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Father Matteo spread his hands helplessly. “Capitano, you will have to forgive me,” he said. “I know that you must always be on guard, suspect everyone, watch every shadow in case it is hiding something—”
“True enough,” Koelliker murmured.
“But this is not the world I live in!” Father Matteo protested. “And to me, Signor Campinelli seemed very much to be an eager, hardworking, charming man, doing his best to save a great work of art! And I would very much like to believe that is who he is.”
“So would I, Father,” Koelliker said.
“So, please,” Father Matteo said. “Is it not possible that you are mistaken?”
Koelliker shook his head. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said. “It is quite impossible.”
“But how can you be certain? Without any evidence, or—”
Captain Koelliker pushed a piece of paper across the desk. Father Matteo looked at it, then raised his eyes to Koelliker. “Please, take a look,” Koelliker said.
Father Matteo picked up the paper and began to read. He looked up, startled; Koelliker motioned for him to read on, and he did.
When he finished, he slowly placed the paper back on the desk. “I see,” he said. “And there is no possibility that, that—perhaps there were two Carlo Campinellis from Bologna?”
“I checked the Codice Fiscale,” Koelliker said. “Our Carlo Campinelli is using the same number as the Carlo Campinelli here—” He flicked the paper with a finger. “The Carlo Campinelli who was killed in a Vespa accident fifteen years ago.”
“I see,” Father Matteo said. He had truly hoped that Signor Campinelli was legitimate, but this was quite final. The Codice Fiscale, the Italian equivalent of a Social Security number, would not be in error.
“It is a common practice,” Koelliker said. “Criminals buy and sell these numbers to other criminals, who use them to establish a fraudulent identity. Exactly,” he went on relentlessly, “as this man has done.”
“I see,” Father Matteo said again. He was aware that he was repeating himself, but he could think of nothing else to say. His last hope was crushed, and his face showed it.
Captain Koelliker let him have a few
moments of silence, and finally Father Matteo looked up and nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “And so now, we will go and arrest him?”
“I think not,” Koelliker said.
Father Matteo looked surprised. “Why on earth not?”
“It will be a much tighter case, and a very much stiffer penalty, if we catch him in the act,” Koelliker said. “We know what he plans to steal, after all.”
“The Urbino Bible,” Father Matteo said.
“And so we will simply put a very careful, and very inconspicuous, guard on the Urbino Bible. And wait for our thief to try to steal it. When he has it in his hands—we take him.”
He looked at Father Matteo, and he was unable to hide a small, and very Swiss, smile of satisfaction.
After a moment, Father Matteo nodded. “Very well,” he said.
* * *
—
Captain Koelliker was having lunch at his desk when the alarm went off. His immediate thought was that it had to be the attempt on the Urbino Bible, and for a moment he was too startled to move—the alarm? Their plan had been to keep careful watch and then move in silently, without any loud noises or movements that might panic the throng of tourists.
But then his instincts took over. An alarm was an alarm, after all. He dropped his sandwich and was out the door.
Koelliker hurried out and across the plaza to the Vatican Library. Although it was not open to the general public, qualified scholars and researchers were welcome to use the unique resources of the library, and that of course meant a staff of librarians. So there was a small crowd of people milling about in confusion when Koelliker came in.
“Captain!” Koelliker recognized the voice and quickly found the face that went with it—Corporal Amacker, assigned to the squad watching the Urbino Bible. He beckoned, and Koelliker hurried over.
“What is it?” Koelliker demanded. “The Bible—is it . . . ?”
