by R. J. Grant
Entering the house, I was struck with wonder at the exquisite furnishing and art that graced the walls. It was different from anything I had ever seen or felt before. Unlike the grand mansions I had previously visited, I did not get the feeling of entering a museum, as was almost always the case. There was nothing dead in here. The rooms were for life and the living, filled with fresh air and alive with a fragrance of the lake hilltops. Even the Vatican, with all its grandeur and elegance, was not as compelling as this home.
“Adama, please wait here,” she said quietly. I watched that perfect form disappear through tall double doors at the end of the room. In a moment, she returned with a pleasant smile.
“Please come with me, Adama. The drawing room is this way.”
I followed her back through the double doors and through a wide, wood-paneled foyer to a second set of double doors. She knocked softly, and entered with me in tow. Standing behind a large, ornate table that served as a desk, the silhouette of an extremely tall man was outlined against two-story casement windows overlooking the gardens.
“Victorio, may I introduce you to Padre Adama.”
“Thank you,” came the reply from a deep, resonating voice. That will be all, Alessandra.” Without another word, she slipped back through the double doors, silently closing them. I was unable to make out his face with the bright background light of the windows.
“Welcome to my home, Father Adama,” he said, walking out from behind the table towards me. As he approached, he seemed to diminish, and not be as tall as I had first imagined. Maybe it was an illusion from the tall windows, I thought. He was still a big man, at least a few inches taller than I. When he moved away from the window light, I could see a smiling face and a hand extended to welcome me. His black hair was moderately long, with a soft wave that held it in place. The skin tone was olive, suggesting southern Mediterranean if it were not for the deep blue eyes. I returned his smile and offered my hand in response. I received a firm and assuring grip, as he gestured with his other hand toward two leather chairs that faced each other over a small marble dining table.
“Thank you, Signor Del Cielo, I am very pleased to meet you.”
“Oh no, please call me Victorio. May I also call you Adama?”
“Yes, of course.”
Well, that was it. I was on a first name basis with Burtuchi’s Grigori. I had a fleeting thought of making fun of the old man’s suspicions the next time I saw him, but I quickly dismissed it, knowing such behavior was ill-advised. Burtuchi could be more dangerous than any Grigori.
“I am so glad you have accepted my request. I wasn’t sure you would be so accommodating to an unsolicited invitation.”
“I will admit to being hesitant,” I said, pleasantly, “but after entering your home, I am so glad I did accept. These rooms are magnificent.” Which, of course, they were. Just the same, it seemed wise to show appreciation. There is a proverb I will paraphrase which says, ‘It is an easy thing to lose your head while dining at the king’s table.’ That aside, the man seemed pleasant enough to me, and I saw no wings concealed under the Armani jacket he wore.
“I thought we would talk awhile to become acquainted before having lunch,” he said, as he pored a glass of wine from a decanter for each of us.
“Yes, of course, I would be most happy to do that.”
I found the leather chair facing him to be comfortable, and the posture it provided not the least bit awkward for a direct conversation. The seating was apparently carefully chosen for its purpose. I wanted to study the man before discussing the main topic of the meeting, namely, the Atonement Lot. From what Alessandra had revealed in the garden, I thought she might be a key to revealing more of the man.
“I wish to compliment you on both the charm and persuasiveness of Alessandra in extending your invitation. She has also been most gracious and entertaining in the garden while we awaited your arrival.”
“Thank you, I will be sure to tell her of your compliment, and I am also pleased that you feel that way.”
Well, that didn’t hit a nerve. I saw no particular reaction on the man’s face as I studied it. I was sure the mention of her name would elicit some emotion. I was wrong. He changed the topic quickly, but I don’t think it was because he was uncomfortable discussing Alessandra.
“Adama, I am to understand that your scholarly position at the Vatican provides much world travel in the performance of your service. It must prove an interesting life with much fulfillment.”
“Yes, it does, but I am surprised that you know anything of my vocation. It is not the type of work that attracts much attention outside of Rome.”
“Oh, on the contrary, I for one am always fascinated by the discoveries of archeology, particularly where biblical conformations are concerned. Although, I will admit that I find it discouraging at times when the reports of these finds are suppressed by governments for political reasons.”
He was baiting me to disclose my position on such issues. Very well, I thought. Let’s see where it leads. If I take an opposing view, maybe I can scratch down to the emotional level of the man.
“Oh, I don’t know, Victorio, don’t you think that sometimes it is in the greater interest to conceal information that may cause more unrest in the world?”
“Hardly. It has been my experience that all things are better brought into the light. Secrets breed distrust and anger, ultimately leading to violence. The more one conceals, the more one must persist in dishonesty until the deceit is all-consuming. Do you not agree?”
He was right, of course, but I pushed back a bit and see what would happen.
“No, not particularly. Men are reactionary creatures, given to thoughtless response to truths that either confirm or reject their beliefs. Cannot ignorance be preferred over chaos?” That should do it, I thought. Now he will defend his position with conviction.
“Adama, you don’t believe that any more than I do. I can hear it in your voice.”
“That’s true,” I said, with a smile. “I was just trying to get a rise out of you to get a peek at the inner man.”
“I understand, but it is not necessary. What you see is what I am. It is not in my nature to hide anything from anyone.”
Interesting, I thought. If he is telling the truth he may be the first honest man I have ever met. Then, of course, his wealth and position would make it easy for him to express his true feelings. Who could cause him injury?
“Please, Adama, salute,” he said, raising his glass to me.
“Certainly,” I replied, “Salute Victorio.” As I raised my glass to my lips I couldn’t help thinking that I liked this man. I had expected a confrontational meeting—a test of wills at minimum, but he was accommodating and disarming to say the least. Still, we hadn’t really gotten down to business yet, had we?
The wine was as I expected, pleasant to the pallet and clearly expensive. However, I sensed that it was not selected to impress. It was merely a part of the accoutrements that surrounded this man. I was beginning to accept Dinard’s sensible description of him rather than the irrational ravings of Burtuchi and Giovanni. Maybe I was being naïve, but my skeptical nature was put to rest for the moment. I found myself enjoying our conversation. For the next twenty minutes, we discussed everything from current events to the economics of Milan. Still, I wanted to get to the purpose of the invitation.
“Victorio, Alessandra assured me that we had a common interest to discuss. I am sure that you as well as I would like to move on to that interest.”
“I am sorry you are so impatient. I was enjoying your company, and the wine. Very well, but first allow me to have lunch served, then we will talk.”
He picked up a small silver bell that was set in front of his place setting; gently ringing its pure, sweet sound. Within seconds, a wait staff appeared through a side door and began placing trays of food on the sideboard against the wall. Their service was impeccable, plating perfect potions of medallion beef, asparagus and roasted red potato on each
plate. Once we were served, they immediately left the room as they had entered, without a sound.
“Adama, will you say grace?”
I will admit that I was surprised at his request. I had never known men of his position to acknowledge the God that provided them with all they had.
“Why yes, of course,” I said, unable to hide my amazement. I bowed my head, noticing that he did not, but instead raised his face up as if looking for something.
“Father of heaven, gracious king of all creation, we thank you for the bounty of this meal, and the company to share it with, Amen.” I thought it best to be brief.
The food was, of course, as good as the wine. We passed lunch with pleasant conversation much to my dismay, since I really wanted to get on with what I thought would be a game of cat and mouse. I had still not decided how assertive I would be when we came down to business. Where I generally look forward to being unpleasant with those I consider adversaries, I had no such desire with this man. He was either a genuinely noble soul or an expert manipulator—I was not sure, but shortly I would find out. We placed our utensils across our plates just as the wait staff magically reappeared to clear the table, leaving a bottle of brandy in its place. He immediately poured for both of us.
“I can feel your anxiety, Adama. Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” he said apologetically. “I thought it best to have lunch first; men are less irritable after the stomach has been satisfied,” he said, with a smile. “Let us now talk of the Atonement Lot, or Seal, if you prefer.”
I’ll give him credit for directness once he gets down to business. He caught me off guard and I could feel my eyebrows raise slightly at his announcement. Well, I was all for it! I have never been one for politics and diplomacy anyway.
“So you know about the Atonement Lot and its disappearance?” I asked, rhetorically. “If that is true, then you also know that I have been sent to locate it before it makes its way out of Milan.”
“That’s where I can help you, Adama. I am quite sure that I know who has taken it, and where it can be found. However, I wanted to meet you before deciding if I would help you.”
“You know who has it?”
“I am quite certain. In any case, I am content to let it remain where it is for the time being.”
His words hit like a punch in the chest. He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that you could forget that a man was probably killed in the process of stealing the object. I can’t say that I was in the least concerned for Crochi given his perversion for children, but still, the declaration seemed a bit nonchalant for the circumstances.
“Did they kill Father Crochi to get it?”
“Most assuredly,” he replied without the slightest hint of emotion, “but I am also certain that they were not involved in the theft of the object from the treasury. That was Burtuchi’s doing.”
I just stared at him while I tried to assimilate what he had just told me. Was he playing me for the fool or was he just a mad man making up stories? I watched him for a long moment, not sure of what I would say to this revelation. His accusation of Burtuchi’s involvement made no sense. There was no motive I could determine for the cardinal to perpetrate such actions. Del Cielo never changed his expression; he sat as a statue in time. Was he a sociopath? Finally, I determined that this had gone as far as it was going to go. It was time to drop the priestly countenance.
“Who do you suspect in Crochi’s murder?”
“That is not important.”
“What makes you think that you can conceal a murderer without consequence?”
“I am concealing nothing, Adama. I am only stating fact, and an honest disclosure to you. Do you really care what has happened to Crochi? I know you do not. Let us be clear though—I had nothing to do with Crochi’s murder. I didn’t kill him.”
I considered what I knew of the way Crochi was murdered. He had been torn apart, a job that Jack The Ripper would have been proud of. It was likely a man as large as Victorio who had done the deed. The human body does not come apart as easily as one might think. Although, why tell me that he knew anything of Crochi’s murder in the first place? Apparently he had no fear of retribution. Then there was the accusation that Burtuchi himself was involved in the theft. I narrowed my eyes to meet his.
“You are not telling me all this to amuse yourself, are you? You may find that the price of your entertainment comes high.”
“No, Adama, I am not amused, I am grieved.”
“What makes you think I will not report what you have told me to the police?”
“If Burtuchi wanted to involve the police, he would not have sent you, Adama. Burtuchi has no interest in those outside his circle being aware of any of his activities.”
I thought about a physical threat, but somehow I didn’t think he would give up the names he suspected of possessing the Lot so easily. Even if I killed him, how would I ever find it? He seemed to know things where everyone else was clueless. Besides, he was not telling me all this without some other objective in mind. He wanted something.
“Have you thought it through now, Adama?” he asked. “Good, I can see that you have decided to listen and not react.”
He annoyed me, but there was nothing for it. I determined to let him play out his hand.
“Very well, go on.”
“Immediately after receiving your report from the Duomo Treasury, the cardinal set in motion the events that led to the removal of the Lot from the vault. He was long aware of Crochi’s transgressions from the documentation prepared by Archbishop Savica and Monsignor Belgerio. Everything goes through his offices, and he knew the man could be coerced. He set his agent Giovanni Garabela in motion to accomplish the act.”
“Just a minute, you want me to believe that he kept Crochi in place in order to use him?”
“Not just Crochi, Adama, many other priests, administrators—anyone under his jurisdiction. Didn’t you ever wonder why it seemed that the Church turned a blind eye to all the perversion and criminal activity within its walls? There are people all over the world that Burtuchi knows he can make use of if the occasion should arise.”
“To what purpose? Where are you going with this accusation?”
It was all too strange for me. I was pretty sure I was entertaining a wild conspiracy theorist with too much time on his hands to pursue meaningful thought. I was just about to tell him so before excusing myself and getting the hell out of there, but he stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Adama, what does the Bilderberg Group mean to you? Do you know that Burtuchi is a member?”
“Shit!”
The word just slipped out of my mouth. Bilderbergers—this was the secret society of secret societies. Since 1954, the group has met annually with the official purpose of fostering cooperation between Western Europe and the United States on political, economic, education, and defense issues. Their membership and inclusion in the annual meeting is by invitation only, and includes bankers, politicians, and directors of global businesses corporations. I had often wondered just who it was that determined the membership, and which members would be invited each year. It seemed to me that there must be a small core of leadership, the man behind the curtain if you will, that pulled all the strings.
The reality, of course, is that the group is a witch’s brew of corruption on a planetary scale. Security of their meetings is tighter than a crab’s ass, with zero reporting or accountability of discussions and decisions. It has been suspected that they determine who leads the World Bank, the IMF, the European Union, and the candidate for the U.S. presidency. Many of their members hold leadership positions in other secret societies, such as Skull and Bones and the Free Masons. Their power and penetration into the fabric of western life is almost beyond comprehension. It has been clear for a long time that their ultimate goal has been a “New World Order,” a single-world government, monetary system, and humanitarian law dictated by the elite. Their world has no room for the individual or the rights of man granted by the Cr
eator.
A light was beginning to dawn in my mind. For the past thirty years, each Pope has formally called for a “New World Order,” specifically using those words. U.S. presidents have publicly uttered the words. It had always been my opinion that World War II had been fought to prevent just such a “New World Order.” Now we were openly advocating it. Had not Europe already manifested such order by bringing about the European Union? These nations had given up their sovereignty, and thus control of their own destiny. Who can deny the erosion of their God-given rights?
“I see in your eyes, Adama, that the reality has awakened in your mind. Look to Burtuchi’s calendar, past and present, and you will find a correlation between his schedule and the meetings of the Bilderberger. Think, Adama, who really controls the Vatican Bank? How much influence does Cardinal Burtuchi have over the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace; who really selects the Vatican diplomats to over one hundred and seventy countries?”
He was right, of course. I already knew that the cardinal held sway over the very pulse of the Vatican. Now I even wondered how much influence he had over the election of each new Pope. Still, the whole premise was too fantastic to be true.
Burtuchi—could he be one of the global puppeteers, a “New World Order” advocate? Still, his participation in the Bilderberger would provide them with influence over 1.2 billion Catholics. Victorio was a good salesman; I was compelled to follow along further. There was an element of plausibility.
“Let’s assume all that you have to say is true. Why are you telling me all this and what do you wish to accomplish?”
The intensity of his eyes left me, and it seemed that he went to another place and time in his mind. When he spoke again, I was not sure if his words were directed to me or someone else in the room out of my line of sight. I can tell you that it was damn uncomfortable.