A Vial Upon the Sun
Page 9
“When?”
“Immediately.”
Las Casas chuckled wryly and turned his attention back to the account statements. After a few moments, he looked up, removed his glasses, and polished them with a handkerchief. “Gold bullion, German marks, British pounds sterling, American dollars, yen… this portfolio is unbelievable.” Las Casas nodded down toward the list of destination banks sitting on the table. “Most of this makes sense to me—Switzerland, London, Royal Bank of Canada—but why Japan?”
“You could call it a hedge against the turmoil in Europe. They have assisted in the war against Germany and being on the winning side will open up economic opportunities throughout the West. I believe they will become a major force in the world, which suits my purposes.”
“Okay. But why not America? They’re helping the war effort as well. Personally, I see them as a major growth opportunity.”
Cisneros gave a dismissive wave. “Their government has proven in the last decade that they are inclined to freeze the assets of any entity they consider undesirable.”
“Does this account—” Las Casas gestured toward the documents— “belong to the Catholic Church? I can’t see the United States deciding to freeze—”
“It is far more complicated than that,” Cisneros said, his voice rising slightly with impatience. “I will tell you more as we go forward. For now, I need you to follow my instructions exactly.”
“All right, all right,” Las Casas said. “I accept your commission.”
Cisneros sank back in his chair. “Excellent. In addition to the amounts you have already received, here is your retainer for the services you will provide. The documents in your hand will give you all of the details you need for the transfers.” Cisneros slid an envelope across the table. Las Casas peeked inside and his eyes widened at the quantity of currency he saw. “We shall meet here every Wednesday night at 11 so that you can update me.”
*
Several months later, Las Casas sat down for their weekly appointment with a smirk of self-satisfaction. “It took longer than I expected, but everything is completed. Here are the bills of exchange, letters of credit, and transport receipts. The bullion going overseas departed the port of Barcelona this morning, and the rest is going by rail. These are your marine bills of lading, insurance certificates, and certificates of purity. I engaged security guards who will accompany the cargo all the way to its destinations—they have been well compensated.”
Cisneros spent two full hours meticulously reviewing every document. At last he pushed his chair back, straightened the thick sheath of papers, and placed them carefully into a leather briefcase.
“You have not spoken to anyone about me or about the nature of these transactions, correct?”
“You made that clear from the beginning. I have handled everything personally, without involving any of my associates.”
“You have done well, Accountant Las Casas. You have been honest and efficient in carrying out God’s work. He will approve of your service to Him when you appear before Him for judgment.”
“If I have earned your trust and confidence,” Las Casas said, “then, as you promised, please tell me what this account is about. To what purpose will it be employed?”
“Trust, yes. But neither God nor I can forgive your tainted blood.”
Las Casas stared back in confusion.
“This I do for one, ten, a hundred or a thousand years,” Cisneros said, “whatever is required to bring on the Millennium.” He withdrew a small silenced pistol from his black coat and shot Las Casas through the heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Their lungs were burning from a lack of air as Lenin and Gina surfaced through the shattered planks and chunks of wallboard floating in the pool.
“Air and then back down,” Lenin said.
Gina gulped air and ducked back underwater. She saw Lenin swim to a side of the pool away from the house. He reached up and came back down with a rubber tube. A snorkel, she realized. Lenin swam back to Gina and handed her the snorkel. She bobbed up near the surface and breathed deeply, then passed the tube to him. They traded it back and forth for what seemed to be a very long time.
Finally, Lenin passed the snorkel to Gina and eased himself toward the surface, clearing a small opening through the debris. He slowly broke through the surface of the water and turned a full circle before waving her over.
“We’ve got to get out of here fast,” Lenin said, pulling himself out of the pool.
“But the police—”
“We want whomever did this to think that we’re dead. I think it’s safe to say that your trip to rural France was more fruitful than you could have imagined. Let’s go.”
They heard the wail of a police siren as they hoisted themselves out of the pool. Gina was barefoot, and hesitated when she looked at the field of burning wood, nails, and broken glass all around her. Lenin, reading the situation, swept her up in his arms and quickly carried her through the wreckage. He made his way behind a neighboring house where they were shielded from view and the ground was no longer piled with debris. As the bawling of fire engine sirens grew louder, Lenin knelt, lifted a brick in the small flowerbed, and picked up a key, which he used to unlock the back door.
Lenin shrugged. “Snowbirds. Friends of mine. I water their plants while they are away.”
They made their way to the garage, where Lenin looked through a now-vacant window frame. The glass that had been blown inward by the concussion from the blast crunched underneath Lenin’s shoes. Gina gingerly poked around the garage. She was pleased to find a pair of men’s work boots. They were oversized for her, but she was able to lace them tightly onto her feet.
Lenin turned from the window and threw back a tarp to reveal a lime-green Kawasaki motorcycle. “We’ve got to get going while they’re still focused on the fire,” he said. “Do you know how to drive one of these things?”
Gina smirked and went to the bike. She took the handle bar grips in her hands, and threw her leg over. She worked the choke, turned the key, and kicked the starter pedal. The engine caught immediately, sounding a throaty purr.
Lenin tentatively took his place behind her. He leaned forward, and she heard the nervousness in his voice as he said, “Little Havana.”
Gina nodded, put the motorcycle in gear, and released the clutch. She eased the bike through the garage’s side door and around to the front of the house. Then she slowly motored along the sidewalk for a block before driving into the street. Lenin wrapped his arms tightly around her waist as she began to accelerate away from the neighborhood.
Once they were on the interstate, Gina drove south toward central Miami. She crossed the river and took an exit leading to Little Havana, then pulled to the curb of a side street. She looked back to see her former professor smiling despite himself.
“I’m sure glad you know how to operate this… vehicle,” Lenin said. “It’s quite exhilarating, really! My suit is nearly dry!”
Gina laughed. In his windblown and grungy suit, it was the most disheveled she had ever seen him.
“Where to now?” she asked.
“Ah, yes. Go right, eight blocks up, and look for a pool hall called ‘Ruben Dario’s.’”
Gina gunned the high, whiny engine and spun the rear tire. The bike lurched forward as Lenin clutched her waist.
*
Lenin and Gina waited on a bench inside Ruben Dario’s main room, watching as a small group smoked and shot pool while giving the odd, bedraggled pair curious glances from time to time. Finally, a short, skinny man approached and motioned for them to follow. They went out the back door of the pool hall and down an alley. At the far end was a mobile construction office up on jacks. The guide opened the door and they climbed the two steps and entered.
Gallego stood up from a chair behind a card table, and Lenin and the Cuban embraced.
“Please meet Gina Ishikawa,” Lenin said.
Gallego’s face lit up. He gripped Gina’s sooty hand a
nd shook it warmly. “The daughter of the president, here in my humble office! And more beautiful in person than in any of the pictures I have seen. I am honored.”
Gina snorted with laughter at the gushing compliment, given her current appearance. The Cuban feigned a wounded expression, but the spark didn’t fade from his eyes. “You do not believe my sincerity? I know that you have been through a great deal today. Perhaps this will help a little bit.”
Gallego lifted a cardboard box off his cluttered desk and handed it to Gina. She opened it to see neatly arranged khaki slacks, an emerald green polo shirt, two large towels, and shoes. There was a hairbrush, bath soap, and shampoo. Tucked beneath the towels Gina spied a La Perla bag. Eyebrows raised, she opened it and found a lacy bra and panties in shimmering blue.
Gina looked at Gallego reproachfully, and he smiled broadly. “Please allow one indulgence for a fat old man. Going there for shopping is the only sexy thing I can do anymore.”
Gina slipped into the trailer’s tiny bathroom and was reminded of the cramped shower on board Martín’s sailboat. By now, he likely believed that she was dead. Somberly, she turned on the shower and scrubbed off the multiple coats of grime that caked her body.
When Gina emerged from the bathroom Lenin and Gallego were huddled together, talking quietly. Gallego looked up at her and smiled. “Señorita Ishikawa, you look wonderful! But I must apologize. Those clothes I gave you are not fit for a president’s daughter, I am afraid.”
“This hasn’t been a day fit for a president’s daughter,” she said. “But thank you, Señor Gallego. The shower and clean clothes make me feel like royalty.”
Gallego beamed at her graciousness, but noted her formality. “Please, let’s use tu,” he said, insisting on the familiar pronoun. “Today you are an honorary Cuban. You are family.” He turned to Lenin. “And when you see Martín, I want you to give him a swift kick in the ass. Actually, make it two. I can’t believe he let this one slip away.” Lenin nodded in return with a wan smile and Gallego’s attention turned back to Gina. “As I was saying to Teodoro,” Gallego began, lighting a cigar, “there are logistical matters we have to discuss. You will need anonymity where you are going if you want to let others think you are dead.”
“Yes, that’s critical,” Lenin said.
“I’ve arranged a flight with Brothers to the Rescue later tonight from an airfield near Orlando. They can get you into Venezuela undetected. From there you will go to this address on the beach near Maiquetía.” He handed Lenin a typewritten note. “It’s a condo that belongs to a friend of mine. You can stay there as long as you need to—no one will ask questions. There is a car there, and its keys are in a drawer in the kitchen.”
Gallego handed Lenin a thick envelope from a briefcase on the floor. “That should be enough cash to get you to San Juan Diego. There I assume that you will be able to resume your real identities but remain outside of the public eye until you can be seen alive again.”
Lenin looked inside the envelope and silently tallied the bills inside. “This looks like around ten thousand dollars. I can repay you before we leave.”
Gallego dismissively waved his hand. “Authorities—and who knows who else—will know if you try to access your money now. This is my gift to the two of you. And you will find more cash in the condo. Use it.” He stood and took Gina’s hands, kissing her on each cheek. “My best to your father.”
Gina’s eyes widened. “He knows you?”
“He is in a difficult place at a difficult time. I wish him the best. Go with God.”
Gina and Lenin left the construction trailer, then walked back through the pool hall and out onto the street.
“Ready for the drive?” Gina said. “I could get us there in about three hours, except that I suppose it’s not safe to speed.”
“I’m done riding motorcycles,” Lenin said. “Gallego arranged for something more suitable while you were in the shower. But we have an errand to attend to before the airport.”
A Ford Taurus stopped at the curb in front of them. The driver got out, leaving the engine running, and walked across the street without looking back. The professor and his former student climbed into the car and headed for the turnpike.
*
Martín sat on the bed in his hotel room in Maiquetía, Venezuela, and stared at the wall. There would be time for mourning, but for now he needed to think clearly.
At 4 p.m. he took the elevator down to the lobby. He went to the desk and asked for the night clerk. A young man came out, and Martín asked him for directions to Ranchito Fierabrás. The clerk nodded, saying Martín should go back to his room and await a call.
At 4:15 the phone rang and an electronically distorted voice told Martín to go jogging from the hotel at 5:15 the next morning. The voice dictated the route that he should follow, which Martín scrawled down on hotel stationary. He hung up and restlessly passed the hours playing solitaire on his laptop. Sleep was not an option.
*
The Church of All Saints in Orlando was a splinter organization that had broken off from the Mormon Church 22 years earlier. The church had prospered in Central Florida and its membership grew rapidly. It maintained their Mormon-based belief that when anyone joined their congregation, his or her ancestors were also sealed within the church for eternity, and upon death members would join their deceased relatives. When separating from the Mormon Church, their IT department copied the Mormons’ extensive electronic genealogical files onto portable media. Put another way, they ripped off the data.
Lenin’s friend Efraín Bertrán, a member of the Church of All Saints after converting from Catholicism, warmly greeted Gina and his former professor upon their arrival. The trio stood in a section of the main church’s complex that was open to the public for genealogical research. Around them towered shelves of books, most of which looked fresh und unworn.
“So, Teodoro, what do you think of my humble operation?” Efraín asked.
“I still think you made a big mistake forsaking history for computer science.”
Efraín laughed. “Well, that was the first important conversion in my life. This is the second!” He gently elbowed Lenin in the ribs. “When am I going to get you converted, you old lapsed Catholic?”
“The day I hear Gabriel’s horn blowing, I suppose.”
Efraín smiled. “So how can I help the two of you today?”
“How many people do you track here?” Gina asked.
“We have more than 150 million families in our database. We can go back as far as the 15th century. Of course, many of the names have changed by emigration, misspellings, changed spellings, and changed names. Then there are common surnames that trace back to many different origins. A blacksmith who was known by his trade in a small village in Germany might have completely different ancestors than the blacksmith from a small village in Denmark, for example, but both their surnames were dubbed ‘Smith’ in English when they came to this country. We have to do intensive research to make these distinctions.”
Efraín led them to his office, which was spacious and well-lit with a view of the church grounds. The sun was setting and a golden hue sparkled across the underside of the scattered clouds. Efraín pulled up chairs so that Lenin and Gina could see the screen clearly.
“I already have your trace on file, Teodoro, in case I can finally convince you to join,” Efraín said.
Lenin smiled. “Not what interests me today, thank you very much.” He pulled out papers that he and Gina had recreated from memory in the car and laid one of them in front of Efraín. The Argentine’s eyebrows rose.
“Do you expect this man to convert anytime soon?” Efraín asked.
“It’s probably best if you don’t ask too many questions,” Lenin said. “And please remember—Gina and I were never here, and you certainly weren’t doing any research on His Holiness.”
“Only God, and those in this room, shall know of this visit and inquiry,” Efraín said as he started typing.
&n
bsp; *
The sackcloth robes of the men in the room contrasted sharply with the modern equipment around them. Rows of consoles shimmered with glowing displays while the monks seated at each of them spoke softly into microphones on their headsets. The holy men frequently referred to manuals as they adjusted data flows rushing in from the antenna array outside of Burgos to the Cray supercomputer housed in the room behind them.
The monks were running calibrations and tests on data arriving from new systems installed in churches and cathedrals throughout Latin America. As data-gathering equipment in the ecclesiastic installations came on line, sample runs were collected from the audio and video being transmitted from confessionals, as well as from the smartphones of churchgoers who had been encouraged by their priests to download the new official app of the Roman Catholic Church to their phones. This app, written by a small team of coders hired by Moto Electric, sunk its virtual tendrils into their electronic devices, siphoning their personal data and granting live access to their phone’s camera and audio. The Cray computer in Burgos operated at a fraction of its capacity as it took the audio and video files, scanned them, sorted them according to keywords and images, and printed them for review by Inquisition authorities.
Selected priests in Latin America were being trained to utilize more probing lines of questioning within their confessionals in order to solicit verbal admissions of misconduct and wrongful thoughts. These priests, ignorant of the Inquisition’s new surveillance methods, were told that it was for a new initiative by the pope to do a more thorough job of understanding people’s sins so that the priests could better assist in the process of cleansing their souls. Confessionals were equipped with state-of-the-art audio and video equipment transmitting the facial expressions, body language, and intonations of people confessing. Crucifixes distributed to parishioners to hold while they confessed were embedded with micro-transmitters that recorded body temperatures, heart rates, perspiration quantities, and salinity while also taking fingerprints. Lie detection and voice stress analysis subroutines scanned all incoming voice data to establish files of truths and lies confessed by the faithful. Cameras embedded within crucifixes hanging in people’s homes recorded sex acts and other misdeeds.