Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits

by Tavakoli, Janet M.

  “Now let me show you the Vatican gardens.” He took her hand and they walked around the dome to where the gardens were. Just beyond lay the Vatican museum’s exterior courtyards. He thought of Father Matteo Pintozzi, then felt annoyed with himself for letting darkness intrude.

  Susan turned to Michael with an appraising look. “You don't take religion very seriously, do you?”

  He replied with an enigmatic smile and a verse:

  “The hand that rounded Peter’s dome

  And groined the aisles of ancient Rome

  Wrought in a sad sincerity

  Himself from God he could not free.”

  Susan frowned, as if uncertain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s a quote from Emerson’s poem, ‘The Problem.’ “But to answer your question, I’m not entirely sure what I believe in.”

  She looked at him intently, but said nothing.

  They descended the staircase to the passageway that led to the gift shop. “I need to buy some souvenirs,” Susan said.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.” Michael opened the shop door for her. “The Catholic Church means business.”

  The shop displayed rosaries made of faux pearls, garnets, aurora borealis, carved wood, carved coral and semiprecious stones. There were medals of brass, copper, silver and gold. Crosses came in all types: some plain and severe, some horrifyingly detailed, and others that could pass for fashionable jewelry.

  Susan picked up a small marble statue of Michelangelo’s Moses and handed it to a clerk, a nun dressed in white. Before she could get her money out, Michael took out his wallet and paid.

  “Michael…” she protested.

  “I insist. You’re my guest in the Vatican.”

  They left and walked across the square. He wanted to ask where she was staying, if he could have dinner with her, but felt tongue-tied and anxious. They walked on in silence. She seemed unaware of his confusion.

  As they reached the end of the square and stepped onto the street, Michael saw James leaning against an odd-looking little red car. With only a single seat for the driver, it resembled a large tricycle with an auto housing on top. It had one center front wheel and two normally spaced back wheels. James wore jeans, running shoes, and a T shirt that said Save Souls, Not Soles. It was too late to avoid him; James had seen them.

  Michael greeted him with forced gaiety. “We can’t seem to get enough of each other.”

  “I was just out for a run.” James gave Michael a sidelong look. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Susan Chambers,” Michael said, feeling caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “She’s a freelance writer from the United States. Susan, I’d like you to meet my very good friend, Father James Talman, S.J. M.B.A., Ph.D., Ph.D., Ph.D., and M.D.”

  Susan looked overwhelmed. “I’m not sure what all those initials mean, Father.”

  “Please call me Father James, or just James if you prefer.” He gave Michael a wry look. “S.J. is for Society of Jesus. I’m a Jesuit priest. The M.B.A. is in finance. The Ph.Ds. are in theology, German, and psychology. I’m also a practicing psychiatrist.”

  Susan looked puzzled. “I thought you were a priest.”

  “I am, but Jesuits don’t have parishes. We’re free to practice a variety of professions.”

  “He left out that he’s fluent in Latin, Romansch, German, and Chinese,” Michael added.

  “I think you two are having a little fun at my expense,” Susan said skeptically. “You don’t look like any priest I’ve ever met. And it would have taken a couple of lifetimes to do all that.”

  “I started in the Jesuit seminary when I was fourteen.”

  “You became a priest at fourteen?”

  James smiled. “I didn’t become a priest until I was in my twenties. The Society needs time to evaluate candidates, and many are rejected.”

  “I thought Catholics needed all the priests they could get.”

  That provoked a chuckle. “I suppose that’s true, Miss Chambers. The rejects probably become Franciscans or Benedictines.”

  Michael laughed too, but Susan looked confused.

  “So you learned all those languages in the seminary,” Susan said, apparently undaunted.

  “I learned Latin and German there,” James said. “I spent my last two years of high school in Switzerland, where I learned Romansch and the Swiss German dialect. I studied Cantonese and Mandarin in college, and did two years of missionary work in China.”

  “Romansch,” Susan said. “I’ve never heard of it. What language is that?”

  “An ancient one. It’s very similar to Latin, and is spoken by about one percent of the Swiss and Italian populations. It dates back to the Roman empire. I already spoke Latin, and I was in Switzerland anyway, so I thought why not.”

  “Sure.” Susan tilted her head to one side, staring at James as if bemused. “Why not?”

  “Are you Catholic, Susan?”

  She shrugged. “I was baptized. But our family never went to church.”

  James smiled and nodded.

  “I remember reading once that the Jesuits were sort of a special group of Catholics,” Susan continued. “For a long time I thought they were a separate religion.”

  “The Jesuits are the intellectual elite of the Catholic Church,” Michael said. “To get into Mensa, you need an IQ of about 130. The Jesuits wouldn’t accept that kind of rabble. They only take the cream of the crop.”

  “Do all the Jesuits earn so many degrees?” Susan asked.

  “We teach focus.” James gave Michael a sharp glance. “We study every day and continue building and reinforcing our knowledge. I'm fifty-three years old. I started at fourteen. That adds up to almost forty years of focused energy. One can do a lot over that many years of concentrated effort.”

  “Think of it,” Michael said with a grin, “a religious Rand Corporation. Thirty-one years of study alongside other dedicated intellectuals with IQ’s in the stratosphere.”

  “Michael is no slouch himself.” James grinned at him. “Ph.D. in finance from the University of Rochester, fluent in German and English, scion of one of the finest families in Italy. If only he had a sense of humor.”

  Susan smiled warmly at Michael and said nothing. Michael felt his stomach tighten again.

  “Are you free for dinner tonight, Michael?” James asked abruptly.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” To Michael’s astonishment, James turned toward Susan. “Would you care to join us?”

  She grinned. “Love to.”

  “Where are you staying? We’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

  “The Lord Byron,” Susan replied. “I’ll see you then.”

  Michael watched as Susan hailed a cab and sped away. James said nothing, which surprised Michael as much as the unexpected invitation for both of them to dinner. He felt a little guilty at how eager he was to spend more time with her and turned to a more comfortable topic. “James, this effort by the Rota is going to take more than a few days. You have a practice in Chicago. You can’t be traipsing all around the Vatican getting involved in this mess.”

  “I’ll turn my practice over to a competent replacement.”

  His casual statement astounded Michael. James was committed to his work with hospital and clinic patients, had even risked serious injury for one of them. Michael couldn’t believe James would turn his back on it. “You’re walking away from everything you’ve worked for,” he protested.

  James shook his head. “This is everything I’ve worked for. We’re finally going to clean house in the Church, and I’ll need all the skills I’ve developed over the years to help.”

  Michael nodded, still not sure he understood.

  “I’ll pick you up at your apartment for dinner,” James said. He turned and ran swiftly in the direction of the Tiber, a youthful figure in jeans with the face of an old wise man.

  CHAPTER XII

  Vatican City

>   Monday, June 17

  “Here’s the latest report, Father Miro.” The young Franciscan friar held out a ream of beige papers.

  Father Miro took the documents and gave a little grunt of satisfaction as he leafed through the pages. So far the Archangeli had $30 billion under management and the money was still pouring in. The Miro account was doing just fine, too. Of course, Miro was not his real name, but the alias was a precaution worth taking, and he could still get at the money.

  The Archangeli had wised up over the years. They no longer took drug money or funds from other illegal activities. Criminals of that type were unrealistic about money, and they could be violent. The Archangeli had given back the cash belonging to the Ochoa family and Pablo Escobar Gaviria, the former heads of the Medellin drug cartel in Colombia. Now the Ochoas were in jail and Escobar was dead.

  “Have we finally severed all ties with the Cali cartel?” Father Miro asked.

  “Yes. We helped them spirit most of their money out of Colombia, but they know we no longer want their business.”

  “What about the Pepes and the northern Cauca Valley cartel?”

  The friar nodded. “We’ve taken care of them, too.”

  “Good.” Miro gave an inward smile of satisfaction. How easy it had been to take over this disorganized band, mainly Franciscans plus a mixed bag of Benedictines and Dominicans. He was the only Jesuit. Before he came to their rescue, their incompetence had nearly landed them in jail. Intelligent men, but they lacked discipline. They could thank their lucky stars that the Vatican would do almost anything to protect its own from scandal.

  Before Father Miro saved them, in addition to laundering drug money, they had used Vatican bank deposits to curry favors with Italy’s richest families and corporations. They granted loans that never came due, always granting another when interest payments on the first loan became a burden. The reverse Ponzi scheme blew up, because they looted the bank much faster than they took in deposits. Father Miro paid the right people to develop temporary blindness. It was better than Switzerland.

  After taking over, he christened the group Archangeli—the Archangels. “We are the rebellious Archangels who would rather rule on earth than serve in the Vatican,” he’d told the others. “We will use the power and influence of the Church to create unlimited wealth for ourselves.” He knew what they didn’t, that the real money wasn’t in drugs or Ponzi schemes, but in tax evasion. With the U.S. government threatening to prosecute accountants who set up offshore tax shelters for wealthy U.S. clients, those clients were swarming to the Vatican Bank. The Archangeli set up offshore vehicles to hide cash and profits for a ten percent fee. A high price, but worth it to U.S. tax evaders if it put their money forever beyond the reach of the dreaded IRS. European business had picked up, too. Lichtenstein once was the haven of choice, but now the Archangeli were taking the lion’s share.

  “How are we doing in South America?” Miro asked the young friar.

  “There’s quite a bit of demand,” the Franciscan said. “Some of these businesses started up with mysterious funding, but they’re legitimate now, and they don’t want to be taxed to death.”

  “Better than drug money,” Father Miro said. “Tax evasion is a white collar crime, and these clients never threaten to kill anyone.”

  The Jesuits had pioneered profiting from moving other people’s money, and Miro had learned well from them. The Archangeli now employed the tried-and-true techniques the Jesuits had used during and after World War II to help people make their money disappear from one country and reappear in another. No receipts, no traceable electronic trails, just an old-fashioned handshake. Once the money was out of the United States, Europe, and South America, the Archangeli deposited it in dummy accounts for their clients. Only then did the electronic fund transfers begin. Their database contained the account numbers, cross-reference names, and structure of the shell corporations meticulously outlined. No one suspected the Church. It was a masterful plan and solved their temporary cash shortfall.

  He smiled as he thought about Milton’s Paradise Lost. Lucifer, the fallen archangel, had his own kind of power and guts. Like him, Father Miro would rather rule the Archangeli than serve the Society if it came to that.

  “Your Jesuit colleagues suspect us, though,” the Franciscan went on with a worried frown. “But they’re no better. They moved money for thousands of families over centuries. The Angelinis in Chile, the Romitos and the Valle family in Argentina…” He trailed off. Father Miro stared down at the papers in his hands, remembering.

  The Valle incident in 1991 had been a valuable lesson for the Archangeli. They quarreled with the Jesuits in Argentina and kidnapped Francisco Valle’s young son Mauricio, then demanded the Jesuits drop their threat to expose a drug money laundering scheme. Mauricio Valle was their insurance. Cowards all, the Jesuits caved in. Valle paid $6 million in ransom, and the Archangeli framed a few corrupt cops for the kidnapping. And Miro learned that violence was an effective weapon against the Society of Jesus. Unlike his fellow Jesuits, Miro enjoyed it.

  Sanctimonious hypocrites, he thought. Agostino Romito was Mussolini’s steel minister; his money reeked of corruption, as much as any client the Archangeli had since aided. They would call me a traitor if they knew—but I am no different from them, except that they lack courage.

  Before long, Miro vowed, the Archangeli would be powerful enough to challenge the Jesuits on their own turf.

  The Franciscan handed Father Miro another report. “This is what we lifted from the Jesuits’ computers earlier today.”

  Father Miro opened it eagerly. As he reviewed the report, his face darkened. “That damned Mexican hedge fund,” he muttered. “It’s gone up by several billion.” He knew the Jesuits managed some money for Emilio Loya, who owned most of Grupo Loya and controlled newspaper and magazine publishing and distribution throughout South America. In 2003, Loya’s net worth was $5 billion, up from $3 billion a decade earlier. But that increase was nothing compared to what the Jesuits had done for him. In the past three years, with the help of Jesuit connections, Loya had undertaken buyouts and business partnerships throughout Latin America that raised his net worth to more than $45 billion.

  Loya now controlled every major Latin American publication outside of Cuba, Brazil and Nicaragua, and the Jesuits had earned more investment banking fees than a large Wall Street firm from Loya’s business alone. Of course, the Jesuits called them advisory fees. And it was all perfectly legal!

  “At least we can monitor their activity,” the Franciscan said. “And our own ventures are doing well thanks to Father Pintozzi, God rest his soul.” He bowed his head.

  Father Miro gave him a disgusted look. Before Miro reined them in, the Archangeli had deluded themselves into believing they could predict the market. When they lost money on a trading position, they doubled their bets, hoping they would win, but they only accelerated their losses. Father Pintozzi had been invaluable, correcting mistakes and imposing discipline. Miro’s staff had been both jealous and fearful of Matteo’s skill. Matteo also helped them get information from Jesuit files to which even Father Miro didn’t have access.

  “When you live your life the way Matteo lived his, you bring things on yourself,” the Franciscan said.

  You are such a fool, Father Miro thought.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Rome

  Monday, June 17

  The view of Rome from the Pincio at night was the most spectacular in the city. The limousine pulled up onto a gravel parkway, and Susan, Michael and James alighted to see tables illuminated by small floodlights coming from the gardens in the nearby park. The maître d’ escorted them to the best table in the restaurant, in the southwest corner of the terrace. To the east they could see the gardens; to the west, the western half of Rome.

  Michael looked over at Susan. She wore a button-down blue silk dress gathered at the waist with a gold belt, and long earrings danced at her neck. She didn’t appear to be wearing a bra, but
then, she didn’t need one.

  Below them was the lighted Piazza del Popolo. A huge obelisk dominated the center of the piazza, similar to the one in St. Peter’s Square. James saw Susan glance toward it. “The obelisk dates from the 13th century B.C. and was moved from the Circus Maximus, the ancient chariot race course made famous to Americans by the movie Ben Hur,” he said.

  “What about that huge marble gate at the piazza entrance?” she asked.

  “Bernini designed it in the 1600s,” he replied.

  The eleventh-century chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo, said to be built over Nero's tomb, sat at the far side of the square. The lights from below seemed to bounce off the stone, and Michael could almost feel the excitement rising from the people in the piazza below. Further out, he could see the dome of Saint Peter’s shining in the reflected light of the square below.

  The day had cooled when the sun went down, and the evening air was heavy with a sweet fresh smell from the plants in the gardens. Fresh cut flowers and tall lit candles graced the table.

  A waiter appeared, and James ordered. “We’ll have white wine and antipasti, followed by fettuccine alfredo. Then whitefish sautéed in wine sauce, and grapefruit sorbet to clear the palate. After that, we’ll have red wine with a roast veal chop, medium rare.”

  “Your usual wines, Father?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael smiled at the exchange. James routinely phoned ahead to make sure restaurants stocked his favorite wines. They chatted pleasantly about Rome and its landmarks until the antipasti arrived, an assortment of prosciutto and marinated vegetables. Michael ate hungrily. It was his first full meal since breakfast.

  Halfway through the rest of their dinner, Michael glanced at Susan and met her knowing smile. Suddenly he felt the soft leather of her sandal moving up the side of his leg. Then it stopped, and Susan briefly bent down. She sat upright again, and Michael felt her bare foot playing with the cloth of his pants. His own sense of pleasant arousal embarrassed him even as he enjoyed it. Susan’s foot seemed to have a life of its own; he felt it sliding further up his leg and then moving in a slow half-circle around his inner upper right thigh.