Oh so! ‘Yes, that’s been done.’
‘And the funds, Monsieur Viljoen?’
Morgan hesitated again. ‘We believe the funds are all available.’
‘You believe? Has Sanchez paid Henri yet?’
Morgan’s mind raced. ‘Which Henry? There are two …’
‘There is only one Hank.’
Morgan fumbled. ‘Oh, Hank. Well, I’m told the bank transfers are going through. I’m not handling the money side myself. I thought maybe you meant Henry the lawyer.’
Pause. ‘Monsieur Viljoen, who exactly do you work for?’
‘I’m an associate of Max Hapsburg.’ He added: ‘He’s dead now.’
‘I would probably be sorry to hear that if I knew who Max Hapsburg was.’
‘He was involved in the last transaction. It’s fallen to me to arrange this one.’
Another silence. Then:
‘I’ll speak to Hank myself.’
Morgan said hurriedly. ‘You’ve got his new number, have you?’
Surprise: ‘His new number?’
‘I believe it’s new. What number do you have?’
There was a long silence. Then the telephone went click, as Alex Wallen of Meteor Air hung up.
Morgan slammed down the telephone.
Goddammit he had blown it! He should have arranged to meet Wallen instead of trying to get Hank’s number so artlessly! If he only knew who this Hank was! And Sanchez. If he only had got a telephone number!
He got up, exasperated, and paced across the room.
But one thing was clear. That waybill was not about a legitimate cargo of bulldozer parts.
Quality-control experts?
For what? For drugs? The famous ‘French Connection’? …
But Bellatrix was the importer, and Bellatrix was controlled by the Vatican. He simply could not believe that the Vatican was involved in drugs …
He looked at his watch angrily. It was time to play goddam golf!
It was a cold, sunny day. It was nearly eleven when his taxi drove through the gates of the Appia Antia Golf Club.
There were only a few cars parked. Morgan mounted the steps, into the club house.
There was a hall with a large lounge beyond. Morgan walked through it. Out onto the verandah.
Below him the greens and fairways stretched away.
A few people were playing, small figures far away. Morgan swept his eyes along the fairways. There were clumps of trees sprinkled alongside various parts. From this distance he could not be sure how good they would be as hiding places. He would have to walk the course.
He retraced his steps to the entrance. He went into the club secretary’s office. A female clerk came forward. Morgan said, in English, ‘May I see the club secretary, please?’
The girl led him to a door. She opened it, and smiled him through. A well-groomed elderly Italian looked up from his papers. Morgan said: ‘Good morning. Do you speak English?’
‘A little,’ the Italian smiled back.
‘I am a guest today of one of your members. I wonder if I may ask a favour?’ He unzipped his bag and pulled out Letters to the Mighty. This copy did not have the passwords written on it. ‘I believe Cardinal Gunter is also a member?’
‘He is, sir.’
‘This is one of his books. I’m an admirer of his. If I left the book with you, do you think he might autograph it next time he comes?’
‘I think that could be arranged. He is a most agreeable man.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Morgan added: ‘How frequently does he play? When should I come back for the book?’
‘He usually plays on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. But I haven’t seen him this week. Maybe he’s away.’ He held up his finger. ‘One moment.’ He went into the general office. He came back with a ledger.
‘He is playing in the tournament commencing seventh of December. Will you still be in Rome then?’
‘Yes. He’s not booked to play before?’
The secretary flicked over pages shaking his head. ‘No …’
‘Well, I’ll telephone you and see if you’ve had any luck. One last question: I’m a member of the Plymouth Country Club, but I haven’t got my card with me. Do you have reciprocal visiting-member rights with Plymouth?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the secretary said. ‘But anybody can play here if they pay a green fee of forty thousand lire.’
Morgan looked at him. ‘Anybody? If they pay twenty pounds?’
‘Yes, sir. Subject to space.’
Jesus, Morgan thought – so all my clever deception with Kevin Munro is unnecessary. And I still have to make a fool of myself playing golf with the man. This is getting local knowledge the hard way. But he felt elated. He had found out Cardinal Gunter’s movements.
He left the secretary’s office and made his way through the club house. He stopped at the public telephones. He dialled Il Figaro newspaper and asked for Miguel Milano.
‘Good morning, Mr Milano! My name is Jack Armstrong. I’m a friend of Whacker Ball and he told me you are very knowledgeable on the Roberto Calvi affair, God’s Banker …’
One minute later he continued on his way with a spring in his step. He might not be much good at golf but he had the gift of the gab! He followed the signs down to the changing rooms.
They were empty. Rows of lockers. Shower booths. A door opening onto the first green.
He changed into his tracksuit and new walking shoes.
There was a driver’s club lying on the bench. Morgan picked it up unhappily.
He gripped the club in both hands and took up his stance.
He squared his shoulders, and wriggled his feet, trying to get the feel of the thing again. He addressed the imaginary ball, frowning in concentration. He took a swing.
There was a crash of glass, as his club smashed the overhead light.
He leant on the club, eyes closed. He whispered, ‘I’m doing this for the Church, God. So please give me a hand, Or how about some rain … ?’
He found a broom and swept up the glass. He still had an hour and a half to wait. He set off on the fairways, to walk quickly around the course before Kevin Munro arrived.
And maybe God did give him a hand. By the time he got back to the club house, it was starting to rain. And there was something else to be relieved about: there were a good number of ancient ruins and aqueducts sprinkled along the golf course, and thickets of trees. He hurried back into the changing rooms. He hastily drew a sketch of the fairways, marking in the hiding places he had seen.
Then he dressed in his ordinary clothes again. He hurried up to the bar.
Kevin Munro was a good-natured man in his forties. ‘What bad luck this rain is,’ he said. ‘But the beer’s all right.’
And there was more good luck. Over lunch Morgan said: ‘Well, my day wasn’t wasted. I’m a fan of Cardinal Gunter’s, so I brought a copy of his book along. And the club secretary is going to ask him to autograph it for me. But the secretary says he’s out of town and doesn’t know when he’ll be back.’
‘Well, when I get back to my desk, I’ll phone the Vatican press officer. He’s a friend of mine, he’ll tell me. Give me a call later today.’
‘Thank you,’ Morgan said.
And there was more good luck:
When Kevin Munro drove him back to Rome, Morgan called Renata from a public telephone. She said:
‘Good news. I have an appointment for you with Benetti for six o’clock tonight! The only thing is you must lead him to believe that you are really in love with me. Okay? And I have spent the day in the library. I have a great deal to tell you tonight! …’
Morgan hung up and looked for a taxi, feeling that he had had a good day. He had missed out on Meteor Air but the rain had saved him from golf. He was doubtful if he could trust Benetti, even if he was cooperative. Which was even more doubtful. But it was all potentially useful local knowledge, and it had come his way easily.
He told the taxi-driver to take him
to Il Figaro newspaper.
45
Miguel Milano was much less approachable in the flesh than he had been on the telephone. He was a sharp-faced, bearded Italian-American in his mid-thirties, with an abrupt manner. ‘I’m afraid I can only give you fifteen minutes, Mr Armstrong. And let me say at the outset that there are no experts on God’s Banker. You would need to be a team of detectives and accountants rolled into one. What do you want to know?’
Morgan said, ‘You reported on the inquest in London after he was found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he murdered?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Not suicide?’
‘He was suicided. Meaning murder made to look like suicide.’
Morgan said, ‘Who murdered him?’
Miguel said flatly: ‘The Vatican.’
Morgan stared. ‘The Vatican? Not the Russians?’
‘What has Russia to do with this?’
Morgan sighed inwardly. Maybe this man wasn’t going to be so useful after all. ‘Can you prove that the Vatican murdered him?’
‘If I could I wouldn’t be sitting here today, I would be suicided too. “The Italian Solution” it’s called.’
Morgan sat forward. ‘Why do you suspect the Vatican?’
Miguel got up and went to a cabinet. He pulled out a file six inches thick. He slapped it on the desk. He pulled out two more files and slapped them down.
‘There’re the newspaper reports plus the inquest in England, plus Calvi’s trial in Italy before he was murdered. You can’t expect me to summarize very much in fifteen minutes.’
Morgan said hastily, ‘Let me be more specific. Firstly, why did God’s Banker run to England?’
Miguel sat down again. ‘To get his hands on some documents. With which to blackmail the Vatican.’
Morgan felt his pulse trip in exultation. ‘What documents?’
‘If I knew that I’d solve the whole mystery.’
‘Who was he going to get these documents from?’
‘From somebody in the P2.’
Morgan blinked. ‘What’s P2?’
‘A secret society.’
Morgan frowned. ‘Does the name Max Hapsburg mean anything to you?’
‘Sure. He’s an economist of sorts. From the Caribbean.’
‘Right. Was he a member of this P2?’ Morgan demanded.
Miguel said, ‘I wouldn’t know. There’re about two thousand members of P2 and only the Grand Master knows who they all are – they aren’t even all known to each other. What has Hapsburg got to do with this?’
‘Can you tell me more about P2?’
Miguel sighed. He said, by rote:
‘P2 is a lodge of the Freemasons. Its declared purpose is to defend the world against communism. Ultra-right-wing. Its members are top army officers, top industrialists, top civil servants, top bankers, professionals, world-wide. They are, or try to be, a sort of government within governments. If Italy elected a communist government tomorrow, for example, P2 would mount a coup immediately and take over the country. P2 bank-rolls right-wing régimes, in South America particularly, does arms deals for them, espionage, pressurizing other governments through their international network, gets them bank loans, trade deals, et cetera. They call themselves “Defenders of the Free World”. In practice they are also making fortunes for themselves by highly illegal transactions.’
‘Bank loans? To governments?’
‘One of their chores. Most of the repressive governments in South America, for example, are bankrupt. They’ve got massive loans outstanding. They constantly need more loans to cover the old ones.’ He added, ‘And to buy more arms, et cetera.’
Morgan took a deep breath. Oh boy …
‘Is it known who the Grand Master of P2 is?’
‘A man called Gelli. Italian who’s taken on Argentinian citizenship. One of the most powerful men in the world. A king-maker. A master blackmailer on the international scale. That’s how P2 gets its power.’
‘By blackmail?’
Miguel said wearily: ‘Anybody who joins P2 has to present the Grand Master with two pieces of evidence. One must be damaging to the applicant himself, to ensure his loyalty. The other evidence must be damaging to another important person whom P2 wants to join the club – so that the Grand Master can pressurize that person into joining. And then that person must bring along evidence against some other powerful person. And so on.’
Evidence … ‘Gelli is literally a king-maker?’
Miguel said, ‘For example. Perón was overthrown as President of Argentina, and fled to Spain. Years later he returned to Argentina as President. Who arranged that?’ He answered himself: ‘When Perón returned, he publicly knelt at the feet of Gelli.’
Morgan sat back. ‘Good God.’
‘Gelli’s been in blackmail all his life. During the war he spied for the highest bidder. After the war he specialized in smuggling Nazi war criminals to South America. He charged forty per cent of what they were worth. And most were worth a fortune in looted treasure.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘After that, Gelli went to South America himself. Ingratiated himself with the right-wing military people and Nazis down there. Joined the Masons to help himself along. Then he formed P2, a brotherhood within the brotherhood.’
Smuggling Nazi war criminals? ‘Klaus Barbie? “The Butcher of Lyons”,’ Morgan said. ‘Did Gelli smuggle him to South America?’
Miguel said irritably, ‘What’s Klaus Barbie got to do with this? Barbie worked for American Intelligence in Germany after the war, tracking down communists. That had been part of his job under Hitler. Barbie was a wanted Nazi war criminal but the Americans sheltered him because he was useful. When that ended, the Americans gave him a new identity, a fake passport, and smuggled him to South America. And when he got to Bolivia, he continued to supply the CIA with information.’ He added, ‘He also worked for the military régime and he ran a murder squad protecting the cocaine trade for officers in the Bolivian government. He knew Gelli, sure, but it was the Americans who smuggled him out of Germany.’ Miguel glanced at his watch significantly.
Morgan said hastily, ‘Why haven’t the French prosecuted him yet?’
‘Because Barbie knows too much. I don’t know what but I hear on the grapevine that he threatens to start a smear campaign at his trial, maybe against the heroes of the French Resistance during the war, who knows? I thought you wanted to know about God’s Banker?’
‘I do. One more question, please …’ He marshalled his thoughts. ‘God’s Banker fled to England to get hold of some documents to blackmail the Vatican? Blackmail them for what?’
Miguel said bluntly, ‘For money.’
Morgan rubbed his chin. ‘But just money? You’ve told me that P2 is into high-powered politics. King-making. Et cetera. Was there something else that God’s Banker was after, perhaps?’
Miguel smacked the pile of files. ‘I simply haven’t got time to explain it to you in detail. But God’s Banker was a financial adviser to the Vatican Bank. In addition, he was laundering money for the Mafia, was paymaster to the P2, was smuggling money illegally out of Italy for favoured clients, and was stealing money for himself from his own bank. To do all this he set up ghost companies in such places as Liechtenstein and Panama and the Bahamas, in collaboration with the Vatican Bank – in fact, the Vatican Bank partly owned Banco Ambrosiana. And these ghost companies borrowed money from overseas banks, to do such things as arms deals for South American military régimes. And to buy Vatican assets as part of schemes to get money out of Italy. For example, a ghost company in Panama buys some shares the Vatican owns in an Italian industry. To pay for them the Panama company borrows money from another ghost company owned by Banco Ambrosiana. This company has borrowed money from, say, a British bank. Banco Ambrosiana pays the money to the Vatican Bank for the shares. Because the Vatican Bank is not subject to Italian banking laws it can transfer money out of the country easily. The Vatican hands over the Italian
shares to the Panama ghost company – but because the Vatican is a partner in the ghost company it still owns the shares. Meanwhile the Vatican pays the money into God’s Banker’s private Swiss bank account, less a commission. And everybody is happy. The Vatican is happy because it’s still got its shares plus a fat commission on the fraudulent deal, and God’s Banker’s happy because he’s just stolen the purchase price which he’s indirectly borrowed from the British bank.’ Miguel waved his hand in disgust. ‘And the international banks were queuing up to lend money to God’s Banker and his ghost companies. Why? Because he was involved with the Vatican Bank – and because Bishop Marcinkus, the president of the Vatican Bank, was on the board of directors of these companies.’
Morgan was astounded. ‘Good Lord … I’m a babe in the woods …’
‘But don’t imagine that Bishop Marcinkus is.’
Morgan shook his head. ‘And how did the arms deals work?’
Miguel said impatiently: ‘Same way. The P2 generals in South America need arms. Arms cost money. The generals are bankrupt. So Gelli and the P2 generals lean on God’s Banker for money. So one of his ghost companies in Panama buys the arms, with money borrowed from a bank owned by Banco Ambrosiana, who in turn borrows the money from a British bank. The British bank happily lends the money because God’s Banker and Bishop Marcinkus are on the board of directors. The arms arrive in Panama, and the ghost company ships them to Bolivia or Peru or wherever. Simple. Disgusting, but simple.’
‘So the Vatican knew that it was assisting the buying of arms for repressive military régimes?’
‘The Vatican Bank knew. So what do you think? The previous Pope was going to fire Bishop Marcinkus and all the top brass at the Vatican Bank, for this very sort of thing, but this Pope re-confirmed them all in their positions.’
Morgan frowned. ‘But do you think this Pope is … dishonest?’
‘Naive. I only know it’s very wrong to keep such people running the Church’s bank. Or any bank.’
Morgan rubbed his hand over his face.
‘So how did the whole thing blow up?’
Miguel said: ‘Finally, Banco Ambrosiana was in trouble, with over a thousand million dollars missing from its vaults from all his thefts and crooked deals, and the Bank of Italy inspectors were chasing them.’ He flicked open the big file and rifled through it impatiently. He pulled out a letter. He said:
A Woman Involved Page 32