Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 13
“Timing and position. We’ll see where we’re going. Remember the numbers I tell you.” Anna turned on the GPS function of her watch and whispered repeatedly the latitude and longitude of the Eastland, and its direction. “We’re traveling southeast, away from Mustique,” said Anna.
“Great.” Karen felt a surge of panic rise, flood her brain, as she fought off the urge to get out, out into the fresh revivifying air. “I can’t last long in here,” she said, distress in her voice. She hadn’t told Anna about her claustrophobia.
“We’ll stay put for awhile,” replied Anna. “If they’re doing sea trials, they should go back to Isola Rossa. We’ll track their course with the GPS.”
“And if not?”
“We’ll have to blow the cover and call Interpol. They also have our track. They see I’m no longer on land.”
* * *
On the bridge, Kostas Stephanopoulos lit a cigar, put the Eastland on automatic pilot, and reclined in the comfort of the plush leather seat. He watched the ship progressing like an ant across the colored screen of the chart plotter, towards the X on the upper left-hand corner. A while later, the chart plotter let out an intermittent beeping sound, as the ant closed in on the X and the screen indicated “waypoint arrival”. Kostas slowed the Eastland and brought her to an idling stop. He punched the command “auto- position” on the autopilot. The motors and thrusters would keep the ship in that spot, automatically.
“Connect the hoses,” Kostas shouted to the men, who were already pulling out long serpentine brown hoses from a large box on the afterdeck.
Karen peered from underneath the cover and saw the men lower the ends of the hoses overboard.
“Lower the funnels,” directed Kostas, to the whining, high-pitched sound of hydraulic rams. The funnels were lowered into the sea, like giant elephants about to quench their immeasurable thirst.
Strange time to go artifact hunting, thought Karen, her curiosity briefly tempering her fear.
* * *
Kostas turned on the underwater cameras and remote control with the other joystick, and steered the hoses along the ocean floor, searching, probing, sifting silently underneath the surface layer of the sandy, brown carpet. Suddenly, he stopped the joystick, a broad smile baring the discolored teeth. He chewed the soggy end off the cigar, spit it onto the floor, and brought the lit match to his face. “Maximum suction,” he shouted to the man below.
After a few seconds, Karen heard the whirring of pumps, electric motors, and then a strange soft, irregular thumping noise coming from the angled funnels, as if the elephants were having trouble ingurgitating their drink.
“What the hell is that?” asked Karen.
“Sounds like they’re sucking up something from the ocean floor,” said Anna.
“In the middle of the night?” Immediately, Karen wished she hadn’t asked.
“The captain said ‘Suction’ was to flush the hoses,” said Anna. “They can do that at the dock. It doesn’t make sense.”
The soft thumping of objects on the inside of the funnels continued.
“They’re not retrieving artifacts,” said Karen. “Artifacts would break; they must be retrieving some kind of packages.”
“Drugs,” exclaimed Anna.
The two looked at each other in disbelief, the full realization of their predicament slowly sinking in.
“If you’re right and they find us, we’re dead,” said Karen.
“Not quite,” said Anna, patting a small object on her hip: “it’s a Kevlar pistol.”
“That’s just great. Forgive me if I sound sexist, but there are three, big apes down there.”
Anna didn’t reply.
After half an hour, the thumping noise stopped and Kostas ordered, “Get the hoses in.”
Karen peeked out and saw the hydraulic rams retrieve the funnels, followed by the men raising and then disconnecting the hoses and snaking them back into the boxes on deck. Moments later, the Eastland was under way, slowly at first, then accelerating.
Anna looked at her GPS. “We’re returning to Isola Rossa.”
As she tried to control her shaking body, Karen couldn’t help letting out muffled sobs.
Forty minutes later, the Eastland slowed, and the women felt a slight jar, as Kostas brought the ship alongside the worn tires of the concrete dock. Anna looked at her watch. 2:10 a.m.
Karen heard the crew as they secured the lines of the Eastland. Moments later, the sound of their voices slowly receded into the night. She flung open the canvas cover and breathed in large lungfuls of the moist morning air.
As they clambered out of the lifeboat and down onto the afterdeck, Anna said:
“Damn, they’ve removed the gangplank. Can you swim?”
“Yes, but what about our clothes?”
“We can dry them on the balcony tomorrow.”
The two started up the road to the Chateau, wet, cold, and tired, when Anna felt a faint buzzing on her arm. “It’s Interpol,” she said, as she put her satellite GPS-phone to her ear.
“We tracked you on open water. What gives?” said a voice, crackling with interference.
“I couldn’t talk, I’ll call Dulac tomorrow. Right now, I’m getting some sleep.”
Chapter 35
Karen awoke, feeling like she’d been trampled by a pregnant elephant. She turned and looked at the table clock. 10:30 a.m. Half the day is gone. Showered and refreshed, she started down the large granite staircase when Lady Sarah, in tight jeans and a red, open blouse, met her halfway up.
“Good afternoon,” Sarah chided. “Sleep well?”
“Actually, not great. I couldn’t get to sleep.” She tried to detect if Sarah knew anything.
“I passed by last night and your door was locked. There is no need here, you know.”
“It’s a childhood phobia. I went for a walk; it usually works.”
“Will you join us for lunch?”
“Yes, I’ll probably skip the library this morning.”
“Good, see you at lunch.”
Karen wondered if Anna had contacted Dulac, and what her plan was. She went to the main lecture hall and spotted Anna studiously taking notes amid a group of students, while the lecturer, a small woman with caterpillar eyebrows, droned on about the offerings of the Pistis Sophia cells in North America. Karen drew Anna’s attention and she joined her in the hallway entrance.
“I spoke to Dulac,” said Anna. “He’s having the Eastland followed. They won’t board her until she reaches port.”
“What about us?”
“He says we should stay a couple more days to see what else we can learn.”
“I think the marchioness is getting suspicious.”
“All the more reason to stay and do everything we’re supposed to: you in the library and me at my courses.”
“It’s not quite that simple.”
Karen didn’t want to share with Anna the underlying complexity of the situation, but thought Dulac might have already briefed her. At lunch, Karen could hardly stay awake, and had trouble keeping up with the conversation. After a short, invigorating walk, she sought refuge in the library and tried to focus by reading Pistis Sophia, Early Rites.
The afternoon wore on, as Karen read about sacrifices of animals in the third to sixth century A.D. Sitting next to one of the large bookcases, absorbed in her reading, she suddenly felt a hand touching the nape of her neck, first softly, then squeezing more firmly. She sprang up, only to meet Sarah’s soft gaze and incoming breasts. She was completely naked.
“Hope I haven’t startled you, dear?” said Sarah coyly, her voice husky.
Karen recoiled, her back against the bookcase, as she clutched the book and took in the moment in utter disbelief.
“I wasn’t expecting—”
“I love the unexpected, gives piquant to the experience, don’t you think?”
“But someone might come in.”
“Don’t worry, the doors are locked,” said Sarah, dangling the chain around her neck, the small key visible between her breasts. “You’ll have to take it from me,” she said teasingly, removing the book from Karen’s hands, breaching her last defenses.
“I don’t think we should,” but Sarah’s naked body was now pressing against Karen and her left hand started to gently stroke Karen’s right breast. Karen gasped in surprise, as Sarah’s left hand reached down and stroked her, still pinned against the bookcase.
“Come, let’s take these off,” said Sarah, already unbuttoning Karen’s blouse, as Karen closed her eyes and felt desire surge from deep within.
“Really, I…”
At that moment, a knock on the door startled them.
“Who is it?” asked Karen.
“It’s Anna. I just—”
“I wanted some privacy. I’ll be out in a minute,” said Karen. She let go of Sarah’s arms and slowly backed away.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” Sarah said curtly.
Karen was about to reply, but then thought, shut up Karen, there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—to say.
Sarah turned away from Karen to get dressed, as Karen picked up the book from the floor and gathered her things. Sarah unlocked the door and walked out, without looking back.
Chapter 36
Nicola slept fitfully on the worn-out couch, her back aching, the lumps of the thin cushions poking at her every bone. Thursday is tomorrow, she tried to comfort herself. Only one more day. Petrov has to accept. What has he got to lose? But even for him, it’s a tall order. Does he have the contacts? How badly do they want this information? Maybe they know already, and don’t need the letter? She had to get out of her friend’s apartment. Her attachment to the satchel was becoming increasingly suspicious.
The following morning, Nicola was at the Nevsky at 10:15 a.m. She didn’t want to risk being late. She nervously read the morning newspaper, dipped her croissant in the black java coffee and waited. Eleven a.m. at last. She paid the bill, went to the phone booth, and dialed the FSB number. Her mind was a dull blank, and the pit in her stomach was moving up to her chest. The same feeling she had before seeing her exam results, posted on the university’s notice board.
“Petrov.”
“Nicola Vasilieva.”
“We agree.”
“Da?”
“It will take some time.”
Nicola felt electric pulsations run from her ankles to the top of her brain.
“You will get conditional acceptance from a Canadian university.” said Petrov.
“What do you mean?”
“You must pass their exams.”
“In Canada?”
“Yes,” said Petrov.
“And the money?”
“As soon as we have the letters.”
“No, you first.”
* * *
Petrov hesitated, but was willing to concede the point. She was smart enough not to lie to the FSB, he thought. “Okay,” he said, “but you must deposit Vasiliev’s money in your account the same day.”
“I’ll phone my aunt tomorrow. You’ll have your money the same day. What about the Canadian visa?”
“You will get it. They promised me.”
* * *
Nicola knew she was taking a huge chance. If Petrov was lying, she would be stuck, helpless in Russia, with no way of getting to Canada, with no money.
“Give me Dulac’s number.”
“No problem. It’s 33 21 30 42. Let me connect you.”
“Thanks. I’ll try myself.”
Nicola phoned Dulac and recognized the clipped, nasal French accent.
“They have agreed in Canada,” he said. “The visa is on its way.”
“You are sure?”
“You have my word. We have done this before,” said Dulac.
After a moment, she said, “I’ll wait for it.”
“As you wish.”
Nicola phoned Petrov. “I’ll wait for the visa.”
“Why? It’s coming.”
“Because I don’t trust you.”
Chapter 37
The Holy Father had instructed Legnano to review the activities of the Vatican financial committee. The Vatican’s finances were wavering, and the pontiff wanted to know why.
Legnano applied his talents to learning the intricacies of the financial world, and dived into the ledgers and balance sheets of the Vatican Treasury with the concentration of an Amsterdam jeweler. He inspected the activities of the investment subcommittee of the financial committee, responsible for the structure, assets diversity, and targeted yield of the Vatican’s portfolio.
He hadn’t liked what he had seen. During the last three years, doubtful counseling had led to risky investments, most of which had tanked. This had forced even riskier investment, with capital losses, if crystallized, of some 300 million US dollars. His discreet inquiries had confirmed his apprehension. There was no recovery plan. At a time when Catholics’ contributions to the Vatican’s Treasury, “Peter’s Pence”, were at their lowest in the past decade, the timing was disastrous.
Fiore, as head of the financial committee, had direct responsibility for the investment subcommittee’s activities. He reported to the Secretary of State, Cardinal Volpe.
On that otherwise splendid morning of May, Cardinal Legnano received a phone call that would shake his faith.
“Monsignor Legnano, my name is Umberto Tondino. I don’t believe we’ve met. I work with Casparelli, Vickers and Smith.”
“Yes, yes, the auditing firm.”
“Exactly, Monsignor Legnano, I know this is unusual, but I would like to meet you privately, as soon as possible.”
“What is this about?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. Could we meet soon, today even? It’s very important.”
“I’m busy, but I suppose I could free myself briefly, say at eleven a.m.”
“Yes, but not at your office. Can we meet at the restaurant L’Eau Vive?”
L’Eau Vive is always crowded with members of the Curia, thought Legnano. I will certainly be recognized there.
“Cantabile’s is more private, if that’s what you want. This sounds quite mysterious. Why the secrecy?”
“You’ll understand when we meet.”
“How will I know you?”
“Don’t worry, I will recognize you. Oh, I ask that you keep this confidential.”
Legnano hung up slowly, perplexed by the mysterious caller. He asked his secretary to phone Casparelli’s.
“Yes Monsignor, Tondino is a junior accountant at the firm,” replied his secretary.
Very strange, thought Legnano. He phoned Tondino, to verify the authenticity of the call:
“Signor Tondino?”
“Yes?”
“Cardinal Legnano. Just checking.”
“I understand.”
* * *
“Cantabile’s,” ordered Legnano to his chauffeur. As he walked into the crowded restaurant, the maitre d’ showed him to the reserved table.
“This way Monsignor. A Mr.Tondino is waiting for you.”
Legnano made his way to the small table where a young man, he guessed him to be in his early thirties, rose, blushing from ear to ear, and introduced himself. “Thank you for coming, your Eminence.”
“Yes, yes. This had better be important, young man,” said an inpatient Legnano, looking around to see if he’d been recognized.
“Cardinal Legnano, if I’m wrong, what I’m about to tell you will finish my career.”
“Really? You’re still quite young. You have time.” He sat back, smiling.
“Monsignor, I haven’t told this to anyone. I don’t think I can trust the members of my own firm,” he said nervously, his skinny hand fidgeting with the corner of his napkin.
Legnano became suddenly interested in this bookish young man with the stubby nose.
“I, I don’t know where to start,” said the accountant, his voice faltering.
“Calm down. Try at the beginning,” said Legnano, turning on his warm, comforting, father confessor tone.
“A year ago, when I was working under Mr. Casparelli on the Vatican’s books, I came across some large sums of money that had been transferred to the Vatican’s Treasury.”
“Go on.”
“I wasn’t satisfied, so I started investigating the many transfers of US dollars into the Treasury. What would come up, always, was, “Anonymous Donor.” I went to see Mr. Casparelli, and he said he had knowledge of this and he knew the donor. Everything was perfectly all right. I wasn’t to be concerned. That was fine, as there are many anonymous donations to the Vatican, so I went on with my audit.”
“What amounts are you talking about?”
“From January last year, about fifty million US dollars.”
“Mannaggia la Miseria,” exclaimed Legnano. “That’s quite a lot.”
“Yes, when I took up my audit last month, I noticed that the donations in US dollars had increased, and were always transferred on the same date of the month. I had never seen this before. When I went to see Mr. Casparelli again last week, he nearly threw me out of his office. He said he had dealt with the question before with me, and that the subject was closed. I thought for sure he would fire me.”
“I see, and why did you contact me?”
“I noticed through my audit papers that you had joined the investment review committee recently. This kind of nomination has to receive papal approval, so I thought you would be the best person to talk to. I couldn’t keep silent any longer.”
“You are well informed on Vatican procedure.”
The young man drew closer across the table. “Monsignor, now I must tell you something else. I think this is only a coincidence. I had asked about these donations during one of our meetings with the finance committee, with Monsignor Fiore.”
“Yes?”
“During the meeting, Monsignors Salvador, Conti, and Durivage told me to investigate these donations and report back.”
