The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  Solomon now watched as the Commandants aide, S/S Captain Peter Lenz, emerged from the camps sole brick building, the camps Headquarters. The captain looked like he was dumping some kind of liquid on the wooded floor, then the doors frame before he tossed the container back into the building. Soon after the building belched black smoke as it caught fire. Solomon watched as Lenz then carried a black briefcase behind the brick building but in plain view of where Solomon stood. He watched as Lenz desperately searched for something before settling on a discarded coffee tin, using it to swiftly dig a small hole. Lenz promptly withdrew something from inside the black briefcase, emptying a portion of it into the hole. He then removed a paper from his tunic pocket placing it in the same hole before covering it over with dirt and gravel. Standing, he brushed himself off before picking up the briefcase with both hands, turning, he struggled for a moment as he tried to balance the load, then jogged toward the train.

  From where he stood, Solomon managed a delicate smile, his first in many months. He now realized in some strange way that he might live.

  No, he thought, Solomon Nubelman would live.

  CHAPTER 48

  THE VATICAN – PRESENT DAY

  Rain started to pelt the windshield as Maria Celnoleni exited her blood red Ferrari 458 Italia. She struggled to pull her Armani raincoat close as she grabbed her Medichi leather briefcase, dashing several meters to the glass doors of the Vatican Bank.

  Maria realized once she went through its doors there would be no turning back. Either she would succeed or she would be dead by the end of the day.

  She paused for a moment, her eyes somber as she viewed the imposing building, the structure nestled against the Apostolic Palace, the pope's official residence.

  Maria hastily made her decision as she nodded to the heavily armed Swiss Guard, a Sturmgewehr 90 assault rifle slung low across his dark blue uniformed chest, atop his head a blue beret tilted on a cocky slight angle. The Swiss Guard all swore a personal oath of loyalty to the Pope. This oath taken annually on May 26th, to commemorate the sacking of Rome on the same day in 1527 when Swiss guards protected pope Clement VII during his escape to Castel Sant’Angelo. Of the 189 guards, only 42 survived, most dying in a bloody running battle that reached its climax on the steps of St. Peters Basilica.

  “Grazie, Marco,” Maria whispered to the guard as he held the door open for her. Of average height, she had the body of a dancer, lithe and beautiful; her long black hair wafted around her like smoke, its tendrils curling and moving of their own volition. At thirty-seven, Maria was not only the youngest person to assume the title of President of the Vatican Bank, but also its first woman. Maria rose to prominence six months earlier when scandal forced her predecessor to resign in disgrace — the fifth Vatican Bank president in six years. Not a great track record for a bank whose deposits were rumored to be in the tens of billions; at least the tens of billions that were documented by its internal regulators.

  The bank itself was atypical early 20th Century; a 10 by 10 meter Italian marble main floor, hand carved stone columns extending from floor-to-ceiling marked each corner, a waist-high round marble table in the center of the room with deposit slips and other supplies for customers to use, and a wooden counter with three teller windows that ran the length of the room. Spaces beyond the teller windows housed the offices of the banks senior company officials.

  The bank was a swarm of activity as Maria walked across to her office. Maria nodded to the three, plump, middle-aged female tellers who smiled at her as she walked past their posts, the senior teller buzzing her into the back office area.

  “Grazie,” she said in Italian to the rather plain woman with gentle eyes. Maria made her way to the coffee pot where the heavenly scent of fresh-ground Jamaica Blue hung in the air, and poured herself a cup, carrying it to her office.

  Her male secretary, Miguel Carducci, was impatiently standing in the hallway awaiting her arrival.

  She nodded weakly in greeting.

  Miguel opened Maria’s office door, allowing her to enter before respectfully following her into her office, closing the heavy wooden door behind them.

  Maria looked about her desk for a free spot to place her coffee cup before crudely placing it on her mouse pad, coffee spilling over its lip onto the pads fabric. It didn’t seem to faze her as she now absently removed her jacket and carelessly tossed it over a side chair before sitting down behind her desk. The desk was vast, gilded, like everything else in the building, and sat perched on a vast red oriental rug, the Vatican crest in its middle. She looked up in acknowledgement to Miguel, her hand beckoning him forward. “Do you have it,” she said softly, her eyes penetrating.

  Miguel nodded. “I have the file you called in about,” he replied, his tone businesslike, holding up the blood red folder up for her inspection before passing it to her. He was of medium height with features that were striking but not conspicuously handsome. His hair was wiry and black and brushed backward from the temples. His suit well-tailored. However, there was something slightly odd about him.

  Maria placed the file on her desk, her expression neutral as she opened it. She removed the first two pages in the file before placing them in her personal shredder beside her desk. A mechanical whirling sound indicated success. It was then that Maria noticed the wax seal had been broken. She had not noticed this when Miguel first handed her the folder. She now fixed Miguel with an intense gaze, her expression slowly changing to fear.

  Miguel fidgeted before her, his pulse quickening. “I took the liberty of reading it,” he said, his voice trembling.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Maria said, her voice turned markedly more serious.

  “But I thought you wanted my opinion?” he stammered. “That’s why I opened it. I thought you valued my opinion and that is why you asked me to hand deliver it.”

  Red files were ‘eyes only,’ usually detailing something that could be detrimental to the church — and this was definitely one of those files.

  It was decision time for Maria. She could feel betrayed, or show empathy. Maria rose slowly from her chair and walked around to where Miguel stood, maneuvering to a point no more than two feet in front of him. She stood facing him for a few seconds with a mixture of personal unease and professional detachment.

  “But, maim,” Miguel said, his voice cracking.

  Maria held up her hand to silence him, moving a little closer, she now lowered her voice. “Shut up you fool. You were not supposed to read the documents in the folder. You were to simply pick up the folder and deposit it on my desk. I was to read the file, not you. I guess the wax seal wasn’t enough warning for you?”

  Miguel stared at her, dumbfounded. “But I……..,” he stammered before Maria held up her hand once more to silence him.

  “It’s bad enough I could be killed for this,’ Maria said, now holding the file aloft. “But you have implicated yourself in this damn fiasco.” She tossed the file on her desk in disgust.

  Maria was well aware of the folders contents. She had no choice. As the Vatican Bank president, she inherited all its dirty little secrets, both good and bad.

  Miguel shook his head. “You can’t be serious? I could be killed for just reading this particular file?” he replied in bewilderment.

  “Absolutely, you fool!”

  “I don’t understand. I just read some documents pertaining to bank accounts.” He was now sweating profusely, mopping his brow with a worn handkerchief he had pulled from his suit coat pocket. “What should I do?”

  Miguel started to panic. Maria had to use this opportunity to her advantage. She had the man right where she wanted him. He was gift wrapped with a big red bow.

  There was a long silence before Maria replied crossly. “You read the file, what the hell do you think?” She shook her head as if to pity the man. She knew the file’s documents listed numerous ghost accounts for its ‘Gem Customers.’ Only a select few knew about the ‘Gem Customers’ and the fact they were hidde
n from internal regulators due to the nature of their illicit gains. The accounts were only disclosed to a select few such as herself acting in the capacity as Vatican bank president and several members of the upper Vatican hierarchy.

  Maria paused, allowing several seconds to elapse. “Did anyone in the office see you with the file?” She knew the bank to be full of well-paid informants, and as far as this group was concerned, there would be leaks.

  His voice cracked once more. “Everyone saw me. I walked back from the archives holding the file. I even stopped by Siena’s desk to chat her up, laying the file on her desk so she could see its importance.” Siena was the comely new accounts secretary.

  Maria blessed herself. “The people we deal with are killers. They have billions in our bank and there is nothing I can do about it. Its blood money — old money,” she said slowly. “They list accounts containing money from the last World War with most of it stolen by the Nazi’s. This is money that kills. It’s money that has killed. I don’t know if I can protect you. Remember what happened to Calvi?”

  She was referring to Roberto Calvi, a former Vatican banking associate whose death compelled many conspiracy theories and much befuddlement. He was found hanging under Black Friars Bridge, his feet dangling in the River Thames in the heart of London — he wore two pairs of underwear, had five bricks in his pockets, about $14,000 worth of three different currencies and the business card of a prominent figure with a dubious Nazi past stuffed in his mouth. After only three days of investigating the incident, the case was quickly closed. Comically, it was ruled a suicide by Scotland Yard.

  That was the power held by certain Vatican officials. They could turn what the average person would see as a murder, into a suicide.

  In the wrong hands, it’s the type of power that corrupts.

  “Please forgive me, maim,” said Miguel, now fearing the consequence of his actions. He looked ready to sob. “I, I, just wanted to…,” he stammered.

  Maria was not one to be governed by emotions. “I want you to take off sick for a few days,” she said assuredly. “Go back to your apartment. Relax. Have a stiff drink. Allow me to think this through.”

  Miguel nodded. “If only half of what you say is true then you’re undoubtedly right. I should leave here. Maybe I should leave the city for a few days?”

  “No, I will need you close-by. Just provide me with a day or two to sort this through. Now go home and wait for me to contact you. I know a few important people who may be able to help with your situation. Allow me make a few phone calls.”

  He nodded his thanks, turned and walked out of the office, shaking his head in disbelief, mumbling to himself.

  Maria stared at the man’s back until he was out of view, then she smiled. She had her patsy. She could blame her secretary for everything. He could not have made her work any easier. ‘Up jumped the Holy Ghost when you needed him’, her dear departed Father used to say. Who else was stupid enough to parade around the office with the files in clear sight?

  Maria walked over to her offices floor-to-ceiling windows that faced St. Peters Basilica. The morning rain had started to taper off. Good news for the thousands of tourists who gathered daily in the square before her. She beamed at the view. One of the many perks of her job. In addition, the power — she could not forget the power that went along with the job, the same power that had so easily corrupted her predecessors. Not bad for the daughter of a common banker. Her father would be proud of her had he not been murdered when Maria was a teenager, having unwisely informed on the local mafia Don. Maria then withdrew a cheap burner cell phone from her briefcase and dialed a number from memory.

  “Licio, I have your man,” she said, a smile gracing her face, knowing she would not be the one dying today.

  AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN in an elegantly tailor-made suit had just stepped out of his favorite Gelato Shop as his cell phone rang to the tune from the Godfather movie. Licio Gelitoni moved with all the grace his ninety-five years could afford him. Small, balding, and slightly hunched over, he tapped his cane along the cobblestones as he walked gracefully to his apartment in Rome’s upscale Sistine District. “Ciao” he said in a hushed voice, answering his cell phone. “Maria, always a pleasure to speak with you,” he began before chiding her; “You must have something of importance to be disturbing me after my gelato.” Once a former member of the Mussolini’s Black Shirts and one-time secret liaison between the Mussolini regime and the Nazi high command during World War II — Licio survived the war and amassed an impressive list of contacts and sensitive information on hundreds of key political, military and financial figures throughout Europe and America. Most of his information coming via his uninterrupted access to the files of the Italian secret service (OVRA). Licio even managed to sell his services to the CIA and NATO when called upon or if he needed the extra money. However, he drew the line at hardline, Muslim government officials. They tended to be anti-west in their views. That and he just didn’t trust them.

  Starting many decades before, he began using the blackmail files of the OVRA to begin recruiting members of the military and intelligence services, as well as key financial and political figures for his own use. Licio was amazed at what such high-profile people tended to do on their private time. Most had a preference for mistresses, some for men, but all had a dark side they tried to hide from the public. This allowed him unprecedented access to the Vatican and 22 generals in the Italian armed forces, six admirals, 42 members of Parliament, heads of the security and intelligence services, and the publishers of major Italian papers. He even secretly controlled the Vatican Bank. Something his Eminence, Pope Francis, had no knowledge of. In a way, he controlled Italy; not the Prime Minister. Licio called the shots in Italy. He even used his influence in the European Union and the United Nations. It was him pushing and pulling the strings of the Vatican’s growing, global lust for power.

  During the years leading up to and during the war, Licio was long rumored to be a favorite of Hitler and Mussolini for making their personnel enemies disappear, and their secret Swiss and Vatican accounts bank accounts grow exponentially. After their deaths, Licio quickly and quietly used both accounts to buy influence and increase his own holdings. Of Hitler and Mussolini’s personal enemies, Licio knew where the bodies were buried. He should; he buried most of them.

  His many contacts also allowed him to elude capture for over 70 plus years. Many European criminal courts had at one time or another wanted to prosecute Licio for his brutal actions committed during WWII but his well-connected friends were able to squash all requests. Some even went a step further and had key evidence misplaced or destroyed. As he grew older, Licio realized as long as he remained in Italy, the long arm of the law could not reach him. It wouldn’t dare.

  “Good, good, Maria. You are to be congratulated,” he replied, a smile gracing his aged face. He blessed himself. “So we have our man.”

  Licio shifted his phone to his other ear. “You are to proceed with the next phase of our plan,” he said, the giddiness in his voice apparent. “Notify our friends that the time is right to strike.”

  CHAPTER 49

  PRESENT DAY; ROME, ITALY

  Licio Gelitoni managed to put his cane to good use as he eased himself through the bustling crowds of tourists at Piazza Americo, only blocks from his Sistine District apartment. In his other hand he held a cheap Euro Store umbrella that managed to hold the rain at bay for the moment. He was still giddy from his conversation with Maria, not believing his good fortune, or their good fortune. They had their patsy. He also called his old Vatican contact, Antonio Perluci, providing him with the news he had been so patiently waiting for. They could now implement their plan of so many years in the making, having waited patiently until Maria received her present position. Unfortunately, Maria was not the Vatican’s first choice as its Bank President. That honor went to a German financial Professor from the University of Heidelberg. It helped that Licio was able to call in several of his markers in order
to assist Maria. He even arranged to have the Professor from Heidelberg arrested for soliciting a prostitute — this after only three days on the job. Of course, he was innocent. But only he knew that. It was his word against a respected policewoman’s. The Professor was simply asking for directions but had asked the wrong person, at the wrong time. An undercover policewoman took his remarks for solicitation. At least that’s what she was paid by Licio’s contact to say. Pictures taken by another of Licio’s contacts and fed to the Italian press showed the Professor speaking to a scantily clad woman leaning into the passenger side of his car, its window down. Naturally, the Italian press had a field day splashing it across the front pages of all the dailies. The Vatican was quick to dismiss the Professor from his post, hiring the person next in line, Maria Celnoleni.

  Now for the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place, all Licio needed was to speak with his Swiss banking contact in order to gain access to the files and bank numbers he required.

  No more than a simple task between old friends.

  After all of these years — the last set of numbers.

  Patience does have its virtues.

  He smiled to himself as he turned the corner and made a right onto Via dei Corridori, the imposing Vatican Wall looming just ahead of him, St. Peters Basilica towering just above it. Even after all of his years spent living in Rome, Licio was still in awe of the buildings beauty. Magnificent, he said to himself, a smile gracing his face before turning away. Unlike the touristy Piazza Americo, only locals occupied the more residential streets where Licio lived. He nodded politely to a young mother who pushed a stroller, her baby fast asleep. A few steps more led to his non-descript, four-story, Sistine District apartment building. It was typical of the area, each with storefronts at their base. A door in the divider between the storefronts led to a common hallway and the buildings circular staircase. Of course it had no elevator — a common problem in Rome’s antiquated buildings, with most over 100 years old and considered too expensive to add such a modern amenity. But he could use the exercise. Licio nodded to the middle-aged woman who busily swept the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, him trying to remember her name before blurting out, “Good day, Signorina Antoinette,” in recognition.