Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 16
“Lady Sarah, Thierry Dulac of Interpol.”
“How are you, Inspector? I was expecting your call.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve heard about the Eastland. I’m absolutely shocked.” She waited, fearing she’d sounded a bit too forceful.
“We’d like to meet you at your London apartment. Thursday, ten a.m.”
She knew that any suggestion to meet on her turf at Isola Rossa was now out of the question. “That’s a bit inconvenient. I’d planned to say here until the end of the week.”
“Lady Sarah, let’s cut to the chase. Your ship is involved in a crime. As owner of that vessel, you have urgent legal responsibilities. Meet us in London on Thursday,” said Dulac.
“In the afternoon, then?”
“Ten a.m., Marchioness.”
By his tone, she knew she’d run out of wiggle room, “I suppose I could make it for ten.”
“Fine. We want to see your ship’s documents and log books.”
“I believe I have some old ones in London. The current ones are on board. You probably have seen those.”
“We have.”
“See you Thursday then,” said Lady Sarah, gradually regaining her composure. The line went dead. This is serious, she thought. Sarah hung up and phoned her London barristers, Alder, Hawkins and Emory, who had been the family lawyers since Sir Thomas’s time. They had helped build his empire, every step of the way.
“Lord Hawkins, please. This is the Marchioness of Dorset,” said Sarah to the receptionist.
“ Yes Marchioness, I’ll see if he is in.”
Sarah waited nervously for what seemed an eternity.
“My dear Marchioness, how are you?” said a mellifluous voice.
“Well, thank you, Lord Hawkins, but I have a slight complication. Could you pop by for tea this coming Wednesday morning? Say ten-ish?”
* * *
When a triple “A” client like the marchioness phoned, the golden rule at the firm was: drop whatever you’re doing. Yes, you are available.
“But of course.”
“Splendid.”
“Anything in particular?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet.”
By her tone, Hawkins guessed the complication to be serious.
* * *
“Good morning, Lord Hawkins, good of you to come,” said Sarah, as the butler took the barrister’s coat and showed him into the vast, high-ceilinged parlor.
“Please sit down,” said Lady Sarah. “Tea?”
“Please.”
“For two, John,” said Sarah, eyeing the butler.
“Yes, your Ladyship.”
Hawkins crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Now Lady Sarah, what is this all about?”
“You’ve heard of this Eastland business in Naples?”
“Yes, briefly.”
“I partially own and fund the Eastland in its archaeological digs, along with the Maritime Museum of Rome.”
“I see.”
“As you might have read, the crew are being detained and charged with smuggling money into Italy.”
“Yes, I read that quickly.”
“Inspector Dulac of Interpol is coming to see me tomorrow morning.”
Hawkins shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “I think we should be there also.”
“Won’t that infer guilt?”
“Not at all. You and your lawyers simply want to know what is happening to your crew, to the Eastland. To see if all appropriate measures are being taken. We will ask the questions.”
There was a moment of uneasy silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m involved in this?” she said.
Hawkins had faced that one many, many times before: “No, I’m not. I’m sure you would tell me if you were.”
“Yes, of course,” said Sarah, her lower lip curling slightly. “There is something else. Dulac has previously visited me on Isola Rossa concerning the murders of Archbishops Conti and Salvador.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“Because he thought I might know something about a letter sent to the Vatican by Pistis Sophia.”
“This is the, ah, sect you are involved with?” Hawkins said.
“It’s not a sect as you call it. It’s a legitimate Christian church. Older than your Protestant church, I might add.”
“Please, I meant no offense, Lady Sarah. I didn’t mean to be disparaging. I…I don’t know what other term to use.”
“Quite. I’m used to it by now.”
“You don’t know anything about this letter?”
“No. As I mentioned to Dulac, all members have access to the Pistis Sophia stationery.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”
“No, but I thought I’d mention my previous meeting with Dulac.”
“Anything else?”
“No, not that I can think of.”
“A demain, then.”
“Excellent. I feel better having spoken to you.”
* * *
Hawkins felt better also. A new, juicy file with his open-cheque-book client. What better way to start the morning. Trials of the ultra-rich attracted free publicity. He couldn’t wait to get back to tell his partners. His instinct, honed by years of questioning witnesses, clients, police officers, told him that Lady Sarah wasn’t being entirely truthful. No matter, that could wait.
Chapter 45
Volpe didn’t like Legnano. It wasn’t personal, he told himself, but apart from his vows, he had little if anything in common with the man. Legnano’s modest country upbringing and lack of sophistication erected a permanent barrier to any deep philosophical conversations and exchanges. Legnano’s earthy, sometimes vulgar humor always brought down the few talks he had with him to a lower common denominator. Volpe caught himself smiling sometimes at Legnano’s rustic jokes, only to regret having stooped to his level.
Legnano had left a message requiring a meeting, and Volpe had returned the message, stating he was overly busy. After receiving a third call, he couldn’t put him off any longer.
“Does this concern the Pistis Sophia letter?” inquired Volpe.
“No, it has to do with the investment review committee,” said Legnano.
“Shall we say tomorrow morning after Mass, at my office?”
“Fine.”
* * *
Legnano admired but didn’t trust Volpe. He envied him his brilliant intellect, his encyclopedic knowledge of Canon Law, history and philosophy. But he had also witnessed his scathing arrogance. And his machinations, intrigues and alliances directed towards getting himself elected to the Papacy were hardly secret. Serious “Papabili”, eventual candidates for the papacy, canvassed their electorate support early.
Legnano knew he had to be cautious, yet not to see him on the matter would appear suspect: the Secretary of State was the pope’s right hand man.
“Do you know of this anonymous donor, who enriches the Vatican’s Treasury every month?” asked Legnano.
“Which one? I hope we have many,” said Volpe, his tone light.
“The one that Conti, Salvador and Durivage inquired about during the financial committee meeting last month,” said Legnano sternly.
“I, yes, I believe the audit firm is looking into this,” said Volpe, detached.
“Exactly. Do you think that—”
“It has to do with the murders? No,” he said rhetorically. “Besides, if their request for information were cause for foul play, wouldn’t Durivage have been affected?”
“Possibly.”
“No, I think Salvador was alluding to whoever is behind the Pistis Sophia letter. Any news from Fiore on the subject?”
Legnano paused, surprised. Why had Volpe suddenly mentioned Salvador’s letter, out of context? They were silent for a moment. Legnano knew they both recognized the curious leap of logic. Volpe knows that to try and correct it will only worsen the situation, thought Legnano. “I wasn’t referring to Salvador’s letter,” said Legnano, “but no, I haven’t received word from Fiore. I’m more interested in why you think the murders aren’t related to the donations.”
“It’s not impossible,” replied Volpe, “but I must tell you, I’ve had word from Casparelli. His findings, so far, are positive. Let’s wait for his complete official report.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“We’ll meet once we have it,” said Volpe, rising from his chair, and accompanying Legnano towards the door. “We can discuss it more intelligently then.”
Legnano, his face flushed red at the near-insult, left in a huff.
Chapter 46
The day after the Naples incident, Harris had summoned Dulac to his office in Lyon. Looking at the small, balding bureaucrat’s back, Dulac waited patiently as Harris finished his phone call. Finally, Harris hung up and swiveled in his chair away from the window and faced Dulac. “I have the Minister of the Interior and the Minister of Justice asking me why I haven’t replaced you in the archbishops’ murder case, and now this?” said Harris, shoving a recent copy of the Corriera Della Sera in front of Dulac.
“We did get the money. And the Eastland’s crew.”
“But you don’t know where the money was going, four men are dead, we’re facing lawsuits from the fishermen for grossly negligent police procedure, maybe a claim for abuse of police powers from the Italian government, and a revision of the Interpol Cooperation Agreement with Italy. Do you have anything to add?”
“I wasn’t driving the boat.”
“I don’t need your smart-ass sarcasm, Dulac. What else?”
“The smuggling is probably linked to a money-laundering scheme. The Marchioness of Dorset could be involved. Stephanopoulos won’t talk, for the moment.”
“I don’t have to remind you we need a bulletproof case before we can even think of arresting the marchioness.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that.” Dulac knew the General Secretary was referring to the Dangel case, where Interpol’s circumstantial evidence had been blown to bits by the billionaire’s defense lawyers.
“I have circumstantial evidence linking the Eastland and the Pistis Sophia letter,” said Dulac.
“That’s not good enough. What about the murders?”
“We’re making progress. We’ll soon find out who hired Vasiliev and Kurganski.”
“By the way, I got a call from Berne yesterday. They said you have an attitude problem.”
“Now it comes out. You mean because I roughed up their ‘peon’ from Sion?”
“Not funny, Dulac. Of all people, you as a lawyer should know that we at Interpol are ‘support only’ to the local police force.”
“Yes, yes, I keep forgetting. I’m just filling the voids. Unless of course it’s an international case which then falls under my cross-border authority, which I believe this is. Am I correct?”
“You know damn well that technically, yes, but politically—”
“That’s why they hired you,” as Dulac gave him his best Cheshire cat grin.
“Dulac, someday you’ll go too far, and I won’t extend that safety net.”
“Then I’d better train harder,” said Dulac rising, knowing it was time to leave.
“To do what, exactly?”
“To land on my own two feet.” Dulac smiled, bowed slightly and left.
Chapter 47
Karen listened distractedly to the evening news on France 2 television, as she hastily finished preparing her steak supper. At seven, she was running late, as the concert started at eight and it was a twenty minute subway ride from her apartment to the Opera. Tonight was the third presentation of Mozart’s The Magic Flute, her favorite opera. She disliked the Italians, too shrill, and the Germans, too dramatic. The lightheartedness of Mozart filled her with immense, childlike joy every time.
As she took the steak off the stove, she suddenly stopped, almost dropped the pan, and rushed to the living room. That voice.
The reporter had finished interviewing the president of Miranda group on another large real estate development project in La Défense, a Paris suburb. She phoned Dulac.
“Hello, Thierry, it’s Karen.”
“How are you?”
“Fine, I’m on my way to the Opera. Can you meet me there later?”
“Surely. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you after the concert. Meet me at the central staircase.”
* * *
Dulac was elated. Not only was he glad to see Karen, but he’d discovered she shared his passion for classical music. She had just salvaged his day, a welcome change from the somberness of his meeting with the General Secretary. He finished his drink and continued poring over the reports. If he left at 10:30 p.m., he would be in time to meet Karen at the end of the concert.
“How was the performance?” queried Dulac.
“Excellent, Fischer-Dieskau was fabulous as Papageno.”
“He’s the greatest baritone ever. Shall we have a drink?”
“Wonderful. Where to?”
“Around the corner. Dumont’s usually has a table.”
“Thierry, I’ve just heard the voice of the man I heard on Isola Rossa, the man with Lady Sarah,” she said excitedly.
“Calm down. Where?”
“A few hours ago, during the evening news. The interviewer was talking to the president Mirana corp, or group. I didn’t get his name.”
“You mean Miranda?”
“Yes, that’s it. I’m sure that’s the voice I heard at Isola Rossa.
Dulac whistled and said, “That’s Hugues de Ségur, one of the richest, most powerful men in France.”
“Whatever. It’s the same voice, same tonality, same inflections.”
Dulac could relate to that. A musical person could better distinguish and remember a voice. Listening to the radio, he could distinguish and identify a pianist solely by the sound of his playing and technique. “It’s been a week since you left Isola Rossa. Are you absolutely certain?”
“Absolutely.”
Dulac probed into those almond-shaped eyes. They didn’t waver. “Before I start investigating de Ségur, we’d have to go to France 2 and hear the recording of that interview. De Ségur has got connections at the highest level.”
“No problem.”
Chapter 48
Her every neuron danced with excitement. The new passport, the visa, the conditional acceptance letter from the University of British Columbia’s medical school, a copy of the deposit into her aunt’s bank in Calgary, plane ticket to Vancouver. Everything was there.
The day before, Nicola had received confirmation from Petrov to go to the bank. She brought her father’s letters and the money, and deposited them in the safety deposit box. “No FSB. If I suspect anything, you’ll never get the letters,” she warned.
“Okay, okay,” said Petrov, obvious reluctance in his voice.
Petrov had kept his word. She put the documents away carefully in her satchel and felt a breath of fresh air envelop her.
As she walked out and stood a moment in front of the bank’s doors, she thought, Nicola, you’ve done it. She hailed a taxi. “To the Vinogourov Bank” she ordered. While the taxi crept along in heavy traffic, Nicola allowed herself to wonder what life would be like in the land she had heard her aunt rave about. “Only one problem,’ her aunt had warned. “Weather is much like Russia.” Nicola knew her English was good by Russian standards, but would her level be good enough for her studies? She would take courses.
“Wait here,” she said, as they arrived at the bank. She rushed in, deposited the documents in the other safety box, and directed the taxi to her apartment. As the car approached, she was reminded of the shabbiness of student living. It was grayer than Sokol, if that were possible.
She paid the taxi and started up the staircase, when suddenly she felt the presence of someone behind her, and as she half turned, two men grabbed her arms, turned her around and lifted her. “What the hell?” she tried to free her right arm. They dragged her, writhing helplessly, into the waiting car.
“Don’t resist, and you won’t get hurt,” said the lantern- jawed bulldog face, as he pushed her head down past the open car door.
“What do you want?” pleaded Nicola.
“We protect you. FSB,” said the bulldog, as all three piled into the backseat, and the driver roared off.
“Petrov gave me his word,” said Nicola angrily.
No response, as the other man looked behind, to see if they were being followed.
These aren’t FSB, thought Nicola. The car drove out to the suburbs of Moscow, and Nicola realized her short-lived dream was being fractured, shattered by the cold steel hammer of Russian reality.
Chapter 49
“Lady Sarah,” said Dulac, bowing slightly as he and Lescop entered the parlor.
“Good morning,” replied Sarah, extending her downturned hand. “Please meet my lawyer, Lord Hawkins.”
“Hello Inspector, Mr. Lescop,” said Hawkins, his tone upbeat. “Terrible, this Eastland business. Where are the crew being held?”
“In Naples, at the Port precinct,” replied Dulac.
“I trust you’ve advised the other owner, the Maritime Museum of Rome?”
“Yes, we have. I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind,” said Dulac.
“Ah, yes, of course. I presume you have interrogation authority?”
“Yes, under the Interpol-Britain police agreement.”
“But only if the person is a suspect. Surely Lady Sarah isn’t a suspect, Inspector, or we wouldn’t be here.”
Dulac was cornered. If he said she was a suspect, there would be no further questions.
“Your client has agreed to this meeting,” replied Dulac, knowing he was walking a fine line. “For the moment let’s keep it informal.”
