Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits

by Tavakoli, Janet M.

  Helena turned away and seemed to consider something. Then she turned back toward him, her posture upright and strong.

  “Confused,” she murmured. Her voice held more power than a shout. “You bet you’re confused. But I’ll unconfuse you right now. If you want to stay in this marriage, you have to choose. No half way, no back and forth, no maybes, no denials, no lies.”

  “Helena...”

  “Stop,” she said firmly. “Susan Chambers can stay here, right here under my nose, right where you put her. But one move in her direction and you’re finished. I’ll divorce you so fast, I won’t have time to take the ring off.”

  “Helena, if you just let me explain...” Explain what, he thought. He couldn’t deny he’d considered being unfaithful. She wouldn’t buy that. Nothing he said right now would ring true.

  He tried again. “You’re throwing away ten years of marriage.”

  “No, Michael. I’m refusing to sully ten years of marriage. You may want to play around with your life, but you can’t do it with mine.” She jerked her head toward the door. “There’s a couch in your study downstairs. Go get yourself a pillow and a blanket.” She walked away then, into the adjoining bathroom, and shut the door behind her.

  Slowly, Michael left the bedroom. A storage closet down the hall yielded a blanket and pillow. He pulled them out, moving sluggishly as if in shock. In their ten years of marriage, Helena had never made him sleep on the couch. Then again, he’d never given her a reason.

  She was right, he realized as he carried his bedding downstairs. It would have been easy to cheat and even easier to walk out if Helena was the kind of woman who blinded herself with half-truths. But she wasn’t. In her own way, she was as clear about her life as James was with his. As Michael resigned himself to a miserable night, he realized he had never loved her more, and he had never been more turned on by her.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Vatican City

  Thursday, June 20

  Michael drove to the Vatican in his blue Mercedes with James by his side. Michael was getting a tour of the Society’s financial trading room, followed by the meeting with the Latin Americans in the late morning. He and James had breakfasted and then ridden in silence for ten minutes. Finally, Michael couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “James,” he said. “What are you trying to do to me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What was the idea, inviting Susan to the villa?”

  “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t have?”

  His innocent tone made Michael angry. “You knew damn well what you were doing. How dare you interfere?”

  “Interfere with what?”

  Michael was exasperated. This wasn’t the way men played the game. He didn’t want to be explicit; these things were always tacit. Yet here James was, forcing Michael to spell it out. Michael’s anger evaporated in a sudden rush of shame.

  “Your life is coming into focus,” James said kindly. “Is that so hard to handle?”

  It was hard, he thought. Very hard. James was forcing him to look at his life, to decide what was important to him, to determine his life’s meaning. “No one asked you to be my guardian angel,” Michael said. “You Jesuits have enough to do, playing the avenging Archangels against the rebellious ones.”

  James smiled. “Comes with the service. But I’m on your side. I’m a little disappointed that you haven’t seen through the other side’s attempts at manipulation. It’s been right in front of you.”

  “You said that before. Explain.”

  “First stop the car and let me drive,” James said.

  Michael pulled over and changed seats with his friend. James pulled back onto the road and drove slowly through the streets of Rome’s outer suburbs. Then he slowed down even more, almost to a stop.

  “Look to the right,” he said. “What do you see?”

  Michael looked out at the streetscape. On a nearby light pole, a placard at eye level held a picture of Susan’s face superimposed on a blow-up image of Irena. Michael’s jaw dropped. “What is that?” he asked.

  “Auto-suggestion,” James said. “It’s a classic magician’s trick to manipulate people into thinking a certain way.”

  James drove on. About half a mile down the road was a banner wrapped around a pole, printed with the same composite picture of Susan and Irena. Michael saw words under it. “Susan is Irena,” he read out loud. A feeling of unreality swept over him as more such images appeared, spaced intermittently along the way to Rome. In a shop window, a mannequin with a honey-blonde wig wore a replica of Irena’s favorite blue dress. A placard underneath read SUSAN in bold letters.

  “James, this is incredible!”

  “Yes. These have been up for weeks. Every time you traveled from Rome to Ostia, or to the Vatican, your subconscious was bombarded with these images.”

  “But who would go to all this trouble?”

  “Someone who knows how important you are to us. Someone with access to your personnel file. Someone who wants you upset and distracted. It can only be our traitor in the Society. Only he would have access to the necessary information.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I have faith in you,” James said, “and there are some things one has to work through for oneself. Your file is old. Shortly after Irena’s death this might have worked, but they underestimated how strong you’ve grown. And they picked the wrong sort of woman.”

  Michael realized this was true. He was stronger now. He loved Helena, although he realized he hadn’t appreciated her enough.

  “It did distract me,” he admitted. “Susan already looked like Irena; auto-suggestion just reinforced that. But Susan never met Irena, didn’t know how to act like her. And my life has taken a new direction since then anyway.”

  “Even so, you worried me for a time. These techniques are surprisingly effective.”

  Michael suddenly felt angry again. The Archangeli used a PSYOP to sucker-punched his psyche. He would have felt less violated if they’d stolen his identity. They had manipulated his thoughts, and that outraged him. He felt manipulated from all sides, though he had to admit that the Jesuits’ motives and techniques were more to his liking. Regardless, he wanted his mind back.

  A new thought struck him, and he felt a jolt of fear. Susan Chambers was at the villa, with easy access to his family. Was she involved with the Archangeli somehow, or just a dupe? He had no way to know. He took a deep breath and fought for calm. Helena and the boys weren’t defenseless, he reminded himself. The Specialists on guard at the villa were easily a match for a lone woman, assuming Susan posed any threat. Helena could hold her own as well. She’d fight like a tigress to protect Anthony and Luke.

  ***

  James led Michael through the computer room, down a narrow hallway and through another large wooden door. They entered a large chamber with about fifty priests and lay people in it, talking into phones and staring at screens.

  “Welcome to our securities trading room,” James said.

  The Society traded actively, James had told him on the way over. They owned a satellite receiver and got Reuters for the U.S. market prices and news, Topic for the U.K. markets, Telekurs for Switzerland and the European market, and Bloomberg for additional U.S. market data. Private broker screens linked them directly to trading rooms at the Swiss banks. Their state of the art trading systems were wildly profitable.

  Michael walked up to an empty seat. A small nameplate identified it as Father Matteo Pintozzi’s old spot. He idly sifted through some papers, then picked up a file that lay near them and opened it. It contained incomprehensible symbols; not computer information, something different. Perhaps a code of some kind. He was so intent on puzzling out the symbols that he started in surprise when he glanced up to see Father Pleurre hovering over him.

  “You might have made a little noise,” Michael said. He closed the file, but kept hold of it. “Pretty impressive. I’ve never seen a better designed system.”<
br />
  “And you never will.” Father Pleurre gave a satisfied smile. Then his gaze dropped to the file in Michael’s hands. His smile vanished. “Where did you get this?” he demanded. “It wasn’t here this morning.” The agitated priest snatched the file from Michael’s hand and leafed through it.

  His reaction put Michael on alert. “Right here on Father Pintozzi’s desk,” Michael replied, keeping his voice calm.

  “Did you change the order of the papers in this file?” Father Pleurre barked.

  “No.” Michael watched the other man closely. “I apologize if there’s a problem. James told me I could look through anything I wished.”

  His courteous reply and unruffled demeanor seemed to mollify Father Pleurre. “I should apologize to you,” the priest said, calmer now. “I want you to feel free. I was just surprised to see this particular file here.”

  “Perhaps the file belonged to Father Pintozzi,” Michael said. “He may have been working on something before he died.”

  Father Pleurre shook his head. “No. The file did not belong to him.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Mine. Encoded computer passwords. I didn’t even know it was missing. I have most of the passwords memorized. I rarely refer to it.”

  “But Father Pintozzi wasn’t in your code group.”

  “No.” Father Pleurre looked even more upset.

  Something dropped into place in Michael’s head. Before he could nail it down, James interrupted them, signaling them to follow him into another meeting room. They entered the cavernous Papal corridor and walked to a conference room three doors down. Video and slide projectors were set up on one side of the room, and a sheaf of papers marked “Confidential” had been placed at each seat of the unoccupied conference table.

  A group of expensively dressed businessmen stood near the table, talking with animated gestures. As Michael entered with James and Father Pleurre, several of the men turned to acknowledge their arrival. Father de Aragon was there as well, along with another middle-aged priest. The two strode toward Michael, the second priest extending his hand.

  “Allow me to introduce Father Zavala,” Father de Aragon said. "He just returned from South America earlier this morning.”

  “A pleasure.” Father Zavala firmly shook Michael’s hand.

  Father de Aragon introduced Michael to the Latin Americans. Their names were a roll call of the powerful. Roberto Romito of the wealthy Argentine family; Juan Huerta, whose family owned the Rio Rosa, Argentina’s largest bank; Francisco Valle of Argentina; Aldo Dramis of Chile; another Chilean, Juan Lutz, whose family controlled Banco Lutz; Adrian Ibarra, who controlled Grupo Ibarra, the third largest financial group in Mexico; Adrian’s cousin Esteban Ibarra, who controlled the Ibarra stock brokerage firm; and Carlos Valentin of the family that owned Banco Valentin in Venezuela. The remaining two men were representatives, one for Eliodoro Campos of Chile's Banco Campos. Emilio Loya, the Mexican industrialist, also sent a representative.

  Each of these men represented a cache of personal wealth greater than $1 billion. They controlled key industries and had strong political influence all over Latin America.

  The men chatted cordially with Michael for a few minutes, asking polite questions about his background. Each gave Michael a business card and urged him to stay in touch. James took him aside briefly and spoke in a low whisper: “In Latin America, these men are our political and financial cover. They want to get rid of the corrupt priests, tax evaders and other organized crime as much as we do.”

  After a few more minutes of pleasantries, the meeting began. They were all here, Michael knew, to sort out what the Archangeli had done with the money they took from tax evaders.

  Michael scanned through the hardcopy and was ready before the others had gotten through the first few pages. He knew what was in them; he’d compiled the data in the first place. “It seems that the Archangeli were pretty unimaginative in their methods,” he said. “They used priests as couriers to carry currency out of the country. A few bought jewelry and smuggled it out. Other tax dodgers made a donation to the Church in their home country, which later showed up as a bank balance for them in another country. The money was transferred directly from a Church account to the accounts of several shell companies, some incorporated in the Vatican, to disguise their true ownership.”

  “This is an outrage!” The speaker was Carlos Valentin. “The Archangeli funneled some of their funds through Banco Provincial, my family’s bank in Venezuela.”

  “The Church is outraged, as well,” Father Pleurre said dryly.

  Juan Lutz frowned at the papers in front of him. “This looks extremely complicated. It will take forever to unravel.”

  “Look in the back,” Michael said. “I drew charts showing the flow of money, the companies and their true ownerships.” He’d enjoyed that, using his skills as a Ph.D. in finance to untangle the fraud. He often did it for the Specialists. It was fun for him, similar to solving a crossword puzzle.

  “They used the Vatican and Liechtenstein to set up most of their phony corporations,” Michael went on. “For example,”—he flipped to page five—“this account is set up in the name of RANA Corporation. Apollo Corporation owns sixty percent of RANA, and Delphi Corporation owns forty percent. Tech Corporation owns thirty percent of Apollo, and Mark Corporation owns seventy percent of Apollo. Lana Corporation owns fifty percent of Delphi, as does Capa Corporation.”

  “You figured that out just by looking at this information?” Lutz asked.

  “Here, let me show you.” Michael walked over to him and pointed out a chart halfway down the page. “We’ll track Tech Corporation’s ownership percentage of Apollo, and how that comes from RANA. You’ll see here that Tech belongs to Mr. Garsch, a well-known German financier. RANA corporation’s only asset is a $1.2 billion cash account in a Basel bank. Of that $1.2 billion, Mr. Garsch’s share is thirty percent of Apollo’s sixty percent, or $216 million. And that’s just in the RANA account. Tech also had part ownership in a few other corporations.”

  Lutz grunted. “Not so hard after all.”

  “Consider this,” Michael said. “Without the Jesuit information, it would be impossible to unravel this web. These are private corporations. They don’t have to disclose anything.”

  Looking somber, Juan Lutz nodded.

  ”We have the names of the Archangeli who set up these Swiss accounts,” Michael added. “We can link them all the way back to specific tax evaders and deposits. We have the entire ball of wax right here.” Except for Father Miro, he thought. It troubled him that they still didn’t know who the Archangels’ leader really was.

  One of the Argentines, Juan Huerta, spoke up. “I recognize several Italian Mafia names. Their cash holdings are smaller than those of the Latin Americans, and their money is not mixed in with the others.”

  “That’s right,” Michael said. Huerta’s speed in catching on impressed him. “Those are probably protection fees, a hangover from their former associations. No one surrounded by Italy can run a racket passing money through Italian banks without a kickback.”

  As the meeting continued, Michael’s satisfaction grew. The Latin Americans were prepared to freeze any listed accounts set up in financial institutions they controlled. They wanted to purge the Vatican of involvement with tax evaders while stinging the tax dodgers. Helping the Jesuits would be a delight for them. They further agreed to freeze the accounts of politicos in Latin in America if they gave the Jesuits a hard time.

  At the end of the meeting, a young Jesuit entered with fluted crystal glasses on a tray. Another brought in bottles of chilled Champagne and poured each of them a glass.

  “To new friends,” Father Pleurre said. “And to a brighter future for our Church.”

  They raised their glasses and drank.

  ***

  Michael left the Vatican apartments with Father de Aragon and James, eager to get back to his department to monitor the Specialists’ preparations for their pa
rt in upcoming events. The three men had just stepped into the square filled with tourists when a shot rang out. A bullet struck the pillar just behind Michael’s head and ricocheted off the stone into a woman’s handbag. She screamed, but was unhurt. Suddenly, everyone within twenty feet of Michael was screaming.

  “Get down! Take cover!” Michael shouted. He crouched just as another shot rang out. It whizzed past his left ear.

  Father de Aragon dropped down beside him and grabbed both of his arms, placing his own body between Michael and the line of fire. The priest locked eyes with him. “Michael—”

  Another shot. Father de Aragon’s head exploded like a ripe watermelon hit with a sledgehammer. Bits of shattered bone, pieces of brain and clumps of dark hair splattered across Michael’s body. He heard running footsteps all around him as people fled in a stumbling panic for the protection of the colonnade.

  James moved to his side, shielding Michael as they moved in swift crab-like fashion behind the nearest pillar. The shots had come sniper-style from up above, across the piazza. Unless there was another gunman, they were safe behind the column of stone.

  Michael tried to wrest free of his friend’s grasp. He felt sick, his jacket and neck damp with de Aragon’s blood and brain matter. “There are more people in the square.”

  “No.” James held him tightly. “There won’t be any more shots. The sniper was after you. Without you, the Society can’t make its evidence public. The Archangeli’s allies in the Italian government and the Mafia are too entrenched for us.”

  Was James right? Michael wondered if the sniper was after Father de Aragon. Shock and adrenaline kept him from feeling anything yet, but he knew grief for the dead priest would come.

  Swarms of Vatican guards flooded the square, several running along the parapet where the shots had originated. They were fast and efficient, but Michael knew they would not be fast enough to catch the sniper.