Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 17
“Of course,” intoned Hawkins, smiling at Lady Sarah.
“Marchioness, what do you know about this Eastland business ?” asked Dulac.
“Sorry,” interjected Hawkins, “but could you be more specific?”
“Very well,” replied Dulac, staring, expressionless, at Lady Sarah, “When did you become aware of the smuggling activities of the Eastland?”
“Two days ago, in the news,” replied the marchioness firmly. “I was as shocked as you were to learn of this.”
“Really? And how shocked am I?” said Dulac, grinning.
“Well, it’s just a figure of—”
“So Captain Stephanopoulos gave you no hints, signs, or clues that he might be smuggling?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Stephanopoulos has always been a conscientious and competent captain. Ask the archaeologist who works with him.”
“Marchioness,” said Dulac, “the log books show the Eastland has taken regular trips from Isola Rossa to Naples, on or about the same day every month since last year. Doesn’t that strike you as odd, for a boat supposedly doing archaeological research? One doesn’t find artifacts on a regular, predetermined, monthly basis, would you think?”
The marchioness didn’t waver. “Frankly, I don’t keep a diary of the Eastland’s whereabouts. Captain Stephanopoulos has entire discretion concerning his schedule.”
“Did he report all finds of artifacts to you?”
“No, only those judged significant by the archaeologist.”
“How many so far?”
“About eight.”
Dulac leaned forward, hands clasped. “Isn’t that very little, for all the money and effort?”
“We’re just at the beginning, I’m told.”
“Do you get a tax benefit from this?”
“I must object, Mr. Dulac,” said Hawkins. “This has nothing to do with the marchioness’s business ventures.”
Dulac shot a side glance at Lescop.
“Has any crew member of the Eastland or the archaeologist ever come to you concerning the captain’s behavior?” said Lescop, eyeing the Marchioness.
“No, not really.”
“Are you aware that the Eastland has a double bottom?” said Lescop.
“What do you mean?” replied Sarah.
“It can carry cargo in a separate hidden compartment.”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
Dulac hastened the tempo. “Why did you have hydrofoils fitted to the boat last year, at major expense, I might add?”
“Stephanopoulos told me it would be a good idea, and it would save time and fuel.”
“I see. Didn’t it strike you as odd that such equipment was required for an archaeological vessel, as opposed to, say, a high-speed ferry?”
“No, it didn’t. Again, this is Stephanopoulos’s domain. I just pay the bills,” replied Sarah, desperately trying to add levity to the exchange.
Dulac stared at her, and noticed an almost imperceptible curl of her lower lip.
There was a long pause, while Lescop finished taking notes.
Dulac rose and signaled to Lescop.
“If you don’t have any further questions, Mr. Lescop, I think we are through, Lady Sarah. For today.”
“If I can be of help, please don’t hesitate to call,” replied the marchioness, getting up.
The butler escorted Dulac and Lescop out of the room and into the hallway towards the door. As Dulac crossed the doorway, he turned to Lady Sarah and Hawkins, standing behind her: “Oh, by the way, have you met with Hugues de Ségur lately?”
Lady Sarah, visibly shaken, fumbled for words. “Ah, oh, I don’t think so…No. I don’t recall.”
“Really? Then I bid you good-day, Marchioness, Lord Hawkins.” Dulac turned, smiled at Lescop, and started walking towards the waiting car.
“She’s lying,” said Lescop, getting into the car with Dulac.
“And rather poorly. Are the wiretaps installed?”
“Yes. I wonder what she’s told Hawkins?”
“Probably very little. She’ll use his office to call de Ségur. Or better, have Hawkins call him.”
* * *
At Heathrow, their plane was late. They waited, seated in the overcrowded lounge, for an update on their departure time. Dulac’s phone rang.
“Dulac.”
“Petrov.”
“Yes?”
“I have big news. We have Vasiliev’s letters. It’s Victor Oleyev. He hired them to kill Salvador and Conti.”
“Good job, Petrov. Anything else?”
“We have a problem. We can’t find Nicola. We sent men to her apartment. Her plane for Canada leaves tomorrow.”
“Perhaps she’s staying with friends.”
“Niet. Her boyfriend, Anton, has no contact from her.”
“Not good. Did you verify the authenticity of the letters?
“Yes. We go to arrest Oleyev.”
“With only the letters?”
“Da. Oleyev will talk.”
“Won’t he fight back?”
“First we must get support from government. He has many contacts inside.”
Dulac didn’t want to think of what Oleyev was facing at the hands of Petrov’s men. A Mafioso who had violated their territory, and killed a prison guard and an innocent victim, wasn’t going to buy himself a cushy, quiet cell. I should go to Moscow, thought Dulac. We need Oleyev alive. He’s just the intermediary.
“Petrov, wait until you have better, solid evidence,” said Dulac. “If you arrest him now, with only the letters, we lose the surprise element against whoever hired him. They’ll destroy any connection with the crimes. We risk never knowing who hired him.”
“You think you are the only one with pressure? I can’t wait long.”
“Tighten your surveillance on him. We must be patient. If we time this right, we catch more game with a bigger trap.” Dulac hoped the analogy would appeal to Petrov’s interest as a hunter, if not as a policeman. “Without your help, we risk losing it all.”
“When I clear the government contacts, I move.” said Petrov.
“You must find Nicola. We need her testimony. Any news on Kurganski?”
“He was seen outside Moscow. Don’t worry, we find him.”
Dulac knew that Petrov was under tremendous pressure to tackle and bring in Oleyev. A murky high roller like Victor Oleyev was an eyesore to the policies of the reformed Russian government, eager to shake off its reputation for gangsterism and corruption, eager to prove the credibility of its emerging, Western-inspired legal system. Petrov was becoming a dinosaur in this Russia, still using antiquated methods. Dulac worried that if the courts went by the new rules of strict evidence and a fair trial, Oleyev could get away. He knew Petrov’s career was on the line, as was his.
Chapter 50
“Cardinal Legnano, this is Tondino,” said the caller.
“Yes?”
“I have news on the subject we discussed.”
“Go ahead,” said a concerned Legnano. “Or better still, why don’t you come to my office this afternoon.”
* * *
“Good afternoon, Your Eminence.” The short-nosed accountant proffered a meek, soft hand and sat down timidly before the cardinal.
“How are you, young man?”
“Scared. If my firm finds out I have leaked this, I’ll be fired. Worse, I’ll probably be barred from the order of auditors.”
“You are doing what’s best,” said Legnano, trying to be reassuring. “Besides, you’re giving an early version of the facts to your client. There’s nothing wrong with that. What have you there?” he said, pointing to a package in Tondino’s left hand.
Tondino opened the brown envelope and pulled out a document. “It’s Casparelli’s report.”
“Good. What does it say about this anonymous donor?”
“It’s legalese to me, but it says Casparelli and the firm undertake to maintain the secrecy of the donor, except to divulge its name to the financial committee members. They must first sign a secrecy agreement. It also gives a copy of the financial statements of the donor, prepared by, you guessed it, our firm.”
“Who’s the donor, young man,” said Legnano, growing impatient.
“Miranda Group.”
“The French real estate group?”
“Yes, it has assets in the tens of billions of euros.”
“Good. They can keep up their donations, maybe increase them,” said Legnano, feeling relieved.
“But look at the report on shareholders at page six. The main shareholder that controls the group and owns 53% of the stock is a numbered Swiss company, 06584-9 Capital. Also look at page two, the board of directors.”
Legnano’s eyes widened as they went down the page:
Hugues de Ségur, President and CEO
Enrique Gonzales, businessman
Felipe Montoya, businessman
Archbishop Paolo Fiore, Legate, Vatican
Lady Sarah Litman, Marchioness of Dorset
Howard Atkins, Felman group,
Andrea Bellini, Fiat group.
Legnano carefully replaced the report in the envelope and rose. “Young man, you have been of great help. May I keep this?”
“Yes, of course.”
They shook hands, and Tondino left.
* * *
Cardinal Legnano felt partially comforted by the news. Miranda Group enjoyed an international reputation as a major real estate developer, property owner, and urban manager. It managed some of the Vatican’s prime real estate in Rome. But other elements of the report were less reassuring. Why the request for anonymity? Surely the publicity of a five million dollar monthly donation would enhance the reputation of the group. Also, why hadn’t Fiore, as a member of the board of directors, informed him of Miranda during their meeting? Fiore must have known that Legnano would eventually learn the identity of the mysterious donor. Did Volpe also know?
And there was the matter of the Swiss numbered company shareholder. Not uncommon in European business, thought Legnano. But there was something unusual, paradoxical about the composition of the board. Why was the Marchioness of Dorset, acknowledged Pistis Sophia member, involved with a donor to the Catholic Church?
He had to confide in and discuss this with the one person beyond the intrigues and politics of the Vatican, beyond the human frailties and ambitions of his fellow cardinals: the Holy Father.
* * *
“His Holiness will see you now,” announced the papal secretary, as Legnano rose from his chair.
He had requested a private meeting, and the pontiff preferred hosting one-on-one meetings in his private library, a simply decorated room adjacent to the Apartment of Audiences. As Legnano knelt and kissed the papal ring, the pontiff said a short prayer.
“Divine Holy Spirit, guide our thoughts and minds during our exchange today. May our talks be to the benefit of our Church, amen.
“My dear Legnano, what brings you here today?” The pope smiled broadly and invited the cardinal to sit beside him under the painting by Perugino, The Resurrection of Christ.
“Thank you for receiving me, Your Holiness. My visit concerns the financial review committee—”
“That’s Volpe’s responsibility.”
“If you recall, you asked me to review activities of the financial investment committee, headed by Archbishop Fiore.”
“Forgive me, yes. Of course I remember.”
“Frankly, I’m worried about certain donations and the shroud of secrecy around them. The secrecy seems to be encouraged by some of our prelates.”
The Pontiff’s face grew serious. He reclined slightly in his high-backed chair.
“The Miranda Group’s donations are what I’m referring to.”
In an instant, the pontiff’s smile dissolved. He rose, turned away from Legnano, and walked to one of the bookcases lining the library’s walls. He took out an older bible, opened it at random, and started reading. “Do you know that Hugues de Ségur is a Cathar?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Legnano in astonishment.
Cathars were an early Christian sect, which, along with Pistis Sophia, had been persecuted by the Roman Catholic Church. The gathering and burning of 320 faithful at Montségur by 6,000 Roman Catholic troops in 1244 A.D, had marked the darkest hours in the history of the Church, and had brought the Cathars to near extinction. A right wing group of the sect had vowed revenge. For a Cathar to make donations to the Church was unthinkable, inexplicable.
“Your Holiness, then you know about the donations?”
“Yes, I know,” said the pope, his voice breaking slightly.
“Then these donations could be related to the Pistis Sophia letter you received recently? I don’t think I understand.” said Legnano in disbelief, slowly rising from his chair.
The pope, whose back had been facing Legnano, turned towards him, his eyes moist. He looked suddenly frail.
Legnano approached the Holy Father and extended a hand to steady him, but he motioned Legnano to sit down.
“My dear Legnano, what I’m about to tell you must not, cannot leave this room. Is that clear?” said the pontiff, wiping his eyes with a small handkerchief.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“As you are aware, since my predecessor, Pope John XXIII, started it, it has become customary for popes to hear confessions during Holy Week before Easter.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I need not remind you that any penitent’s identity and what he confesses, even to a pope, must remain secret. The penalty for the breach of this obligation is automatic excommunication of the confessor.”
“Yes,” Legnano replied, feeling more and more apprehensive.
“I have received confessions for the assassinations of Archbishops Salvador and Conti.”
“Mio Dio.” Legnano gasped and put a hand to his mouth, then crossed himself.
The Pontiff cleared his throat, “Never, never did I think I would have to bear such a burden. You realize that I cannot continue this conversation.”
“I understand.”
“I ask you not to jump to conclusions.”
“May I inquire if these persons received absolution?”
“No, you may not. This is solely between the penitent and the priest.”
“Your Holiness, I cannot help noticing that you brought up this subject after I mentioned the donations. Are the deaths related to—?”
“Legnano, I’ve spoken enough, maybe even too much. You must see this through. Have you seen this Interpol inspector lately?”
“No, I was hoping not to have to disclose my findings, to avoid scandal.”
“Please, see him about these donations as soon as possible,” said the pontiff,
escorting Legnano to the doorway, his hand suddenly heavy on Legnano’s left shoulder. “We must let the law take its course. My dear Legnano, this is a very difficult time for me. Pray the Lord to give me courage. Let’s ask for his forgiveness.” The pontiff eyed Legnano squarely. “You must promise me, Legnano. This will never leave this room.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
Chapter 51
The car drove down the wide, new road, and Nicola recognized the trappings of the rich Moscow suburb, Rubliovka. It confirmed her mounting fear that these men were mafia, and that she was going to meet her father’s executioner. Her eyes welled with tears. The huge mansions appeared, one after the other, behind high walls of concrete and steel, protecting their mega-rich occupants from intruders. Like me. Ironic, she thought, that in her wildest dreams, she saw herself as a plastic surgeon, beautifying the faces of the wealthy. I could have been making a house call. Now I’m the one who’ll need surgery.
The car stopped in front of a large, wrought iron gate and guardhouse, and the driver spoke to the guard. He opened the gate. As the car drove up the sinuous road, tall maple trees drooped, their heavy, low-lying branches welcoming her. The calm before the storm.
An extravagant, neoclassical pink mansion surged into view. The car stopped between the large granite veranda in front of the entrance and a fountain, over which stood a statue of a man in a business suit, looking authoritatively into the distance, one hand on his breast, Napoleon-like.
Nicola smiled, but the view of the men standing with machine guns on the veranda quickly sobered her mood. Oleyev’s place. The thugs escorted her past the guards and into the entrance. The décor was the epitome of Russian kitsch, a mixture of cheap Greek statues, abstract paintings, and fake, gold-lined Louis XVI furniture. On the ceiling, late Renaissance-style frescoes depicted what must have been members of the owner’s family, in half-naked, cherub-like poses. To add to the garishness, over the center of the hallway hung an immense, multicolored chandelier in frosted Murano glass.
If the owner wants to induce acute artistic indigestion, he’s achieved his goal, thought Nicola.
The thugs guided Nicola into a huge, adjoining salon, where the ridiculous turned to the sublime. To her disbelieving eyes, at the center, stood a man dressed in the rich, red velvet coat and cap of Henry VIII, striking a royal pose. Facing him, with his back to Nicola, a portrait painter was busy immortalizing the imbecility and vanity of his client on a life-sized canvas. At the King’s feet was a footstool, upon which he rested one of his stockinged legs, slightly bent. Around the footstool lay two Slouhgi dogs , both of which immediately got up and barked at Nicola.
“Hello,” said Henry VIII, looking embarrassed as he waved away the portraitist and the dogs. “Please excuse this, I wasn’t expecting you.” He took off his hat.
“Obviously not,” retorted Nicola, desperately trying to control her convulsions.
“I am Victor Oleyev,” his imperious voice momentarily giving credence to the costume “You must be Nicola Vasilieva, yes?”
“Why have you brought me here?”
“Not so fast. There is no rush. How do like my house?”
“It’s different. I’m sure you didn’t get me here to talk about your house.”
