Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits
Page 1
ARCHANGELS
Rise of the Jesuits
Janet M. Tavakoli
Also by Janet Tavakoli
Non-fiction
Credit Derivatives & Synthetic Structures, John Wiley & Sons (1998, 2001). Also available in Japanese and Orthodox Chinese.
Structured Finance & Collateralized Debt Obligations, John Wiley & Sons (2003, 2008).
Dear Mr. Buffett: What An Investor Learns 1,269 Miles from Wall Street, John Wiley & Sons (2009). Available in English, Orthodox Chinese, simplified Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, and Turkish.
The New Robber Barons, Janet M Tavakoli (e-Book compilation of articles from the 2008 financial crisis to January 2012).
Coming Soon
Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits Companion – Non-fiction eBook
Archangels 2: Vatican Gold- Fiction
The Money Book – Non-fiction: Tavakoli pierces the fog and predicts what you should buy and sell to take advantage of global financial turmoil and when to shift your investment strategy.
Copyright © 1993, 2012 by Janet M. Tavakoli. All rights reserved.
Published by Janet M. Tavakoli, Chicago, Illinois.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieved system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Tavakoli, Janet M.
Archangels / Janet M. Tavakoli
ISBN-10: 0985159014
ISBN-13: 978-0-9851590-1-6
Note to Readers
This is a work of fiction, a product of the author’s imagination. Characters, banks, corporations and organizations, if real, are used fictitiously, with no intent to describe their actual conduct, except for instances in which documented historical events are referenced.
When control of the Vatican is at stake—money talks and nobody plays fair.
Italian intelligence specialist and former Jesuit student Michael Visconte is shocked by the brutal murder of a Jesuit priest, who turns out to be a hedge fund manager for the Vatican. The victim, Father Matteo Pintozzi, achieved an unblemished record of extraordinary returns.
The next day, Michael is visited by two Jesuits who ask him to investigate the murder, and Michael soon finds himself in the middle of a struggle for power and control over the finances of the Vatican. Unfortunately, his lucky break—one that should provide critical evidence—blurs the line between good and evil and not only endangers the lives of Michael and the Jesuits, but also imperils the lives of his wife and children.
Table of Contents
Also by Janet Tavakoli
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER I
Vatican City, Saturday June 15, 2013
CHAPTER II
Rome, Saturday June 15
CHAPTER III
Vatican City, Saturday June 15
CHAPTER IV
Rome, Sunday, June 16
CHAPTER V
Rome, Sunday, June 16
CHAPTER VI
Rome, Sunday, June 16
CHAPTER VII
Ostia, Monday June 17
CHAPTER VIII
Rome, Monday, June 17
CHAPTER IX
Vatican City, Monday, June 17
CHAPTER X
Vatican City, Monday, June 17
CHAPTER XI
Vatican City, Monday, June 17
CHAPTER XII
Vatican City, Monday, June 17
CHAPTER XIII
Rome, Monday, June 17
CHAPTER XIV
Vatican City, Tuesday, June 18
CHAPTER XV
Rome, Tuesday, June 18
CHAPTER XVI
Rome, Wednesday, June 19
CHAPTER XVII
Vatican City, Wednesday, June 19
CHAPTER XVIII
Ostia, Wednesday, June 19
CHAPTER XIX
Vatican City, Thursday, June 20
CHAPTER XX
Ostia, Thursday, June 20
CHAPTER XXI
Rome, Thursday, June 20
CHAPTER XXII
Vatican City, Friday, June 21
CHAPTER XXIII
Ostia, Friday, June 21
CHAPTER XXIV
Vatican City, Saturday, June 22
CHAPTER XXV
Ostia, Sunday, June 23
Afterword
About the Author
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the many people who offered comments, encouragement, and suggestions. In particular, I would like to thank Kenneth Brian Brummel who reviewed an early draft. Libby Fischer Hellmann and Diane Piron-Gelman gave generous encouragement and editorial advice.
I would also like to thank Father J. Allan Meyer, M.D., Nancie Poulos, Rita Ilse Guhrauer, and Pamela van Giessen.
CHAPTER I
Vatican City
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Helena Visconte first saw Father Matteo Pintozzi when he stepped out of the sacristy into the deserted curved colonnade that led to the Vatican museum. She had no way of knowing that within a few minutes the priest would arrive at his destination, and both their lives would change.
By now tourists would normally be milling about, but a fluke June thunderstorm had just ended, leaving a vaguely musty smell rising with the vapor from the hot stone pathway. Father Pintozzi glanced to his right and then to his left and looked relieved, as if he were grateful no one was in sight. He quickly swept past the Vatican courthouse, the Eagle fountain and the Papal Academy of Science.
Her three-year-old son Luke took advantage of her distraction, gave a yell of unbridled glee, darted from behind the pillar and ran headlong into the flowing folds of the Father’s black cassock. Helena was hard on his heels. She approached Luke from behind, crouched down, and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away.
“Forgive my son, Father,” she apologized in Italian. “He is overexcited this morning.” She straightened, turned towards the priest and stood transfixed, staring at him. She brushed her thick auburn hair away from her face to see him better.
He looked young and virile, not more than thirty. His dark curly hair, huge brown eyes, sculptured Roman features and full sensual lips made him resemble a dark Apollo come to life. The graceful drape of his cassock, cinched with a purple sash, hinted at a well-formed body underneath.
She noticed he was aware of her stare. His eyes flashed with life and intelligence, and with a spark of amusement. He knew the impact of his looks, and she was sure he was gently mocking her.
She tried to recover her composure. “Your blessing, Father.”
He gave the barest hint of a nod, bowed his head for a long moment and then raised it again. His earlier playfulness had vanished. He looked solemn, yet peaceful. Helena bowed her head and gently touched Luke’s hair as he imitated her gesture. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” Father Pintozzi said, making a graceful sign of the cross. “Amen.” His blessing wasn’t rushed but Helena noticed him shift his weight as if he were eager to leave.
“Thank you Father.” She watched him hurry away. He walked like a trained athlete, his stride energetic yet graceful, his back strong and straight.
***
A few more steps took Father Matteo Pintozzi out of the Vatican into the streets of Rome. He looked around to make sure he was out of sight of the mother and son. Satisfied, he strode past some closed b
anks and gelaterias. With the thick slanted high wall enclosing the Vatican on his left, he followed the twisting path up the Viale del Vaticano to the entrance of the Musei Vaticani.
Although the museum was not scheduled to open for another five minutes, he pushed through the door. He stepped inside, once more on Vatican soil.
He looked up as he ascended the spiral ramp, just as everyone did. A twentieth century addition to the museum by Giuseppe Momo, Father Pintozzi’s art historian friends dubbed it “the DNA” because of its double helix shape. The ramp suited the museum, adding to the anticipation of entering the largest, and most valuable and comprehensive collection of classical art treasures in the world.
But Father Pintozzi’s feeling of anticipation had nothing to do with art. His heart thudded gently in his chest, and beads of sweat formed on his temples and upper lip. He looked down the curving ramp but saw no one. Still, someone could be hugging the shadowed walls, out of his sight. He heard nothing either. Of course, he wouldn’t if they didn’t want him to.
He came to another door at the top of the ramp, and his hand trembled as the door slowly swung open in response to his pressure. The museum was immense, its chambers and alcoves filled with paintings, mummies, statues, furniture and frescoes.
Moving more cautiously now, he passed through the vestibule. He needed no map; he knew this palace of art as well as he knew his childhood home. He ignored the staircase on his left leading to the Sistine Chapel and walked out to a small open-air courtyard. For a moment he turned to his right and gazed at the dome of Saint Peter's Cathedral, which overlooked the lusciously groomed Vatican gardens. The gardens looked serene and empty, as if they were enjoying a few moments of peace before the hordes of tourists descended.
Pintozzi passed through another closed corridor and then into the open courtyard of the Pigna with its incongruous modern-looking globe of brass.
He walked through the long marble corridor of the Chiaramonti Wing, filled with busts and statues of Greek and Roman gods and nobles. As always, he imagined the statues subtly moving to greet him as he passed. He belonged here. He wondered if he looked like one of them, a chiseled piece of black marble come to life.
His tension lifted. He loved the sound of his sandals slapping on the marble beneath his feet, the comfortable coolness that radiated from the smooth stone. Most of all, he loved the absence of people.
He paused for a moment to take a breath before he arrived at his destination, the Braccia Nuova, the new wing. After he dealt with the transaction to occur, he planned to see Father Herzog, the head of the Jesuits. He needed to persuade the Superior General to help him.
Father Pintozzi opened the final door, and the impact of the familiar sight beyond made him step back a pace. The yawning gallery was filled with shadowed niches, each of which contained an ancient marble statue on a pedestal. Ancient mosaics in the marble floor depicted scenes of Roman daily life. The towering ceiling was embellished with carved rosettes framed by fluted squares that led up to skylights.
He was late, but he saw no one as he scanned the room. No one, he thought, except Julius Caesar, Augustus, Demosthenes and other ancient personages who stared at him from their respective alcoves.
His sandals made a soft scraping sound on the marble as he came to a stop. He paused, and then walked around the eight foot statue of the Nile river god that reclined against a small sphinx. He stood in a twelve-foot semicircular area that couldn’t be seen from the main hall.
He waited and listened, but he still heard nothing. A minute went by, then another. His thoughts wandered. Father Pintozzi knew every dark sin the Society of Jesus was hiding. He knew most of the Vatican’s other secrets as well. Which was why he needed Herzog’s help. He knew he had made mistakes. He knew he was under suspicion. But once Father Herzog understood the situation, Pintozzi was sure the old priest would help him make everything right.
Pintozzi barely noticed the soft whisper of air behind him. A shimmer of silver passed in front of his eyes, gone almost before it registered. “Traitor,” someone hissed.
The priest’s eyes widened. He recognized the voice. He was about to say something when he felt a pinch, followed by a cut, as a thin wire sliced through the soft flesh of his neck. He felt blood pumping in spurts from beneath his chin, a spreading wetness. He felt more confusion than pain as it cascaded down his cassock and spilled onto the floor.
He slumped to his knees, his body no longer under his control. He fought for breath, but choked as he inhaled foamy red liquid. As he crumpled onto his side, the cool marble floor felt like a soothing hand against his cheek. Colors deepened, then vibrated and danced. He watched a thick red pond ooze over the small triangular patterns inlaid in the floor. Pintozzi wondered whether the mosaic was porous enough to be stained by his blood. A shame if it were.
Above him the statue of Pallas Athena, goddess of wisdom, gazed down at him from her alcove. She seemed to be laughing. Yes, he thought, I haven't been wise at all. He tried to laugh too, but the remaining air in his lungs bubbled up in a death rattle. Even that didn’t prevent him from smiling at the irony. He had made a mistake. It was all a ridiculous mistake.
He realized he had only seconds left and summoned all his willpower for the Jesuit test of consciousness. His last conscious intent would be for the benefit of his killer. In silent prayer, he gave his final absolution: “I forgive you.”
Pallas Athena grew dimmer, and a profound weariness overtook him. She was calling him to go back, or was it to come? Yes, I’m coming, he thought. I’m coming, but slowly, since I am so very tired.
CHAPTER II
Rome
Saturday, June 15
Michael was dreaming. After all these years, he knew he could will himself to wake. The problem was he didn’t want to.
Irena’s rich golden hair glinted in the sunlight, and she smiled as he held her. She was just as he remembered her: young, vital, and charming. She lay on the picnic blanket where they had just made love, her petite frame covered with the blue cotton dress she carefully laundered and pressed every day. Suddenly he felt cold and alone, filled with dread. She moaned and a pool of blood spread across her legs and stomach. He tried to scream her name, but all he could manage was a shrill unrecognizable sound. The sound came again, then again. Belatedly, he recognized it and groped toward his bedside table.
“Michael?” a distressed female voice asked as he groggily put the phone to his ear.
“Helena?” Michael nearly said Irena, before recognizing his wife’s voice. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Where were you? The phone just rang and rang.” Helena sounded irritated as well as anxious.
“I was sleeping off the effects of that cold medicine you gave me.”
“Oh, I‘m sorry.” The strain in her voice was stronger now. “I need you to come here as quickly as possible. I just found a body. A priest. In the Vatican Museum. Someone killed him.”
Instantly alert, Michael kicked back the covers and got out of bed.
“Where are you?”
“In the museum cafeteria. At a pay phone; I didn’t bring my cell. Luke’s with me. I took him to see the Sistine Chapel—”
“Helena,” Michael said urgently, “did you see anyone, anyone at all? Did anyone see you?”
“No. No one.”
“Where did you find the body?”
“Hold on a moment. I need to check the map.” After a long pause, Helena spoke again. “In the Braccia Nuova in back of the statue of the Nile, where it opens up to a little internal courtyard. The statue blocks the view from the main hallway.”
His mind raced as he gave her instructions. “Helena, listen carefully. Don’t leave the cafeteria. There must be tourists getting breakfast. Find the busiest, most visible area and stay there.”
“You don't think there is any danger, do you?” Now she sounded worried.
“Let's just play it safe.” He tried to sound reassuring. “I'll be there as soon as I
can.”
“All right. And Michael?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
He hesitated. Then, “I love you, too.”
CHAPTER III
Vatican City
Saturday, June 15
Rome has several kinds of policemen.
The Vigili Urbani are the elegant traffic cops seen in the piazzas doing their ballet of traffic direction in a futile attempt to bring order to the chaotic Roman traffic. They wear white helmets, navy blue trousers and white jackets. They are mainly for show and for parking tickets.
The Polizia, deal with the usual crimes of the big city: drugs, murders, rapes, prostitution, thefts and domestic disputes. The Polizia wear navy blue suits.
The Carabinieri deal with terrorism and international crimes, and they are technically part of the Italian army.
Michael’s group had no name, and belonged to none of the others. The Carabinieri and the Polizia called them the Specialists. An American would call them spooks. The Specialists were Italy’s version of the FBI and CIA combined. They also handled sophisticated cybercrime and financial crimes. For decades they had been fruitlessly investigating the links between a rogue faction of the Catholic clergy calling themselves “Archangeli,” and the Mafia. It was the most frustrating investigation in the history of their division.