Strange Gods

by Peter J. Daly

  “No, no,” said Salazar, almost hysterical, “you must send the armored car. My door is on the Via Rusticucci. It is a very narrow street. The armored car will block the whole street. No other car will be able to get by. You know these people. You know the Camorra would not hesitate to shoot a police car.” Salazar could hardly believe that he had actually spoken the name of the mob into the phone, but it was worth the risk. The inspector agreed to send the car.

  “Va bene, subito arriviamo,” said the inspector. “I’ll send the armored car and a police car right away. Don’t worry, Your Eminence. We will take care of you.”

  The inspector was covering himself. Rome was talking about the killings of two high-ranking Vatican officials. He did not wish to have a third dead body on his hands today. He certainly did not want to be responsible for the death of another cardinal.

  “Eminence, we’ll be at your door in two minutes. Be in lay dress,” ordered the inspector.

  Two minutes later the armored van, with police cruisers in front and behind, roared up to the entrance of Salazar’s apartment building. They blocked the short, narrow street. Policemen jumped out, dressed in armored vests, with semiautomatic Uzis in hand. It looked like a hostage situation or the protection of a foreign diplomat.

  The apartment house door opened, and a frightened little old man emerged, dressed in black slacks and a blue shirt. Flanked by two armed police officers, Salazar literally ran from the door of his apartment house to the waiting van. The rear door of the armored vehicle slammed shut. For the moment he was safe. The van immediately took off, trailing a cloud of diesel fumes.

  Salazar rode in silence, and then he asked, “Where are we going?”

  “The Palazzo de Giustizia,” said the policeman. The Palace of Justice houses the supreme court of Italy. In its basement, in addition to a labyrinth of prison cells, there are accommodations for the protection of high-profile witnesses, politicians, and judges during trials.

  The van turned onto the Lungo Tevere, the road that runs along the Tiber River. The Palace of Justice is an elaborate Beaux-Arts building. A huge statue of Winged Justice, riding in a Roman chariot pulled by four galloping bronze horses, graces its roof.

  The police van bounced down the ramp of the subterranean entrance at the rear of the Palazzo de Giustizia, and up to a loading dock, where two Carabinieri were taking a smoking break.

  Salazar was glad to see the Carabinieri, who by reputation are much less likely to be on the payroll of the mob than the local police. He allowed himself to hope that he would be safe there.

  Salazar stepped down from the vehicle. The police escorted him into the building and down the hall to a barren, windowless room—empty but for a square table between two chairs. There was a water cooler with paper cups in the corner. Salazar helped himself to a drink of water and sat down. Thirty minutes later his friend, the police inspector, arrived with a detective from the Carabinieri.

  They had hardly entered the room when Salazar began to wail. “My life is in danger!”

  “Calma ti, calma ti. We agree,” said the inspector.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” screamed Salazar. “My life is in danger!”

  “We know,” said the inspector, putting his hand on Salazar’s shoulder and directing him back into a chair. Salazar sat, but was not calm. He said to the inspector, “There is an American in Rome investigating the deaths of cardinals around the world. I forget his name. Call him. I need to talk to him.”

  “I know who he means,” said the inspector. “He has been in our office at the Questura looking at files. We will find him.” The police left the room. An hour later the door opened suddenly. Salazar flinched. He did not know what to expect. It could have been the Camorra.

  * * *

  Nate walked in with a briefcase and a digital recorder. He popped open the briefcase, put the recorder on the table, and turned it on.

  “OK, Your Eminence,” said Nate. “I have a few questions for you.” Nate was all business. Cardinals are accustomed to deference. They like to set the agenda. They are not accustomed to being interrogated, especially by laypeople.

  “I’m not here for questioning,” objected Salazar. “I came here for protection.” He spoke in English. He obviously did not need a translator. After all, he had been a diplomat.

  “You don’t tell us what you came here for,” said Nate, “and you certainly don’t set the agenda here. This is a police investigation, not a social call. You cooperate, or you will not get protection.” Nate was clearly in charge of this encounter.

  Salazar glared back.

  “May I have some water?” asked Salazar.

  “In a minute,” said Nate. “First, answer some questions.

  “We know that you and your buddy Crepi were laundering money for the drug cartels. We also know that you brought narco dollars to Rome from Latin America and ran them through the IOR,” said Nate, using the initials for the Vatican Bank.

  “If you know so much, you don’t need me,” said Salazar sarcastically.

  “Mind your manners,” snapped Nate. “Maybe we don’t need you, but you need us. We could just as well put you back out on the street. If you prefer, we could call the Camorra and let them know you are strolling down the Lungo Tevere. Or you could just answer the questions.”

  Salazar fell silent.

  “Tell me,” said Nate, “about your connection to the Camorra. Why were you naming papabile in Panoramio magazine?”

  “That was Crepi’s idea,” said Salazar. It was clear he was going to blame everything on his dead friend. “At first we just wanted to protect the bank. The Camorra was doing a lot of business with us and the bank.

  “But then, we started to get worried about Manning in New York and some of the others. Manning was the biggest threat. He was on the board of the bank, and he had many contacts among American bankers. He talked about bringing them over to supervise our operations. Manning could have ruined everything.

  “But then Luciano had the idea that we could also solve some of our other problems in the Church, ones that had nothing to do with the bank or the Camorra.”

  “So, you marked cardinals to be killed?” asked Nate.

  “No,” protested the cardinal. “We never intended for people to be killed. We thought we were just telling the Camorra who they had to worry about. Killing was their idea. Things just got out of our control.

  “Luciano said many times that we were riding the tiger, and that we should be careful or we’d end up inside the tiger. But we did not want people to be killed. We just wanted them silenced. We thought the Camorra would just frighten them into silence and make them cooperate.”

  “But you were playing with Don Franco and the Di Lauro clan. You knew they were violent. What did you expect?” asked Nate.

  “I don’t know,” answered Salazar, sweating. “Can I have some water now?” Nate waved his finger in a gesture of refusal. No.

  “What cardinals did you name for the magazine?” asked Nate. “Did you give them other names besides Manning’s?”

  “Well, let me see,” said Salazar evasively. He was not sure what Nate knew. He did not want to reveal too much.

  “We were worried about Cardinal Alfonse Lohrman of Santiago. He had a lot of contacts with Chilean bankers. He was very critical of the bank.”

  “Nobody else?” asked Nate.

  “Well, we talked about the cardinal from Milan, Antonio deCapo. He also had many friends, and he knew everything about Italy. Luciano was always suspicious of him. We gave his name to Panoramio.”

  “What about the cardinal from Manila?” asked Nate.

  “Who?” said Salazar. “You mean Mody.” Salazar was clearly on a first-name basis with most of the other cardinals.

  “I don’t know anything about his death. I heard that was just a traffic accident. It was just traffic in Manila. That’s what we heard.”

  “Did you mention Cardinal Garcia from Guadalajara?” asked Nate.

&
nbsp; “Ignacio? No. Certainly not! Ignacio was a good friend. And certainly no threat to Crepi or me. We all went to the Academia together. We all became diplomats the same year. And he had nothing to do with the bank.

  “We heard many stories about what happened to Ignacio. Some people said it was just the drug cartels, but I never heard that from any of my friends in the Zetas. There were other stories—maybe someone in the Church. I don’t know.”

  “Tell me what you know about the murder of Cardinal Manning,” said Nate.

  “Manning was a friend. I liked him very much. I never wanted him killed. That was puro Luciano.”

  Salazar’s friend was not even dead twenty-four hours, and he was already dumping him in the Tiber.

  “Luciano had problems with Manning. He said Manning was the biggest threat to the bank. If he came to Rome with his banker friends, they would see immediately what was happening. Then everything would collapse, and Crepi and me with it.”

  “So, you had him killed?”

  “No, no,” screamed Salazar. “We had no one killed. We just identified friends and enemies for our friends in the Mafia. We just named the reformers and the papabile. The ones who wanted to change everything.”

  Salazar was talking with his hands. “The Camorra made decisions on their own. I knew nothing.”

  “Did you communicate the names through Monsignor Ackerman?” asked Nate.

  “Yes, yes. The names of the reformers. We gave them to Ackerman to pass along through journalists or through that bartender friend of his. It was the Camorra who made all the decisions, not us. Luciano and I couldn’t run things, much less that pathetic faggot Ackerman.” Salazar was derisive. “Ackerman was a fool. He worked for drinks and a few euros.”

  Nate was increasingly disgusted by Salazar. “It seems like Monsignor Ackerman served you well. Yet you show him very little respect for it.”

  Salazar shrugged.

  “So, who else was involved with all this?” asked Nate.

  “Hundreds of people,” said Salazar. “Donato opened bank accounts. He received the cash deposits, no questions asked.”

  “How did you get the money into Italy?” asked Nate.

  “We used diplomatic pouches from Latin America and around Europe to bring in cash. Every week at least, sometimes every day. There is a pouch from the larger nunciatures. No one can stop a diplomatic pouch at customs.”

  “Wait,” said Nate. “What do you mean diplomatic pouch?”

  “Couriers from the nunciatures carry them, but they have no idea what is inside. Couriers have immunity. Anything can be put in there. Since our letters were coming from cardinals, no one asked any questions. Mostly the pouch carries letters and documents. Sometimes it carries checks for the bank, money that is being routed to missions. But sometimes we could have an envelope full of cash. It could be only ten thousand or twenty thousand dollars, not huge amounts. But if you do that every day, from Colombia or Mexico, it mounts up.”

  Salazar was almost relishing the details of his operations with Crepi. It was as if he were actually proud of their complex scheme. They were the untouchables.

  “Luciano’s office was in charge of the Vatican mail. The secretary of state was involved in the diplomatic pouches, but we could control everything with the right people here in Rome. It was flawless,” he said with pride, “unless, of course, Interpol or the Federal Reserve asked too many questions.”

  Nate flinched at the mention of the Federal Reserve. He thought of Brigid. She could have stumbled on to this scheme.

  Salazar paused. “May I have some water now?” he asked.

  Nate signaled to the Italian policeman, who brought a cup of water. Salazar took a long sip.

  “So, tell me who else was involved, besides the diplomatic corps,” said Nate.

  “Dozens of people were involved,” said Salazar. “Employees at the IOR handled deposits. They made loans and advanced expenses for all sorts of charitable and religious projects. It was not too hard to convert the narco dollars to legitimate currency. Once the money is legitimate, you can use it anywhere in the world.

  “Many people benefited, so many people knew,” said Salazar. “Occasionally, we had to reward some people in the bank who suspected what we were doing. That is nothing unusual here in Italy. We call it la mancha.”

  “How did you get involved with the Camorra? When did it start and why?” Nate was thinking about Signora Luppino in the Vele in Scampia.

  “You and Crepi didn’t just wake up one day and decide you were going into business with the mob. The Mafia must have had some power over you.”

  Salazar thought for a moment. A lifetime of silence and hiding is not easily thrown away. “Yes,” said Salazar. “They had some power over us.”

  “Just tell me the whole story,” said Nate.

  The cardinal hesitated. Nate pulled the other chair up to the table and sat down, his face just inches from Salazar’s. “Tell me the truth now, or I’ll call Don Franco at the Camorra, tell him where you are, and let him know that you have been very helpful to us.”

  “So,” said Salazar, seeing that he was at an impasse, “Luciano and I graduated from the Academia about forty years ago. Forty-two, to be exact. We had just finished our exams. It is a hard program of study. We were very tired, but we were happy to be finished. We got our first assignments. I was assigned to Kenya. Luciano was going to Mexico, both as assistants to the nuncios. We decided to go to Sicily for a few days of vacation before our assignments began. We had two weeks. We spent one night in Naples, before we took the traghetto to Palermo. We were in a good mood. We had dinner on the Lido in Naples, where all the fish restaurants are. We had wine with dinner. We were, as you say, tipsy. The boy waiting on us was very handsome and so polite. He kept saying ‘Grazie Monsignore!’ and ‘Si Monsignore.’ He was young, but he knew how to flatter, like all of the Napolitani. They use flattery to get money out of you, but we loved it. We were young, drunk, and excited about our first diplomatic post.”

  “All right, I get the picture,” said Nate, almost shouting. “What happened next?”

  “Well, that boy,” said Salazar. “He was so beautiful and young. All night he kept flattering us. I thought he was flirting with us. He really was flirting with us!”

  Nate flinched, thinking of the old lady’s description of her innocent boy, and said, “Just cut the shit, you asshole, and get on with the story.”

  For the first time in the interview Salazar looked surprised and scared.

  “I told Luciano, ‘We should bring this boy with us to Sicilia.’ But he said, ‘No, Julio. He is too young, even for you.’ Luciano knew my weakness.” Salazar lowered his eyes. “I still remember his name, Luca. We called his mama over and asked, ‘Why don’t you let Luca come to Sicilia with us? We can show him the island. It will be a wonderful time.’

  “She hesitated. ‘He is only seventeen,’ she said. But the captain of the ferryboat was sitting close by in the restaurant. He heard us talking and said to her, ‘Signora, why not let the boy go with these two monsignori? What a wonderful opportunity for the boy.’ I think Luca knew him. His mama said to us, ‘These people, they run everything here, the restaurants, everything.’ So, we said, ‘We will take good care of him.’ Luca was happy to come with us. It was fine at first. We had beautiful first-class cabins. We were all drinking on the traghetto, even the boy. Luciano passed out on his bed. Luca and I kept on drinking. One thing led to another. You know.”

  Salazar waved his hand in little circles as if gesturing toward something that was obvious.

  Nate said, “No, I don’t know.” He was not going to make this easy for Salazar. He had absolutely no sympathy for pedophiles, none.

  “What happened then?” Nate demanded.

  “Nothing more,” said Salazar. “That was it. Then Luca got up and went out. He fell overboard later. I didn’t see him. I was in the cabin.”

  “You told the police that you saw the boy fall overboard,” sa
id Nate.

  Salazar suddenly realized that Nate already knew something about that night.

  Nate pounded his fist on the table so hard the digital recorder in front of them bounced two inches. He yelled, “I want the goddamned truth!”

  Nate opened his briefcase that was sitting beside his chair. He threw the photo of Luca that Mrs. Luppino had given him on the table. Salazar flinched.

  “Did you have sex with the boy?” Nate yelled, breathing into Salazar’s face, his saliva spraying onto the cardinal’s cheeks.

  “I got a little rough with him. It was a game.”

  Nate was disgusted. “A game!” he screamed.

  Salazar continued, “Suddenly he just stopped breathing. He stopped moving. I thought he had passed out. I don’t know what happened. Then he vomited. It was like a seizure. I didn’t know what to do. Like I said, then he stopped breathing. I tried to wake him up. I panicked. I woke Luciano. The boy was dead.”

  At this point Nate couldn’t even look at Salazar. His back was turned to him. “You told the police that he fell overboard.”

  “That was Luciano. He said, ‘We can’t tell. We can never tell. We’ll be thrown out of the diplomatic corps and the priesthood. We will go to jail. The boy is underage.’ Lucio said we should go to the captain. The Camorra ran the traghetti. We thought they could fix everything. The captain came. We told him the story. The boy was already dead.”

  “So, you threw him overboard?” Nate asked with disgust.

  “The captain left for a while,” continued Salazar. “Then he came back with two men from his crew. He said he could make it look like an accident. One of the men had a camera. He kept taking pictures. The Camorra had pictures of everything. They could release them at any time. They even got a picture of us in the room. The captain said he would take care of things, but that maybe we could do him or his friends a favor one day.”

  Salazar wiped his brow and looked at Nate, who motioned for him to continue.

  “We asked him why they were taking pictures. The captain said for insurance purposes. Then they put the boy’s clothing on and carried him out. We followed them up onto the deck. Then they threw the boy’s body overboard. We saw it. I think we were the only witnesses. The captain sounded the general alarm, and the ship stopped.