Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits

by Tavakoli, Janet M.

  Helena looked skeptical, but kept silent and walked back toward the house. If she’d seen through his explanation—and she likely had, as he’d held no conversation with the stranger on the phone—she’d chosen not to make an issue of it. At least, not yet. Michael called his office and requested two of the Specialists’ best men to watch the grounds outside the villa. The arrangements made, he began a closer check of the property.

  A statue of an ancient Roman noblewoman, occupying a sheltered niche, seemed to eye Michael as he walked along. It was a statue of Julia, the daughter of Caesar Augustus, sculpted during her lifetime almost two thousand years ago. He passed manicured bushes that lined the garden pathways, scarcely noticing the winding rose trellises and flowerbeds with bright mixtures of summer blossoms. He circled the fountain in the middle of the garden, with its four trumpeting angels spouting water in graceful arcs, and glanced at the pool in the large marble basin. Then he moved on to the boys’ play area next to the house.

  The play area held swings, slides, a sandbox, and a small wading pool. Michael tested the swings and slides until he was satisfied they hadn't been tampered with. He raked the sandbox, but found nothing. He looked in the wading pool and swished his hand in the water. The pool seemed safe.

  He went inside and up to his sons’ playroom, with its wall of books, games and a television with a satellite dish and Xbox. Luke and Anthony were mesmerized by their video game—Grabbed by the Ghoulies, which both of them found inexplicably fascinating. Luke grabbed it first thing almost every morning. He shooed his two sons outside and then examined the room. Everything seemed as usual.

  He walked through the house and went back out to the double tennis court on the other side. He paced the court and checked the net. Nothing.

  He looked across the garden, at Helena’s small studio where she drew the advertising art she sold and painted the landscapes and seascapes she loved. He hurried over and opened the door. The pungent smell of oil paints made him sneeze. He prowled through the studio, part of his mind noting with admiration her current work, a nearly finished view from one of the seven hills of Rome. The room held no hidden dangers.

  He left the studio and lingered outside it, uneasy. He was sure he hadn’t missed anything, but that was what dead men always thought. He made the rounds again, but as before, found nothing.

  By the time he finally sat down for breakfast, it was 8:30. A maid had cleared away the dishes from earlier and laid out a breakfast for him on the terrace. Helena joined him and had coffee while he ate. He told her about his visit from the two Jesuit priests, and she grew silent. She was putting up a brave front, but the photographer had worried her, and she was more watchful of the children than usual. Michael wondered how she would react if she knew about the telephoned threat. He was glad he hadn’t told her.

  After breakfast, Michael and Lorenzo patrolled the grounds again, checked the integrity of the walls and rechecked the villa’s unused windows and doors. Michael alerted the servants to be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary in or around the grounds. He hoped it would be enough, especially once the men from the Specialists arrived.

  By ten, Michael was ready to leave. As he walked through the garden to the car, he saw his son Anthony watching Lorenzo, concentrating on the gardener's hands as Lorenzo whittled away at a piece of wood to make a flute. The gardener held a Swiss army pocket knife and skillfully shaped the instrument with short, deft strokes. Anthony held a similar knife and piece of wood, and attempted to duplicate Lorenzo’s strokes.

  Michael smiled. He had loved carving wood as a boy. Once all this was over, he resolved to spend more time with his sons and teach them these small skills.

  Helena had borne most of the responsibility for raising the boys. His sons exhibited good manners and social confidence. Their poise appeared natural, but it didn't come naturally to any child. His sons’ social savvy came from Helena’s patient coaching. Michael had very little to do with it, and he felt a stab of guilt at the thought.

  Helena came up to him as he reached the car. She eyed the abrasion at his temple, then looked him in the eye. “Going to work?”

  “Yes.” She knew he was. Her question signaled a discussion he didn’t want to have right now.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to leave?”

  “Helena—”

  “It’s not just us anymore.”

  “You knew what I did for a living when you married me.”

  She seemed to consider that for a long moment. “No,” she finally said. “Not really. I knew about la bustarella, the little envelope, and how it drives our economy of kickbacks and bribery. I even knew the Mafia murdered their own. But I lived a sheltered life. I never realized violence could touch our family.”

  He knew it was true. Most people in Italy thought about Mafia murders as isolated incidents that happened to someone else.

  Helena continued. “I never thought it could touch the Church. That poor dead man. How could priests get involved with that kind of violence?”

  Michael took a deep breath. “It does have the earmarks of a Mafia crime, but something isn’t right. This situation is more complex. The Mafia may be involved, but there’s more to it than that. Still, crime is crime. It always escalates. And organized crime doesn’t start with violence. It starts with money.”

  “I’ve never understood that.”

  “You’ve always had money,” Michael said with a slight smile.

  “But surely they have enough.”

  “It’s never enough.” They’d had this discussion before, but once he got going it was hard to stop. “If you get involved with money crimes, it isn’t enough to be a steady earner. They always want you to produce more. Kick more money up the food chain. So the criminals keep diversifying. They start with extortion, prostitution, gambling, bank robbery, embezzlement. Kidnapping is a way to get more money and intimidate opposition. When that still doesn’t bring in enough, they smuggle and deal drugs. Somewhere along the line, they probably got the priests involved in a small way. Then they increase the pressure.”

  Something nagged at him as he spoke, a subtle thing he hadn’t had time to chase down. Mafia involvement, Father Pintozzi’s hedge fund returns, his position among the Jesuits… He thought of Roberto Calvi and the Vatican Bank scandal. After Calvi’s murder, it was hard to see what would motivate the Vatican to get involved in financial crimes again. There had to be more to Pintozzi’s death—and the threat to Michael’s own family—than that.

  “But murder,” Helena said, and shivered. “What is the point?”

  He shrugged. “Money. It buys sex and power. There’s also revenge, maintaining control, and silencing witnesses.”

  She gazed thoughtfully at the garden. “But this young priest. How could he be involved? The murderer took such a risk…”

  “Yes.” That was another thing that bothered Michael. “It was as if he took personal pleasure in killing Father Pintozzi. Or he’s a thrill-seeker. Or both.” A rare motivation, thrill-killing, and a frightening one. Though this murderer seemed to be a different type of thrill-seeker. His motive may have been revenge or control, but this killing had an element of recklessness, as if its perpetrator believed he couldn’t get caught.

  “Are you sure you aren’t a thrill seeker?” Helena said.

  Michael looked at her in surprise.

  “It’s as if your investigations fill a need that we can’t,” she said. “You need to chase the bad guys. But you have to choose, and I won’t give you long to make up your mind. Not when our children’s lives are at stake. What is more important to you, the call of the Church or the safety of your family?”

  He had no answer for her, except the one she didn’t want to hear—that both mattered, and he couldn’t choose. He kissed her cheek, then got in the car and drove away.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Rome

  Monday, June 17

  Michael drove into Rome down the Appian Way. The wide, cypress-lined
road had been built by third-century B.C. slaves to accommodate the breadth of four chariots. The early morning traffic from the seaside had already abated; he made the trip in thirty minutes.

  He spent the next hour briefing his department on his lack of progress over the weekend and on the intruder at his house. At his desk, once more reviewing the old reports on the Vatican, he heard a stir outside his office. He looked up to see the stately figure of Father de Aragon in the doorway. Behind the priest, he saw several members of the department staring.

  “May I come in?” Father de Aragon sounded as self-assured as ever, his violet eyes glowing with intelligence and good will.

  “Of course, Father.” Michael waved him inside. “I didn’t expect to see you until the meeting this afternoon.”

  Father de Aragon nodded and shut the office door behind him. He carried a worn black leather briefcase. “I want to give you something before the meeting.” The priest opened the briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of yellowed papers. “These are some of Father Mark Manion’s private letters to me. Also a few letters from Father James.”

  Michael couldn’t hide his surprise. “Letters. Not e-mail?”

  “Some of the letters predate e-mail,” Father de Aragon said. “And later, Father Manion grew suspicious of our e-mail system. Father Manion was not in my code group. Neither is James. The letters are in English, and they were hand-delivered by trusted Jesuits. I thought this would help you understand us better before the meeting. I have marked certain passages of particular importance.” Sadness crossed his face. He looked down at the papers and hesitated. “I probably shouldn't have kept them.” He sighed heavily. “But now I’m glad I did. Keep them as long as you need them, but I want them back eventually. He was my friend and a courageous man.”

  The thought that crossed his mind then, Michael didn’t want to voice. Father de Aragon seemed to guess it. “No,” he said with a wry smile. “We weren’t lovers. Father Manion was celibate, and heterosexual.”

  Michael felt ashamed. He glanced down at the letters. When he looked up again, Father de Aragon was smiling: radiant, forgiving, accepting.

  “You are too hard on yourself,” he said kindly. “I’ll go now. I’ll see you at the meeting.” The priest left the room with regal dignity, leaving Michael alone in his office with the letters.

  Michael flipped through the stack, eyeing the dates. They were arranged in chronological order, beginning in 1974 and ending in 1995. Father de Aragon had marked various passages in red. Michael lowered himself into his chair and began reading.

  ***

  Rome, 15 December, 1974

  Dear Paolo,

  The collapse of Franklin National Bank is the largest bank crash in the history of the United States. Michele Sindona was arrested. Now he’s internationally famous for his bold financial crimes as well as his bizarre sex life. He has a wife and several mistresses, but they also say he slept with his grandmother until he was fifteen.

  I don’t know how true that story is, but it is true that Sindona laundered money for the Sicilian Mafia, and he had links to the U.S. Mafia as well. I managed to get a look at a report from the U.S. Comptroller of the Currency that said Big Paul Castellano had a secret account at Franklin National Bank. You may have heard by now that the Vatican Bank lost $55 million when Franklin collapsed.

  Sindona paid $6.5 million to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, the chairman of the Vatican Bank, and to Roberto Calvi, the chairman of Banco Ambrosiano—supposedly for a stock price inflating scheme involving all three banks. He, Calvi and Marcinkus have smeared the reputations of the Vatican Bank and Banco Ambrosiano. People call Ambrosiano “the priests’ bank;” this will reflect upon us.

  There was more in the letter. Michael skimmed it, but saw nothing else that seemed relevant. Just news of other Society members that had nothing to do with banks or anything Father de Aragon had talked about yesterday. Michael picked up the next letter.

  ***

  Vatican City, 3 January, 1975

  Dear Paolo,

  I send this letter with Father Greiner. I trust him. Fear rules in the Vatican. I’ve asked too many questions. Father Herzog cautions me to be careful, and I’m afraid he is right.

  At first I thought Archbishop Marcinkus was unaware of Calvi’s and Sindona’s dishonesty. Anything else was too horrible to contemplate. But I think I was fooling myself. Marcinkus appears to be in it up to his collar.

  Michael thought the setup was absurd. Archbishop Paul Casimir Marcinkus was a prominent man. Bishop of Orta, Chairman of the Vatican Bank, Chief of Vatican Intelligence and mayor of Vatican City. Having the same man head both the bank and the intelligence service was like the CIA running the Fed.

  I’ve watched Marcinkus’s career in fascination. How fitting that he was born in Cicero, the same Chicago suburb that gave us Al Capone. If he hadn’t saved the life of the Holy Father Paul VI, he might not have risen to where he is now. I hear he is an avid golfer; after investigating the Vatican finances, I know how he keeps score.

  I will say more when there is more to tell, if I can. In the meantime, pray for me.

  Yours in Christ,

  Mark

  Michael set the letter down and reflected. What did he know about Marcinkus? Marcinkus organized Pope Paul VI’s travel arrangements, his first big break in his rise through the Vatican bureaucracy. The Italian papers called the six-foot-four former rugby playing cleric “the Gorilla.” He tackled a knife-wielding assassin who lunged at the Pope during a papal tour in the Philippines. In gratitude, the Pope made Marcinkus head of Vatican intelligence and security. Then, with Cardinal Spellman’s backing, Marcinkus became Chairman of the Vatican Bank. That kind of power spawned a lot of temptation. With a heavy feeling in his gut, Michael went on to the next letter.

  ***

  Milan, 20 November, 1978

  Dear Paolo,

  I’m deeply discouraged, and for the first time I’m frightened. I’m frightened for our Church, and I’m frightened for the honest and brave men who are helping us.

  It seems longer than three years since I started working undercover in Banco Ambrosiano. It’s been hard, but I’ve won Roberto Calvi’s trust. The man makes my skin crawl.

  I hoped Pope Paul VI’s death would end this nightmare. Of course, I never wished death on our good Pope, but I hoped his successor would change things. Perhaps he would have, had he been spared.

  I met with Albino Luciani, the Cardinal of Venice, before he became Pope John Paul I. Luciani was furious when Marcinkus sold the profitable Venetian Bank to Roberto Calvi.

  I told Cardinal Luciani everything I knew. He was a good man. He vowed if he became Pope, he would put a stop to this corruption. He asked me to stay undercover in Banco Ambrosiano until such time as we could act. Almost as soon as he became John Paul I, he began asking questions. Questions I gave him, that made many powerful people in the Vatican uncomfortable. Vatican intelligence claimed he died of natural causes, but I wonder. Made Pope in August, dead in September after only thirty-three days. When I last saw him, he was in excellent health. And no one is asking uncomfortable questions any more.

  I feel responsible, but also a little more hopeful than I did some weeks ago. Now that Karol Wojtyla has been elected Pope John Paul II, we may have another chance.

  I talked to Father Herzog and Father Heilman. They urge me to continue my work, even though they fear for my safety. Father Herzog is organizing trustworthy men within the Society to fight this thing. I think he will be Superior General one day.

  Father Herzog plans to visit you in South America next month. Listen to him. He is heartsick over the spiritual bankruptcy, the sexual and financial misconduct in the Church. He needs your help. I need your help.

  Yours in Christ,

  Mark

  Michael recalled he had been in the United States at the time, and he’d heard vague rumors about John Paul I’s death. But even knowing what he knew about corruption at the Vatican after seven frustrating
years of investigating links between the Mafia and the Church, the rumors of murder were almost impossible to believe. Yet Marcinkus had sold the Venetian Bank to Roberto Calvi. And if Father Manion’s judgment could be trusted, Cardinal Luciani had posed a threat to both men…and to their cronies.

  ***

  Milan, 10 July, 1979

  Dear Paolo,

  The thieves are falling out. After Sindona was sentenced to twenty-five years in U.S. Federal prison, Calvi abandoned him and has forged new Italian Mafia links. Sindona wants revenge. He told the Italian banking authorities to investigate Calvi, especially his foreign corporations and links to the Vatican Bank.

  Father Herzog reports the mood from the Vatican is grim. Marcinkus has more power than ever over religious promotions, money for bribes and Vatican internal surveillance. He surrounds himself with men motivated by greed and controlled by fear.

  Pope John Paul II’s election hasn’t helped. As the first non-Italian Pope in more than four hundred years, Wojtyla was an outsider in the Vatican power structure. A perfect target for Marcinkus to manipulate.

  Marcinkus and the new Pope have become fast friends. They even resemble each other, both hulking Slavic men. Marcinkus was only too happy to help John Paul II find his power base; the old Italian power structure in the Vatican is gradually losing its control.

  Marcinkus and Calvi are closer than ever. Marcinkus is untouchable. He reports directly to the Pope, and only to the Pope. The Pontiff protects him, and he protects Calvi. Even the Vatican Bank is becoming no more than Marcinkus’s tool, apparently to aid Calvi in embezzling from Banco Ambrosiano’s depositors. The bank set up dummy subsidiaries for Calvi’s Luxembourg holding company in several countries, including Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Panama and the Bahamas. The subsidiaries are lending millions of Banco Ambrosiano’s money to Panamanian corporations, while the Vatican Bank holds the stock as controlling fiduciary for Banco Ambrosiano. Officers at the Vatican Bank claim ignorance, of course…