How, then, could he broach the subject of South African diamonds casually?
He was busy trying to figure it out when Benedetti, apparently sensing his unease, graciously made the opening move. With characteristic Vatican diplomacy, Benedetti gave Carlton information he already knew, but which revealed that the Church also knew the information.
“The Church is aware of your recent exploits, Mr. Carlton. It is a great honor for me to meet you. Not only because you were recommended so highly by Mr. MacLean, a great patron of the Church, but because of your recent...activities against the Russian fascists.”
Carlton was stunned. He did not attempt to hide the fact. “How did—”
Benedetti smiled. “An institution as old as the Church does not survive on prayer alone. Your great nation has been involved in diplomacy for 225 years. The Church has been at it for 2000.” He smiled. “Do not worry. I know how to keep secrets.” He paused. “Now. I am at your disposal. How can the Vatican Bank be of service?”
Carlton faced not only an obscure Roman bureaucracy, but an incredibly efficient information-gathering body. He remembered the role the Polish pontiff and the Solidarity priests had played in obtaining information in the 1980s. Using the information and the priest network as a sword, combined with the Reagan Administration’s help, the pope had ignited the Polish fire that later exploded Eastern Europe’s Soviet shackles. Carlton could never hide the ball well enough to play the game of Romanita against a Vatican veteran. He went for broke instead. After all, he knew that Benedetti knew. It was merely a question of making the man comfortable enough to give him more information. Information Carlton needed.
“Thank you, Your Eminence. As you know, I’m not a diplomat. So in keeping with my American heritage, I’ll be direct and to the point. I’m here because your name surfaced in connection with a diamond stockpile, possibly held by the Vatican.”
Benedetti’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “A Vatican diamond stockpile?”
Carlton hedged his bets. “Yes, Eminence. Of course, I have no idea whether this stockpile actually exists. All I have is rumor, innuendo. However, rumors rarely develop without at least a kernel of truth.”
“How did my name become connected with this?”
He hedged his bets further. “Merely because you are the director of the Vatican Bank and would be the best official to know about all movements of money within the Vatican. Whether officially authorized or not,” he added, for safety.
“I see.” Benedetti paused, tapped the fingers of each hand against the others. “Well, let me begin by setting certain things straight. The Vatican Bank has no official involvement with diamonds.” Carlton observed Benedetti quietly. The cardinal chose his words carefully. “The Church is rich in history, Mr. Carlton. In real estate. In art. But like an old aristocrat, it is poor in cash. Most people do not believe it, of course.” He chuckled. “The Vatican is so old and secretive that people think it sits on mountains of cash, gold bars and diamonds hidden away in secret vaults. Unfortunately, the sad truth is that the Vatican can barely meet expenses. Only in recent years did the Vatican Bank attain a surplus. Quite small at that.
“So you see, the idea of the Vatican buying diamonds is quite impossible. We don’t have the funds. Besides, what would the Vatican do with diamonds? As I’m certain you know, there is no investment reason to buy diamonds, unless you’re a diamond dealer. They decrease in price, and, unlike many banks, the Vatican Bank has strict moral guidelines. It could never associate itself with an organization as wretched as Waterboer.” He paused. “Still, this does not mean the Vatican cannot help you. After what you have done, it is clear that your intentions are aimed in the right direction. Tell me, how long will you be in Rome, Mr. Carlton?”
Carlton stared hard but stopped short of being disrespectful. “As long as it takes, Your Eminence.”
“Very well. With your permission, I will look into this matter more carefully. Perhaps it is someone or some group associated with the Vatican you are after. I will make discreet inquiries in appropriate places. Perhaps they will yield something.”
“I would very much appreciate that, Your Eminence.”
“After what you have done, I consider it an honor to help you.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.”
“In the meantime, you should get some rest. Forgive me for saying so, but you look as though you need it.”
Benedetti listened to the recording of his conversation with Carlton for a third time, reclined. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Eminenza.” Seated in one of the two visitor’s chairs in front of Benedetti’s ornate desk, Monsignor Felici shook his head. “I just don’t know. His explanation is logical. He wants to continue investigating Waterboer after his victory against Russkost. He doesn’t have to, but it has become a crusade for him. Uncovering facts will not be enough.
“Still, I don’t think this is personal,” said Benedetti. “Carlton is a member of the United States Navy and a prosecutor with the American Justice Ministry. But in Rome, he has no jurisdiction. Although I believe he is sufficiently determined to take action on his own, he is outside his element. He would require support. MacLean is backing him personally, financially perhaps. But someone must be backing him politically. His employers at the Navy and in the Justice Ministry apparently aren’t. No one in the American government has declared Carlton their representative. However, I cannot imagine he is doing this alone, as a rogue.”
Felici stared at the desk in silence then looked up at his boss. “CIA?”
Benedetti nodded. “It is the most logical answer. The CIA must have made the original push in going against Russkost. Who else could have put together the North Sea operation? The American Navy would not have acted on its own. And we know the president only became involved late in the game.”
The cardinal sighed, running his fingers along the sides of the gold crucifix around his neck. “Now that he is here, he has no option but to dig. I can’t blame him. In his shoes, I would dig also. But a few digs in the right direction... Well, you know what that could mean. Now that the Banco Napolitana Lucchese’s books and vaults are sealed, it will be nearly impossible to avoid scandal.”
He paused for a long time, looked up at the younger cleric. “The Americans have an interesting saying. They say if life offers you lemons, you should make lemonade.” Felici looked puzzled. “Carlton scares us because he asks questions, si? But perhaps he is really an opportunity. Perhaps Christ has sent him to help His Church. After all, it can’t be a coincidence that Carlton should appear right when we are facing such a crisis, such a scandal. The question is not whether Carlton is digging. We know he is. Or who he is digging for. But what he is digging for. What he is really digging for. What is his motive?”
“As I said, Eminenza, he is on a crusade.”
“Yes. But against whom? Against the Church? This man is not a self-serving opportunist. You know what he has done. How he put himself in considerable danger to stop Russkost. I think his crusade is against Waterboer, not the Banco Napolitana or the Church. And he is a Catholic. You saw him praying in the lobby when he was waiting. You saw his respect toward me. Toward my office. No. Just like in the North Sea, I think his motive is to use whatever he can find here against Waterboer.”
“But Eminenza, whatever he discovers here, no matter the reason, it will hurt the Church.”
The cardinal shook his head. “Not necessarily. What he finds could hurt the Church. It doesn’t have to. Unless he is not certain how to use it and misuses it. Like someone who finds a grenade and does not know how it works. But if we help him use what he finds, we can protect the Church and help him in his crusade against Waterboer. Remember, Waterboer is not only Carlton’s enemy. It is a corrupt, evil organization. In that, it is the Church’s enemy as well. Do you remember the other day? When you and I prayed for faith?”
Felici nodded.
“Faith means trusting God. To trust God, one must
listen to Him. One of our theologian brothers said that God speaks to us through other people.”
“I’m sorry, Eminenza, but I hear nothing.”
“I do.” The cardinal paused and smiled. “Because Americans are as loud as people can get. God bless them.”
68 YALE
Central Intelligence Agency Safehouse
Code Name: Yale
Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia
11:03 A.M.
Code-named ‘Yale’ by CIA field agents, the colonial-style safehouse sat on over 100 acres of forest amid the smoky fog of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Agency scuttlebutt had it that the property was once owned by DDI Forbes, a rumor he never expressly denied. Its existence and location were leaked to the KGB by a disgruntled CIA analyst during the Cold War, resulting in the loss of ten agents. Its safety cover blown, Yale was now used for a variety of non-clandestine purposes, mainly debriefing, interrogation, and the protection of non-critical Agency assets from dangers in the field.
The interrogation room deep inside the Yale safehouse was nothing like the dank, dark rooms coldly illuminated by bare lightbulbs favored in Hollywood films. The CIA’s master psychologists had planned the room carefully. Natural light filtered from high above through a series of mirrors and bathed the room in warm sunlight. It was large, comfortable, with polished hardwood floors and sofas covered in blue and white chintz. A mahogany coffee table was heaped with books on horses, French châteaux, tropical island landscapes, and other glossy photography books that depicted the beauty of freedom. Landscape oil paintings hung on the walls.
Yet despite its well-illuminated interior, the room was in fact a deep soundproofed basement, for obvious security reasons. Four men were present in the room. Three were CIA agents who wore shoulder holsters from which protruded the black grips of Glock 9mm handguns. One of them stood by the door and guarded the entrance. The others, including Thomas Pink, were seated around the coffee table, their attention trained on the fourth man in the room. Blond with blue eyes, severely athletic, unarmed but psychologically armored, dressed in casual clothes, he seemed calm in the presence of the three agents.
“How stupid are you? I told you already. I will say nothing,” Ulianov repeated in perfect English.
Pink rose from his overstuffed chair. “Considering the alternative, I think you should reconsider.”
“The alternative.” Ulianov smiled. ”I’m not a nekulturny mafioso. I know how America works. This country is a paradise for me. Bringing me here was stupid. Americans must always do everything by the rules. You can’t beat anything out of me. You can’t torture me.” He laughed at the irony. “Your ACLU would sue you. You’d get fired. You’d be in jail.” The Russian sneered at Pink.
“You’re right,” Pink replied calmly. “We can’t do that. We would get fired.” You shit. If it were up to me, I’d nail you to the wall. “But there are others who wouldn’t get fired. In fact, they’d get promoted.” The expression of sincere pity on Pink’s face confused the Russian. Pink looked at the agent seated next to Ulianov on the sofa and shrugged. “Okay. I’ll be back with them.”
The guard opened the door to let Pink out. He walked into an elevator that took him up six stories to the second floor. He dropped in on Erika, Ramey, and DesJardins. Under the watchful gaze of their heavily armed Company minders, the three were enjoying the chance to rest in safety. Erika read on a sofa, Ramey caught up on action movies he had missed while at sea, and DesJardins alternately watched Emeril and cooked up new recipes for the staff in Yale’s bulletproof kitchen.
Seeing they were in good shape and spirits, Pink took the stairs down to the lobby of the stately colonial house, when he heard the thump of helicopter rotors far in the distance. Soon a sleek unmarked helicopter appeared over the tall oak trees and flared down into a small clearing in front of the manor. Four persons jumped out of the side door and walked briskly to the house, bent low to avoid the strong rotor downblow. Two more agents materialized from opposite sides of the clearing, accompanied the newcomers after checking their identification. Pink greeted them as they walked through the rear door of the house.
“Agent Bareno,” the first man introduced himself. “This is Agent Starr, and Elena Feodorovna and Yevgeni Tsiolkovsky of the GRU.”
“Ma’am. Sir.” Pink shook their hands, speaking in perfect, if slightly accented Russian.
“Your Russian is excellent, Mr. Pink,” Tsiolkovsky said, in flawless English with a touch of a New York accent for good measure.
“Yes. And I must tell you that I never thought I would speak to the CIA in one of its safehouses,” Feodorovna said, her English more hesitant, with Russian intonations.
“The feeling is mutual, ma’am.” Pink replied, knowing full well that the meeting would not be occurring at Yale had its location not been leaked to the KGB ten years ago, before it had split into the SVR/FSB.
Tsiolkovsky nodded. “Please let me express the gratitude of President Orlov and General Yagoda for your brave actions in the North Atlantic, and for allowing us to help you finish the task you set out to accomplish. It is unfortunate that the diamonds had to sink. Perhaps we will be able to recover them some day,” he added, evidencing his skepticism at the notion that the American Navy had truly allowed the Russian stockpile to sink and had not instead taken possession of the diamonds.
“Thank you, tovarish Tsiolkovsky. On behalf of DDI Forbes, welcome. Shall we begin? Please follow me.” Pink led the three into the elevator. As it began its descent to the basement, he turned to the two Russians. “As promised, no recording devices will be on.” He did not have to add that the silent electromagnetic storm created by the room’s electronic jammers would render any of the GRU’s recorders useless as well.
The elevator stopped. Pink walked into the room alone. “Gentlemen. If you please.” He motioned to the door. The agents walked to the door and out of the room without a word.
Pink turned to Ulianov. “As I said before, I’m sorry you won’t discuss Molotok’s whereabouts with us. Or the identity of his main supporters. And as you pointed out quite truthfully, there is no way for us to get that information out of you legally. However, those American civil rights you find so ridiculous do not apply with as much force in your own country when its national security is threatened.”
Tsiolkovsky and Feodorovna walked in and stood before Ulianov silently. For the first time since Carlton’s boot had made contact with his private parts aboard the Pushkin, Ulianov’s eyes grew wide.
“Mr. Tsiolkovsky and Ms. Feodorovna, the United States government hereby places Mr. Ulianov of the Volki in the custody of the Russian government. For the purposes of your interrogation, this room will be temporarily considered the sovereign soil of the Russian Federation. If you need anything, you can ring me with that phone,” Pink informed Feodorovna.
“Spaceba. But all I need is this.” From her jacket pocket she removed a velvet box and opened it. In it was a simple metal bar, the size of a pen, tapered into a flat blade at one end and a hook reminiscent of a dentist’s torture instrument at the other. She winked at Ulianov. “I’m an artist. And very creative.”
Pink walked out of the room and past the exterior guard into the elevator. Luckily for the guard, the interrogation room, temporarily sovereign Russian soil, was soundproof.
Ulianov had started as Molotok’s partner. He would soon end as the megalomaniac’s human sacrifice. But not before Feodorovna’s artistic talents made him sing like a bird.
69 TRUST
Hotel Hassler
Rome, Italy
1:21 P.M.
For a country that built Ferrari automobiles and Agusta helicopters, the pitiful Italian telephone system was a stunning anachronism. It took four attempts for Carlton to obtain an international line. As instructed by Saunders, he placed the telephone handset into a small electronic cover before speaking. The sound impulses generated by his voice were scrambled before their journey, then unscrambled by a master unit 7,000 miles
away.
“Forbes.”
“It’s Carlton.”
“Good afternoon. Care to tell me what the hell you’re doing in Rome?”
Carlton was stunned. “How did—”
“You forget who you’re speaking to. How did the meeting go?”
Carlton took a deep breath in between puffs from his Cohiba Siglo IV Habano - legal outside the U.S. He recounted the meeting with Benedetti nearly word for word.
“I see.” Forbes sounded detached. “And despite what he said, you think there still might be a connection between Waterboer and the Vatican Bank?”
“Perhaps.”
Forbes permitted himself a dry chuckle. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Carlton.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s no connection. Not between the Bank and Waterboer. Believe me, I’ve looked into this before.”
“Perhaps the wrong tree. Perhaps not the wrong forest. Benedetti said he’d make inquiries. I’ll wait and see. But since you seem to know so much about the Vatican Bank, I need to know something.”
“Yes?”
“Can I trust him? Benedetti. Can I—”
“You can.” The dry chuckle reappeared. “It’s ironic, you know.”
“Ironic, sir? How is—”
“That’s exactly what Benedetti asked me about you an hour ago.”
70 ELIMINATION
SAT Analysis
CIA Headquarters
8:10 A.M.
Forbes, Pink, and satellite analyst Elaine Franklin stood in the darkened viewing room, encircled by an array of high-definition monitors.
“There we are. Rush hour. Downtown Siberia,” Pink announced.
“If you could find Nowhere on a map, that’s where it would be,” Franklin replied. “Hopefully they’ll be on time. We only have a seven-minute viewing window.”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 43