The Tower Read Online Free PDF Page A

understand how the Italians could tolerate a political administration that boasted of reviving the glories of a millenary past, as they proceeded to tear down a sizeable portion of that very past in such highly questionable projects.
    He hailed a cab in Piazza Venezia and made his way to the Curia Generalizia, the headquarters of the Society of Jesus, where he was greeted with polite interest.
    ‘Father Antonelli? Yes, he lived with us for several years, but he is no longer in Rome.’
    ‘I must speak to him about a very urgent matter.’
    ‘May I know the reason for your request, Mr . . .’
    ‘Garrett. Philip Garrett. I’m American, naturalized French. I live in Paris and have been working for several years as a researcher at the Musée de l’Homme.’
    ‘Garrett, you said? No relation, I suppose, to—’
    ‘That’s right, Father, I’m the son of Desmond Garrett, the American anthropologist who was working with Father Antonelli on some research here in Rome ten years ago. Father Antonelli was the director of the Vatican Library back then, I believe.’
    The Jesuit fell silent for a few moments, as if trying to collect his thoughts, then said, ‘That’s true, Dr Garrett. But unfortunately it’s not possible for you to meet Father Antonelli. You see, our brother is quite ill and cannot receive anyone.’
    Philip could not hide his disappointment. ‘Father, I must speak with him. It concerns a matter of the utmost importance. You see, my father vanished without trace ten years ago in the Sahara, and I’m trying to find him by piecing together the last journey he made, here, before he disappeared. Father Antonelli may have precious information. Please excuse my insisting, but I’m sure I won’t need more than a few minutes of his time . . .’
    The Jesuit shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Dr Garrett, but Father Antonelli’s state of health will not allow him to receive visitors.’
    ‘Can’t you even tell me where he is?’
    ‘No, unfortunately not.’ The priest rose from his chair, walked around the solid walnut desk that separated them and led Philip to the door. ‘Please believe me when I say that I truly regret being unable to help you,’ he said again with a polite smile. ‘I wish you good luck, nonetheless.’ He closed the door behind his guest and went back to his desk.
     

2
    P HILIP WALKED DOWN the long waxed corridor that led to the exit with quick, nervous steps. He was soon back out on the street.
    The sunlight blinded him and brought home the reality of his failure. His first attempt had led him straight down a dead end. All he could do was go back to his father’s book and try to decipher the remaining messages.
    He reached Piazza del Popolo and hailed a cab, but just as he was about to get in he stopped suddenly and waved the vehicle off. On the other side of the square, near the start of Via del Corso, he’d spotted a man in a light-grey suit holding a briefcase under his arm. It was an old friend with whom he’d studied for a couple of years in Paris. He hurried to catch up with him, laid a hand on his shoulder and called his name: ‘Giorgio!’
    ‘What the devil . . .’ the man answered. ‘Philip Garrett! Where have you crawled out from?’
    ‘Do you have half an hour for a cup of coffee with an old friend?’
    ‘I swore to my wife that I’d go with her to pick out a dress for her sister’s wedding, but she’ll have to wait. Good grief, Garrett, I can’t believe it’s you!’
    They sat at Rosati’s café and Philip ordered two coffees. In ten minutes they had gone over the last ten years of their lives. Giorgio Liverani had married and had two children, a boy and a girl, whose photographs he carried in his wallet. What’s more, he had become the curator of the classical art collection in the Vatican Museums.
    ‘I knew you’d been working there for years. Congratulations! When were you promoted?’
    ‘Last year. What about you?’
    ‘I’ve taken a year’s sabbatical