The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

by Charles Brett

  “That suits me. Where I am staying is on the edge of Trastevere. Shall we meet at eight, say in Piazza Santa Maria di Trastevere? There is a decent church there to warm your miserable Irish soul called, guess what? Santa Maria di Trastevere. Meet you either on the front steps or inside.”

  “You’re on.”

  Saturday, Nahalal

  Noach had opened his eyes to find a half-empty bed and a note from Tamar stating that she had gone to talk with Miriam and had he remembered it was Yom Kippur? He cursed to himself. Another problem he did not need and he had spent most of the night tossing around rehearsing mentally what he needed to say today. Now he felt under greater pressure: time was going to be an unwanted added factor.

  He swung himself over the edge of the bed and headed for the bathroom. He was not fully awake. Having people around never made him comfortable. Having people around who were implicitly criticising him by suggesting that it was his systems that might be at fault made him unhappier still. What had they contributed? Nothing. Except Michele: the whole idea was his even if he had not known how to exploit it.

  What really bothered him, though, were his Settler friends. Most of the time he adored what they were achieving and he admired their approach. Noach approved of their aims yet occasionally doubts crept in.

  Their attitude to taking from the Palestinians did not bother him at all. But their increasingly violent and oppressive ways, even to fellow Israelis, did. This aspect seemed to be going from bad to worse. They were almost building a state within the Israeli State, one which treated with contempt all those who did not unconditionally agree with their beliefs. And if that was not bad enough their thirst for evermore money never diminished. They didn’t understand that what he could obtain had limits. Instead they preferred to act as if he had some secret printing press that could churn out limitless money whenever they needed it.

  He’d originally thought that delivering up to a hundred thousand dollars a year would be good. It was, and initially they were grateful. It had been when he was able to increase this up to a quarter of a million dollars that their attitude had changed. It had almost been like the more contributions he produced the less valued was his contribution and the more they felt they could pester him for extra.

  This had already given him one set of problems. He’d had to increase the amounts he had been taking without telling Michele or the others. He’d then needed to go further and change some of the algorithms that took money away from the Vatican, which of course he could not tell Michele. Now his Settlers were receiving more than Michele thought.

  Was it something from those ‘extras’ that he had introduced that was responsible for Ferraz’s suspicions? It was a possibility he would have to examine carefully, once these Gentiles had departed. Indeed, though Yom Kippur, the fact that they’d be leaving today did cheer him. It would give him time and space to think. Everything was unsettling, to fail to avoid an ugly pun, he reflected.

  Now ‘all’ he had to do was to keep his guests happy.

  Saturday, the Vatican

  “Come in, Paulino, come in. It is great to see you again. And unexpected. I’d not thought to have the opportunity for several days for I was going to call you. But you beat me to it.”

  “You were going to call me? Interesting. Anyhow I’m sure you’ll tell me more when you are ready. It’s good to see you too. I wish our paths would cross more often.”

  The two old friends had grown up in bordering Sao Paolo favelas before escaping their upbringing. One entered into the police, the other into the church. They had long worked together, in Brazil and then on a wider stage, as each was promoted higher by their employers. Now one was a senior official of the largest and oldest of the many Christian denominations while the other had become a deputy head of Interpol, the international police organisation. Though not publicly known, da Ferraz had oversight of the Vatican City’s relationship with and membership of Interpol. Officially he was not involved in any formal way and did not attend Interpol meetings. Unofficially, and executed through Paulino, he represented the Vatican’s interests. Though some of the eternal complainers, who seemed to populate the junior Vatican staff, grumbled that it was not appropriate to have one Brazilian talking to another, no one had seriously tried to break a connection that was clearly working.

  “If you do not mind, I thought we would go straight into lunch. That’s the good news. The bad news is that you have my cooking. I felt like a change. But you do have the benefit of some good wine, if you’d like that?”

  “In Lyons we have wonderful restaurants. Being at the top of the organisation it’s my duty to entertain often and our guests usually want to sample the best of what La Belle France has to offer. Have you noticed I am rounder than before? How polite of you to shake your head. The idea of a simple meal at home is delightful; a change from my own cooking, which you will recall my-ex always said was horrible. In that regard she was dead right, not that she was much better. We could only agree that you were superior to either of us.”

  The two men sat down to a simple meal of some Tuscan meats, mainly a variety of salami of which Nelson was rather fond, followed by pollo arrosto, accompanied by a simple salad with each man mixing his own dressing. For Nelson this used the best olive oil that he could find, from a farmer on Vatican-managed estates near Naples with balsamic vinegar. Paulino preferred soy-sauce to vinegar, even with good olive oil, and lots of freshly-ground coarse black pepper. The latter Nelson had never understood. The result sounded like Paulino was eating gravel. Long ago he used to suggest the pepper be more finely ground but Paulino always resisted. Nelson had given up that battle as unwinnable, especially after Paulino sent him a present of an ultra-coarse pepper grinder made by hand in a remote part of the Mata Grosso, which was now perched in pride of place by Paulino’s side.

  The conversation ranged over many topics, some personal, some professional. They talked about what was interesting, not least the emergence of Beppe Grillo in Italian politics and what long-term impact this might have. Though both liked Grillo’s desire to change the existing log jam in Italian politics, they agreed that Grillo’s people, thus far, had not proved up to the challenge.

  As they went into his private study-cum-library, which often acted as a salon when there were only a few people, Nelson asked Paulino if he had seen the Economist cover many months back with Berlusconi on the front.

  “You mean the one with him sitting on a throne, grinning like a satisfied cat, with the caption, ‘The man who screwed an entire nation’, or something similar? I loved it. What a nerve for a publication. If only the papers in Italy or Brazil, and other places were as brave.

  “Anyhow, it is time for you to explain why you wanted to talk with me.”

  “You are right. I’ve been putting this off.”

  Nelson laid out his fears. He talked about Davide and the Santofonino as he took Paulino through the same description he had used with Davide and José Antonio. Finally he summarised Davide’s suggestion about a two-prong investigation, with one part involving Interpol and the other Davide or someone similar.

  “I have two requests, Paulino. I am inclined to use Davide but would appreciate a discreet check on him from outside the Vatican. Second, Davide suggested that on the Interpol side I should ask if …” He stood up and went to consult his handwritten note. “… a Conor Laoghaire could be assigned to the Vatican. He is apparently known to Davide and comes well recommended. Might this be possible or would you suggest someone different?”

  Paulino started laughing. Nelson first looked puzzled and then annoyed. He was not used to being treated like this, not even by Paulino. He could not see a funny side about what they were discussing. He was becoming offended when Paulino stopped suddenly.

  “Sorry, my oldest friend. I’m being unfair. I know you hate coincidences. What you can’t know is that I know Conor well. I’m not sure what Davide told you but he is not the easiest of people; he can easily make enemies, especially whe
n thwarted. What I can say is that he’s an excellent investigator and an asset that Interpol would be sorry ever to lose. I am both charmed and appalled by him in about equal measures.

  “However, what matters now is that he will be here with me in Rome for this conference next week. He’s not really needed but I thought that distracting him after he finished his last investigation would be good. I attached a very bright Australian to him, recently seconded for two years to Interpol from the Australian Crime Commission to gain experience before promotion back home. She is called Caterina Certaldo. I have briefly met her a couple of times. Very pretty, but a touch dour, which makes for a strange pairing. Her recommendation from the Australian Crime Commission says she has outstanding skills for investigating computer-related crime, which was why I put her with Conor, whose strengths are more human-based where money is concerned.

  “My only question to myself is whether I can second them to you. Would you be prepared to make me an informally-formal request, in your informal liaison-to-Interpol capacity? If you are I can’t see how we could refuse. They could work for you but you also have to understand that they will have an obligation to report back to Interpol. Wait, before you protest; if they reported to me, would that solve the confidentiality concerns that I can see forming in your head? Incidentally, Caterina has Italian antecedents and speaks Italian, though not beautifully given her Aussie accent.”

  “You continue to amaze me, Paulino. In minutes you have understood my worries and come up with answers. I will be happy to make that officially unofficial request for Conor Laoghaire. Do I need to do the same for Signorina Certaldo? No? Even better. How then should we proceed?”

  The rest of their time together was spent refining details and agreeing an innocent mechanism to allow Nelson to meet his new assistants and link up with Davide. As before, the link person was going to have to be José Antonio, if he could be persuaded. Father Federico might also need to be brought more fully into the picture, not least because there was a risk he would be thoroughly offended if not involved in the first place. That was something to think about and perhaps to ask José Antonio, Davide and this Mr Laoghaire.

  Saturday, Tel Aviv

  Inma sat on her hotel balcony in the late afternoon. The sun was rapidly falling to its daily grave in the sea at a time when it would still be high overhead some three thousand kilometres west in her beloved Gredos mountains. What a day, she reflected.

  She had gone down to breakfast to find that everyone else was up, looking tired. She had felt good, having slept well, no doubt due to the hour or so she had spent before sleep going through her devotions and then the peace that came with doing more at her usual early morning time. Thus far she had felt more like a passenger on a crazy ship being driven by Michele or increasingly by Noach. Nothing seemed as expected.

  The first shock that morning had been that they were no longer welcome in Nahalal. Yom Kippur had been explained to them. Not even Miriam was welcome.

  Frantic calls to the hotel in Tel Aviv and to airlines followed. Michele had kept his room. Luckily there were two available rooms in another hotel close to his, perhaps not so good but sufficient for Miriam and herself. They also had the promise of food that night and the next day — though they had been told by both hotels that they would either have to help themselves from a buffet available to non-Jews or go find somewhere else.

  Michele and Inma rebooked their flights for Monday morning, at appallingly early times, which meant getting up around 3 a.m. to be sure of having time to make it through Israeli security. She had been told that trying to leave Ben Gurion was much more unpleasant than arriving, with long queues and endless questioning, some of which seemed random and pointless. “That is Israel” had been left unsaid by Tamar.

  After breakfast, where the conversation had been stilted and infrequent but the bread delicious, Noach had led the other three back to his subterranean hole. He explained that the Faraday cage was to prevent anyone listening in to either conversations or to his computers. He took them through where the monies came from during the Santofonino processing and the chain by which the diverted monies reached each of them. Inma was impressed. The part that Opus Dei brought to their past successes was now clear to her. It confirmed that the reinsurance dimension was why Mariano had originally brought her into the equation.

  More discussion had ensued with no real result. They agreed to stop and consider and meet again in a couple of weeks. No one wanted to travel to the US and Rome was regarded by all as a place they must not be seen together. Reluctantly she had volunteered her finca near Yuste. Because it was not close to Madrid it was discreet, though she would have to ask her sisters not to be there that weekend. This was unfortunate as the three of them had been planning a small get-together, without children or husbands, which had not happened since the previous Christmas. Rearranging was likely to prove awkward, with one sister in Andalucia and the other in Salamanca, but there was no choice.

  After a brief lunch the others were going to walk around Nahalal before heading back to Tel Aviv. Michele wanted to visit Dayan’s grave; Inma did not understand why. She had wished to go to Jericho, to the site on the Jordan River where John had baptised Jesus, but she was dissuaded by Tamar and Noach after learning there was almost certainly not enough time to reach there and be sure of reaching Tel Aviv from Jericho before Yom Kippur commenced, which involved going via the roads through Jerusalem. Reluctantly she bowed to their local knowledge.

  Instead she insisted on leaving immediately to go to nearby Mount Tabor where Christ had been transfigured. It had seemed that this was going to be the nearest, possibly the only, Holy Site she could visit and be near to a place where Jesus had been.

  Mount Tabor proved uplifting and worth the effort. The Church of the Transfiguration had been closed (nothing new there). But the Franciscan Church was located on a large hill sticking out of the middle of nowhere. This was impressive from afar as well as from on top. According to her GPS, Damascus was nearby. Inma looked at its estimated timings and decided not to take the risk, especially by herself.

  It took nearly two hours to drive back into Tel Aviv. As when leaving the traffic re-entering was chaotic and just as aggressive. But she made it in time and was able to relax before meeting Michele and Miriam.

  They had needed to drive back to Tel Aviv together. She wondered how that had been. There was enough tension in the air between the two of them to make even her sit up and take notice.

  She had been glad not to be with Miriam, whose conversation was still discomforting her from the previous day. More to the point, she needed to consider everything Noach had told them. There had been much to absorb and the one benefit of the two hours driving back from Mount Tabor was that it had permitted her brain to assimilate and digest. She suspected that both dinner tonight and at least one meal tomorrow would focus on what they had learnt together.

  Inma wondered about another visit to the sea but decided against this, at least until she saw Israelis doing it. As darkness fell it was noticeable that Tel Aviv was going quiet. There were increasingly fewer people on the streets and virtually nobody on the beach.

  Saturday, Piazza Santa Maria di Trastevere

  Davide liked the Church of Santa Maria di Trastevere. It was not like his favourite Tempietto on the hill behind. Nor was it like Borromini’s austere, but somehow rich San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, another masterpiece the other side of the Tiber, or even Bernini’s luscious San Andrea al Quirinale opposite to the President of Italy’s official Residence. Despite the bustle of tourists, what appealed to him about Trastevere as a whole was that it still felt a little medieval or at least Renaissance. This was after all near the area where Michelangelo had lived, as well as many other artists and writers.

  It was better than the Piazza dei Fiori, which just seemed to be for tourists, along with the traditional centre of Rome to the East of the Tiber. Both of these were, in his view, an elaborate Italian trap to remove as much money
from visitors as was legally (and illegally) possible. Trying to eat in central Rome, unless you were a Roman in-the-know, was an excuse for being ripped off big time. A lousy pasta followed by a dead – as in taste – chicken with a geriatric insalata could make your wallet spin in distress, and that was before the vino della casa turned out to cost more than a reputable Bordeaux or Ribera del Duero in London or Madrid.

  As he was musing, a cheerful cry came from behind: “And what are you thinking of now, you miserable Spanish-cum-English mongrel? How did you arrange to be here? The last I heard was that you were in California for some techie event.”

  Davide turned.

  Conor was in his mid-forties and beginning to show it, being medium-built, and of similar height. He had the face of someone who liked a drink, already lined and with the signs that he was either a smoker or had been until recently. Davide knew that he was unusual, in that not only did he speak Spanish but also good French. He had also been known, when sufficiently well-oiled with good wine, to start declaiming in Latin until his unwilling audience managed to obtain another glass of wine in order to distract him from his oratory. Davide believed he had been brought up in a small village south of Dublin, in a fiercely Roman Catholic family with one uncle for a priest and another as a monk. But he had fought to escape this straitjacket and managed to win a place at University College, Dublin where he had studied languages — hence his command of French and Spanish. The Latin came from his youth, bashed into him by a fervent father and his two religious uncles both of whom wanted him to join them and take Holy Orders. Only his mother encouraged her youngest to find new opportunities beyond their local village.