Turn A Blind Eye

by Neil A. White

  Darkness had fallen, and the Seven Hills of Rome cast a faint silhouette against the deepening gloom of the night sky. Ahead, lay Vatican City where the glow of lights from St Peter’s Square illuminated the spiritual home of the Catholic Church. In the back of the sedan lay close to €1.7 million, its purpose to illuminate a cause just as close to Eamonn’s heart.

  Melbourne, Australia

  March 4, 2016

  Finally, the finish line to this never-ending week was in sight. Eric departed at three o’clock, dropping the last of his client notes on my desk before disappearing through the frosted glass doors. ‘Going waltzing with Matilda for the weekend,’ I was informed. Matilda was his 12-metre Sea Ray Sundancer 400; I shuddered to think how much his little “toy” cost. Eric could tell me, of course. The man knew the price of everything, but I doubt he embraced the value of any of it.

  I can’t wait until we start seeing the type of money he’s making.

  Doug leant back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and waited until the retreating figure of Eric disappeared before speaking.

  You notice Mary has begun to make her move?

  Now Doug mentioned it, I hadn’t heard a sound coming from her side of the padded divide in quite a while.

  What do you mean?

  She’s been upstairs with the boss for the past 45 minutes. She’s angling for Meredith’s job. I doubt she’ll get it, but I don’t blame her for dipping her oars in the water. What about you, Craig? Starting to spend the big commission cheques in your head yet?

  Nah! I’m too busy trying to keep up with everything thrown at me by Eric.

  Jesus, you aren’t still doing his “know your customer” shit, are you? We finished days ago with our updates. Stop writing a bloody book on everyone and keep it simple. It’s not like the Feds are ever going to want to see that stuff.

  Doug was probably right. The more I tried to learn, the more I realised I was woefully underprepared for the real world of banking.

  Don’t you think Eric would’ve told me if that’s what he wanted me to do?

  Ha ha! Good one! Eric’s just yankin’ ya chain, mate. He expects you to learn from the rest of us and get efficient and proficient, or get gone. How much crap have you got left?

  Probably another two hours.

  Well, I’m just finishing up training module IV. Toss something in there for the last few clients and let’s get out of here and grab a beer.

  My frustration deepened, I hadn’t even started on the third training module yet.

  You go ahead and take off, I’ve gotten this far, I’m not going to half-arse it now.

  Okay, your loss. Enjoy what’s left of your weekend.

  I knuckled back down into the last few pages of work, but Doug’s words, the enormous amount of wealth held under management by Eric, my career choice, my life, all began to scramble together in front of my eyes creating an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

  And then there was Judy. We hadn’t spoken since she stormed off two days earlier. Baby steps forward towards happiness, turning into a huge stumble backwards. In my darkest moments, I wondered if I was destined to forever keep stubbing a toe on the steps of life. Before drowning in self-pity, I summoned all the energy I could muster and burrowed back into Eric’s notes.

  I’m not sure what drew my attention to the name. It was one of the final one’s listed on the next to last page of notes. The name in itself wasn’t unusual, Angelique Gonsalves, but the note accompanying it piqued my interest:

  No change to current situation.

  I’d seen this same note hundreds of times over the past week, but this one stopped my typing in mid-stream. I toggled over from the notes screen to the accounts screen just on a whim.

  At first glance, everything appeared in order other than the balance – $78,568 – incredibly small to be a regular client of Eric’s. Like clockwork, 80-year-old Angelique’s pension cheque was auto-credited into the account every two weeks. I also noticed from the transaction screen Eric purchased an emerging Tech company’s stock on her behalf three week’s previous.

  I leant back in my chair wondering just what I’d discovered. It wasn’t the fact Eric was handling such a minuscule account which caused my feet to tap nervously on the carpet below my desk. Nor the fact he’d placed an incredibly inappropriate trade for an elderly lady.

  It was because I knew Angelique Gonsalves, a lovely lady of Portuguese descent, as my mother’s first roommate at the Sisters of Mercy.

  And she’d been dead for six weeks.

  During Mother’s admittance to the hospice I’d signed a multitude of forms. After a while, one blended into the other. I remembered signing one form where it explained I was required to re-direct Mother’s pension to the hospice. The meagre amount, combined with any insurance payments, would in no way cover the full cost of her stay, but I was assured the hospice covered all additional costs and I would never see a bill. I thought no more of it.

  On a whim, I typed my mother’s name into the bank’s client search function. The message quickly came back:

  No account found

  But why Mrs Gonsalves and not Mother? I toggled back to the Gonsalves account screen and noted under the account title it listed a power of attorney – Garth O’Neal.

  The realisation hit me like a load of bricks. The hospice traditionally only catered to patients with no next of kin, Mother being the rare exception. Which explained why my mother hadn’t needed an account; I was able to complete the transfer of funds each month to the hospice from her existing bank account. Was Garth O’Neal, as the solicitor on record for the hospice, holding powers of attorney for all of the patient’s accounts? And was he giving Eric permission to trade in those accounts? And why did the poor deceased Mrs Gonsalves still have an open account?

  One part of my brain wanted to believe it was all an honest mistake. An error in the paperwork. A ball dropped somewhere by an assistant more incompetent and clueless than me.

  Then another part of my brain, the part recalling what I’d learnt over the past six weeks in banking, told me not to be such a bloody idiot.

  The remainder of Eric’s notes could wait until Monday, I shoved them into the draw by my side, locked it and shut down my computer. I needed to get away from this place, clear my head, and think this through.

  A million notions danced around my brain while I waited in traffic along Toorak Road. Ahead, the #8 tram disgorged passengers at the Kooyong Road intersection. Was I missing an obvious explanation? Should I approach Eric Monday morning? Go over his head to Mr Stephens? The honking of horns from behind dragged me from my trance, traffic had cleared leaving a clear space ahead. I hit the accelerator and the Beast coughed and spluttered before lurching forward. It seemed nothing in my life was destined to run smoothly.

  Vatican City

  November 19, 2015

  (4 Months Earlier)

  One of the first changes made by the newly elected Pope Francis was to move his formal rooms away from the traditional locale of the Apostolic Palace to a more austere location across Vatican City. Many saw the move as one of the first signs of a more circumspect reign, of a need to get closer to the people. Others, with a more cynical eye, presumed it was to remove himself from the stench emanating from the offices of the Institute for the Works of Religion.

  Established in 1942 by Pope Pius XII, the Institute for the Works of Religion (IOR) – or better known as the Vatican Bank – ostensibly handled the vast financial empire of the Catholic Church. The IOR oversees more than €5 billion in assets for its 15,000 institutional and individual clients.

  Until 2013, the figure was closer to 19,000, then the walls began to crumble, though this was hardly unchartered territory. The IOR emerged from the Second World War with its wealth intact; albeit due to some very shady dealings with the Nazis. Later, in the 1980s, the democracies of the West politely turned away when the IOR, with CIA involvement, helped fund the solidarity movement in Poland and the Con
tra rebels in Nicaragua. However, the worldwide financial crisis of 2008 opened Pandora’s Box and exposed the IOR once again to the world’s harsh glare. Not the least of which was its role in the wholesale laundering of money.

  Money laundering was nothing new for the IOR having, lamentably, not learnt its lesson from 1982 and its murky dealings with Milan’s Banco Ambrosiano. The IOR, the largest shareholder in the Milanese bank, used it as a conduit to funnel funds to various anti-communist causes around the globe. However, this proved to be one of the lesser of Banco Ambrosiano’s misdeeds. During an audit in 1982 over $1.2 billion could not be accounted for. Criminal charges soon followed which included, amongst others, the Milanese bank’s chairman, Roberto Calvi.

  In the ensuing political scandal caused by the bank’s failure, caught short was one extremely influential customer. The exact amount the Sicilian Mafia lost in the fiasco was never fully revealed. The Chairman, Roberto Calvi, may have been able to give an approximate answer; however, using a fake passport he promptly disappeared.

  Rumour has it the Sicilian Mafia was the first to track him down. Calvi was discovered two weeks after his disappearance hanging from the scaffolding under Blackfriars Bridge in London. The cause of death, initially ruled a suicide, later amended to murder.

  In 2010, after €23 million in assets were seized from the IOR by Italian magistrates for continual and systemic violations of money laundering regulations, decades of malfeasance finally caught the Holy See’s attention and brought about a rash of reform measures at the beleaguered institution.

  Father Thomas Moynihan was one of the new breed at the IOR. Brought in under the new leadership, and determined not to fall into the same traps befalling his predecessors. Thomas, educated at Trinity College in Dublin, later followed in the footsteps of his older brother, William, and entered the priesthood. His background in finance dovetailed perfectly with the needs of the IOR, and he’d more than distinguished himself over the past two years.

  Thomas locked his desk drawer, logged off from his computer terminal and pushed away from his desk. He glanced briefly at his Bulova watch, realising he needed to hurry if he wasn’t to be late for his 1:00 appointment. Tall, athletically built, with thick black hair and piercing blue eyes, Thomas was forever drawing furtive glances from the women of Rome. Not immune to the attention, he still wasn’t quite sure if the clerical collar added to or subtracted from the attraction.

  He exited the bank’s offices using the private hallway leading to the elevator installed by Pope John-Paul II to reach his third-floor rooms. From there, it was but a short walk past the Swiss guards manning the gates of the Via di Porta Angelica. The 16th-century gates formed part of the Leonine Wall separating the city state from the streets of Rome. Thomas smiled and saluted the Guards, his briefcase swinging from his left hand as he passed. He continued along the Borgo Pio making his way east, the busy thoroughfare bursting with tourists. Winding his way through the congested Roman streets, he soon reached the expansive Parco Adriano. Thomas continued through the park to his south-east and crossed the 2nd-century Sant’Angelo Bridge over the Tiber. He reached his destination, the Piazza Lancelotti, a few minutes later.

  Thomas pressed the second intercom button from the top and was, within seconds, buzzed into the cramped foyer. As he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, he heard a door open, and a familiar voice beckon him.

  Hurry up, boyo. I don’t have all bloody day.

  Father Thomas Moynihan smiled, entered the small flat they’d established as a safe meeting place and shook the hand of his countryman and client.

  Eamonn Mahoney, glad to see you again, ya old bastard.

  The flat was sparsely furnished, the walls bare. Motes of dust illuminated by a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window danced in the musty air. No tenant resided here. More business office than bedsit. Eamonn wondered how many other benefactors of the Holy See were met by the elderly landlady downstairs, then slowly followed her stooped frame up the stairs to wait patiently for the priest?

  Father, really, is that any way for a priest such as yourself to be speaking?

  Thomas laughed as he patted Eamonn on the shoulder.

  It is when it’s you involved. I hear you’ve been busy doing a wee bit of God’s work again.

  He glanced at the three backpacks lying on the kitchen table.

  It’s true. Not a lot, I’m afraid, but should be good for a miracle or two.

  So how is my brother, William, back in frigid old Dublin? I understand his parish is doing particularly well these days.

  Eamonn nodded and smiled.

  He is. He is. You know we take care of our people, and it was he putting me in touch with you that has made it all possible.

  You’re a smart man, Eamonn, and you know not to get greedy. Moving the money in as you do makes it a simple task for me.

  Well, I must say, I did learn from your predecessor’s mistakes. Stupid bloody Scarano, what the hell was he thinking?

  The man Eamonn referred to being Monsignor Nunzio Scarano. The infamous Monsignor arrested, along with two accomplices, in 2013 for attempting to smuggle €20 million across the Swiss border into Italy by private plane. Eamonn’s efforts over the past 14 months had grossed only a touch over €10 million but at far less risk.

  You’re right Eamonn, but it is a thankless job with which we are tasked. The good works the Church does all over the world, if they are to continue, needs a steady cash flow.

  Well, I’m glad our organization can do its part to help.

  Aye. You, and let’s say, a few others, make a huge difference.

  To put it mildly, Eamonn thought, he knew back in 2013 at the height of the purge going on within the Vatican Bank annual net profits fell to less than €3 million. Just a year later, the IOR reported a profit of over €69 million. Although he was a firm believer in the limitless power of the heavenly Father above, Eamonn found it hard to believe divine intervention accounted for that degree of success in their securities trading department.

  Well, I must be getting along. I have a flight to catch.

  When will I see you again?

  Sometime in the new year. I’ll let the dust settle for a while, take a wee break for the holidays, then start planning the next operation.

  Say hello to William, will you? Safe travels my friend. Your associates will see the deposit in their account within the next few days.

  The two men shook hands at the door before Eamonn descended the stairs. Father Thomas Moynihan watched the back of his countryman drop out of sight before ducking back inside. He carefully wiped his prints from each surface he’d touched, then loaded the contents of one backpack into his empty briefcase and carried the other two, as well as the now empty one, in his other hand.

  Thomas locked the flat then climbed the stairs to the top floor. Drawing another key, he unlocked the door and placed the backpacks in his bedroom closet. Eamonn, among others, had no need to know the priest lived in this same building. Just another added layer of security.

  Fifteen minutes later, he walked back through the Porta Angelica, the briefcase in his left hand swinging back and forth with the motion of his arm. He waved to the Swiss Guards on duty. To them, just another priest coming back to work after a late lunch. The only danger for Father Thomas was on the off-chance of being searched by an overzealous Swiss Guard; however, a briefcase drew scant attention. And the guards were there to protect, not hassle, their paymasters.

  Over the course of the next two days, he’d spirit the remaining cash into Vatican City in the same manner. Once safely within the ancient walls, the church being such a cash intensive business, the rest was child’s play: Firstly, he’d quietly deposit the money into the vault of the IOR. Then, as part of his job duties, both falsify and file the necessary paperwork to fulfil bank regulations. Lastly, came the disbursement of funds. Twenty per cent remained with the Church for use in the funding of worthy causes worldwide; the other 80% wired to a
numbered account at a private bank in the Channel Islands. An account to which only one person within Sinn Fein had access.

  Father Thomas Moynihan neither knew nor cared who that person was.

  Part 2

  ***

  Melbourne, Australia

  Friday, March 11

  Judy texted me while I was driving to work letting me know she had what I wanted. I suggested we meet for lunch, and she reluctantly agreed. We’d not spoken for a couple of days, not since the phone call.

  I’d genuinely called with good intentions and hoped she would see it my way and selflessly want to help. I knew what I asked placed her job in jeopardy, but I was desperate for answers. And my desperation led to a clumsy attempt at gaining her assistance. What I viewed as putting her in no worse position at the hospice than she’d already placed herself, Judy read as a veiled allusion to blackmail. I’m sure I’d learn soon enough just how much harm I’d done to our relationship, assuming it wasn’t already beyond repair.

  Over salad sandwiches and mineral water, I asked about her day, about the plans she’d made with friends for the upcoming Labour Day weekend, anything but the envelope she’d discreetly placed on the seat next to her.

  It’s all in there.

  Judy dropped the envelope on the table. We’d finished our lunch, and were preparing to leave. I’d run out of topics for our one-sided conversations and Judy had tired of staring at the sandwich posters on the wall.