Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 11
“Fill in this questionnaire. Do you have identification papers?”
“Yes, here.”
Twenty minutes later, Nicola entered the vault area and unlocked the safety deposit box, into which she inserted an envelope.
Alone in the bank vault, she took out her old brown overcoat from her student satchel, along with a gray hat and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. She stuffed her burgundy overcoat into the bag and left the bank vault, catching sight of the FSB man questioning the clerk. She walked hurriedly down the stairs, trying not to run, and hailed a taxi.
* * *
The FSB man was pressing the clerk. “I want access to that girl’s safety deposit box.”
“We cannot give you access without written authority.”
The FSB man called Petrov.
“Nicola opened a safety deposit box. The bank people won’t give us access.”
“Where is she?”
“In the vault. We’re waiting for her to leave.”
“Get me the manager.”
“Saminsky here.”
“This is Petrov, FSB. Let my men into the vault. Now.”
The manager hesitated, as the second FSB man accosted him.
“All right, but you must sign an inquiry form.”
“Yes, yes later.”
Petrov slammed down the receiver.
* * *
“To the Vinogourov Bank,” said Nicola to the taxi driver, forcing herself not to look back in the rearview window. Step one complete, two more to go. As she approached the bank, fear again struck at her heart. What if Petrov has had all banks searched for Sergei’s accounts? What if this bank has violated its code of secrecy, under pressure from the FSB? Calm down, Nicola, Russia’s bureaucracy is on your side. It will take weeks for the FSB to gain access to Sergei’s accounts. Determined, she walked to the desk and showed her key and identification papers the clerk.
“Yes?”
“Please give me access to box 3805. This is my father’s authorization, and these are my papers. Here is the key.”
Again, after what was seemingly an eternity, the clerk came back and said, “Come this way, please.”
Nicola could hardly contain herself. If Sergei hadn’t lied, she was about to become very, very rich.
* * *
Petrov’s men found the vault empty, a blank envelope in Nicola’s safety deposit box adding insult to injury. Plus, they knew they had just violated a recently enacted bank secrecy decree Putin had put in place as a reaction to the Duma’s outcry about his endlessly growing administrative powers. To top it all off, they’d lost the girl. Reluctantly, one of them phoned Petrov.
“Idiots. Numbskulls. You’re a disgrace to the FSB. That will cost you a month’s salary.” Petrov hung up, reached for the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out the vodka bottle. He was back where he started, a step behind an infuriatingly smart young woman who had inherited the wrong father.
* * *
Nicola opened the safety deposit box, her palms sweating, knees trembling like a child opening a huge Christmas gift. Sergei hadn’t lied. It was there, in small packets of hundred dollar bills. She counted furiously, her heart racing, stuffing the money into her satchel. She opened the letter, handwritten in a tense scrawl:
Kurganski and I contracted to kill Salvador and Conti. Victor Oleyev, of Number 5 Negerov Street, Rublyovka district, gave me the instructions and paid me.
Sergei Vasiliev
She froze, her heart sinking. It was blood money.
She tried to rationalize. Maybe this money wasn’t related to the crimes. Maybe a leftover of Sergei’s army salary, or pension? Ha! A Russian general doesn’t save fifty thousand dollars in a lifetime, let alone a simple soldier, she thought. She was sure Petrov and his men had found the empty envelope by now, and were all over her apartment again, waiting. Suddenly, she remembered her father’s admonition: get out of Moscow.
Stuffing the remainder of the money and the letter into her satchel, she locked the box and walked out, burdened by a heavy, coveted treasure and a heavy, unwanted secret.
Chapter 28
Volpe had mixed feelings about Fiore. He admired his boundless energy and quick mind, but had started to notice that Fiore would try to avoid committing himself, unless he was assured of recognition and praise from his colleagues. He rarely took a position on controversial issues. Volpe caught himself wondering if Fiore had, in fact, any deep convictions at all. Certainly, he hadn’t acquired such a high office so quickly without having shown convictions to those who had appointed him. Or was Volpe envious, seeing in this young man political skill it had taken him so long to develop?
If Fiore was untrustworthy, Volpe had a problem. His mentorship towards Fiore came with a price tag. He would eventually want to collect. The next Synod was an opportunity to cement the allegiances he needed to support his own, highest aspiration. He counted on Fiore to gather undecided votes. There would be a cardinalship for Fiore if he succeeded.
The pope’s failing health reminded Volpe of his own fragility. He was barely seven years younger than the Holy Father, and his own health showed signs of fatigue. He sought comfort in the inviolable precept that only those who had paid their dues through time and suffering were considered “Papabili.” Momentarily putting his aspirations aside, he thought, could the Church continue electing septuagenarians, if it wanted to keep the younger flock within its bosom? Deep down, he feared the pressure of the younger priests clamoring for access to positions now still reserved for the “administratively mature.” Fiore was an example emeritus of this new breed. Yet Volpe wasn’t ready to accept defeat and turn to a supporting role. If he had his way, the young lions would wait their turn. As long as elderly cardinals formed the electorate, he was still the odds-on favorite.
Chapter 29
André Dessault studied painting at Les Beaux Arts in Paris for six years. His efforts at making a living with his art had met with limited success, and, like most of his colleagues, he had been forced to seek other means of subsistence. Impatient and wanting to enjoy the good life, he had slipped into copying works of famous artists, selling his meticulous, uninspired work as reproductions. He suspected that some copies were being sold as originals, but he’d convinced himself it was not necessarily in his best interest to police the morals of the art dealers’ world.
Introduced to the skill of calligraphy and illumination through a friend, he quickly developed a lucrative niche. A well-to-do clientele enjoyed his fine, detailed work and requested ornate, distinctive letterhead. More than he could produce. Each letterhead was slightly different from its predecessor, and would become a sought-after original. The Marchioness of Dorset was such a client, ordering a hundred of these exquisite miniatures every year.
Dulac’s men had staked out his apartment and small shop for a week, without success. Inquiries with neighbors proved equally futile. Dessault had vanished.
* * *
Three days later, search warrant in hand, Dulac’s men descended onto Dessault’s apartment. A musty smell pervaded the small, dark rooms. Dessault was a meticulous man, as all had been tidily put away. Having gone through his belongings and having found nothing, they moved on to his small shop at 348b, Avenue de Rouen.
Behind the glass counter, Dessault had set up three easels to exhibit his miniatures, allowing him to work on letterheads simultaneously. Dulac’s men found two works in progress, unrelated to the Pistis Sophia letterhead. Dessault kept files on each of his clients, and Dulac’s men rifled through the wood cabinets looking for clues. Drafts and completed letterheads were in every client’s file, except one: the marchioness’s file was empty. Taking samples of Dessault’s work, Dulac’s men sent them to the Lyon lab.
Even if the letters matched the Pistis Sophia letter, they had to find Dessault, preferably alive.
Chapter 30
Like eighty percent of the male population of Russia, Kurganski’s father, Dimitri, loved to play chess. He’d started teaching his son early, nurturing the Russian dream of eventually producing another Alekin, Spassky, or Kasparov. However Dimitri’s worsening bouts of schizophrenia had eventually put an end to the daily chess lectures. Unable to hold a job, in and out of Moscow’s mental hospitals, his father had ended it all one sunny March afternoon with a bullet in his head, three days after Kurganski’s tenth birthday. He’d discovered Dimitri’s disfigured, bloodied body upon returning from school.
Emotionally unstable since that fateful afternoon, Kurganski suffered from a mild form of attention deficit disorder. His inability to see more than five moves ahead had dashed any hopes of ever making a decent living at chess. Still, he hustled many a classmate and fellow soldier into believing his opponent could easily be beaten, only to find out that after a few bets, Kurganski had a good chunk of the poor fellow’s allowance or paycheck.
He thought of resuming his hustling on the streets of Moscow, redolent with impromptu chess games at many a street corner, but a close call recognizing one of Oleyev’s chess-playing men had sent him running into the Saturday crowds of shopping Muscovites. The mafia knew his weakness and wouldn’t hesitate to checkmate him on the spot.
He would forgo his plan of listless wandering in the flophouses of the city. With a contract on his life and Oleyev’s men on the hunt, he had to get out. He had to escape to the country and become untraceable through anonymity. He was playing the ultimate hustle, the chess game of his life, for his life.
* * *
Others were less desperate in their search for secrecy. Nicola had found refuge with Petra, a girlfriend from her days at preparatory school. The small two-room apartment in the grey, dismal Sokol suburb of Moscow assured bleak insignificance to everyone there. Nicola promised to leave within a week, as the meager household furnishings could hardly bear yet another occupant. She slept on the short couch, and didn’t leave her satchel out of sight, except to quickly shower and use the bathroom. She hatched a plan. Petrov had left his calling card. That morning, she waited for Petra and her husband to leave for work and dialed the FSB number.
“Hello, can I speak to Inspector Petrov?”
“Who is calling?” inquired the dispirited, mechanical voice.
“Tell him it’s Nicola Vasilieva. I’ll call back in five minutes.”
“One moment. I’ll—”
You’ll trace the call, shithead. She hung up.
“Petrov here.”
“Nicola Vasilieva.”
“Da?”
“I know who killed Vasiliev.” She knew Petrov was tracing the call. She had to talk fast.
“Where are you?” said Petrov.
“It’s not important. I’ll call you back in 30 minutes.” She hung up again.
Nicola bundled up, grabbed her satchel and left the apartment. Hailing a taxi, she ordered, “Nevsky restaurant, near the University.” In the phone booth, she dialed Petrov’s number.
“Petrov.”
“I have proof of my father’s killer.”
“How is that?”
“I have a handwritten letter from my father.”
“Why don’t you come in? You are in big danger. You are a smart woman. The mafia will kill you for this.”
“I’ll take my chances. Listen, Petrov, I need a Canadian visa, new passport, and acceptance in a Canadian medical school. You can get my records at Moscow University. I have fifty thousand US dollars I will give you, and the letter. You will deposit seventy-five thousand Canadian dollars in my aunt’s bank account in Calgary as reward money for giving you my father’s killer. I want a new life.”
As the silence thickened, she pressed the receiver so hard to her ear that it hurt.
“Petrov, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m listening.”
“Good. I will call you back Thursday at eleven a.m.”
“Will you testify in court?”
“Nyet. I won’t commit suicide. The letter names my father’s partner. He’s your witness.”
“Not much evidence, with only the letter.”
“That’s your problem, not mine,” said Nicola.
“This is a lot of trouble for us, just to find out who killed your father.”
“Oh, didn’t I mention it? The man who hired Sergei to kill the archbishops?”
“Yes?”
“I have his name also.”
Nicola hung up.
Chapter 31
Karen and Anna Delgado, the olive-skinned, Brazilian-born Interpol agent, spoke briefly on the Bahamas Air flight to Mustique. Anna would be Karen’s ‘friend,’ the Pistis Sophia recruit.
As the plane landed, Karen’s mixed emotions resurfaced. Can I control the situation? Too cool and the marchioness will be hostile. Too friendly, she’ll be suspicious. She had to strike a delicate balance, a tough act. Her ‘friend,’ Anna, would be the buffer.
After a perfunctory stop at immigration, they boarded the water taxi to Isola Rossa, enjoying the sea breeze’s caress and relief from the hot shore. Under the scant protection of the canvas top, Karen still felt the intense sun beating down on her bare arms and neck. The smell of half-burnt diesel fuel mixed with the throaty thump-thump of the old motor, and a milky froth stirred behind the transom of the grey steel hull. Like embarrassed riders in an elevator, the passengers looked at each other, unable to speak over the din.
Twenty minutes later, the unmistakable silhouette of Chateau d’Or captured the shimmering horizon, slowly defining itself against the luxuriant green foliage.
As the water taxi approached the large concrete dock, Karen recognized the pert silhouette of the hostess, wearing a flowing blue dress and an elegant straw hat. A personal welcome wasn’t required. Sarah waved enthusiastically, foregoing nobility’s usual restraint.
“Hello,” said Karen as she alighted. “Meet my friend, Anna Delgado. She’s come to take the introduction course.”
“Delighted,” replied Sarah, as she instructed the chauffeur to load their suitcases into the Bentley. “Come, come.” She ushered Karen and Anna into the back seat and subdued comfort of the Bentley. The short ride to the majestic splendor of Chateau d’Or reawakened Karen’s appreciation of the architectural chef d’oeuvre, mixed with her growing discomfort over Sarah’s already insistent gaze.
Karen noticed several large yachts docked on the far side of the concrete jetty. Evidently, some of the marchioness’s guests favored their own means of transport. One yacht, in particular, drew her attention and sparked her curiosity. It was incongruous amongst the sleek, immaculately maintained, white hulls of the mega- rich. Its high, roughly blue-painted steel topsides belonged on a working trawler. She read the large name in white on both sides of the bow: Eastland. Two huge, funnel-like tubes hung over the stern, like the forelegs of a gargantuan praying mantis. As Lady Sarah, Anna, and she settled on the veranda chairs for cocktails, Karen couldn’t contain her curiosity.
“What is that strange-looking vessel on your dock with the tubes on the back?”
“You mean the Eastland? said Lady Sarah.
“That’s the one.”
“It’s a pet project of mine. I’m funding underwater research with the Maritime Museum of Rome. The Eastland is a hydrographic-archaeological vessel. Those tubes are giant water hoses that get rid of mud and sand around wrecks and their artifacts. It’s working on two possible sites right now. It’s all quite exciting.”
“Have you found anything yet?” replied Karen.
“Nothing significant, but it looks promising. I’m told these digs take time,” said Lady Sarah.
“I’d love to see how it works,” said Karen enthusiastically.
“Perhaps we can arrange it,” replied Lady Sarah mechanically. “It’s not that interesting, unless you are into archaeological research. It’s really just a big underwater water hose.”
“I see,” said Karen, feeling Lady Sarah was trying to shut the door on the opportunity, contrary to her earlier enthusiasm.
Lady Sarah turned to Anna. “How did you become interested in Pistis Sophia?”
“I’m dissatisfied with the teachings of the Catholic Church. I feel I’ve outgrown it. Actually, I’m trying to find a new meaning to religion. I’ve been reading Gnostic texts and find them fascinating. From what I’ve read, Pistis Sophia could be very fulfilling. That’s what I’m here to find out.”
Karen thought, at least she’s done her homework. Hopefully, the marchioness won’t probe.
“Aren’t we all…dissatisfied, I mean,” said Lady Sarah, seemingly content with the reply and throwing an inquisitive glance at Karen.
* * *
The portier and Lady Sarah escorted Karen and Anna to their adjoining rooms, as Karen marveled at the paintings adorning walls of the entrance hall and the main staircase. A Peter Brueghel the Elder winter scene caught her attention. Turning to Sarah, she said,
“New acquisition?”
“Yes, as a matter fact, I had my people pick it up at Sotheby’s last week. Do you like it?”
“I love his winter scenes. They remind me of Vermont. I grew up near small lakes and rolling countryside.”
“Perhaps a little less chilly than Vermont, I’m told. By the way, dinner will be at seven in the main dining room. I have some people I want you to meet.”
* * *
Karen unpacked her two small suitcases and showered quickly. Wrapped in a soft blue dressing gown, she reclined in the plush sofa, careful not to wet the gilded silk brocade cover. She had noticed that the adjoining bedrooms were diagonally across the hall from a large room with ornate, massive wood doors. As they walked past, she caught a glimpse of two small sofas, lost in the vast décor. More ancestral portraits gave life to the high, dull walls. She had just finished dressing when the portier knocked apologetically and announced dinner. She walked down the staircase and turned towards the dining room, and saw the assembled guests engaged in muted conversation.
