“I know how to find him,” Michael said. “In fact, I’ll turn the tables and go after the intruder’s system. Two can play this game.”
“How?” James asked.
“We arrested a super-hacker for computer espionage a while back, and he turned counterintelligence to escape sentencing. He taught me the latest techniques for catching corporate computer raiders.” Michael pulled a thumb drive off of his key ring and turned to the dark-haired priest whose workstation this was. “May I?”
The man nodded and moved aside. Michael sat down and began working. “I’m setting up a bait file peppered with the kind of information the intruder was after, plus some bonuses,” he said. “When he takes the bait, he’ll carry a counter-invasion program back to his own system. As soon as he logs off, I’ll log on to his system and raid his files.”
“But what if we bring back a virus or a Trojan?” The voice was Father Pleurre’s; Michael hadn’t seen him come up. The priest frowned and fidgeted. Was it just that he disapproved of outsiders being here, or was there more to it?
“I’m setting up a dedicated protected area to isolate the intruder’s entire software system when I download it. It’ll only be a copy, but we’ll have the whole thing, not just some level-two data. I can scrub his software for viruses and worms. I won’t risk contaminating your system.”
They watched as the intruder’s worm moved closer to the hook. As Michael had hoped, the hacker took the bait.
“Gotcha!” Michael said, grinning.
He waited until the intruder logged off, then reestablished the link. Next, he turned toward the screen to his right and used his password code-breaking algorithms to log on to the intruder’s system. He then typed in command after command to break through every level of the intruder’s security. Whoever it was, they were good. Very good. But not good enough.
It took Michael two hours to copy the intruder’s system, about an hour longer than he had planned. Fortunately, the intruder did not return to log on. Once satisfied he had everything, Michael removed all evidence of his invasion and logged off the intruder’s system.
“We got it all,” he said with a smile. He sat back and gave a long, satisfied stretch.
James smiled broadly. Even Father Pleurre looked impressed.
“So what have we got?” James asked.
Michael got up. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll examine it and find out.”
***
Michael went back to the Vatican Museum and retraced the steps Father Matteo Pintozzi had taken two days before. As he’d feared, the priest must have been murdered within a few minutes of Helena’s finding him.
He went back to St. Peter’s Square to plan his next move. He gazed up at the basilica as if it might hold the answer. When he looked back at the priests, nuns and tourists milling in the square, he saw a familiar figure. The young woman whose purse had been snatched just yesterday stood less than fifty feet in front of him. Her long golden hair and brown eyes reminded him of Irena. She even wore a blue dress. The resemblance hit him hard enough to ache.
She noticed him staring at her and frowned slightly. Michael looked away, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. He imagined what she must think: another Italian gigolo. From the corner of his eye, he saw her walking towards him.
“It’s you!” she said. “Thank you for helping me the other day. I’m Susan Chambers. I’m a freelance reporter writing a travel piece on the Vatican.”
Susan, not Irena. American, not Italian. Alive, not dead. A sudden, vivid memory of her clutching him after the purse-snatching made his stomach twist into knots. With difficulty, he kept his voice and gaze steady and polite. The thought crossed his mind that her hair should be red instead of blonde, but he brushed the thought aside.
“I’m Michael Visconte.” He heard himself going on, though part of him knew he shouldn’t. “I’m very familiar with the Vatican. Perhaps I can be of some help.”
Susan smiled. “You’re an American! I didn’t pick up on the accent the other day.”
“Not exactly,” Michael corrected her. “My mother was an American, and I studied there.”
She stepped back and let her gaze travel over his face and clothes. He hoped she liked what she saw. He was fit, he knew, from running, weight training and a rigorous martial arts program he practiced four times a week. Women generally found him good-looking, though his features were marred by an uneven nose that he owed to a couple of breaks suffered in the line of duty.
He retreated to what he knew best. “What happened to you the other day? Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“The purse only held some cash; my passport and credit cards were in my hotel safe. I was frightened, and I didn’t know who you were,” Susan said.
“Do you always throw your arms around strangers?” Michael turned his head away, surprised at himself for flirting with her.
She smiled at him. Her head was almost level with his chin. “No. I must have been in shock.”
“You were in luck. I work for the Italian police. Though I specialize in financial crimes, not running down purse-snatchers.” He told himself he was trying to put her at ease, but he knew he was trying to impress her with his authority and hoped he didn’t sound pompous.
“You’re right. It was my lucky day.” She smiled and took his arm. “I'll buy you an espresso if you’ll answer a few questions, Mr. Expert on the Vatican.”
Something in her posture reminded him of Irena—the way she’d looked in an old photo Michael kept. For an instant, it struck him as a pose. Then the impression passed. He regarded her thoughtfully. Her invitation carried no undertones beyond simple friendliness. Even so, he felt a thrill of anticipation.
“On one condition,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I’ll buy the espressos. I know just the place.”
She let out an easy laugh. “A dinosaur! I accept.”
CHAPTER XI
Vatican City
Monday, June 17
Michael led her to a café off a side street near the Vatican. Unlike the cafés on the main tourist drag, this one was clean with fresh-cut flowers and sparkling marble table tops. Michael held out a chair for Susan and sat facing her. Then he flagged a waiter, and their espressos arrived without delay.
“I just changed some money at the Vatican Bank,” Susan said. “Creepy place. It’s so dark, and all those clerics working behind the counters, whispering. I’ve never seen anything like it. Didn’t I read something about a guy at the Vatican Bank who killed himself? Not recently; years ago. I think it was in London, though.”
“Roberto Calvi,” Michael said. “He was found hanging under Blackfriars Bridge in London in 1982.” He paused and finished his espresso, then decided to continue. “He was murdered. They called it suicide at the time, even though almost everyone suspected foul play. About twenty years later, advanced forensic techniques proved he was murdered, but it was impossible to tell exactly how after all that time.” He thought of the harrowing description in Father Manion’s letter, but kept it to himself. The priest could have told the authorities quite a bit, had he lived to do so.
“Gruesome.” Susan shivered, but he still saw curiosity in her face. She was so young. She hadn’t even been born when Calvi was killed.
“So why was Calvi murdered?” Susan asked.
“Money. Calvi was the head of Banco Ambrosiano in Milan. He masterminded the embezzlement of $1.3 billion from the bank’s depositors. The sad part was, the bank handled mostly private family deposits, and many people saw their life savings wiped out. The Italian courts linked the murder to the Mafia, but couldn’t prove it.”
“What did the Vatican Bank have to do with it?”
“This gets complicated. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
She leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “I’m fascinated. Please go on.”
“All right.” He was enjoying himself, a welcome change from the stress of the past few
days. “As controlling fiduciary for Banco Ambrosiano, the Vatican Bank held shares in offshore dummy corporations. In one transaction, Banco Ambrosiano Lima deposited money with the Vatican Bank. When the Lima branch wanted its deposit back, the Vatican Bank claimed they didn’t have to pay, that the dummy corporation owed the money, even though the Vatican Bank controlled the dummy corporation.”
“Then what happened?”
“The money disappeared. The administrator, Banco Gottardo, said they took instructions from Roberto Calvi, even though the Vatican Bank was the controlling fiduciary. Which means that at the very least, the Vatican Bank was an enabler.”
He flagged a waiter, and they placed their orders. After the waiter left, Michael said, “But you didn’t come here to talk about the Vatican scandals. You mentioned a travel piece?”
“I was thinking of that. You know, nothing heavy, just something to justify this trip. But now...”
“Then allow me to give you a tour of the basilica.”
Michael put some money on the table, and they walked out of the cafe towards the piazza of Pius XII. They were just east of the Vatican city limits, next to some souvenir shops. Due west lay the piazza of Saint Peter, the most photographed piazza in the world, just in front of its namesake basilica. Tour buses and taxi cabs clogged the square.
Michael led Susan into the piazza and pointed out landmarks as they faced the basilica. In the center was a huge obelisk with large fountains on either side. A colonnade encircled the piazza, each column crowned with a triple life-sized statue of a Pope or an apostle. Atop the left and right sides of the basilica were even larger statues of Saint Peter and Saint Paul.
“These statues may not be here in a hundred years unless we take some measures to protect them,” Michael said.
“Protect them from what?”
“Pollution, mainly. There’s a lot of erosion, too. When we get up there later, you’ll see what I mean. The statues look like chalk figures dissolving in the rain.”
“But these statues have been here a long time.”
“Yes, but only in recent times has pollution been this bad in Rome.” He gave her a wry smile. “People don’t use catalytic converters here like they do in the United States.”
“Are you married?” Susan asked suddenly.
The question caught him flat-footed. “Yes.” And then, to his own surprise, he added, “But that doesn't mean I'm dead. The world holds a lot of attractive distractions.” His gaze swept over her, and he felt his cheeks grow warm.
Susan laughed softly. “I’ve noticed you’ve noticed.”
He guided her to Bernini’s staircase, which led to the entrance of the church. A scantily clad young woman was being turned away by a guard. Michael eyed Susan’s outfit, a knee-length sleeveless blue silk dress that tied halter style at the neck and exposed part of her back.He shrugged off his jacket and held it out to her. “Here. You’d better put this on.”
“Why?”
“They won’t let you in dressed like you are. Not even if you were the Pope’s sister. Women aren’t allowed to wear shorts, or anything sleeveless or backless. Only in recent years have they let women enter without a head covering. Men have to be appropriately dressed, too.”
“And I thought the Italians were so liberal.”
He chuckled. “There is an old saying: In America everything is allowed, except that which is forbidden. In Germany everything is forbidden, except that which is allowed. In Italy everything is allowed, especially that which is forbidden. But in the Vatican, everything is forbidden, even that which is allowed.”
Susan laughed. “And we are in the Vatican.” She looked at him impishly and then said, “Just wait until we get back to Italy.”
Her remark disconcerted him, so he pretended he hadn’t heard the invitation in her tone. “The Vatican really is its own country. Don't be fooled just because you don’t need your passport to get inside. The Vatican has its own rules.”
He draped his suit jacket around her, letting his hands linger on her shoulders a moment longer than necessary. She gave him a flirtatious glance, and they walked past the Vatican guard who nodded his head in approval. They marched up the short flight of sweeping stone steps, through the open doors, and into the wide outer entrance hall of Saint Peter’s Basilica.
Susan gasped, and Michael laughed inwardly at her reaction. The ceiling was adorned with frescoes. Every centimeter of ceiling, wall and floor was decorated with carved marble, mosaics, gilt or Renaissance paintings. As always, Michael felt something that had nothing to do with faith in God or spirituality. What he felt was a sense of enormous power. St. Peter’s seemed less a house of God than a testament to the far-reaching clout of the Catholic Church.
“Religion in your face,” Susan said. “It’s breathtaking.”
All around them, tourists snapped pictures. Michael spotted Chinese, Japanese, Arabs, Africans and an assortment of Europeans. He gestured at the surrounding walls. “Here you see the artwork of Michelangelo, Bernini, Carlo Fontana, Giacomo Della Porta, Donatello, Algardi, Canova, Francesco Messina, Vignola and scores of others,” he said. “Just let me know if I’m going too fast.”
“I’ll never remember all the names,” Susan said.
“Don’t worry. Everyone feels like that the first time. Just try to get the flavor of the art. You can come back at your leisure and examine your favorite pieces. I’ll give you an official Vatican guide book with my compliments.” He grinned again. “I’ve been here many times, and each time I see something I didn’t notice before.”
“All this must be worth a fortune.”
“Priceless,” Michael agreed. “And this is just a drop in the ocean. The Church likes to keep quiet about it, but they have the largest real estate holdings of any institution or individual in the world. Prime real estate in major cities, even agricultural holdings. Land bought with donations from the faithful, land donated for churches and labor donated to build them, land willed upon the death of the faithful, land donated for schools. Two millennia of donations. Tax free.”
“And there are churches and schools on all that land?”
“Hardly. The church collects a lot of rent from apartment buildings, even parking lots.”
“But the Church always cries poor,” Susan said. “Why not sell some of it?”
“Good question,” he said dryly.
He steered her over to the far right near the doors. This was the chapel of the Pietà, which housed Michelangelo’s famous white marble statue of the Virgin holding the corpse of the crucified Jesus. Even though he had seen it many times, Michael was affected by the sight of the mourning woman holding her son’s body. The limp figure of Jesus seemed to melt into the folds of her robe.
He next led Susan to the bronze statue of Saint Peter by Arnolfo di Cambio. The foot of the statue was almost worn away, kissed or touched in devotional reverence by visitors to the basilica.
“The foot is frequently replaced, and it’s due for another,” Michael said. He took her hand and placed it on the line around the ankle, where the foot had been severed and reattached.
The church was clotted with more paintings and a seemingly endless supply of small chapels and statues of saints. Mosaics replicating other famous paintings crowded the view. Michael suggested they skip the art gallery on the left-hand side of the basilica. “There are crypts underneath the Vatican. A whole network of tunnels where early Christians and saints and generations of Popes are buried. Would you like to see them?”
“No thanks,” Susan said quickly. “I’ll come back on Halloween.”
Michael laughed. He felt twenty again. “In that case, let’s look at the view from the dome.”
“I’d love to see it. And I’d be grateful for some fresh air. The atmosphere is overwhelming.”
They walked out of the basilica and made a hard left in the entrance hall. Another left took them past a souvenir shop, which Michael said they would visit after seeing the view from the dome. Tour
ists with cameras milled everywhere, snapping pictures of everything in sight, including the souvenir shop’s display windows. Michael led Susan straight ahead toward a long line of tourists.
“It will take forever to see the dome,” Susan groaned.
“Not today.” Michael guided her by the elbow to the front of the line, where he produced a large euro note. The attendant ushered them in. They climbed up 300 steps, then entered a gallery that encircled the inside of the dome and looked down at a panoramic view of the interior.
“From up here, the basilica doesn't look quite so formidable. It looks more like a postcard,” Susan said.
They climbed up another 300 or so steps and exited to another gallery that encircled the dome’s exterior.
Michael gave a slight bow and gestured to the view below. “All of Rome is at your feet.” Tourists with cameras circled throughout the gallery, so intent on taking pictures that Michael wondered if they took time to enjoy the view. One man in particular hovered near him and Susan, snapping pictures first to their right and then to their left.
Michael looked down at Saint Peter’s square. From this high up, the ant-like figures of visitors looked like colorful moving dots. The layout of the architecture drew his gaze through the square and down the wide Via Conciliazione to the Tiber. He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked at the dark angel at the top of Castel Sant’Angelo, just slightly off center and to the left. He could see the Seven Hills of Rome and all the major landmarks.
Susan pulled a map out of her handbag. “Help me find the monuments.”
He gladly complied. They had only just met, but he felt an overwhelming desire to be alone with her. He pushed thoughts of Helena firmly to the back of his mind. He rested an arm around Susan’s shoulder as he pointed to the map and then touched her cheek as he directed her gaze at the city below.
Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits Page 10