“In legal theory, yes. But when both the Church and this much money are involved, other demands are made and legal theory, as you say, leaves through the window.”
“Goes out the window,” Carlton corrected. “I understand. The GDF would demand a huge price in exchange for withdrawing the diamonds.”
“Si. And many people would know, so a scandal would occur even if the GDF promised confidentiality.”
Carlton eyed the cardinal carefully. He did not want to insult him, but he had to ask. Not just to satisfy his own curiosity, but as a matter of political strategy. “It isn’t my place to ask, of course, Your Eminence, but have you informed the Holy Father of all this?”
Benedetti looked down at his tiny empty espresso cup and sighed. “Not yet. But I will have to. I’ve dreaded the day since I discovered Altiplano’s papers. Now it has finally arrived. And I have to deliver the news to the Holy Father in his present medical condition, without a solution.” His face creased with sadness, then recovered. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? The Church finally may have the will to divest itself of such a fortune, but it can’t physically get the diamonds because of the mafia. Again, evil preventing good.”
Carlton remained in quiet concentration for a moment, his eyes closed. He finally looked up and ran his hand over his chin. “We may have a solution.”
Benedetti sat up in his chair. “What is it?”
“Well, the key is to find a way to get the diamonds out without the GDF knowing and before it starts combing through the vaults. But there is another person who wants to get into the bank as much as you do, other than the GDF.”
“Don Arcangelo. Of course, but we can’t possibly go to him.”
“Right. But I may know someone who may wish to play that role.”
75 BETRAYAL
Acquasanta, Sicily
1:35 P.M.
Lieutenant Cristina Petronelli of the Guarda di Finanza had ordinary looks and extraordinary greed. Far too much greed for the twenty-something woman to wait for promotions in the ordinary course of merit. Petronelli didn’t possess great intelligence, but even she realized the types of bribes she was after could only be obtained after several promotions from her low-level post. Yet the raven-haired woman who bore a perpetual scowl on her face and in her attitude did have one important asset: her present assignment.
Cristina Petronelli was guarding the sealed Rome headquarters of the Banco Napolitana Lucchese.
She had left her uniform at home. First, it was her day off. Second, it would be unwise to be seen in her uniform when speaking to one of the most well known mafia dons in Europe.
She wasn’t sufficiently intelligent to fear anything as she ascended the massive stone steps of the Villa Igea Grand Hotel. Two men stared at her as she entered the ornate lobby. She smiled, deluding herself that the two watchers entertained sexual thoughts about her. And also at the notion that the don would pay her handsomely for whatever he wanted her to do. Fifty thousand euros at least. She could buy that diamond ring and necklace she wanted so badly.
She saw the man as soon as she entered the inner garden of oleander and jasmine. He sat under a large African palm, surrounded by several men. One of the men, Enzo, the don’s head bodyguard, walked toward Petronelli and stopped her with an imposing stare. He frisked her expertly. Feeling no objectionable items, he led her to a seat in front of the square-shouldered don.
She stood while the man’s cruel eyes appraised her. After what seemed like several minutes, he smiled. “Buon giorno, signorina,” he announced, without getting up. He pointed to the chair. “Prego, signorina.”
She sat. “Si, Si,” she responded quickly, making it clear that she wanted to get their meeting over with as quickly as possible. She wanted to return to Rome and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.
The don clearly was not used to being addressed with such lack of respect. He frowned at her. Her scowl was no match for his unforgiving gaze. “Grazie, Don Arcangelo. Molto gentile,” he announced slowly, as if teaching a small child.
The man’s eyes made her shiver. She was also surprised to find herself repeating the man’s words.
Don Arcangelo smiled and leaned back. “Bene, bene. So tell me, signorina, how do you like your job?”
“I do not.”
“And why is that?” He turned to the waiter. “Alfredo, bring us some Regaleali, please. And a glass for the signorina.”
“I don’t want—I’m sorry, Don Arcangelo, but I do not drink wine.”
The don’s frown highlighted his shock at such heresy. “Nonsense. You will enjoy it.” It sounded like a prediction, but somehow Petronelli knew it was an order. She began to sweat.
“And so why is it that you dislike your job?”
“I don’t make enough money.” She paused, then remembered the honorific. “Don Arcangelo.”
The don sighed and nodded with seemingly genuine compassion. “Si, si. Capisco. Perhaps we can remedy that.”
“What can I do for you?” She spat out. “Don Arcangelo.”
“So direct, the young generation.” He stretched out his palm and waved it back and forth slowly. “Piano, piano. You must know how to slow down. All in good time.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“Well, since you are so impatient, here is what you can do for me.” He spoke in a low voice and leaned forward.
She mimicked his movement, licking her lips at the money she knew whatever task she had to do would bring. “Yes?”
“I can only tell you what I need from you if you agree to do it.”
“But how can I agree if I don’t know what it is?”
“Yes, it is difficult, isn’t it? The only thing I can tell you is that you will be paid 250,000 euros.”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand?” She gasped in amazement. “I-I thought maybe—”
“Is this acceptable, then? Do I have your word that you will agree to do what we need?”
“Yes, yes. I accept. Absolutely, Don Arcangelo.” She could see the diamond ring and necklace very clearly with her mind’s eye. And the other luxuries the money would buy.
“Very well. You will open the door behind the Banco Napolitana Lucchese. My men will be waiting for you. They will give you several items, including a cellular telephone, which you will place in specific locations in the building. You will then leave at the end of your shift, as usual.”
She stared at the don. It was so simple. She would have taken far less money for such a job. But she would not tell that to the don. And although she knew that Mayor Orlando Leonida’s case against Don Arcangelo was the reason the GDF has sealed BNL headquarters, she would not ask what the items were intended to achieve. She was too cunning for that, she thought, congratulating herself for being so smart. “Very well, Don Arcangelo. When do I do this?”
“Soon, signorina. Soon. My men know where you live. They will contact you. Since you are in such a hurry, you may go.”
“Grazie, Don Arcangelo. Grazie.” She bent to kiss his hand, but he placed it in his pocket.
“Buona sera, signorina. Grazie.”
“Buona sera, Don Arcangelo. E grazie a le.” She walked away, grinning, knowing that if she did a good job, more jobs and money would follow. If she could do this for a few years, she would be able to retire and do what she wanted to do more than anything else: nothing. She would buy a place on the Amalfi coast somewhere and eat and drink all day. She would not even have to look for men. She would rent them. They would try to use her, but she would use them. She grinned even wider.
Still seated, Don Arcangelo watched Cristina Petronelli disappear through the oleanders, jasmine, and African palms. “What do you think, Enzo?” He asked, without moving his head.
The man paused and thought. “She is a hog, Don Arcangelo. The look in her eyes when you told her how much money you would pay her—she would have done anything you asked. She will never have any loyalty. She can never be trusted.”
Don Arcangelo mulled Enzo’
s words over for a few moments, still looking in the direction where Petronelli had walked away. “You are becoming a wise man, Enzo. Si. You are correct. She is a greedy hog. A little greed is acceptable. Reasonable. We are only human. Each of us wants to dip our beaks in more than once. But so much obvious greed. It is dangerous.” He shook his head in disapproval. “You know what they say.”
“What do they say, Don Arcangelo?”
“The pigs get fed but the hogs get slaughtered.”
Enzo understood the order.
Arcangelo rose and turned to his chief bodyguard. “But wait until she finishes the job first, eh?”
76 ALLY
Villa Forza
Near Palermo, Sicily
11:54 A.M.
The tinted-glass black Alfa Romeo 156 1.6 TS sedan wound up the steep Sicilian escarpments with ease. To avoid attention, its Vatican license plates had been replaced with Italian plates from Palermo. The sedan growled to a lone estate hidden behind an ancient forged iron gate atop Monte Pellegrino. An unshaven man dressed in black peasant garb ordered the driver to stop. He stepped to the passenger window without attempting to hide the Beretta submachine gun slung across his chest.
“Patrick Carlton,” Carlton announced calmly.
The guard opened the door, indicated for him to exit the automobile. Carlton complied carefully, blinking uncomfortably in the bright Sicilian sunlight. A backup joined the guard and frisked Carlton with quick, expert hands. With a nod, he pronounced him clean. After searching the car, the other guard opened the massive forged iron gates and waved the car through.
Built by one of the myriad princes, dukes, marquises, counts, and barons who populated eighteenth-century Sicily, the Villa Forza was a stunning example of historic restoration. Behind its sun-baked outer walls, the palazzo appeared exactly as it had over 250 years ago. The ocher yellow edifice was framed in white and dotted by regularly spaced windows hidden behind forged iron lattices.
Carlton followed a seemingly mute guard past rows of potted palms that lined the path between lozenges of manicured lawns under tall parasol pines. Water gurgled and dripped in moss-covered fountains. Armed guards mingled with gardeners amid the heat of the never ending Sicilian summer. The guard stopped in front of an ornately sculpted wood door. It appeared thick enough to repel the battalions of Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantine Greeks, Arabs, Normans, Swabians, Frenchmen, and Spaniards who had conquered Sicily over the centuries. The guard handed off his ward to the valet inside, then departed without a word.
“You are expected. Please follow me,” the valet announced with a deep Sicilian accent.
Liveried in white tie, tails, and gloves much like the Vatican Bank valet, the man ushered Carlton into the welcome cool of the main hail, led them through an opulent hallway. The sheep herded into the wolf’s lair, thought Carlton. He admired the collection of Roman sculptures and Italian Renaissance paintings that stood on the polished white marble floors and hung on the scarlet silk walls. Probably all originals, he surmised. The valet knocked once before opening a set of gilded doors, bowed his head slightly to Carlton, who entered the large salon, then closed the doors behind him.
Carlton gazed at the palatial audience chamber. Rococo furniture filled every available space of the room. Gilded mouldings, friezes, and curves glistened in the intense sunlight that streamed from two floor-to-ceiling windows. A man sat in a leather armchair on the far balcony, basking in the sun, squinting at the hazy streets of Palermo far below. His profile displayed a large nose and thinning, nearly white hair. He turned as Carlton walked across the salon.
Upon closer scrutiny, Carlton saw that the man was in his mid-seventies. His thick round face and stocky build were evident even in his sitting position, and his casual, almost shabby clothes made him look more at home in the fields or in a barn than the intricately distinguished surroundings. The man’s face was tan and wrinkled. He was dressed in simple outdoor clothes: old jeans, which struck Carlton as odd for a mafia don, a green plaid wool shirt, an ancient brown wool sweater, and rough brown leather shoes that had not only seen better days, but better decades.
“Dottore Carlton. Welcome.” He spoke loudly and clearly, without standing. He grasped Carlton’s hand in a powerful grip. The genuine smile that creased his face revealed straight rows of brilliant white teeth. “I am Don Forza.” His accent was heavy, but his English excellent. “Prego. Sit down.” He motioned to a companion armchair next to his. Carlton sat and remained quiet.
After inquiring about Carlton’s journey from Rome and offering him a glass of Chianti, Don Forza moved to the business at hand. “My good friend Don Innocenti—scusi, Don MacLean—informs me you have an important proposition for me. He would not tell me what it is over the telephone.” He squinted. “A very secretive man, Maximilliano. And any friend of his is a friend of mine. But what can a now-honest man such as myself do for the American Department of Justice? Or the United States Navy? Or the Central Intelligence Agency?” Forza could be described in a variety of ways. Ill-informed was not one of them.
“Mr. Forza,” Carlton began, refusing to attach the honorific “Don” to the man, even though MacLean had assured him of Forza’s retirement from crime. “What do you know about diamonds?”
“They are beautiful, expensive, and cold. Like many women I have known.” He chuckled. “Other than that, niente. Nothing.”
Carlton proceeded with a complete briefing of Waterboer and its history, careful to emphasize Waterboer’s use of child labor and its bankrolling of the Soviet Union during the Cold War.
“Children? Communists? I had no idea,” responded Forza, disgusted. If there was one thing the mafia revered, it was its children. And the political ideology they despised the most was communism. He breathed deeply. “I still don’t see how I fit into all of this.”
“For many years, someone in the Vatican has steadily amassed a diamond stockpile. Who is responsible is not import—”
“Altiplano and the Order.”
Carlton leaned back, unable to keep his mouth from gaping open in astonishment. “How do you—”
Forza’s bright white teeth reappeared. “Per piacere, dottore. How do you think Altiplano could possibly amass such a vast diamond treasure without the Cosa Nostra? Eh?” He held out his hands, palms up.
Carlton continued staring at him, still in shock, and now very wary of the man, despite MacLean’s vetting.
“No, it was not me or my people. But I have big ears and Sicily is a small place.”
Carlton leaned forward. “Since you seem to have a great deal of information, you probably know that the diamonds are in the vaults of the Banco Napolitana Lucchese in Rome.”
“Si.”
“Do you also know that the bank contains evidence against Don Arcangelo?”
Forza shrugged nonchalantly. “It was in the jornali. The newspapers.”
“Well since you seem to know everything, I will go straight to the plan the Church proposes.” He was not about to use his authority as a representative of the United States to make a deal with the mafia, newly retired or not. “We believe the GDF will begin sifting through the bank’s documents, computers, and vaults very soon. We can’t go to the GDF and ask for permission to withdraw the diamonds.”
Forza laughed. “Clearly.”
Carlton frowned. “So the plan would be for your men to raid the bank and withdraw the diamonds.”
“In exchange for what? What do I get out of this other than the satisfaction of helping the Holy Church?”
Carlton leaned back. “MacLean tells me that you went clean a few years ago.”
“That is true. MacLean’s father, Don Innocenti, set the example for me. I am retired.”
“But some of your former activities have long statutes of limitation.”
”Ah. Capisco.” Forza nodded. “I understand. You will offer me amnesty in exchange for my help.”
Carlton nodded.
“It would be difficult to prosecute me.
I have done so many favors for so many people. For judges especially.” The rows of white teeth reappeared.
Carlton leaned toward Forza. “How many have you done for federal judges in the United States?”
Forza’s smile disappeared. “You are sharp, dottore.”
“There is another reason you should want to participate. And I know you have already thought of it.”
“What reason is that?”
“Your family’s war with Don Arcangelo. I was informed about it in Rome. You are in a truce, but only because neither family has discovered how to destroy the other. Getting the evidence against Arcangelo in the bank would enable you to ensure Arcangelo’s demise, whether through the GDF or other political means if the GDF fails.”
“Yes, that is also true.”
“We will in fact help you obtain that information in case it later disappears.”
“But why would you be willing to give me amnesty?”
“I have to tell you, I am not particularly thrilled to make a deal with you. But as the French say, ‘God writes straight with curved lines.’ It seems that in the end, justice will be better served by having your men get the diamonds and return them to the Church”—he did not mention the purpose to which the diamonds would be put, but Forza probably already knew, he reasoned—“than by spending the time and money prosecuting you and sending a man of your age, who has already changed his ways, to prison.”
“Bene. I agree to your plan. But there are two conditions.” He counted off on his left hand fingers. “I must have the final say on the operation’s tactics. And I must have a signed, original, and notarized amnesty agreement, reviewed and approved by my consiglieri before the operation.”
“I can see you were raised in the United States. I am certain that can be arranged. On one condition, however. And this is absolute: no one must be killed.”
“I cannot foretell the future, Mr. Carlton.”
“No one.” Carlton stared at him hard. “Or else there is no deal.”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 47
