Chapter Twenty-Three

Rome, 1901

Giovanni Giolitti was a man who was not easily surprised. However, the last two days had been filled with a number of unexpected twists and turns.

Sitting in his office, he decided that he deserved a drink. Although it was not yet noon, he opened his liquor cabinet and gazed upon the array of different-colored bottles before selecting a single-malt scotch. Pouring himself a glass of Aberfeldy, a relatively new brand that he had received as a gift, he sat back and tried to make sense of where things were going, and how he might stay one step ahead of his opponent.

He had suspected that the pope might reference the Roman Question in his Sunday homily, but to have the pontiff devote his entire sermon to it had been more than he might have hoped.

Buoyed with excitement, he had donned his disguise and gone to the post office the next morning to mail his next missive to the pontiff. The sight of a carabinieri, whom he did not know, asking for anyone mailing anything to il papa had unnerved him slightly.

Exiting the Vatican post office, he had taken a cab to another post office, farther from St. Peter’s Square, where the scene had been repeated.

Deciding that they were looking for a mailing, he had opted to send a carefully worded telegram to Cardinal Oreglia. Fortunately, there were no uniforms present in the cable office, just the usual group of boys on bicycles loitering outside, looking to deliver messages for gratuities.

As he climbed into a cab, he mused on the morning’s events. Surely, there was an unseen hand at work here. Pope Leo is clever, he thought, but he is not devious enough to develop a plan such as this.

Looking out the cab window, he noticed a young boy on a bicycle about a block behind pedaling furiously. “Did I see him at the first post office?” he asked himself. Looking again, he thought he recalled the youngster’s red shirt. He told the driver to stop at a tobacco shop and wait while he went in. After purchasing several cigars, he returned to the cab. A glance up the street revealed that the boy was not there.

Feeling slightly relieved, Giolitti told the driver to take him to the Church of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini on the Via Veneto.

When he arrived, he took his time paying the driver. Before entering the church, he glanced back up the street and saw two nuns walking on one side of the street. On the other, he spotted a youngster with a bicycle, who appeared to be fixing his tire, However this one was wearing a black shirt and a cap.

Giolitti entered the church and knelt down as if in prayer. He waited for a few moments. When the boy did not enter, he descended to the crypts below and made his way to the inner sanctum. When he was alone, he removed the wig and dark glasses. He put the jacket and cap that he had worn into his briefcase and replaced them with a proper suit jacket.

He thought about checking on the cameos and then decided against it. He had taken few precautions and had just changed his clothes, and if those reasons weren’t enough to dissuade him, it was broad daylight and he had neglected to put the sign in place.

He then left the church through a different door and, after scouring the streets looking for boys on bicycles and finding none, he took a cab back to his office. Had he gazed up, he might have seen a youngster watching him intently from the heights of the bell tower.

Upon arriving, he had told his secretary to hold all his calls and then he locked himself in his office.

Sitting in his chair now, he looked at his office and thought about his career. He told himself, “I am a survivor. I eluded prosecution in the Banca Romana scandal, and I would have made a handsome profit but for that fool Tanlongo.”

“I have served as prime minister, and I am now the minister of the interior. Zanardelli may be the Prime Minister of Italy, but I am the kingmaker. If I can resolve the Roman Question on the side of the government, my power base will be complete.”

However, there was a nagging doubt deep in the back of his mind. He had an uneasy feeling that he had overlooked something. That somehow, inexplicably, he had missed something that morning.

So he sat there, sipping the scotch, and examining each move that he had made that morning and then reconsidering each future move for the slightest flaw.

“I have so many layers of protection that no one will be able to trace this to me, unless I wish them to.” And then it hit him. Going to the post himself could have proved his undoing had the boy recognized him. He found comfort in the fact that he had been disguised and the youngster was certainly gone when he left the church.

He thought about the boy. What if the red shirt were merely a clever distraction to catch his attention when he saw it and allay his fears when he noticed that it was gone?

Perhaps the youngster had changed the shirt just as he had altered his appearance. Deciding to redouble his efforts at anonymity, Giolitti determined to make better use of the other Piagnoni in carrying out the more routine tasks. He had learned a hard lesson about trust when he was ushered from office, and it was about to pay dividends.

Deciding that the initiative was there to be grasped, he began to compose another letter to the pontiff.

It took him a long time to get it just right. When he had finished, he read it over several times and decided that it struck a nice balance between imperiousness and impatience.

Realizing that everything had come full circle, he focused on devising a method by which the message might be delivered safely but without any risk of having the messenger compromised.

After he had walked each step through in his mind, he chided himself, “Why didn’t I think of this sooner!”

But then he smiled, and said, “But you did think of it now!” Deciding that his cleverness merited a small celebration, Giolitti poured himself another glass of the Aberfeldy.

“It is almost checkmate, Pope Leo,” he thought as he savored the aroma of the scotch before sipping it and relishing the subtle hints of honey and heather.