None of the three men had known of Matteo Pintozzi’s role as a spy for the Society, and none was aware that he had passed on sensitive information as a ruse to gain the Archangels’ trust. No, Michael corrected himself, that wasn’t quite true. The Society’s traitor might have been the recipient of Matteo’s bait, and might have doubted Matteo’s loyalty. Still, that was a reason to keep Matteo alive, not to kill him. A double agent could be used to the traitor’s advantage so long as he didn’t know the Archangeli were on to his game.
***
Michael sat for half an hour in his car, parked in the rotunda at the base of the sweeping staircase that led to the entrance door of the Lord Byron Hotel. He wanted to talk to Susan. He knew she had issued an implied invitation, but could he live with himself if he did this? He glanced at the passenger seat, at the bouquet of orchids he’d bought, and asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing.
He wanted to ask Susan a few questions. Hadn’t he seen her in the crowd at the Vatican Museum the morning Father Pintozzi was murdered? She’d had reddish hair, he was sure. Why did she bleach it? If she was at the museum, why had she never asked him about the murder? It sounded crazy, the more he thought about it. Perhaps he was mistaken. Yet he couldn’t shake his doubts, or his desire. He wrestled with both for a few more minutes. Finally he made his decision, got out of the car and walked up the steps.
He knocked gently on Susan’s door. She opened it as if expecting him, and Michael extended an armful of orchids.
“You are a dinosaur,” Susan said, looking at the orchids. “I expected you last night, but better late than never.”
She crossed to her dressing table and put down the flowers, unable to hide her smile of pleasure. Her casual manner disconcerted Michael. There was so much he wanted to know about her. But was that wise? He was married and she was obviously too willing. He had made a mistake, and was half prepared to leave. She turned and gave him a speculative look, then walked back over to him.
"I'm glad you came.” She moved to face him and brushed his hair off his forehead with her hand. She put her arms around him, and he bent to kiss her.
He was excited and nervous, as if it were his first time. But he wanted to take this slowly, have a drink and talk a little. He had imagined them touching each other, as if by accident. He wanted to build up to this as if the depth of their attraction surprised them, as if making love had been unplanned.
Susan unbuttoned her blouse. Her gestures seemed matter-of-fact. She quickly removed her blouse and brassiere, while Michael mutely watched her. She reached for his hand and drew it towards her naked breasts.
“Don’t,” he said unsteadily. “I just came to drop off the flowers.” He turned and stumbled roughly against an end table before reaching the door to her room. He didn’t trust himself to turn around as he left. He fled the Lord Byron, unsure who he’d surprised more: himself or Susan.
As soon as he got back to his car, he picked up the car phone and called Helena. She answered in a voice filled with sleep.
“I’m coming back to the villa tonight,” he said.
“You woke me up to tell me that?” she answered, a sudden smile in her voice.
“I was hoping you were still awake.” He felt a twinge of embarrassment. He also felt like a fraud, something he had never felt before when he talked to Helena.
He wasn’t sure why he needed to see her so urgently, but it was enough for now that Helena would be waiting for him.
***
Helena closed the door and walked swiftly over to Michael. She drew his head down to hers and kissed him roughly and fully on the mouth. The tension the past few days and Michael’s absence had created a feral hunger. Michael hugged her and lifted her up so that her feet barely touched the ground. She sighed and rubbed her hips against his loins in a gentle, undulating motion. She slipped her right thigh up to his hips and pressed against him, kissing him deeply, then moved her mouth softly down his neck and gently sucked at the sensitive skin.
She wore no stockings, and her legs were smooth and bare. He could feel her heat through the thin silk of her dress. Her perfume was heady, combined with the musky aroma of arousal.
Michael was so hard that he pushed her away a little, afraid that he might explode right then. Helena gave a little growl of protest, but he held her hips away from his and let her feet touch the floor. She pushed him towards the bed and then down. She pressed her mouth against his and slid her hands over his torso, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and pushing the cloth aside to expose his bare chest.
Next she slipped her panties down and kicked them away with her sandaled feet. She reached down and slowly removed her sandals, leaning her body against his. She unbuttoned her dress, and he saw that her nipples were hard.
She kissed him again, more deeply now, and pressed her firm, rounded breasts against him as she undid his belt buckle. It took all his willpower to keep from coming while her hands fluttered at his zipper, touching him, stroking him, maddening him.
She moved a little away to let him calm down a bit, but kept her lips pressed to his. Her tongue sought his, flicking in, flicking out. She moved her mouth down his chest and hovered briefly above the area he most wanted her to touch. Then she shifted downward, running her lips over his thighs, over his testicles, and back to his thighs again while her hands caressed his stomach.
Suddenly she took him in her mouth, sucking him, flicking her tongue against the head of his penis, then sucking again. He tried to raise her up to him, but she laughed softly and pushed him down. She took him to the point of orgasm, then stopped and stroked him lightly, letting him calm down a little again.
He thought he was back in control, but she mounted him, riding him. She was wet and hot, and he slid easily in and out while her inner muscles caressed his cock. She bent down and kissed his mouth, moving her hips up and down against him. Her hair brushed the side of his face. She controlled the rhythm and the pace, and she used her hands to control his movements beneath her.
Michael tried to wait, but he couldn’t anymore. He came in hot powerful bursts, writhing with loud moans.
Gradually, he came back to conscious awareness. Helena held his head in her hands and kissed him. She looked into his eyes and smiled, a feline expression of triumph. “Feeling better, Mr. Visconte?”
“Never better, Helena.” He had nearly said Irena, and for a moment panic gripped him. He didn't want her to notice; he pulled her close and kissed her long and deeply on the mouth.
“Good. That was for you,” Helena said. “Rest while you can, because the next one is for me.”
Michael held her in his arms while she nestled against his chest. He was glad she couldn't see his face. He was wide awake. The sex had taken care of his physical need, but it hadn’t brought him peace of mind. He didn't know if his urgency was for Susan or if he had been reaching back for Irena when he went to Susan’s room. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had just used Helena, something he had never done to his wife before.
CHAPTER XVI
Rome
Wednesday, June 19
As soon as he awoke, Michael phoned his answering machine in Rome for messages. One from James said he would meet Michael and Susan for breakfast at the Lord Byron at nine, where they would pick up Susan for the trip outside of Rome.
The drive from Ostia took just over half an hour. James was waiting in the dining room when Michael arrived, virtually on Susan’s heels. Susan gave Michael an amused look, as if she sensed his consternation. Whether James noticed anything, Michael couldn’t tell.
The Lord Byron’s restaurant had a cheerful intimacy: the colors were light, the room airy. Soft white tablecloths and polished silver adorned the tables, and the chairs had bright-colored plush cushions that one could sink into after a long night on the town.
A waiter appeared with pots of strong, aromatic coffee. As he drank, Michael thought there was nothing better in the morning than fresh coffee in Rome. He tried not t
o think about the fact that he was having breakfast with Susan after thinking of her while making love to his wife.
They helped themselves from a buffet of croissants, rolls, cereals, fruits, yogurts and juices. Within twenty minutes they were finished and went out to James’s car, a cream-colored Rolls Royce Corniche III. James whisked past the morning traffic to Ciampino airport, where the Society parked its private planes.
James helped Susan climb into the twin-engine Cessna and stow her shoulder bag, and then performed his preflight check. Fifteen minutes later, they were soaring towards the clear blue skies over Rome.
The flight from Rome to their destination took just over an hour. Michael spent most of his time looking out the window at the passing landscape. Flying below the clouds, they had a clear view of the suburbs of Rome, then some smaller towns and finally the bucolic countryside. James landed on a private airstrip somewhere north of Rome and south of Assisi.
The landing strip only had a few hangars and was used by some of the local landed gentry. They left the plane tucked inside a small but solidly constructed shelter out of sight from the road, then went outside to where a young man waited by a car. They drove twenty minutes or so past some farms. The only signs of life were a couple of cars on the back roads and few penned animals.
Their car finally rolled to a stop in front of a large cathedral. The grounds surrounding the old church were overgrown with weeds, and the stonework looked eroded by weather.
“This building is certainly an antique,” Susan said as they got out.
“What’s this all about?” Michael asked.
“That should be clear once we’re inside,” James said. He bounded up the stone stairs to the doors of the church and produced a large metal key from his cassock. He unlocked the massive doors and swung them open. No sound from their hinges, Michael noted; someone took care to keep them well-oiled.
Devoid of pews and statues, the ancient church looked like a warehouse full of antique furniture. Michael recognized some of them: Louis XIV, Biedermeyer, Queen Anne, even some antique Chinese pieces. There were armoires, headboards, desks, humidors, clothes chests and small tables.
Susan wandered around, gazing wide-eyed at the collection. Michael walked over to a cluster of Louis XIV desks and ran his hands over the wood, evaluating and appraising each piece. “Who owns all this?”
“The Society. It’s all for sale.”
“But—” Michael subsided abruptly as a thought struck him. “Do you have any tools here?”
James’s face revealed nothing. “There must be some around here somewhere.” He glanced around, then walked over to a corner and returned with a well-equipped tool chest. Michael took it and scanned the crowded chamber, then chose a Queen Anne chair upholstered with a delicate flowered needlepoint.
He took a large screwdriver from the chest. “May I?”
James waved a hand. “Be my guest.”
Michael flipped the chair on its back and removed the cloth covering under the seat cushion. With a few deft strokes he pried the seat off. He ran his hand over its back and inspected it carefully. The upholstery tacks were expertly fastened, but he saw no other marks on the seat. No trace of earlier tacks removed during re-upholstering, as should be expected for an antique chair.
James smiled down at Michael. “Well?”
“They’re good,” Michael said. “They’re very good.”
“You mean in good condition,” Susan said. She had come up to him while he worked, standing close enough to hint at intimacy. Michael flicked a glance at James, but the priest made no comment.
“No,” Michael said. “They are very good reproductions. I can’t be sure without looking at each piece, of course, but I think they’re all very good fakes. The wood has been stressed to make the furniture look old, but these pieces were made recently.”
Susan looked shocked. “I certainly couldn’t tell!”
James kept silent. Michael rose to his full height and addressed him. “You knew they were fakes,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Did you think I’d be fooled?” Michael asked with indignation.
James grinned. “No.”
Michael’s next words came out with an edge. “So what is the Society planning to do with this stuff? Sell it to gullible buyers?”
To his amazement, James started laughing. It took him several seconds to regain control. “Of all the reactions I expected,” he said, “that was not among them.”
“Then what is this all about?” Michael asked.
“The Society does want to sell this furniture. But not as antiques. We want to sell them for exactly what they are, very good reproductions. I understand there’s a good market for this kind of thing.”
Relieved, Michael chuckled. “Sorry. All the chicanery lately has got me seeing bogeymen in dark corners.”
“You're not far off the mark. The Society confiscated this furniture from a gang that was trying to do exactly what you feared, defraud unsuspecting buyers.”
Michael looked at the furniture and shook his head with admiration. “This really is good work.” He paused and ran his hands over a chair. “I’ll eventually find the men who made this. We could do a healthy legitimate business with them.”
James nodded. “But the furniture is the least of it.” He led them toward a heavy velvet curtain near one side of the chamber and pushed it aside. Michael gasped. Behind it were piles of antique silver platters, stacked from floor to ceiling.
“Sevso silver!” Michael said.
James shook his head. “Not exactly.”
Susan stared at the glittering towers. “What is Sevso silver?”
“Fifth century Roman silver,” Michael explained. “It’s called Sevso because of an inscription on the platters, and it is very valuable.”
“Except this isn’t genuine Sevso silver,” James said. “Father Pintozzi couldn’t verify its authenticity with a visual check, so he ran a few tests. These pieces are fakes.”
“The silver looks real to me,” Susan said.
“Oh, it is,” James said. “The silver alone is quite valuable. The metal’s price is skyrocketing, and the workmanship adds even more value. But they aren’t fifth century Roman silver. They’re masterfully done copies.”
Michael swept his gaze over the cathedral space. “I’ll have someone from the department come back and take inventory. We’ll need a team. This is a lot.”
“Already done,” James said. “We have pictures and measurements to go with the list.”
“This will make a great story,” Susan said. She rummaged in her shoulder bag and pulled out a small camera. “Do you mind if I take a few pictures?”
“Go ahead,” James said. “I’ve had photos taken, and you’re free to use them as well.”
”I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.
“Just write a good story. I’ve made arrangements for you to stay at Michael’s villa in Ostia. Helena is expecting you. Much more beautiful and quiet than the Lord Byron. A perfect place to write. Don’t you agree, Michael?”
Michael couldn’t answer. The earth seemed to tilt slightly, and the blood roared in his ears. Something was going on here that he didn’t understand, but he could read nothing in James’s angelic expression. His stomach turned over, and he prayed Susan would turn down the invitation.
Susan grinned. “Great idea. “I’ll have my things packed in no time.”
James nodded with satisfaction. “When we get back to Rome, I’ll drop you off at the Lord Byron. Michael and I have some business to take care of at the Vatican. After we’re finished, we’ll swing by and pick you up. We’ll all have dinner at the villa.”
Michael forced a weak smile.
CHAPTER XVII
Vatican City
Wednesday, June 19
Father Rolf Graf sat as if he had just turned to stone. He could not believe what he was hearing. He had expected they might oust him from the top administration, but they couldn�
�t kick him out of the Society. They didn’t have the authority. And it wasn’t just the Society. They threatened to defrock him, to kick him out of the priesthood.
He looked around the familiar Jesuit study, with its polished wood paneling, heavy antique furnishings and Persian carpets. He wanted to look anywhere but at the three priests sitting across from him. He felt warm and knew his face was flushed. Stupid, to show any loss of control like that.
It was all so impossible, so outrageous. He had no warning. They must have been planning this, plotting against him for a very long time. Just the three of them. Or at least Herzog and Heilman. They had always hated him; they wanted to hold him back.
“You can’t do this,” he growled. “The others won’t go along with it.”
“We are all in agreement,” Father Herzog said. “This is not just our decision; this is the decision of the Rota.”
Graf scoffed. “It won’t stick. Some priests will never go along with your forcing me out. James, you support me in this, don’t you?”
He was shocked when Father James shook his head.
“No,” James said. His tone was gentle, and his eyes showed regret. “I don’t. I advocated for this action. You cannot break your vow of celibacy and remain a Jesuit, let alone a priest. You must choose.”
Graf sagged in his chair. He was willing to fight these two old men, but James was too much. James hadn’t sponsored this, he couldn’t have. They were lying. They had pressured James. James was a priest for modern times, he would never go along with sending the Society back to the dark ages.
Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits Page 15