Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits

by Tavakoli, Janet M.

  “Michael,” James said, “I’d like to show you something in a cathedral outside the city on Tuesday. It’s stolen furniture, confiscated by the Society. I’ll explain after you see it.”

  “Fine,” Michael replied, struggling to keep his face impassive.

  “Good. I’ll fly us up in the Cessna. You might like to come along, Susan. You may get some ideas for your writing.”

  “Delighted,” she answered with a bright smile. “So you’re a pilot, Father James?”

  He nodded and sipped his wine. “Just a skill I picked up along the way.”

  Susan’s foot was still stroking Michael’s leg. An awkward silence fell as Michael fought to keep his composure. “Stolen furniture,” he said. “The Church seems to be involved in all kinds of illegal activities.”

  “Yes.” Susan’s eyes were wide and innocent as her foot gently brushed his crotch. “There certainly seems to be a lot of dealing under the table.”

  Michael let out a yelp that sounded halfway between an exclamation of surprise and laughter. Susan rubbed her bare foot against him, a gentle teasing pressure that made him hard. She stroked the length of his shaft with her foot. He was afraid to look at her, and looked at James instead. Susan likewise looked at James with an angelic expression on her face. Her lovely young, carefree face.

  James gave her a wry glance. “It could seem that way. It only takes a few corrupt people in high places, without restraints on their behavior, to create a lot of havoc. You never know what they’ve got their foot into.”

  Susan blushed, and Michael felt her foot disappear. He gave a short, deep laugh and refilled her wine glass. “Would you like more wine, James?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll have some dessert, though.”

  They ordered chocolate gelato. The night breeze was pleasant but still very warm. As they finished eating, James broke the silence. “Would you care to join me in a quick drive around Rome?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Susan said with enthusiasm.

  James had a car and driver waiting for them. Their first stop was the Colosseum, for a view of the ancient Roman gaming arena. The remnants of the towering structure spoke of the power and wealth of the dead civilization. Floodlights gave the ruins an eerie glow.

  “Perhaps it’s haunted by the ghosts of the tens of thousands of slaves and animals that died here to entertain a bored Rome,” Susan said.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” James said.

  The next stop was the Piazza Venezia, where they visited the tomb of the unknown soldier and the Victor Emmanuel Monument. The huge white marble building, which Italians had dubbed the wedding cake, gleamed in the light that bathed the white stone. Back in the car, they turned in the opposite direction and headed across the Ponte Sant’Angelo. They drove between the white Bernini angels, bathed in the glow of spotlights from below. The lights around the Castel Sant’Angelo gleamed off the Tiber River, and the building created its own shadow in the water. Though no spotlight was trained on it, the dark angel atop the crypt was clearly visible. It seemed to soak up the light around it, like an ominous shadow.

  They drove a few hundred more yards and stopped again. Lights shone on the Basilica of Saint Peter and the square surrounded by the flawless looking colonnade and statues.

  “Rome is at her best at night, when the crowds thin,” James remarked. “Buses cease spewing their choking fumes and the blare of honking horns dies away. No wonder the Romans take a siesta. The day holds no magic. But when night falls, Rome is the most romantic city in the world.”

  “It’s still early,” Susan said. “Can we make one last stop at the Fountain of Trevi?”

  They drove back to the fountain near the city’s center. Japanese and German tourists were still there taking pictures, and ten year-old Roman night owls out with their families ate ice cream while staring at the shimmering water.

  Susan made Michael toss coins over her shoulder as she snapped pictures with her camera. Even James joined in. They finally left when they ran out of coins.

  As they dropped Susan off at the Lord Byron, Michael wanted to follow her in. He watched her dance up the stairs of the hotel, and briefly felt grateful for James as a chaperone.

  “This trip wasn’t entirely for pleasure,” James said quietly. “I’d like to go over our hacker’s data tonight.”

  ***

  The sound of gentle rapping made Father Jacques Pleurre look up in annoyance. Another intrusion on his few precious moments of peace since the discovery of Father Pintozzi’s body two days ago.

  The Rota had pushed its timetable ahead five years, and Father Pleurre had spent the last sixty hours talking on the phone, destroying the weekend plans of lawyers and bankers all over Europe. The Latin Americans were coming tomorrow. He needed rest to be fresh for those meetings. “Come,” he barked.

  His irritation turned to pleasure when he saw James’s head poke through the heavy oak door that opened into his study. “I’m not disturbing you?” James asked gently.

  “Not at all,” Father Pleurre replied with obvious pleasure. His smile turned to a frown as Michael Visconte followed James into the room.

  “It’s late,” he said, looking at Michael.

  James held up a thick folder. “We have some documents you need to see. It can’t wait.”

  Father Pleurre hesitated, then took the folder. Inside lay a sheaf of papers. He started wading through them, then paused as he realized exactly what he was reading. Excitement spread through him, and he shook with nervous energy. He looked up at James, who frowned in concern.

  “You’ve not eaten,” James said. He reached over to a long braided bell cord and pulled it.

  “Never mind that.” Father Pleurre shuffled through the papers. “This is—”

  A gentle rap came at the door, and a young deacon looked in. James ordered coffee and a late dinner for Father Pleurre. “Bring extra sandwiches along with the pasta, and some fruit and cookies. We have a long night ahead of us.” As the deacon left, James turned to Father Pleurre. “Let’s clear a space so we can work.”

  They moved Father Pleurre’s clutter from the coffee table and shoved it all in the nearest bookcase, on top of a three-volume set of the New Palgrave Dictionary of Money and Finance. Then they set up a folding table for the food. Finally, Michael and James set out the papers James had brought. Father Pleurre noticed that they worked with the effortless coordination of long-time colleagues. He felt a pang of jealousy for their easy camaraderie.

  Father Pleurre sat down, grabbed a handful of printouts and began poring over them. He felt like a soldier who’d found a hole in the enemy’s defenses. The information Michael Visconte had stolen from the would-be intruder into the Jesuits’ databases was at once a threat, a puzzle and an opportunity.

  “Who is Father Miro?” Michael asked, from his seat across the table. “According to these files, he has transfer authority for all the accounts. That makes him the head of the Archangeli, more than likely.”

  “I don't know,” Father Pleurre replied. “Let me check our clergy listings.” He got up, went to his computer and printed out some names. He looked them over and frowned. “There are two of them: one in his nineties, in a Dominican retirement home, another a Jesuit running a mission in Africa. It’s probably an alias.”

  “See what you can find out about them anyway,” Michael said.

  Father Pleurre glared at him. “If it’s a false name, I don’t see the point.”

  “Just to cover all the bases.” He went on, in a respectful tone. “I would very much appreciate any information the Society can find. One never knows what might be useful.”

  Mollified, Father Pleurre reclaimed his seat and looked again at the computer output. Pure disdain at what he saw made him shake his head. “The Archangeli can’t make a profit without resorting to tax fraud.”

  “By laundering money through offshore vehicles,” Michael said with distaste.

  “Look at the dummy corporations,” Fath
er Pleurre said. “They’re headquartered here. It’s outrageous. The Franciscans and Dominicans actually incorporated some of them in Vatican City. Very careless, when you consider how many alternatives they had to choose from.”

  “You need connections, though,” Michael said.

  Father Pleurre agreed. “The Archangeli were always impatient. No sense of continuity. If they had made friends in the lay community, they wouldn’t need to muddy the name of the Vatican. They could have used Andorra, Monaco, Gibraltar, Liechtenstein, San Marino, the Isle of Man, the Channel Islands or a Caribbean tax shelter.”

  James set down a printout and picked up another. “I’m sure they tell themselves they’re only managing the money, collecting fees. Just like the Swiss banks claimed when they accepted deposits the Nazis had looted from Jews. Or Wachovia Bank, when it laundered Latin American drug money.”

  Father Pleurre grunted. “Back when the Society helped a few Jews escape with money, Vatican leaders too cowed to take a stand against the Nazis reprimanded us. Yet now the Vatican deals with tainted money, and no one says a word.”

  A knock at the door announced the deacon with their food: a platter of pasta with vegetables, several sandwiches on crusty rolls, assorted fruit and small cookies. Father Pleurre thanked him and sent him on his way, then turned to James. “Would you like something?”

  “Not now,” James replied. “We’ll have some sandwiches later. Go ahead and eat; Michael and I will keep working.”

  Father Pleurre filled a plate, with a feeling of gratitude toward James. He’d been so caught up in work, he hadn’t eaten all day. As he started on the pasta, he found himself savoring the taste. His inner tensions began to ease, and he allowed himself the luxury of getting lost in thought.

  The Society was his life. As a young boy in Catholic France, he had felt isolated, constantly alone. People confused him. The affectations of upper-crust French society seemed boring, a waste of time. Most used social artifices as a device to hurt others. His own parents were no exception. An amiable, wealthy Frenchman, his father kept mistresses in the wings while dedicating himself to business, his real passion. His mother, an impoverished Marquise, was happy enough with the arrangement. It gave her more time to manage Jacques, the object of her overweening ambition. She was determined he would marry into one of the many impoverished European noble families looking to sell prestige. Jacques would get no title, but the family star would rise all the same.

  Jacques Pleurre, however, was never quite good enough for his mother. His social awkwardness annoyed her, and he became the target of constant verbal abuse.She mastered the subtle art of dissecting her victim: death by a thousand verbal cuts.

  Even today, he sometimes heard the echo of her petulant voice: “Even a child should be able to conduct himself with more decorum than that; don’t you even care about this family’s future; some mothers would get upset if their son told them he wanted to study mathematics instead of the family business; if you really wanted to make your father happy, you would learn more about the defense industry; everyone understands why you don’t have any friends.”

  He had escaped into schoolwork, and he lived in his mind. In France’s Jesuit academies he found priests who shared his intellectual spark and encouraged its development. For the first time he felt visible, accepted, understood. He even formed a few cherished friendships among his newfound fellows.

  The social life his mother engineered for him made his holidays a chore. The boys indulged in meaningless pursuits: gambling in Cap Ferret or buying sports cars. The girls were interested in the latest fashions and in the Pleurre family money. Their incessant posturing irritated him.

  Jacques’s decision to enter the Society saddened his father, though he didn’t oppose the choice. His mother ranted and raved, and hit him for the first time in his life. She accused him of doing it just to hurt her: “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t want to become a priest.”

  Years later, James told him the only possible response: “Of course I love you.” But he didn’t love her; he hated her. When she died he felt no sorrow, only empty anger and relief.

  James Talman was his dearest friend, the only man he felt could truly trust. So different from Father de Aragon and Father Graf, the other two members of Father Pleurre’s code group. Graf played the brilliant rogue and enjoyed infuriating him, while de Aragon was a slick diplomat. But James possessed rare gifts: he exuded goodness and it made him irresistible. People instinctively flocked to him for spiritual healing the way they flocked to warm springs to heal sore muscles. Over the years, Father Pleurre had come to admire James immensely, especially his radiant, powerful intelligence.

  James taught Father Pleurre that verbal defense skills were like martial arts skills, though Father Pleurre never could master that. He felt uncomfortable with strangers and the verbal traps they set, and avoided outsiders. The Society served him as a womb, sheltering him from the general unpleasantness of the world.

  He had repaid them by going into finance. He was mathematically gifted, and he loved it. Numbers didn’t lie or hurt you, and for the most part they obeyed the rules. He became a wizard at making money. His work was his art, his creative outlet. He gladly undertook the daunting task of coordinating the Society’s vast global wealth, hundreds of billions in cash, gold, real estate and artwork. He engineered a complex web of front corporations that earned fat investment fees and kept the Jesuits’ wealth growing, though he made certain to keep things legal.

  Through the Society, Father Pleurre acquired power and status. Top financiers around the globe feared him. On any given day, he could walk into the office of the president of any Swiss bank, knowing the bankers would stop what they were doing to meet with him. Likewise, the wealthy and powerful in Latin America and Europe always took his calls. But someone had put all that at risk. Someone had betrayed him, surely Father Graf or Father de Aragon. He desperately wanted to keep that power and status, and Michael Visconte had given him the means to make sure he could.

  ***

  “Father Pleurre,” Michael said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine,” Father Pleurre answered crisply. He had finished eating and his color looked healthier, but Michael thought he still seemed agitated.

  Michael nudged a printout toward him. “Perhaps your Latin American friends can help us. A lot of this money is in Latin America. With the right connections, you could cook up an excuse to freeze the Archangeli’s accounts.”

  Father Pleurre stared at Michael in frank amazement. Then he began to laugh, so hard his whole body shook. “That’s beautiful,” he exclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s perfect!”

  Michael had expected a reaction, but nothing this effusive. Michael glanced at James, who merely shrugged.“Can you ask them?” Michael said.

  “We can ask them,” Father Pleurre responded. “The Latin Americans are coming to the Vatican. I’ll set up a meeting for Wednesday. You can brief them and explain what is required.”

  “One more thing,” Michael said. “You said Father Pintozzi prospered because of your invention. What did you mean?”

  Father Pleurre gave a crooked grin. “They are my invention.”

  “The Latin Americans?”

  He nodded. “They and others in Europe and the United States. They are our investors. We all help each other.”

  “How much money do you manage for them?” Michael asked.

  “Currently, $150 billion. Nothing else we’ve ever done has brought in so much money, but we’ve only been doing it for six years, and we have a lot of expenses. Part of our fees subsidize our money-losing schools, other expenses of the Society and our missionary work.”

  An idea had begun to form in Michael’s head. Hedge funds were limited to a hundred investors. All the investors in Father Pleurre’s world were powerful, well-connected businessmen and bankers. Many of them had sons and daughters who wanted admission to good Jesuit colleges in the United States. If these investors handl
ed the trading themselves, they would come under unwelcome scrutiny, and they didn’t trust any individual to be the sole conduit of sensitive and valuable information. Having the Jesuits handle both was perfect. No one person among the influential investors had an unfair advantage over the others, but they all benefited.

  The Jesuits used offshore funds and so paid no taxes on their hefty fees. With $150 billion in assets under management, the Jesuits were making $15 billion, tax free. Quite a war chest.

  “It is all legal,” Father Pleurre said. “Insider information is legal in some venues. That used to be true even in the United States. But we don’t use insider information. Just very good information.”

  “George Orwell once said that the way to get rich is to start a religion,” Michael said. “Orwell was talking about voluntary donations of money. But you’re exploiting voluntary donations of timely and valuable information. That translates into more money than cash donations ever could.”

  Father Pleurre nodded, with a slight smile. “Yes. I see we understand each other.”

  Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that Father Pleurre was holding back something important. Father Pleurre’s lips smiled radiantly, but his steely eyes appraised Michael with cold disdain.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Vatican City

  Tuesday, June 18

  Father Pleurre woke up at 4:30 a.m. that morning, half an hour before his alarm clock would have done the job for him. He hadn’t slept a full night for months. He got out of bed and did a short meditation, then the Jesuit examination of conscience and the Spiritual Exercises. Afterwards, he worked out and showered. By the time he finished, it was nearly six. He had a quick breakfast of whole-grain cereal with berries, orange juice and coffee. By 6:15 he was at work.