on, Anthony?”
“We’ll talk more this evening, Leo. You must have patience, my friend. This is a homecoming worthy of fine Italian food and wine.”
Looking beyond the terminal at the darkening clouds of the late-April sky, Father Morelli noticed the misty signature of a spring rainstorm in the distance and began raising the top on the car.
“Looks like a storm coming,” Leo said.
Morelli winked. “Yes, indeed, Father. There is a storm coming.”
They squeezed into the small car parked behind an idling tour bus spewing diesel fumes into the air. Safe for now from the approaching storm, Morelli threw the sports car into gear, and the two priests sped off into the late- afternoon Roman traffic.
Chapter 3
Morelli stopped the car in front of the steps to the hotel. “I’ll call before I pick you up for dinner, Leo. Tell Arnolfo I said hello.”
“I’ll give him your regards,” Leo swung his legs out of the low sports car and retrieved his suitcase from the trunk before walking around to the driver’s side of the vehicle. “Take your time, Anthony. I need a little time to rest up from my trip.”
Morelli looked up at Leo and frowned. “You can rest later, after dinner. Tonight we celebrate your return to Rome. You have a lot to absorb over the next few days. We’ll go to
Leo heaved a sigh of resignation and watched the car speed off toward the main gate of the Vatican. He turned and mounted the ornate stairway to the hotel just as the warm, moisture-laden skies finally succumbed and a light rain began to fall.
The Hotel Amalfi was only steps away from the walls of Vatican City on the Via Germanico. Located in a nineteenth-century building, the intimate hotel had been tastefully remodeled since his last visit. Arnolfo Bignoti spotted Leo through the tall etched-glass panels of the dark wooden Victorian doors as he topped the stairs and entered the lobby. “Father Amodeo!
Leo returned the embrace. “
“Fine, fine, Father. How long will you be staying with us this time?”
“Probably just a few days. Is my usual room available?”
“Of course. Father Morelli called ahead. Give me your suitcase. Go right up and take a nice hot shower and get some rest. Here’s the key.”
“Thank you, Arnolfo. It’s been a long day, and I still have to go out to dinner with Father Morelli.”
“I am so happy to see you, Father Leo. It has been such a long time.”
“Yes, too long, my friend, too long.”
“You must come and have dinner with my family while you are here. We have much to tell you.”
Because of the hotel’s proximity to the Vatican, Arnolfo was a great source of local gossip and delighted in telling Leo funny and lurid stories during his stays.
Leo gave him a sly wink. “I’m looking forward to it.” Carrying the well-worn briefcase, he crossed the lobby and took the ancient wrought iron elevator to the third floor. The priest walked down the familiar red-carpeted hallway and used a large brass key to enter his room. He knew that, within minutes of his arrival, a bottle of red Tuscan wine would appear mysteriously outside the door. It was a tradition begun by Arnolfo when a young Father Leo began staying at the hotel in the seventies.
Leo loved the Amalfi. It was the only hotel he stayed at when visiting Rome. Run by the Bignoti family since 1939, Arnolfo and his wife had been the sole owners since his parents had passed away a decade earlier. The rooms were painted a pale yellow with blue and white carpeting. Below the high ceilings lined with ornate crown molding were tall, white-shuttered windows framed by thin white draperies. There was a large mahogany-colored armoire facing a king-sized bed, and the bathrooms, Leo noted, had been redone in a beautiful green marble, a luxurious touch for such a small boutique hotel. He heard the clink of glass outside his door and quickly opened it to find a silver tray on the floor of the hallway, holding the Tuscan wine and two glasses. No one was in sight.
Leo poured a small glass and walked out onto the covered balcony. It was late afternoon, and the rain continued to fall while the sky turned golden over the Eternal City. Across the way was the Vatican, a country unto itself. The towering dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica, the largest church in the world, marked it as the very epicenter of power for the Catholic Church. Leo always smiled when he heard Saint Peter’s referred to as a cathedral, for contrary to popular belief it is not a cathedral, as it is not the seat of a bishop. Instead, it is a papal basilica. The Basilica of Saint John Lateran is the cathedral church of Rome.
Caught up in the majesty of the setting, Leo slowly began to feel his body relax. He had been coming here for the past thirty years, yet he never failed to be completely awed by the beauty of this special place. He watched the pedestrians hurry by on the street below, wondering if they had become immune to the ancient grandeur and baroque art that surrounded them.
Father Leo looked anything but a priest. An amateur boxer in high school, his scarred left eyelid and blunted nose gave him the appearance of a longshoreman after too many alcohol-fueled, rowdy Saturday nights. Raised in a large Catholic family with five brothers and two sisters, Leo had worked in the coal mines of Pennsylvania with his father and uncles before being accepted to Georgetown University. He was tall, six feet two inches, and at the age of fifty-eight, he still retained a muscular build and a full head of dark, gray-streaked hair worn long over the ears and in the back. In spite of his jagged looks, the fire behind the green eyes divulged the quick mind and academic enlightenment he had attained through years of study and teaching.
The phone rang on the bedside table. “Leo, are you ready?” It was the voice of Father Morelli.
“Give me an hour, Anthony.”
“OK, my friend, but no longer. I’m starving.” Leo hung up and smiled as he thought of his free-spirited friend speeding around Rome in his new sports car. He could afford it, of course. The man had a knack for the stock market, and although it was rumored that Father Morelli had accumulated a small fortune, Leo knew that most of his money went to charity. In addition to the BMW, the priest owned a beautiful seventeenth-century country estate south of Rome, where he planned to retire someday and save the church the expense of supporting him in his old age.
As the head of the Vatican’s department of archaeology, Morelli spent the majority of his time on official church business, so despite the fact that he owned a large house in the country, his main residence was a spartan apartment inside Vatican City. Since all priests within the Jesuit clan took vows of poverty, a Jesuit who drove an expensive car and possessed a magnificent house might have been looked upon with disapproving eyes, but since Morelli was also a source of so much money for the Church, these two luxuries were overlooked.
The product of an Italian American father and an Irish-born mother from the Bronx, most people thought
