“It is good to see you too, you ugly Irish peasant.”
With pleasantries exchanged they looked each other up and down before hugging each other fiercely. If asked, neither could ever explain why they liked each other. But they did at some visceral gut level that transcended any professional or personal relationship.
“Okay. That’s done. Where do we go to drink?”
“You wouldn’t like some food first?”
“Not really. But you have a point. I hope you don’t object but I asked my hanger-on, the Aussie lass I mentioned, to meet us around ten. I thought you and I could catch up before she joins us. So eating now and drinking later makes sense. By the way, what a scrum it is to reach here. I don’t think I’ve seen so many young, and not so young, tourists playing at trying-not-to-be-tourists. It’s a riot of energy. I hope everything will not go ‘bang’ later.”
“I doubt it. Do you feel like seafood and pasta? I reserved a table nearby at a ristorante where I have had quite exquisite Spaghetti alle Vongole in the past. We’ll have an outside table where the noise should give us privacy as well as being able to admire the world go by. What do you think?”
“Sounds fine. Lead on.”
Minutes later they were seated at a table for four by a noisy piazzetta where there were several other bars, restaurants and lots of young people of many nationalities shouting and enjoying themselves. There was a good atmosphere, one of pleasure rather than competition. Seated a little back from the street but still outside Davide and Conor ordered quickly.
Before starting to catch up, Conor apologised, saying, “I should send an SMS to my sidekick to tell her where to find this place — assuming she is coming. With luck she will leave us in peace, though I would not bet on an Aussie having sufficient social sensitivity to leave her boss to his own devices.”
It took almost an hour before the topic of why each was in Rome arose. Conor was pretty vague about his conference. It was clear he was hardly interested and was there because he had been told to be. He was more interested in why Davide was in Rome.
Davide started to fill him on how he had originally written about the HolyPhone concept, the dinner with his friend José Antonio, and his request that if the church had borrowed his idea then he might at least see it working. He described what he had been shown that morning in the Confessional at Santa Maria as well as Father Giorgio’s description of his Confessional Call Centre sins. He was, however, careful to make no mention of Nelson or his suggestion that Nelson obtain the active and intelligent mind of Conor in an attempt to assuage his fears.
“That HolyPhone idea has gone down a storm in Ireland. They love it. Even the French seem to, which seems amazing for an idea cooked up by a Brit. I bet if they knew they would desert it as swiftly as Joan of Arc discovered the road to victory. I wonder …”
“Mr Laoghaire? Am I interrupting?” said a diffident voice in a soft Australian accent, definitely not one of those that grated.
“For God’s sake, Caterina! How often do I have to tell you not to call me that? I am either Conor or ‘you silly old git’. You may be in Europe but that does not mean we all are formal and you do not need to be with me. Understood?
“Anyhow, have a seat and meet Davide Shape, spelt D, A, V, I, D, E but pronounced ‘David’ unless you want to be Italian about it, which he will not like as he is half-Spanish. Davide, meet Caterina Certaldo from the Australian Crime Commission, temporarily assigned to Interpol for her past sins, then further assigned to me with the bizarre notion that she will learn something.”
Whereas Conor noticeably did not get up, Davide stood. They shook hands rather formally.
“Pleased to meet you, Caterina, if I may call you that — and you really should call him Conor. Mr Laoghaire will have him believing that he is important, which would be a hideous crime as well as simply wrong.”
The grin accompanying this was equalled by Conor’s. Caterina could tell that these two knew how to trade barbed insults. She felt uncomfortable with Conor. He was too in-your-face for her to be so familiar with. But she understood she had no choice.
“Thank you, Davide. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Please won’t you sit down? You’re giving me neck strain. Shall we ask for another fiasco of the Chianti? I love any wine called a fiasco, even if it really means flask. At least it has almost two litres to drink. That should keep us quiet.”
He waved his hands at a passing waiter and ordered the wine. Davide and Caterina were given no chance to object.
CHAPTER NINE
Sunday, Rome
Davide had turned to José Antonio, saying, “I met up with Conor Laoghaire last night for dinner. You remember the Interpol person I mentioned to Nelson. He is in Rome for a conference. I wonder if Nelson knows or has even touched base with his own Interpol contact. I guess we will find out soon enough. Conor was being his usual discreet self, not even naming the organisation he works for. Probably he is right and somebody is listening into all our phone calls. He should know.”
José Antonio was now leading the way through what seemed like waves of tourists, dressed in many hues and colours, all converging on Bernini’s massive Piazza in front of Saint Peters. The tourists must have come in identikit bus loads, for each group seemed so much the same — making its members wear a yellow T-shirt or an orange scarf or even little fluorescent flowerpot-green caps that looked silly on women and infantile on men, especially older ones.
Suddenly José Antonio turned into a doorway that most would have passed. Davide followed. Inside there was a security station. José Antonio dug into his cassock and brought out a small wallet. He extracted a card and showed it to the security man, explaining that his guest was expected.
“Father José Antonio Valencia; yes, you are authorised. Your guest is a Signor Davide Sapé?” He pronounced it the Italian way, without the ‘h’ and accenting the ‘e’. “Does Signor Sapé have identification, a passport or other official document with a photograph?”
Davide produced his UK driving licence; he had left his passport in the safe in his room. At times like this he wished the UK issued modern national identity cards like other countries, credit card-sized pieces of plastic which one could carry in one’s wallet.
“Grazie, Signore. Yes, he is authorised to enter, Father. Signor Sapé — please wear this badge at all times and when you leave exchange it here for your identity document. Prego.”
“I will lead,” said José Antonio. “We have a longish walk. The original Confessional Call Centre is buried deep inside the Vatican. I am told it was a major challenge to install it in a city built centuries ago. The only area with enough space was underneath one of the major buildings, and this was through digging out a large room. Since then this has been expanded and expanded, as the Santofonino becomes available in more countries. Almost a whole building is now in use but the nerve centre remains in the original location. I think you will be impressed.”
After about five minutes of fast walking along corridors and up and down stairs they reached a door stating in English, which seemed odd to Davide: ‘Vatican Call Centre - No Entry Unless Authorised’. They pressed the bell that opened the door. Father Federico greeted them and invited them to follow him. They went down another corridor before entering what to Davide looked like a standard international business conference room with no windows, a central table, twelve chairs and zero incentive to want to stay. Nelson was sitting on one side, concentrating on some papers.
“Your Eminence, Father José Antonio and Mr Shape are here.”
Nelson stood to greet them.
“Father Federico, please remain. You already know some of what I am doing and should know the rest.” Nelson gave a short summary of where they had reached. He finished by saying, “I have been rather lucky. I did not need to call my Interpol contact; he called me because he was already in Rome. We had lunch yesterday and I raised the possibility of Mr Laoghaire being made available. He has checked and th
at is now agreed. As of the end of the Conference, which Mr Laoghaire and a colleague are attending, the two of them will stay on to pursue what my friend called ‘other enquiries’. Apparently this is an internal euphemism for starting something new without being too specific too soon, if that makes sense. There was, however, one condition, namely that whatever Mr Laoghaire and colleague discover, if anything, will be shared with Interpol.”
Father Federico looked up sharply, saying, “Your Eminence, is that wise? Do we want any outside agency knowing what we want nobody to know, assuming your fears are founded?”
“Before I could say anything, my Interpol friend, who anticipated exactly your objection Father Federico, made a suggestion that I felt Mother Church could accept. This was that Mr Laoghaire and colleague would report only to him within Interpol, at least until all is complete. Given that I am the unofficial contact with Interpol for the Holy See and that he has the reciprocal responsibility, I felt that this was acceptable, so I agreed. There is also an added advantage to my mind. Someone else will independently review anything that emerges, and he has the ability to bring additional resources to bear if required. Does that make better sense?”
Father Federico nodded reluctantly. It was not ideal, but he could recognise the practical logic.
“Davide, I have prepared a Vatican equivalent of what I think you called an NDA. No, it is not in Latin, though it could be if you prefer. No? Fair enough. I have prepared it in English, with the help of Father Federico. It is probably not very elegantly phrased; for that Latin would indeed be better. But I hope it will be acceptable to you.”
He passed it over.
Davide picked up the document. It was only two pages long and masterful in its simplicity. Essentially it stated that he, Davide, would not discuss or share anything concerning the Vatican’s Confessional Call Centre and its operations, spiritual or temporal, with anybody else without the explicit authority of the Cardinal da Ferraz. Attached was an appendix listing those with whom Davide could start sharing information, namely Nelson, Father Federico, Father José Antonio, Conor Laoghaire, Caterina Certaldo and, if needed, Paulino Carreiro.
“This looks fine to me, Nelson.” Father Federico looked scandalised. “Whoops! My apologies, Yrmnts. Shall I sign now? May I have a copy when it is complete?”
“Yrmnts?” asked Nelson and Father Federico simultaneously, looking at each other and then Davide. Both were puzzled.
José Antonio intervened: “I, or Davide, will explain another time. If I understand correctly it is an English literary abbreviation of ‘Your Eminence’, somewhat compacted.”
“Another time then, but I will be intrigued to hear more one day. We must press on. There is more to consider.”
Sunday, Tel Aviv
Inma was on her balcony. The previous evening had been more interesting than expected. There was even more to think on, not least now that she was beginning to suspect that all their positions could be in a danger she had not anticipated when Mariano had brought her into his plans. She was also starting to feel like she suspected Cardinal da Ferraz must feel: something was not right, even amongst those who were robbing Peter to pay Paul (or Saul, in Noach’s case, she smiled to herself).
That morning Inma had walked to St Peter’s in Jaffa again, this time alone to gather her thoughts. Even while doing this, she was amazed at what a city could be like with no traffic. At six thirty there were few people about. By eight, when she had come out of Mass and walked back to her hotel, being secretly relieved that Michele had not done as she had, Inma found hundreds of people strolling along the promenade beside the beach, along with whole families on bikes, parents and children, taking advantage of Tel Aviv’s wide open and for once empty roads. She had also noticed how many young pregnant women there were. Either she was blind in Madrid or there was a baby boom happening here.
In the hotel she chose to go straight to her room, not wanting to see Miriam right now, or Michele for that matter. Instead she preferred to sit on her balcony, again with a sea view, though not as good as the one in the first hotel where Michele still resided. Sitting down on the balcony’s white plastic chair she put her tablet beside her on the token plastic table and looked out. By mid-morning the crowds were out in force. Their noise was palpable with no vehicle engines or tyres against which to compete. It might be the Day of Atonement. For those in Tel Aviv it seemed more like a large communal party, if without food or drink.
Looking beyond the promenade Inma saw ever more arriving on the beaches. While not crowded, there were people walking, a few swimming, and many playing some form of bat-the-ball with what looked like wooden Ping-Pong paddles that made a lot of noise. The players were rather good. They could keep the ball moving for many returns. But it was strange. One player would seem to hit the ball hard while the other would merely respond, as if only passively, to pass the ball back in order for it to be thumped back again by the first player; a sort of hard, soft, hard, soft. It was not like table tennis or even tennis, where one player was always trying to outmanoeuvre the other. This was more like constructive aggression. The objective seemed to be to keep the session going as long as possible without the ball hitting the ground.
She picked up her tablet and thought of some devotional reading. Yet the allure of the beach tugged at her. She felt like being properly outside, not sitting on this modest and uncomfortable balcony. Now that there were at least some others in the water Inma decided to risk going to the beach with her beaten-up old shoulder bag, which folded so small she took it everywhere in case it might be needed, with her tablet inside. That should not pose too much of a risk and in any case the tablet was reaching the point where it was in need of replacing with something more modern. Good-looking technology was a weakness for her. The finca in the Gredos had a state-of-the-art television, so she could work off a super-wide screen or watch a movie or the news in almost life-size detail. The same went for her music system, which always delighted her nephews and nieces who had not known that so much noise could come out of such small speakers, though she and her sisters hated the music the children played.
Inma went inside, gathered what she needed and changed into the swimsuit she bought at such expense two days earlier. So much had occurred in those two days, though none of it with much result. It was, however, the weekend. There was no need for self-recrimination even if it was a little sinful to enjoy herself a second time in the sea.
Now all she had to do was to leave the hotel without running into Miriam, or Miriam and Michele. About these two together she could not make up her mind. It was so wrong. But, trying to be charitable, maybe it was not so bad, whatever the outcome. A thought occurred to her: what would happen if Michele left the priesthood? What would that do to their plans and her precious nest egg for Opus Dei? Now that was a consideration to hold in sight and digest. Noach might think he was the kingpin. To her, Michele was equally so.
Inma passed through the lobby without incident. She crossed the road and the promenade, being careful to avoid being hit by cyclists and skaters who all seemed to think the designated areas for their specific use had no relevance for them. For that matter, many Israelis were running or walking down the bike lanes. She supposed it cut both ways.
The sea near the water did not look quite so attractive. It had a lack of clarity, which she found puzzling. It had not seemed like this the other day, but then it had been late afternoon. No matter. Making herself comfortable in the sand on her towel, she stretched out, face down, thinking. Her tablet could wait.
Sunday, Vatican Confessional Call Centre
Nelson reviewed his notes.
“Davide, how will you get in touch with Mr Laoghaire?”
Davide grinned at Nelson and José Antonio before saying, “That is already solved, though more by accident than design. Conor called me yesterday after I was with José Antonio. It turns out he is in Rome for a conference. He sent me an email asking if I was going to be in London next month. He was as surp
rised as I to find that we were both here.
“We had dinner last night, when I also met an Australian colleague of his who seems to know a lot about computers. I hope I did not jump the gun … Yrmnts. I did not mention you or your concerns.”
Again he managed to add the Yrmnts, though it still came strangely when he really thought of the cardinal as Nelson. Was Father Federico that important or so fussy? That was a question for José Antonio.
“Good. That is another item out of the way without needing elaboration.
“The next actions are, I presume, for you and Mr. Laoghaire to understand the Confessional Call Centre, now that José Antonio has shown you the parish end of the process. That is still scheduled for tomorrow? Good. Father Federico, can you arrange for two passes, no three, to be available for collection when they come to the security entrance next time.”
Father Federico nodded, making a note.
“Please understand, these passes will not give you complete access. They will obtain entrance into the complex but not into the actual Confessional Call Centre rooms. As confession is something given in confidence between confessor and penitent this means no one who is not a priest and therefore qualified to hear a confession can enter these rooms. You can watch from the observation area. You can talk to the computer people and the finance people but the Confessional Call Centre rooms themselves are sacrosanct. It was hard enough to convince my fellow cardinals that even the remote possibility of one priest overhearing another’s confession was acceptable.
“The last issue to consider today is Monsignor Severino. As you know he is the financial wizard who set up the payment systems that we have now. He’s done a magnificent job. Without all his work and his management of how everything comes together we wouldn’t have the income we have.
The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis Page 17