A Woman Involved

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘The ghost company in Panama that did most of the arms deals was called Bellatrix.’

  Morgan stared at him. Bellatrix?

  Miguel went on: ‘Bellatrix and the other ghost companies borrowed over nine hundred million dollars from a bank in Peru, which was partly owned by God’s Banker. When God’s Banker got into financial trouble, his co-directors in Peru demanded to know who actually owned Bellatrix, who therefore actually owed them the nine hundred million. So what happens? A miracle!’ He leaned forward. ‘The Vatican Bank, at God’s Banker’s request, wrote this letter,’ he held up a photocopy, ‘to the Peruvian bank, acknowledging that the Vatican Bank owned Bellatrix – the company that was buying all the arms – and acknowledging that the Vatican Bank therefore owed the nine hundred million dollars!’

  He tossed Morgan the letter. Morgan stared at it. It was the very same letter which he had found in Max’s deposit box in Zurich! The letter which was in his pocket right now … So the Meteor Air waybill was in respect of a shipment of arms from Malta to Panama! … Miguel went on:

  ‘So the Peruvian bank directors heaved a sigh of relief. The Holy Roman Church itself was the guarantor for the loan to Bellatrix. But – aha!’ Miguel held up a finger. ‘There was one little snag … It was another letter which God’s Banker formally wrote to the Vatican Bank –’ He pulled it out of the file – ‘dated four days before! And in it he says if the Vatican Bank will admit that they are the owners of Bellatrix and responsible for the debt, this “would entail no liabilities for the Vatican Bank”!’

  Morgan stared at the letter.

  ‘Good God … So God’s Banker made a secret deal with the Vatican Bank letting them off the hook provided they bluffed the Peruvian bankers? That’s fraud.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Miguel said with disgust. ‘It was a plot to defraud the South American banks into not chasing their debt. Thereby gaining time.’

  Morgan sat back. Stunned. And now he knew what God’s Banker wanted the microfilm for …

  ‘But,’ he said, ‘if the Vatican Bank owns Bellatrix, surely they can be legally forced to pay?’

  Miguel shook his head with a scornful leer.

  ‘Not yet, they haven’t. No, sir. The Vatican Bank is piously claiming that they were only the nominees, that they knew nothing about what these ghost companies really did, oh dear me no, that their letter to the Peruvian bankers was only a “letter of patronage”, a sort of character reference for God’s Banker who they had believed was such an honest man, et cetera, et cetera …’Miguel glared, then leant across the desk. ‘That is what God’s so-called Banker ran to London for … to try to get his hands on some documents which would force the Vatican Bank to pay up! Blackmail them into paying up over nine hundred million dollars … And then some more.’

  Morgan stared. Of course. With the microfilm God’s Banker could have blackmailed the Vatican to Kingdom Come. He sat back. This was what his Church’s bank was involved in? … Arms. Fraud. He was appalled. …

  But thank God that Miguel was wrong in thinking that it was the Vatican who murdered God’s Banker to stop him blackmailing them – Morgan knew it was the Russians, to protect their secret weapon in the Vatican. And he was sure there was some further vital point that he was missing. Miguel did not know what the blackmail documents were, but Morgan did, and it was political dynamite. He repeated:

  ‘But was God’s Banker going to blackmail the Vatican only for money? You’ve told me that P2 is into high-powered right-wing politics. Wasn’t there something else P2 and God’s Banker were after from the Vatican? Some political purpose.’

  ‘Money to support some right-wing régime. For arms probably. Who for, what for, I don’t know.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what the documents were?’

  Miguel said flatly: ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I would be “suicided” too.’ He slapped both hands on the desk and stood up. He said: ‘Be careful you don’t write too good a book, Mr Armstrong. Or you may find the Italian Solution applied to you …’

  46

  He had an hour before his appointment with Benetti, the masseur. He went from Il Figaro’s premises to the nearest café, ordered coffee, and feverishly made notes of everything that Miguel Milano had told him. He felt drained when he finished.

  He sat, staring out into the rainy dusk. And he was sick in his heart about what he had learned about his Holy Roman Church in the last few days. But thank God he knew that Miguel was wrong on one point: the Vatican was not guilty of murder.

  He went to the public telephone and called Kevin Munro.

  ‘Bad news about your autograph, I’m afraid. The Secretary of State is out of town until third December …’

  Morgan returned to his table. And what he felt was relief.

  Thank God. Thank God the man was going away and there was nothing he could do about him for four whole weeks … Tomorrow all he had to do was buy a small car, and this time the next day he would be with Anna. The next four weeks felt like a holiday. …

  He went into the toilet. He took off his shoulder holster and buried it in his bag. Then he left the café. He got a taxi to the Sacred Heart Hospital.

  Benetti’s rooms were in the basement. The walls were white tiles, Benetti was a smallish, muscular man, his arms covered in curly black hair. He had heavy eyebrows and a lined face and penetrating, kind, brown eyes. He spoke poor English but good French.

  ‘Take your clothes off, wrap that towel around you and lie down on the table.’

  He left the room. Morgan got undressed and lay down. He waited, telling himself he was not going to commit himself to any course of action now, he was simply making contact with a man who could be useful. But he felt like a fraud. Benetti came back.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘Here.’ Morgan touched his lumbar region. ‘Particularly in the mornings.’

  ‘Lie flat.’ Benetti gripped his back in powerful hands and began to massage. He worked for a few minutes in silence, then said:

  ‘So you are Renata’s friend.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Benetti massaged. ‘A lovely woman.’

  ‘She is. She tells me you have been very kind to her.’

  ‘I have prayed for her.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll ever get better?’

  Benetti massaged. ‘What does she think?’

  ‘She seems to feel it is hopeless. Do you know what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I know what has happened, I do not know the cure.’

  ‘Will she get worse?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Benetti hesitated. ‘You are very fond of her?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I mean in an amorous way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a Catholic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Benetti sighed. ‘It is a pity she does not have much faith. Perhaps you can give her some.’

  ‘She tells me you have asked the Pope to pray for her.’

  ‘That is true.’

  Morgan had to try it. ‘Perhaps if she were to meet the Pope she would change her attitude. He might inspire her.’

  Benetti pressed hard on his back. ‘Does that hurt?’

  ‘A little.’

  Benetti worked on. ‘Is that your idea, or hers? That she meet the Pope.’

  ‘Mine. It might change her negative attitude.’

  Benetti worked. ‘It might.’

  Morgan waited; then asked: ‘Do you think that could be arranged?’

  ‘It is possible. The Pope knows about her case.’

  Morgan’s hopes soared. ‘Oh, I think it might work wonders. Psychologically at least.’ He hesitated. ‘And if I were present too, maybe I could support her psychologically afterwards, keep her optimistic.’

  Benetti worked across the lumbar region. Morgan flinched. Benetti said: ‘But she must want to see His Holiness, she must want faith, otherwise there is negativeness.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Morgan said. ‘
I will work on that.’ He hesitated from pushing his luck, but he had to: ‘Have you any idea when this could be arranged?’

  Benetti shook his head. ‘The request must first come from her. Then we shall see.’

  Morgan lay there, elated. If this worked … Benetti flicked his shoulder. ‘I think you will be more comfortable for a while.’

  Morgan sat up. He felt good.

  ‘Thank you very much indeed. If I need to see you again … ?’

  ‘Ask Renata to arrange it. I am busy but it can be done.’

  ‘Thank you. What do I owe you, please?’

  ‘Put some money in the poor box.’

  ‘Good. And … I have a small favour to ask you? I want to buy Cardinal Gunter’s book, Letters to the Mighty. Renata says you sometimes see him. If I were to bring the book here one day, could you possibly pass it on to him for his autograph? Do you think he would mind?’

  Benetti shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Well, thank you so very much.’

  He came out into the cold rain, feeling elated. He hurried up the street into the nearest café. He went straight to the toilet. He unzipped his bag, pulled out his shoulder holster and put it on. He went back to the bar. He ordered a beer and drank it down, down, down, and it tasted marvellous. He had had a good day! He now had two extra strings to his bow, potentially. If he failed to see Cardinal Gunter at the golf club, the passwords could be sent to him through Benetti. And if all else failed he might get to see the Pope through Renata, and tell him to put his house in order, take it from there. The depression that Miguel Milano had left him with was gone. He had learned some terrible things about his Church today, but he had made progress. And Miguel Milano might be wrong in his interpretation of events.

  He bought a bottle of good cognac for Renata, and took a taxi to her apartment. She opened the door and said dramatically:

  ‘Have I got some facts for you! Pope John Paul I was definitely murdered …’

  47

  He did not want to believe it – all this business about the murder of Pope John Paul I was a red herring. And he was almost prepared to believe anything again. He sat behind the bar with a bottle of beer, his nerves stretched again, his notebook open: Renata sat opposite, photocopies of newspaper cuttings and pages of notes in front of her. She read from them:

  ‘On the 26th August, 1978, Cardinal Albino Luciani, a small, popular, gentle man, was elected Pope John Paul I. He was sixty-five years old and in good health. He neither drank nor smoked. His only health problem was low blood pressure, for which his personal doctor gave him medicine which he took twice a day.’ Renata tapped the cuttings. ‘Low blood pressure is guaranteed not to give you a heart attack.’

  Morgan made a scribbled note. Renata read on:

  ‘Thirty-three days later, he retired to bed at nine-thirty pm, as usual. His medicine was at his bedside.’ She tapped the cuttings again: ‘The Italian press knows these details, because his housekeeper and his personal secretary told them. At four-thirty am his housekeeper brought him coffee as usual. Her name is Sister Vicenza. She had been his housekeeper for twenty years. She knocked and called “Good morning, Holy Father” … She left the coffee outside his door. Fifteen minutes later she noticed the coffee still untouched. She knocked again. Finally she opened the door.’ Renata looked up. ‘She found him sitting up in bed. The light on. His spectacles on. In his hand were a bunch of hand-written notes. He had a grimace of pain on his face. He was dead.’

  Morgan was making notes furiously. Renata went on:

  ‘She immediately woke up the papal household. Commotion. Crying. They sent for the Secretary of State, who lives two floors below the Pope’s apartment.’ She added: ‘Not the present Secretary of State, nor his predecessor, who was called Casaroli, but the one before that, Cardinal Villot …’ She looked at Morgan. ‘What happens next proves that the Pope was murdered, and that the Secretary of State was either part of the conspiracy to murder him, or decided to destroy the evidence to avoid a scandal …’

  Morgan waited. Renata ran her finger down her notes.

  ‘The Secretary of State felt the Pope’s pulse. Then he picked up the Pope’s medicine, and put it in his pocket! He then took the papers from the Pope’s hand, and shoved them into his pocket too! Then he found the Pope’s will in his desk and pocketed that as well. Then he took the Pope’s spectacles and slippers.’ Renata looked up and said slowly: ‘None of those things was ever seen again.’

  Morgan began to ask a question, but Renata held up a hand: ‘The Secretary of State then imposed a vow of silence on the papal household! They were not to tell anybody the Pope was dead until he said so. He returned to his own quarters and began to make phone calls. It was now five am.’ She held up a finger. ‘He telephoned the undertakers, the Signoracci brothers, who are the official papal embalmers! And he sent a car to fetch them immediately.’ She raised her eyebrows at Morgan. ‘He then ordered that there would be no autopsy! And that the body would be embalmed immediately.’ She glared at him. ‘Why no autopsy? … Why the rush to have him embalmed? …’

  Morgan sighed.

  Renata snorted, and reverted to her notes. ‘The Vatican doctor examined the Pope’s body at about six am. He had never examined the Pope before, not being his personal doctor. He diagnosed the cause of death as a heart attack. And the time of death as about eleven pm the previous evening.’ She banged the bar: ‘It is impossible to diagnose a heart attack without an autopsy! And even more impossible to give the time of death! That’s a fact! The press asked numerous doctors …’

  Morgan sighed. ‘And then?’

  ‘At six am the Pope’s body was transferred to the Clementina Hall. He was dressed in papal robes, and put on public view for twelve hours. At six o’clock that night the actual embalming began.’ She said slowly: ‘The Secretary of State ordered that the body was not to be drained of blood! … Not one drop of blood was to be taken! …’

  Morgan looked at her. She leant across the bar at him:

  ‘Why? Embalming involves draining all the blood and then pumping the veins full of embalming fluid! All previous popes had been embalmed in the normal way! Why did the Secretary forbid the draining of blood? . . She leant forward again: ‘Because even one drop of blood would have been enough for any pathologist to tell whether the Pope had been poisoned or not! …’ She spread her arms angrily. ‘And how dare they embalm anybody, let alone the head of the Holy Roman Church, without first determining the cause of death! ..’ She glared at him. ‘That is strictly forbidden in any civilized country! There must be a proper explanation of death before a body is buried – to prevent murders going undetected! So why did the Vatican do it? Why?’

  Morgan sat back, and rubbed his forehead. He felt sick in his guts. He started to ask a question, but Renata continued:

  ‘And then the Vatican proceeded to tell lie after lie … Rumours of murder were flying around Rome within hours, and the press were demanding answers.’ She began to tick them off on her fingers. ‘Lie number one: the Vatican said that the Pope was holding a book called The Imitation of Christ in his hands when he was found dead. Lie. The papal staff said it was a sheaf of papers! The papers that disappeared into the Secretary of State’s pocket!’

  ‘Is it known what those papers were?’

  ‘Wait … Lie number two … The Vatican claimed the Pope was in bad health, on the point of death, and that he died of an overdose of his medicine …’ She smiled at him: ‘Lie … The press asked his two personal physicians, Dr Da Ros who had looked after him for twenty years, and Dr Rama, a heart specialist, who had been treating him for his low blood pressure for five years. Both said he was in excellent health.’ She glared at him: ‘Neither of those two doctors were consulted by the Vatican before they buried the man! And the Vatican doctor, who had never examined the Pope in his life, did not sign even a death certificate!’

  Morgan leant his elbow on the bar, and held his forehead.

  �
��Three.’ Renata held up the fingers. ‘The Vatican piously claimed that it was illegal under Apostolic Law for an autopsy to be performed on a pope.’ She smiled maliciously: ‘Lie. An autopsy was performed on Pope Pius VIII!’

  She went on grimly: ‘The Pope’s body lay in state for a few days, with Swiss guards on twenty-four-hour guard. Meanwhile, the Italian press were demanding answers. Then … the day before the Pope was to be buried, something bizarre happened. At seven pm the gates of Saint Peter’s were closed, as usual. At about seven forty-five, however, a group of pilgrims from the Pope’s birthplace arrived to pay their last respects. They had got special permission. They were taken into Saint Peter’s by a side door. They had just gathered around the coffin, when suddenly in walked a number of Vatican officials and doctors. The pilgrims were told to leave immediately! The four Swiss guards were also told to leave! Then large screens were erected around the Pope’s body and a medical examination began! It lasted an hour and a half.’ She looked up at Morgan arid paused dramatically. ‘The Vatican Press Office told Italian reporters, off the record, that the examination was only to check on the preservation of the body. They said the examination was carried out by …’ she consulted her notes, ‘by Professor Gerin and the Signoracci brothers, the embalmers, and that some more embalming fluid was injected. After the burial, however, the Vatican made an official announcement, that the examination had lasted only twenty minutes, and that the body was found to be in order.’ She leant forward: ‘The press then spoke to Professor Gerin and to the Signoracci brothers. None of them had been present at the examination!’

  Morgan frowned incredulously. She appealed softly:

  ‘Why the lies? Why say the examination only lasted twenty minutes when it lasted ninety minutes? Why say the embalmers and the professor made the examination when they weren’t even there? Why?’ She leant forward again. ‘Obviously, because it was not an embalming procedure but an autopsy that was performed! Obviously there was pressure from some Vatican officials to answer the worrisome questions! And if that autopsy proved that the Pope was not murdered, the Vatican would surely have announced it loud and clear, to put a stop to the speculation that was flying around Rome like a snow storm. But, no. So? So obviously that little autopsy showed that the Pope had been murdered. So they lied, about how long it took, about the purpose, about who was present …’