Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits

by Tavakoli, Janet M.

  He sat in a chair surrounded by three large computer screens to his right, to his left and in front of him. His interactive phone lines sat by the computer on his left, within easy reach. Most days he took satisfaction in being surrounded by the tools of his trade. Today, fury gripped him—a feeling he hadn’t experienced since he was a small child. He wanted revenge.

  He had written a Trojan Horse program, a time-release virus that would destroy the Archangeli’s software on Thursday. By then, their backup system would be contaminated, too. As he reached for his keyboard, he repeated the Jesuits’ motto silently to himself: Ad majorem Dei gloriam. For the greater glory of God.

  He scanned the information and decided to do one last thing. This next step would put the Archangeli out of business for good. Father Pleurre entered the Archangeli's system one last time and typed in a few lines of code. Then he logged off.

  A twinge of remorse nagged at him. Perhaps he had gone too far. As much as he wanted to feel sorry, though, he didn’t. In truth, he was glad he had done it. Now more than ever.

  ***

  At 7:00 a.m., James and Michael stood before double doors of dark oak adorned with carved vines. James knocked. A young Jesuit opened the door and looked out, then ushered them inside.

  They stepped into a plushly carpeted room paneled in dark wood that was polished to a high luster. Thirteen chairs upholstered in leather surrounded the circular mahogany table in the center of the room. The Rota originally had twelve members. Nine of the chairs were already occupied. Michael and James took their seats. Of the two empty chairs that remained, one was for Father Zavala, who was escorting the Latin Americans. The second was out of respect for the memory of Father Mark Manion, who would never join them again.

  Michael ran through his mental checklist from James’s briefing as he nodded in greeting to the assembled priests. Seated at the table were Father Herzog and Father Heilman, who was also a member of Herzog’s code group. Father Heilman’s family owned Heilman Konzern, the German industrial insurance company. Father Fried was 71, a relative of the German Fried newspaper family. Father Bovier, 73, was a member of the French retailing family who wanted to expand into Italy. Next came Father Pleurre, whose family made defense aircraft; Father de Aragon, who claimed noble Spanish lineage; Father Greiner, 49, scion of Swiss conglomerate owners; and Father Aiello, youngest of the group at 47, who came from the famous Italian confectionery family. Father Zavala was from the family who controlled Banco Zavala in Spain; he was absent, still in transit. The Jesuits had amassed a following that included the representatives of influential military/industrial power throughout Europe and Latin America.

  “Welcome,” Father Herzog said. He signaled to the young Jesuit to leave, and waited until the door clicked shut behind him. Then he gave Michael and James a warm smile.

  The group rose as a body and moved to the adjoining chapel, where the three oldest priests said a high requiem mass for Father Pintozzi. In unison, the Rota chanted aloud the words of the Communion, a prayer unchanged since the early Christians first chanted it in the catacombs: “Haec commixtio et consecratio Corporis et Sanguinis Domini nostri Jesu Christi, fiat accipientibus nobis in vitam aeternam. Amen.” Michael let the prayer wash over him while he pondered the enormity of what he was about to do, and the Rota could only accomplish its goal with his help. He thought of Helena and the boys. She had asked him to keep his distance from Father Pintozzi’s death. He had said he would. Yet here he was. He could only pray he was doing the right thing.

  After the mass, the Rota reassembled in the conference room. To Michael, the chamber felt alive with electricity. James had told him that the Jesuits originally planned to execute their operation around 2016, but the murders of Father Manion and Father Pintozzi forced them to act sooner. Just as well, Michael thought as he looked around the conference table. The financial pillaging and corruption of the Church, the deterioration of schools and moral crises in the parishes grew worse each year. Many Catholics in Europe and the United States were so alienated that it would be difficult to coax them back into the fold. Even Latin America was growing distant from the Church.

  Michael drew in a deep breath. “May I present some new evidence to the Rota?”

  “Against whom?” Father Herzog asked.

  “Against the Archangeli. We can prove they have been managing funds for tax evaders.”

  Father Herzog nodded. Michael took a folder from the briefcase he’d left by his chair and distributed the contents: several copies of the relevant data files he’d stolen from the Archangeli hacker. “In these pages you’ll find names, amounts, account numbers and records of meetings with tax-evading business clients. Giant bank deposits, phony transactions… it’s all there.”

  A murmur went around the table as the Rota members absorbed the information in their hands. Father de Aragon glanced up. “Have you determined how much money the Archangeli manage for these tax evaders?”

  Michael nodded. “Over $30 billion in a variety of accounts, mostly in Latin America, with some in the Caymans. They also have about $5 billion of their own money, earned in fees.”

  Father de Aragon glanced back down at the papers. “So who is Father Miro? And how did the Archangeli crack our system?”

  Before Michael could answer, Father Pleurre gave Father de Aragon a hard look. “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if we knew the answer to that question. Do you have any ideas?”

  The room fell silent. Father Herzog looked intently at Father Heilman and tapped the table with his fingers. The hush deepened. Father Herzog sat motionless, his concentration seemingly turned inward. The air in the chamber grew warmer and thicker.

  Father Herzog gazed in turn at each of his subordinates. Father Heilman did the same. Michael thought he knew what they were looking for: the slightest muscle movement, the smallest flick of an eyelid or twitch of a mouth. He felt a subtle sense of pressure, as he had yesterday when Father Herzog first spoke with him. This time, though, the pressure was directed elsewhere. Father Herzog’s troubled eyes came to rest on Fathers Pleurre and de Aragon.

  “What are you hiding?” Father Herzog asked gently. “You feel guilty. Why?”

  Father Pleurre didn’t flinch. “I’m glad Visconte got the goods on the Archangeli. And I feel guilty our systems weren’t impenetrable.”

  Father Herzog glanced again at Father Heilman. He tapped the table lightly, then sighed and turned to face the group. A cool breeze stirred the air and the room brightened. Michael took a deep breath, feeling as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Around him he noticed more than a few priests doing the same.

  “God be with you over the next few days,” Father Herzog said with a gentle smile. “We desperately need your help in this, the most critical time for the Society. Our prayers and blessings go with you.” He sounded as serene as ever, but Michael could see Father Herzog was worried.

  ***

  James came up to Michael as the meeting broke up. “Join me for dinner later, and afterwards we’ll meet with Father Graf.”

  James didn’t ask, Michael noted; he simply assumed Michael would make himself available. This was new for James, but a lot of things had changed about the man he had known in college. “Where would you like to have dinner?” he asked finally.

  “Meet me at 8:30 in the Piazza Navona, at a restaurant called Ciampini. It used to be Mastrostefano. You may know it.”

  “I do. I’ll see you there.”

  A young Jesuit appeared as if from nowhere to escort Michael off the grounds. He followed, still replaying the morning’s events in his mind. The Rota now had fresh evidence of the Archangels’ activities, in such detail that no one could ignore it. Not even a Pope who might not wish to see what was in front of his nose. Michael reached his car and drove to his office, feeling hopeful in spite of himself. Too many times over the past seven years he’d seen hope wither, when vital witnesses turned up dead or evidence of criminality that should have brought conviction
didn’t. But with the new evidence he’d garnered for them, the Jesuits might just be able to pull off their plan, and take over the Church without challenging the infallibility of the Pope.

  It could work. If they managed to stay alive.

  CHAPTER XV

  Rome

  Tuesday, June 18

  When Michael brought them the stolen computer files and the Jesuits’ accumulated evidence, the Specialists sprang into action. Years of frustration evaporated with the presentation of hard evidence against their nemeses, the Archangeli and their Mafia friends. Part of Michael’s team flew to Milan; many of the men named by the Rota would be in that city, which was a financial center, a Mafia hub and the home of the defunct Banco Ambrosiano. Part of his team remained in Rome, also a financial hub. Two more of his men drove to Ostia to provide extra security at his villa.

  Michael called Helena and told her things were moving quickly. The family should be able to go about their normal routine in a few days. He didn’t know if this was true, but he wanted her to worry as little as possible.

  Once all the arrangements were in place, he had just enough time to return to his apartment, work out, shower and take a cab to the Piazza Navona.

  The sun was just beginning its descent as Michael stepped into the square. He entered from the southern end of the piazza at the fountain with the Moor and walked toward the Fountain of the Four Rivers in the center.

  As always, the huge Baroque edifice acted like a magnet for the eyes. Bernini had designed it with a horse representing the Danube, a lion representing the Nile, some coins and an armadillo representing the River Plate, and a stream representing the Ganges. He had worked the papal emblem of keys and a crown into the design to symbolize the power of the papacy over the four continents of Europe, Africa, America and Asia. In the middle of the fountain was a pagan obelisk that had once been in the Circus Maximus. It was crowned with symbols from the Papal coat of arms: a dove and an olive branch.

  Four jets of water cooled the air around the fountain. Michael felt the soothing breeze as he walked past. He saw James standing at the edge of the black iron railing that separated the outdoor tables of the Ciampini restaurant from the rest of the piazza.

  Rudolfo, the maître d' nodded politely at Michael and then greeted James with effusive warmth, expressing genuine delight in his return to Rome. He ushered them to a large table with a direct view of the central fountain.

  Umbrellas better suited to keeping out the sun than the rain towered over each table, held on their perches by shafts of smooth, blond wood. A gelateria made of wood and glittering brass stood next to the restaurant. Couples enjoying a lazy romantic summer night in Rome strolled past and occasionally stopped to buy gelato.

  Michael and James exchanged pleasantries, and James ordered wine. They decided on salad, fettuccine for an appetizer and veal limone for an entree. The restaurant served veal that melted in the mouth with a silky smoothness, prepared the classic Italian way, which required long and careful pounding to break the fibers.

  When they had finished ordering, James turned to Michael. “You look as if you want to ask me something.”

  Quite a bit, Michael thought, but he focused on the most immediate and practical matter. “When does Father Herzog meet with the Pope?”

  “Friday. But we still don’t know the identity of Father Miro, the leader of the Archangeli. We believe Miro is responsible for the murders of Father Manion and Father Pintozzi.”

  A beaming Rudolfo appeared with two plates in hand. “I took the liberty of changing your pasta order, Father. The one you ordered is merely average and the chef used too much garlic. This one is really special. Capellini with thin strips of chicken and capers in a light cream broth.”

  Rudolfo set the plates in front of them and sprinkled white truffle oil over the small mounds of pasta. Then he sprinkled fresh grated cheese in a perfect ring around the sides. He stepped back, clasped his hands and beamed at them again. “It is good to have you back, Father,” he said, and then moved off to fuss over another pair of diners nearby.

  As a member of Rome’s distinguished old money elite, Michael was frequently courted in Roman restaurants, but Rudolfo lavished more attention on James than he had ever given Michael. The pasta was among the better dishes Michael had ever tasted.

  The restaurant had filled up, and a line of hopeful newcomers waited for tables. The established Italian patrons were served the best food the chef had to offer. The restaurant also attracted an eclectic assortment of foreign tourists, but they were served more indifferent fare. The tourists never noticed any difference.

  The waiters kept the tourists amused with jokes and flattery in the tourists’ native languages, mainly French, German, Spanish and English. Only the Japanese baffled them. The waiters resorted to accented English, and the Japanese tourists smiled and nodded in polite incomprehension.

  Michael's veal arrived, prepared with an excellence mere tourists would never enjoy. The waiter poured more wine and discreetly moved away.

  “Tell me about this next meeting you’ve arranged for me,” he said. “With Father Graf.”

  “You met him in the Vatican Museum when Matteo Pintozzi was killed. He’s a medical doctor by training. He handles Society medical problems within the Vatican, but he is a multifaceted man.”

  “Is he a member of the Rota?”

  “No.” James paused, then added, “But Father Graf is a key figure in the Society administration.”

  “Was Father Pintozzi a member?”

  “No. At thirty three, he was too young, but there were other reasons. Matteo was charming but impatient. He wanted everything fast and easy. Most recently, he was working closely with Father Pleurre to catalogue and appraise Jesuit-owned assets.”

  “And he was your mole?”

  “Yes. He had an extraordinary way with people. He was a native Italian, and he was easily accepted among the people who formerly worked for Paul Marcinkus. Many of them were Italian. Perhaps, given more time...”

  Rudolfo appeared again, and James fell silent. The waiter cleared their plates while Rudolfo hovered. “I have a special dessert in honor of your visit to Rome,” he said, with visible pride. He plied them with fresh espresso and grappa, then swiveled as if wearing an invisible cape and disappeared.

  The piazza had darkened, but the central fountain and the restaurant were well lighted. The beauty of the Piazza Navona at night captivated even native Romans. Small floodlights created sparkling rainbows in the mist of the fountain streams. The sound of the water blended with the voices of the people in the square to create an atmosphere of gentle exhilaration.

  Michael thought of Susan and how much he would have liked to be with her right now. A young couple passed their table and kissed passionately about twenty feet away. They had the right idea, he thought. He spent his life steeped in murders and crime, missing the feeling of innocence the young pair seemed to enjoy.

  He looked up to see James watching him intently. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “All of you in the Rota seem to have a way of getting at people,” he said. "It's unnerving. I must admit, I’ve never experienced anything quite like it before. It’s as if you can read my mind.”

  James shrugged. “Just training.”

  A mild sense of shock prompted Michael’s startled laugh. “The Jesuits train priests to read minds? If I weren’t born in this century, I’d call it some sort of black magic. You shouldn’t call yourselves the Rota; you should call yourselves the Necromancers.”

  James laughed. “You of all people should not be so quick to apply the term ‘magic’ to unfamiliar phenomena.”

  “I’m not, but when Father de Aragon spoke with me on Sunday...”

  “Easily explained, if not easily practiced,” James said. “Just as a gymnast can perform unusual feats with the body after years of practice, we can do the same with our minds. Unlike the gymnast, where youth is an advantage, age is our advantage. The brain
grows more powerful with years of training and constant use.”

  “What sort of training?”

  “We employ a variety of disciplines. We adopted ideas from Hindu fakirs for altering the physical environment to put the subject at ease, making him receptive to establishing a link. The techniques, which you call mind reading, are merely methods for establishing rapport. If you’ve ever seen a magician do mind-reading tricks, you know how amazing it can seem. But there’s nothing mystical about them.”

  “You make it sound commonplace,” Michael said. “In my work, we are taught how to make people open up to us, and how to tell when they’re lying. But nothing like what you do.”

  James shrugged again. “There’s a lot more to human communication than we can easily explain. Most of our communication is nonverbal, and most of our thoughts never find oral expression. Be assured, there is nothing supernatural about what we are doing.”

  Michael wasn’t satisfied. James’s answers were too slick, almost rehearsed. He had actually explained nothing.

  “There’s more to it than that. There was something very strange about Father de Aragon. Father Herzog was even stranger. They have a weird hold over people. I can’t quite put a finger on it, but…”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is hypnotism,” James said.

  Michael stared at him. “Hypnotism?”

  James laughed. “Have you forgotten your Jesuit lore? You’ve been missing a lot of obvious clues, and I have to say I’m disappointed in you. Quite a few strange things have been happening around you that you haven’t figured out. I’m waiting for you to wake up.”

  Michael felt annoyed. “I’d like you to explain that.”

  “I’ll explain the hypnotism, but some of it will have to wait until later. For now, do you recall learning about Father Gassner?”

  It took a moment’s thought, but then he remembered. “Yes, a little. But I thought that was a fable.”