The Diva Crusade (John McRae Book 1)

by Phoenix Ford

  THE DIVA CRUSADE

  by Phoenix Ford

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business entities, religious organizations, hotels, churches, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business entities, religious organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to my dear cousin, Jan, who encouraged me to pick up the pieces and get on with it.

  To whom therefore has the labor of avenging these wrongs and of recovering the territory fallen, if not upon you?

  ---Pope Urban II, 1095 A.D.

  PROLOGUE

  A dusty and squalid town, Al-Raqqah sat on the northeastern banks of the Euphrates River in Syria, quite ancient going all the way back to a Greek settlement with an assortment of typical deteriorating Arab buildings of several stories each with flat roofs. Goats wandered freely down dirt streets littered with trash. There were only a few old vehicles, mostly small rattle-trap trucks. On this Friday, the Islamic day of worship, the mullahs had rounded up a crowd of several hundred people in front of the largest Sunni mosque. The Shi'ite mosque had been destroyed a year earlier. The Islamic State of Syria and the Levant, the extremist Sunni Islamic group that had taken over huge swaths of territory in Syria and Iraq in an attempt to establish a new Caliphate, was the de facto government. The dictator of Syria no longer had any control here. The Islamic State had more or less made Al-Raqqah its capital as had the Abbasid Caliphate in the late eighth and early ninth centuries. Ugly barren hills rose around the arid town.

  The crowd had been gathered to witness the execution of five more men believed to be Christians from one of the monasteries in this part of Syria, monasteries so ancient they were older than Islam itself. All five men had refused to renounce Jesus Christ as the son of God and to convert to Islam. Their punishment was public execution. Four heads already lay in the bloody dirt.

  The last man to be executed, Youhanna or John in English, was forced to kneel near the four heads. He wore a filthy white thobe stained with blood from the brutal torture sessions. His monk's hood had been stripped from his head when he was captured. Blood ran from the broken teeth in his mouth. He was shaking with fear but repeatedly said the Lord's prayer over and over again. His executioner wore a black balaclava over his face and stood behind Youhanna in front of a black Islamic flag. A man with a video camera was filming the executions for the internet. As the executioner raised his long curved sword the crowd repeatedly shouted "Allah Wu'Akbar! Allah Wu'Akbar!" God is great. Youhanna closed his eyes and briefly heard the swish of the sword before he lost consciousness. It took the executioner three blows to sever Youhanna's head which lay in the dirt. The crowd went wild with delight.

  CHAPTER 1

  The wind was cold and bitter as John McRae rolled his heavy bag off a curb at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. The cab driver waited politely at the rear of the Mercedes B200, its trunk already open.

  “Bon jour, Monsieur. Vous connaissez Hotel Langlois?,” John inquired in his best university French, grimacing as an icy gust of wind sent shivers down the back of his neck. The light weight leather jacket he had worn on the overnight flight from Houston was not going to cut it for December in Paris.

  “Which arrondissement, Monsieur?” the driver replied in English, already assessing the lanky American’s nationality.

  “The Ninth --- not far from the Boulevard Haussman.” John was relieved, too tired for lack of sleep to struggle in rusty French. It always took at least three days to regain his French lips, as he liked to tell friends. He had spent the long night in the Air France business section pouring over his notes and a preliminary draft version of the letter of intent he had banged out on his laptop over the constant screams of the two year old in the seat behind him. Now inside the French taxi, he handed the driver a print-out with the hotel’s address. It was a small hotel he liked for its old-fashioned cage elevator and belle époque décor, comfortable but somewhat antiquated rooms still retaining the charm of a bygone era.

  It took almost an hour to drive to the hotel due to the distance and heavy traffic. Generally John only took two taxis in Paris: one from the airport when he arrived and one to the airport when he departed, much preferring the faster Metro system to get around the city which he regarded as the best in the world with lots of Metro stops. He liked to walk to destinations from the nearest Metro stop rather than being stuck somewhere in traffic. Besides, Paris by its very nature is a pedestrian city best enjoyed on foot.

  As they approached the large square near the hotel John admired the Byzantine domes of Sacre Coeur rising at the top of the hill in Montmartre in the distance. He loved the hotel’s 19th century neighborhood full of artists’ ateliers from an earlier time, some of them now museums. It was a somewhat forgotten little pocket neighborhood in Paris, but in the early 19th century it had been called the “New Athens” when it was occupied by artists, musicians and writers. Chopin and his female lover Georges Sand had lived in the neighborhood, and Delacroix, Degas, Moreau and others all had studios in the area. Rue St-Lazare still has some interesting shops from an earlier time and some good take-out food choices near the hotel. John had stayed here so many times that he felt at home.

  After the driver pulled up in front of the hotel John got out, took his bag and paid the driver As he started to enter the hotel he noticed some scaffolding five stories above, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. They were always working on these old buildings. Just as he reached for the door the loud heavy crash of a cement mixer hit the pavement approximately three inches from where John stood, broken scaffolding falling to the ground around him. Fortunately nobody was walking nearby when it happened. John looked up but saw no one. Miraculously he was unscathed.

  “Monsieur, are you alright?” The late middle-aged blonde at the desk rushed to the door, opening it for John.

  “Yes, luckily nothing touched me,” he replied, brushing some dust off his blue suit jacket. “You should report this to the city authorities. The contractor needs to improve his safety practices.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Don’t worry, I will call immediately. They will have to pay a fine and maybe have their license suspended. I am happy you were not injured."

  “Merci, madame.”

  “It is nice to see you again, monsieur. Please come in. We have your favorite room ready.” She smiled and held the door for him.

  After settling into his room John turned on his favorite classical station, Radio Classique, took a shower and put on a pair of pajamas. He planned to work for a short time on the letter of intent and then try to sleep for a few hours. Despite all the advice so many Americans receive to force themselves to stay awake until nighttime after an all night flight to Europe, John learned years ago that because he never slept a wink on airplanes he did better to sleep for a couple of hours when he got to his hotel, get up in the late afternoon, have dinner and then go to bed at the regular local time. Going to Europe he usually adapted to the time change quickly. However, he had more problems adjusting when he returned to the U.S.

  Opening his brief case, he pulled out the potential acquisition file. By profession John was a lawyer and worked in Houston, Texas for a large equipment manufacturer of wellhead equipment and control systems for major oil and gas projects around the world, many of them offshore West Africa, in the North Sea, the Middle East and other rough environments. Although he was excellent at negotiating the legal terms and conditions for the enormous projects, most of them priced in the hundreds of millions of dollars, he was also part of a small prelimina
ry “due

  diligence” team looking at smaller companies his employer was considering buying. Upon request by the Chief Financial Officer of the company, John together with Amy Cho from Finance, Ron Hassler from Tax and an engineer qualified to assess technology would visit the prospective companies, spend several days in their offices, and finally make a recommendation to the Chief Financial Officer. If it was decided to proceed John would draft and negotiate a letter of intent to purchase at an agreed price subject to various conditions being met.

  The small manufacturer in Angola which brought John to Paris to negotiate with its French owners was already qualified to sell to Sonangol, the national oil company of Angola. This fact made it an attractive candidate for acquisition. Buying this company would assist his employer in satisfying strict requirements for developing local industry. Bids to construct projects with greater “local content” had a more favorable chance of success.

  At this point the letter of intent was really just in outline form because there were too many unknowns to be specific about much. As John started his review he suddenly thought of the incident with the cement bucket and realized it had affected him more than he recognized when it happened. The space between life and death had only been a few inches. And it was not the first time something like this had happened lately. With a shudder he relived what happened the week before at a plant in Aberdeen when a truckload of enormous metal pipe suddenly fell loose from its trailer as he was walking past it. It was such a close call he had had to sit down for a few minutes to compose himself. And the previous week in New York he had suddenly been pushed from behind on a subway platform and would surely have been thrown into the path of the oncoming train had a large black man not caught him just in the nick of time. These incidents were starting to seem more than a coincidence.

  With this worrisome thought he turned out the light for his nap.

  CHAPTER 2

  Six months later

  Contessa Eleanora Ravasini opened her eyes to the early Rome light in her cavernous bedroom. She lay motionless and stared up at the sixteenth-century coffered ceiling decorated with figures from mythology. Eleanora’s family had lived for almost five hundred years in this ornate villa in one of the leafiest parts of Rome on the side of the river opposite from Piazza Navona and the Via del Corso. Being from one of Rome’s oldest and traditionally most prominent families, Eleanora’s ancestor had been a pope for a brief period in the late sixteenth century. However, the family had mostly died off. Her younger sister, Claudia, had a son, the only heir to the title and what fortune remained. The family still owned vineyards near Naples, but to pay for the upkeep of this villa Eleanora had to work. Even though the villa was filled with priceless art, none of it could be sold to pay for upkeep or renovations due to the Italian historical conservation laws. To have an easier time getting a job Eleanora worked under the assumed name, Eleanora Campisi, because the family was so well known. They were still well connected to the Curia at St. Peter’s and were sometimes consulted for their opinions concerning Church policies.

  Eleanora’s day job was as a project manager in the oil and gas industry, working for a medium-sized equipment manufacturer selling turbines mostly for LNG plants around the world. She had her Master’s degree in chemical engineering and was an excellent project manager, sometimes completing projects for much less than the estimated cost and bringing in extra revenue for the company. She often received large bonuses from her employer. Her clients were the Exxons, BPs, Chevrons, Shells and other major oil companies around the world. Eleanora’s company was a subsidiary of a large French-based group but had its own local management at an office building and plant in an industrial section of Rome. It, in turn, owned and managed Angolaturbine plus two other small companies in Angola. Except for the top brass of the company nobody knew Eleanora’s real name or realized she was the scion of an ancient Roman family, had a title and lived in an historical villa. She was so successful in her work that the company gladly protected her true identity.

  Eleanora stretched luxuriously across the four poster bed. It was summer so the canopy over the bed was off. She gazed up at the ceiling approximately sixteen feet above with its mythological scenes, mostly Bacchus with a selection of nymphs. Along one wall six niches held six ancient Roman busts. The other walls were lined with a row of priceless paintings by such luminaries as Guido Reni, Marcello Venusti, Raffaelo Sanzio, Tiziano Vecellio and others.

  Today was Saturday. Eleanora reached for her robe at the foot of the bed, slipped into some house shoes and made her way to the bathroom. After breakfast she planned to meet Monsignor Roberto Polombo at a coffee shop off Via Conciliazone near the Vatican.

  The coffee shop was in a shopping area a few blocks from the entrance to the piazza in front of St. Peter’s, not far from Villa Ravasini. A crush of people stood drinking their cappuccinos at the bar in front, but Eleanora spotted Monsignor Polombo seated at a small table to the rear. The building was very old, but the interior of the coffee shop was sleek and modern with low-backed sofas along the walls and small tables with chairs. A large bowl filled with the most perfect-looking oranges dominated the bar in front of the espresso machine. Decorating the room were large framed photographs of a Mussolini period renovation of the monument to Victor Emmanuel II, locally known as the “wedding cake.”

  The Monsignor smiled broadly when he saw Eleanora cross the room and was standing as she approached the table. Strikingly beautiful at age 48 with a voluptuous body, long black hair tied into a twist and an aristocratic profile, she still turned heads when she crossed the room. She wore what looked like a dark gray Armani suit with a single strand of pink pearls, small diamond and pink pearl earrings and an old but classic Bulgari watch. In reality, like many well-dressed Romans her clothes came from Rome’s Prati district just north of the Vatican where high quality knock-offs were sold for a fraction of the price.

  “Buongiorno, cara!” Polombo held out his hand in greeting and shook hers warmly. She quickly sat at one of the chairs at the table. The monsignor looked immaculate in his black vestments. The tall thin priest had dark but graying hair, was about 62 years old, and like Eleanora, was also from one of Rome’s old distinguished families. In fact, his uncle had been Pope during his childhood, and he had a cousin who was a Cardinal.

  “Buongiorno, Monsignor!” Eleanora smiled at him as she sat on the chair. She had known Polombo since she was a child when he was studying for the priesthood. He was an expert cultural anthropologist with a Ph.D. from the University of Bologna and was in charge of the Holy See’s enormous collection of Roman busts and other marble sculptures from antiquity. Most of them had been catalogued long ago, but he was working on a special project to identify busts of unknown persons. He enjoyed some success by finding the historical records related to the discovery of particular busts, but it was limited because so many had been found buried in ruins during the past centuries with no way to identify the person depicted. Some were caesars, but others were generals, senators and other important public figures from the ancient Roman world.

  “Cappucino?,” Polombo inquired.

  “Si, per favore,” she replied. The waiter was nearby and took her order.

  “What brings you out so early on a Saturday morning?” the monsignor asked.

  “The Americans are returning to Paris to take another look at Angolaturbine Industries.”

  “Tell me again exactly what makes this company interesting to them?”

  “In addition to making turbines and already qualifying to do business with Sonangol, the national oil company of Angola, Angolaturbine is the only local company technically qualified to make certain high pressure equipment necessary for many deep water oil production operations.” Eleanora took a sip of her cappuccino.

  “And what makes them interesting to us?”

  “Angolaturbine is largely owned and operated by Angolan Fabrication Française, my employer's parent company in Paris. In addition to the manuf
acture of equipment they do some seismic work, have many explosives and employees who are happy to sell off-the-record for extra money in a country with little regulatory control.” she replied.

  “And you are afraid of what the Americans will find?” he asked.

  “Absolutely. It would be difficult to account for so many explosives sold for the limited amount of seismic work the company does. Once the Americans start full-blown due diligence in examining the operations of Angolaturbine they could uncover the elaborate accounting irregularities used to conceal the sales.”

  “I thought you told me that after their visit to the Paris offices of Angolaturbine last December the Americans had lost interest.”

  “Yes,” said Eleanora. “From all reports it certainly looked that way at that time. The French wanted too much for their controlling share of the company, but because of financial pressure on their group they recently reduced the price to something more reasonable. That move brought the Americans back to the table.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “I’d like you to determine current levels of supply in Syria and how much more explosives we need to start operations while I find a new supplier.”

  “Okay. That will only take a phone call to Greece on Monday. I know that the brothers of St. Pachomius are ready to start as soon as possible, especially after the Islamic State recently destroyed the St. Elian monastery dating from the 5th century and is murdering hundreds of Syrian Christians. The brothers are more than ready to pick up the cross of Jesus and fight back with the same terror used against them. This evil must be stopped to protect the innocent. Maybe the Islamic State will rethink its tactics when mosques and markets in Al-Raqqah and Mosul are exploding with suicide bombers just like they deploy to inflict their will against others! Not only are there Syrian Christian volunteer refugees in Lebanon but also Shia Muslims from Iran and the Kurds who are ready to sacrifice their lives for the greater cause. Maybe when the Islamic State headquarters in Al-Raqqah are exploding they will think twice before attacking Christians again!" Polombo spoke in a low voice, not much above a whisper, with a tone of seething anger.