The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis: The Corruption Series, #1

By Charles Brett

The Vatican introduces HolyPhones into confessionals in Europe and the Americas. These smartphones connect those seeking confession to the Vatican Confessional Call Centre, part of a Church initiative to reduce the workload of its priests and generate new income.

An alliance - of a female Spanish member of Opus Dei, an American lady whose father runs a southern fundamentalist church, an Israeli pro-Settler technology genius and an ex-banker-turned- priest, a past lover of the American - conspire to cream-off a slice of the HolyPhone's confessional revenues.

Cardinal da Ferraz is responsible for the HolyPhone's success. He has suspicions. He locates Davide, who conceived the HolyPhone, and deploys an Irish policeman with his Australian computer crime sidekick to identify if there is a problem. They must find out before the Church suffers.

More than the Church's finances are at stake.

[This is the first in the Corruption Series of novels. It is a technology, crime and church thriller set in Rome, Israel and Spain.]
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: C3B Consultng Ltd
• Release date: Jul 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781500518172

Book preview

The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

(The Corruption Series #1)

Charles Brett

To

Lourdes, Luisa and Claudia

and

Charlie and Joyce

The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

Charles Brett

© 2016 Charles C C Brett

Published at Smashwords

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2014

Second Edition published 2015

Third Edition published 2016

by

C3B Consulting Ltd

registered at:

School House, St Philip's Court, Church Hill,

Coleshill, Birmingham, B46 3AD, UK.

All rights reserved © 2016 Charles C C Brett

The right of Charles C C Brett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9541518-8-1

ISBN-10: 0-9541518-8-7

www.charlesbrett.net

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, Rome

He sat immobile, half watching and wholly thinking. It had been this way for over two hours, though he hadn’t noticed the time pass. He was asking himself, over and over again, what to do. One path led to one form of catastrophe; others offered alternative paths to equally unpleasant disasters.

Still he sat there.

By now the sun was beyond its peak. Early afternoon had passed and with it came the welcome, relative cool of a Rome evening. He felt no nearer a decision. Yet, something had to be done. He was the only person who could take responsibility.

Responsibility. A strange word. For some it seemed so easy, natural even, to accept they had responsibilities to other people. For others it was a concept formed in hell – to be avoided at all costs and by any measures.

His mind wandered, running over the political chaos in Greece, Portugal, Argentina, Israel and other countries in the world. In too many of these responsibility was less a dirty word than one which must not be allowed to exist, as if by denial it simply disappeared.

As his mind churned he contrasted the narrow – sometimes vicious – forms of responsibility that belonged to Northern Europeans and even elements of the United States. He compared these with the attitudes of Southern Europe. Though they were by no means perfect, he could envision English political ministers falling on their swords, if he remembered that quaint English phrase correctly, when they erred. There was, he remembered, the British Foreign Minister who insisted on resigning after the Argentines invaded the Malvinas, what the English persisted in calling the Falklands, because he had not anticipated an invasion that nobody else expected. That was taking responsibility – even though almost everyone agreed the minister personally could not be blamed for what no one had predicted. Nevertheless that hapless but honourable politician had insisted that somebody must accept blame; that errors had been made, and therefore the buck stopped at his door – if only to provide his successors the freedom to operate without blame when resolving that tragedy.

As his mind circled notions of responsibility he contrasted such selflessness with what was happening in Spain, though it could be any number of other places. There, a daily drip feed of corruption instances had and continued to appear in newspapers and courts over many months, with innumerable examples of greed or improper behaviour attributable to politicians and public servants alike. To his astonishment the Spanish greeted this with simple ignorance, that art of ignoring what you don’t want to hear, never mind admit or rectify.

That a political few exploited their citizens when in power was of little matter to the greedy, whether they desired power or money or both. All levels of government seemed tainted, from small town councils right up into the heads of government, parliament and even – worst of all to him – the Catholic Church. So many revealed themselves able to deny their misdeeds, preferring to behave as if responsibility was a commodity one accepted only if you were a fool.

Indeed, as the months passed, what amazed him was the lack of outright rebellion by the many against the greed of the few. Tragically, the worst offenders were all too often those who proclaimed their righteous Catholic faith loudest and from on high, forgetting all Jesus had preached.

His thoughts returned to his own dilemmas. He knew he must act.

He stood in a burst of energy unseen during the previous four hours of contemplation. He walked across the study to his telephone — an old fashioned one with a rotary dial. While dialling a familiar number he recalled watching a young girl in a restaurant, which had as an antique decoration a similar old-style phone. He had looked on as she tried to punch in each number as if it was a digital phone. She clearly had no idea you dragged your finger around the dial.

"José Antonio? It’s Nelson. May I impose? Would you be free for dinner in a couple of hours? I know it’s short notice. I need to talk to a friend, one outside these walls. Yes. Thank you. Shall we go to your local place, the one you always recommend where I have never to have gone yet? Giovanna’s, no? Good. And yes, I do remember where you said it is. Let me book. I will ask for a discreet table. For 9 p.m.? If there is any problem I will get back to you. Hasta luego."

He sighed. At least now he had taken a first step. He was still not sure where it would lead. Action, however, now seemed better than thought.

CHAPTER TWO

Wednesday, Monteverde

The Ristorante Giovanna was in the Monteverde area of Rome. It was an average September evening with the main room not full but nearly so. This pleased Giovanna, who stood by the door to welcome her customers. As usual they were mostly locals, despite the fact that Monteverde sat above the heaving tourist delights of Trastevere less than a kilometre away. There, inevitably, Italian was almost a foreign language with prices raised to satisfy the expectations of young and old tourists alike.

Nelson had been fortunate. His request for a discreet corner at 9 p.m. wasn’t a problem, though it had meant moving the party of the Spanish Ambassador. Giovanna liked that the Ambassador came here. After all his official residence nearby enjoyed possibly the best views in Rome as well as having care of San Pietro di Montorio with Bramante’s Tempietto, an architectural gem, beside it. She had moved his family party of ten to a different section of the large room. They were now consuming the menu while awaiting their aperitivi.

Glancing along the street Giovanna saw Father José Antonio. He was another regular customer, though not an extravagant one. He tended to eat simply and often commended her for the Risotto al Fegato; he claimed this was an invention of genius he had encountered nowhere else. This always surprised yet flattered Giovanna. His Italian was fluent albeit with a definite Hispanic accent. With a last name of Valencia and coming, she had discovered, from that part of Spain, she had presumed he would always prefer paella to risotto. It wasn’t true, not that she complained.

"Buona sera, Padre, Giovanna greeted José Antonio. It’s always good to see you. You did not book? No matter, I’m sure we can find you a table if you will be patient for a few minutes. Will you have your usual vino bianco while you wait? On the house, of course."

"Buona sera, Signora Giovanna. It’s good to see you too, and to find you are busy in these difficult economic times. No, I didn’t book. A Brazilian friend, Nelson, should have — for 9 p.m. I’ve often recommended your food to him. Isn’t he here yet? I’m surprised. He is improbably punctual for someone from a hot country."

Yes and no. Yes, I do have a reservation for Nelson. But I was expecting an English – or possibly a French, if the latter had a sense of humour. She smiled at her little joke, as did he. "And no, Signor Nelson has not arrived as yet. Let me take you to his table and bring you that bianco della casa."

"Grazie, Signora. That’s kind of you. Presumably he has been delayed by the traffic, though he doesn’t have far to come."

José Antonio sat down at the corner table set for two. His eye was drawn to a taxi outside, though for no obvious reason it did not seem an ordinary one. It seemed longer and cleaner than most in Rome.

Nelson climbed out — tall and imposing although not as slender as when José Antonio had first met him. Had he become a shade more portly since their last meeting? José Antonio knew, however, he himself should not accuse.

He was honest enough to understand his own changes with age. At their first meeting, thirty or more years before, he had been short, wiry and equipped with a thicket of the deep, black wavy hair of his native Spain. Now, as the mirror reminded him daily when he shaved, he was just as short but decidedly rounder (a generous way of putting it — stout was more accurate), with only wisps of grey hair surrounding a tanned, bald pate.

Giovanna greeted Nelson with a simple "Buona sera, Signore. Might you be Signor Nelson?"

José Antonio heard this and almost giggled; an unusual act for a man in his early sixties dressed in standard clerical garb. He contained himself. Nelson had come in a light yet all-encompassing coat buttoned to the neck with nothing to cover his silver hair. As Giovanna led him to José Antonio, after confirming that he really was the expected guest, Nelson took off his coat.

José Antonio stood and greeted his friend, bowing to kiss Nelson’s ring just as Giovanna gasped. Nelson, without the coat, was simply dressed in a black cassock with scarlet piping and a similar coloured narrow sash round his middle, plus a prominent pectoral cross hung on a chain from his neck. Of the zucchetto on the head that a cardinal would normally wear there was no sign. Underdressed like this Nelson was unusual, yet his authority was manifest. It was not that of self-importance, or at least not to José Antonio.

With a big smile Nelson received the formal obeisance from José Antonio. He then enveloped the smaller, rounder man in a clerical bear hug of pleasure.

Once their greetings were done, and with Giovanna looking on in an unusual mix of Roman astonishment and even some awe (not a characteristic her staff recognised), José Antonio turned to her: Giovanna, may I present to you His Eminence, Cardinal da Ferraz. Nelson, this is the Giovanna whose kitchen I have so often recommended.

Giovanna had been shocked before. Now she was tongue-tied. Despite her ristorante being only a couple of kilometres south of the Vatican, high ranking prelates were not common visitors. She tried gathering her wits. All she could think was that she had never had a cardinal as a customer before, and she had certainly never expected to be introduced to one.

She managed to remember the correct salutation with a stuttering, Welcome Your Eminence. And to think I called you Signor Nelson. How can you forgive me? How can I forgive myself? What will people say?

Her embarrassment was acute. Her staff, already sensing something unusual, stole glances in their direction and enjoyed her obvious, if rare, social distress.

Signora, it is my pleasure to be here. Please don’t worry. It was my fault I made the booking only as Nelson. I find it simpler. But, should I visit again, as I hope I will, perhaps you might remember me as Signor Nelson?

Thank you, Your Eminence. I don’t think I’ll make this mistake again. Let me fetch some menus.

She bustled away, thoroughly discomfited — a sensation she disliked almost as much as perceiving her staff’s amusement. Worse still, she knew they wouldn’t let her forget and she couldn’t complain: most were part of her extended family.

At the other end of the room the Spanish Ambassador had watched. Nelson had entered just as he finished entertaining his table with some juicy diplomatic gossip about an unnamed Foreign Minister who, when visiting the head of state in one country, had wished Happy Christmas when it was the president’s birthday (in April), and who had then gone on to visit a second country where he called the current prime minister by the name of that lady’s predecessor-but-two throughout their formal meetings, even though that predecessor had been dead for several years. It was a good story. His party had responded well. This had made for a warm start to the ambassador’s evening.

While his guests were still laughing and Nelson was removing his coat, he had nudged his wife Concha, saying, We have distinguished company here tonight. After the Holy Father himself, over there is one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. And he has reduced the delightful Giovanna almost to tears of embarrassment, something I never expected to see. I wonder who he’s with?

His wife looked to the corner. "The small, round one? I know him: Padre José Antonio. He’s the local priest here in Monteverde — the one who came from Denia and moved to Rome many years ago. He now leads the Monteverde parish team. He was involved early with that horrible ‘Santofonino’ everyone talks about. If it wasn’t for that he would probably be hearing my confession, because he could hear my sins in Spanish."

Her husband regarded her indulgently. Confession might be for her; it was definitely not for him. He was glad he had the seniority to be the Spanish Ambassador to the Republic of Italy rather than to be the Spanish Ambassador to the Holy See. Besides his own decidedly a-religious views he preferred his official residence to that of his colleague, which was located on the other side of the Tiber in a Palazzo close to the Spanish Steps. The temptations there for any wife, of being surrounded by the most wildly expensive yet glorious shoe, leather and clothes shops in the world, would be infinite. Add to that the horror of so many tourists and the dislike of living in such a location was more than he could imagine, never mind tolerate. Far better to have temporary possession of his own complex with its incredible views overlooking Rome’s Centro Storico and what internally he referred to as the ‘poor St Peter’s’, the one which dominated the Vatican. At least, while he was ambassador to Italy, he could play guardian to what he privately called the ‘good St Peter’s’ with its Tempietto. Its restoration had been sponsored by the King and Queen of Spain and was located next door.

Yet his professional curiosity was piqued. Clearly, from Giovanna’s reaction, da Ferraz hadn’t been here before. Equally clearly, da Ferraz had arrived with a minimum of fuss, in a taxi and dressed more like a common priest than a ‘prince of the church’. Though he had heard that da Ferraz was not one of the Vatican magnificos who demanded to be treated like royalty, the combination of anonymity, a novel location and something else he thought he could see in da Ferraz’s face gave him food for thought. Maybe he would have to meet with his fellow Ambassador. At least now he had a good reason to extend dinner, so he might observe from afar.

Wednesday, Monteverde

José Antonio and Nelson sat.

What are you drinking? asked Nelson. "Knowing you it will be some dull vino della casa, yes?"

"You are right, as usual. Old habits die hard and times are not easy, even in a good family ristorante like this."

"Then we must change. I know you like a good red but I doubt if your Signora Giovanna has a decent Ribera del Duero or even a Rioja to warm your Spanish heart. On the other hand I can afford, occasionally, to indulge. I think a Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, no? And if it’s good we might take a second or, if not, move to something else. What do you think?"

That would be a singular pleasure. I won’t complain, Your Eminence.

"José Antonio, José Antonio. How often must I tell you? Forget the ‘Eminence-ing’ when we are alone. When we are outside formal church settings I am Nelson. I much prefer it and you know it. We are both old enough to disregard the trappings of our careers. For my part, I endeavour not to forget I come from a Sao Paolo favela."

Nelson waved a hand at Giovanna, now waiting and eager to respond to her cardinal for dinner. She brought the promised menus and the wine list.

Nelson’s quick inspection of the latter, followed by pointed questions, established that Ristorante Giovanna did indeed have a good Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. This he ordered along with some acqua gassata — San Pellegrino if available.

While Giovanna left to find the wine and water, the two friends considered what to eat. They kept it simple. Fiori de Zucchino followed by an insalata verde. José Antonio opted for his preferred risotto al fegato. Nelson ordered the swordfish. Even though the wine would be red and strong, a good Pesce Spada would hold its own. According to what José Antonio had told him in the past, this was the sort of ristorante where straightforward, unfussy good food was normal.

Having tasted the Vino Nobile they pronounced it more than excellent. Giovanna memorised their orders. Now they could talk.

So, how is everything with you?

In this they started pretty much as they had done whenever they had met after Nelson became an archbishop and was translated from his native Sao Paolo to Rome. As with previous occasions, they exchanged smiles at their little ritual. This time Nelson insisted José Antonio respond first.

"You may be surprised, Nelson. I was thinking about this only the other day when walking back along the Gianicolo after visiting an ill parishioner in hospital. I have come to realise your Santofonino really is a blessing in disguise. When I first described it to you as an impractical proposition from the quaint musings of a tourist I thought your subsequent interest was akin to making your personal reservation at our local lunatic asylum."

Yes, I remember your comments, replied Nelson. They hurt, though I cannot even now disagree that what I suggested seemed unlikely to be today’s success. But tell me: why do you like it now when you didn’t back then?

I know I hurt you with my comments. I’m still sorry for that. But it was what I believed at the time. What’s changed my thinking? Simple practical experience.

Jose Antonio continued, by describing his then frustration, unhappiness and, above all, exhaustion, even though what he always liked best about being a priest was helping people. He recounted a story told to him by a Protestant, about an English parish with an evangelical Anglican as its rector. Apparently this Anglican was a decent enough person in general. But he possessed a missionary zeal to convert non-believers, especially those he thought were lapsed or, worse still, reluctant believers. One day he visited a parishioner who, soon after his arrival, had felt obliged to invite him to leave. Apparently the rector had gone beyond the bounds of common courtesy (and how the English prize this) in trying to force belief down this unbeliever’s throat.

"But what I have always remembered about this particular story was the follow-up comment — that the unbeliever felt the rector’s efforts to attract new souls were more important to him than supporting his own parishioners, that he preferred the challenge of convincing the unconvinced to ministering to the faithful in need. I couldn’t be like that. I want to help my parishioners. This is what has always fulfilled me in my calling.

"What does this have to do with your original question? When you first introduced me to the concept of the Santofonino, which you then referred to by its original HolyPhone name, all I could envisage was another horrible piece of technology, like a television or a VCR or a microwave. My fear was of just another gadget to annoy and frustrate me.

"I was also, when you asked me to try it, at my lowest ebb in my ministry. I don’t think I ever told you but I was summoning the courage to approach my bishop to ask him to let me retire early and return to Denia or somewhere in Spain. I had had enough here, even though the idea of returning to a small parochial place like Denia, however outwardly pleasant, appalled me. All I had there were distant cousins, now dead. I might have been welcomed, or I might not.

Yet I also knew that if I did this I would be undermining our Mother Church, by becoming just one more priest among so many who had given up by retiring. You, appearing with all your usual enthusiasm for an unproven electronic toy, seemed like the straw to break my back.

I’m so sorry, José Antonio. This I didn’t understand. No, that’s not quite right. I did understand you were unhappy and even more that you were tired. What never occurred to me was that you looked on my HolyPhone plans with such dislike. I should never have approached you. Forgive me.

"Of course, Nelson; and there’s nothing to forgive. What surprised me, and possibly you, was how my own enthusiasm grew once I understood what you were trying to do with your Santofonino and experienced how it could make such a difference to my own life and my ministry."

Wednesday, Monteverde

Giovanna arrived with their Fiori di Zucchino and insalata. She’d clearly decided that, if there was a cardinal in her ristorante, then she had to serve him herself.

"I have a cousin who grows these Fiori for me. You’re lucky. They are perfectly in season. I hope you won’t mind: I have added a few extra to your plates. I adore them. I hope you do too."

The cardinal poured another glass of wine for each of them and inspected the Fiori.

They do look special. Shall we start?

Why not? smiled José Antonio and forked up the first of his Fiori. She’s right. These are delicious, perhaps even better than that. It’s good such delicacies are seasonal, otherwise I’d eat these all year and, in so doing, probably go off them.

I agree, responded Nelson. "Anyhow, tell me more of why you came to like the Santofonino."

"The reality is simple, and echoes exactly the reasoning you originally described when you first asked me to help. To repeat myself: I was then a tired priest on the cusp of asking for retirement. I was just another one among many feeling older and less and less able to deliver what our congregations wanted. Part of the problem, as that strange tourist had so accurately analysed, was the ongoing obligation to provide the rite of confession to the faithful when they want it. Yet our church increasingly did not have sufficient priests to provide what the faithful expected. As we both know, more and more priests are retiring or dying, certainly more than the number of replacements coming forward for ordination.

"If that was one part of the problem, the other was the hours involved in being available to hear confession. I know I should have been grateful for the opportunity to say my daily office in the confessional, whenever there was nobody who wanted to confess. But this did not alter the fact that, seated in an uncomfortable wooden cubicle at prescribed hours, wasted time I could put to better use. I wanted to be out among my congregation, not waiting for a penitent or two. The sick, the dying, the bereaved or otherwise needy did not understand why I could not be available to them. Even in a large parish, like here in Monteverde with its additional priests, we could not cope. Looking back it was this desire that time be better spent, which depressed and frustrated.

"With the arrival of your Santofonino a huge change occurred. Once we explained to our puzzled parishioners how it would work, and that this meant being able to go to confession whenever they wanted rather than when priests were available, the acceptance was nothing short of miraculous.

"The effect on me and my colleagues was as significant. We no longer had to sit in shifts and wait in those confessional coffins. I’m sorry; I know that’s not a respectful way to describe them. It does, however, convey a measure of my misery.

"Now it’s different. Your HolyPhones changed how we work. We can be out within our community offering the support our parishioners require when they need it.

As the Americans say, you created a win-win situation, and so it seems to us still. For myself it was an unexpected rejuvenation. Instead of feeling obliged to do what my head told me was my duty, but my soul regarded as often a wasted effort, I am fulfilled again. I think – I hope – my parishioners feel the same.

If I understand your conversion, responded Nelson, "what you are telling me is that the Santofonino — and, yes, we use the term even within the Curia — released you from a commitment. In turn, this expanded your availability to provide those other services which your parishioners expected but did not receive."

Exactly. You describe it to perfection.

"You don’t know how happy that makes me. I must tell you I hear the same almost everywhere I go, whether here in Italy or elsewhere in Europe or in the United States. It’s the same in those parts of the Americas as well as Africa where we have tried the Santofonino. Its impact is global. I, for one, never imagined such a simple idea might deliver so much at both the practical, parish level as well as for the finances of our church.

Nelson paused. He gathered his thoughts from the afternoon.

This is why I’m here tonight. I feel something has gone wrong. I don’t know what, but my Curial bureaucrat’s instinct tells me that our Holy Church is, to use an ugly phrase, being ripped off. The trouble is I cannot envision how or where or even why.

Nelson’s bafflement was plain to see.

What’s happened to make you think this? asked José Antonio. It must be truly awful if you raise it with someone as unimportant as myself. He hesitated to reflect for a few seconds. Don’t tell me you suspect the Mafia?

At this Nelson’s colour fled his face.

You’ve gone white, Nelson. Is that what you fear? How can this be?

Wednesday, Monteverde

By this time the Fiori de Zucchino and the Insalata Verde had long been eaten. Giovanna reappeared, with a niece to remove their used plates while she served their main courses. She didn’t pause to talk or ask questions. She sensed a distress, not so much between them as about whatever they discussed.

At the other end of the room the Spanish Ambassador had also noticed the change. A tension had intruded into the prelates’ dinner, one not there only minutes before when the round priest was effusive. Now they weren’t talking. What could have caused this? Not that it was any of the Ambassador’s business.

Nelson and José Antonio consumed their fish and risotto in silence. For different reasons both sought time to reflect. José Antonio had never been directly exposed to the Mafia, nor any of the several variants from outside Sicily like the Neapolitan Camorra or the dreaded ’Ndragheta from Calabria. For this he was grateful. Now a risk existed that his innocence might disappear. Should he rethink about retirement to Spain? Might this be the time? No, he said to himself. I owe Nelson much. I cannot think of leaving him.

Simultaneously, as he ate his Pesce Spada, Nelson worried he was exposing his old friend beyond his experience. He hadn’t expected José Antonio to understand so fast. It was a reminder. José Antonio might only be a parish priest; it did not mean he was stupid or lacked perception. Yet again he had proved he was not immune to worldly insights.

Nelson grunted. He had expected a reaction, but certainly not this fast — before they had even finished eating. Nelson felt ashamed, that he had even raised the subject. On the other hand many people regarded the Santofonino as his, Nelson’s, greatest contribution to their Mother Church even if many remained suspicious or railed against what it represented.

They finished their risotto and fish. With no more on their plates the silence persisted. It became uncomfortable. It was not, however, antagonistic. Rather it was more like when two friends or relatives want to restart after something awkward has occurred and neither quite knows how to get going again. This was a novelty for the pair. José Antonio was a man for anybody who needed his parish services. Nelson, in contrast, was a natural prince of the church, more accustomed to directing a situation than finding himself dominated by it.

Just like two people walking towards each other in the street who, in trying to pass each other, inadvertently turn towards each other at the same moment, both began to talk, and both stopped on hearing the other start.

Fortunately for them Giovanna chose that moment to materialise. If she’d spotted anything remiss, she was sufficient a restaurateuse to know when to ignore signs of anything wrong.

How was the risotto, Father? As good as your paella? she asked of José Antonio. "And the Spada, your Eminence? To your taste? What can I offer you now? More Vino Nobile? Dolci? Liquori?"

The silence was broken, to the obvious relief of both men.

"Giovanna, as always your risotto was what paella is not. How often have I tried to explain? You don’t seem to understand the difference. I will try again.

"In Valencia we cook paella using much the same rice as you use for risotto. The other ingredients may change. But what embodies the difference is less the ingredients or even the cooking. It is what happens when you are served. In Valencia we use large paelleras, those big, wide, black tin dishes to cook the paella. My difficulty is I am a man. When the paellera is brought to the table its tin cools fast, because the metal is thin. Women and children are served first and so what they receive is hot. Men have to wait. By the time we receive a plate the rice and its components have congealed into a cooling, soggy, glutinous mess.

Now compare that to what you have just given me. Your risotto arrives on a hot plate, is fresh and tasty and is only for me. That’s the difference.

"Bravo, José Antonio! What a description. Signora, He’s right. Maybe paella is not quite so grim as he paints it but he’s close to a universal truth about risotto that I hadn’t appreciated before: served as you do, it is personal. As for my Pesce Spada: delightful.

"Now, José Antonio. Do we have that second bottle of Vino Nobile or something stronger to bolster our spirits? No pun intended, of course. Allow me to decide. I think a grappa. The same for you, José Antonio? Yes. Good."

Giovanna bustled off, a shade disappointed that she hadn’t sold another of her expensive, and exquisitely profitable, Montepulcianos. Another time, perhaps.

Wednesday, Monteverde

The two glasses of grappa arrived. They were generous. Both Nelson and José Antonio looked mildly appalled with Nelson searching for a suitable potted plant. None were near enough to suffer. José Antonio shrugged his shoulders, recognising what Nelson wanted.

I think we will have to drink what she has brought. Anyhow, what do you do next? Do you know?

Nelson frowned.

As so often, José Antonio, you hit the proverbial nail on its dull head with your sledgehammer. No, I’m not sure what to do next. But I do need to start asking questions. That is my task for tomorrow morning. You remember Michele Severino? He’s where I’ll start, albeit with reluctance.

Severino … The American ex-banker, turned-Monsignore, despite the Italian name?

That’s him,

I met him once, coming out of your study, I can’t say I warmed to him. There was something oily about him. It’s probably just my ignorance but I did not feel good. I hope you will tell me I’m wrong.

"Sadly no. Your summation is accurate. On occasion, he reminds me of the less pleasant characters from the Sao Paolo favelas of my youth. He has the disagreeable habit of being awash in public sanctity combined with an air of being equally capable of causing injury. That said, he has been a good servant behind the scenes, delivering the financial elements of the Santofonino credit card payments and banking processes — not something that priests normally know much about.

"His financial expertise has been invaluable to me and our church. He has smoothed many paths while keeping us honest and untainted by the various scandals associated with the Istituto per le Opere di Religione, the ‘Vatican Bank’, as you know the rest of the world calls it.

"The Holy Father was good enough to accept my recommendation that setting up a separate contributions structure was necessary if the shadows of Sindona, Calvi and Marcinkus were not to fall on the Santofonino. In truth it was Severino who convinced me we needed to be different. Involving the dubious name of the Vatican Bank was one error we avoided. However, I now need to know more.

I have, therefore, a request of you; if you don’t object? I think it’s simple but it may not be.

Of course I won’t object. Anything to help and you know you only have to ask.

Thank you. It is appreciated.

Da Ferraz paused.

Do you think you can find the man who originally described the HolyPhone idea? His concept was a stroke of ingenious genius. I have this feeling we may need more of that before we reach the bottom of what is starting to feel like a deep, deep pit.

You mean the Englishman with whom I once had lunch? Yes? I can try but I don’t have his contact details. We never did stay in touch. Shouldn’t you worry that he will be offended that our church ‘borrowed’ his ideas without any credit accruing to him? He did say that he had written down the original concept somewhere. Perhaps it is online, not that I’m very good with this Internet thing. However, one of my younger parish colleagues understands the online world. I’ll ask him to help me. Do you want me to make contact if I do find him? Or do you want to do that? I assume you want to talk with him?

Let me think more before deciding. If you do find him I may ask you to make initial contact. If I do need to speak to him I suspect a call from my office out of the blue would seem highly improbable. I may need your introduction. I think I recall you said he spoke good Spanish.

"Yes, he did. His mother was Spanish. He spent his early years in Madrid and Malaga before he finished school and