The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis

by Charles Brett

  “When the Santofonino came along many parishes welcomed that their congregations could see their money going directly into the Vatican rather than to a disinterested bishop. Of course the bishops were not at all pleased but they had to lump it, to put it indelicately. Indeed, some of my brethren in Italy have become more vocal about their dissatisfaction with how bishops run the financial aspects of their dioceses. I know it is even worse in the United States. The concept of the centre, the Vatican, dispensing Santofonino money to dioceses is still catching on, even though part of this money is explicitly earmarked by the Curia for supporting parishes and their clergy. I am not really sure where it’s going to lead.”

  “That’s very helpful, José Antonio. That helps me build a picture of the basic flows and patterns of authority as well as the temptations that often accompany money. What do you think, Caterina? Davide?”

  Before they could reply, Conor continued: “I do need to understand more about the control and Foreign Exchange aspects. How do we ask Nelson?”

  “Are you sure you need to talk with Nelson himself on this? I suspect that talking with Father Federico, if he can be spared, could explain much and the rest could come from Nelson if required.”

  “That’s a great thought. After all that he’s provided thus far he would again shorten the cycle.”

  “Shall I call him now?” The salad arrived. “Father Federico? It is José Antonio. No, my question is less about Nelson and more about whether you might be available to talk with our three friends. What, now? Where are you? Just about to leave Nelson’s office. Might you be able to make it to this trattoria on the Gianicolo?” José Antonio looked questioningly at the other three who nodded in support. “I will text you the precise address in a moment. Get a taxi and join us for dinner.”

  José Antonio beckoned the waiter for the address and texted it to Father Federico.

  “What luck. But I should warn you; Father Federico exists for his work and for Nelson. He lives at home with an aged mother whose mind has been receding for about seven years now. If he seems formal and remote, please excuse him. His circumstances are a burden, with little sign of imminent relief because she is in robust physical health. It is just her mind that is slipping away. Another of life’s tragedies.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, a week later, Monteverde

  Davide sat in their communal workroom in the Residence Monteverde feeling concerned. Progress that had looked good ten days earlier had petered out over the past few days. Conor was becoming argumentative and awkward. Caterina was, if anything, worse. Occasionally she whinged, a trait which, when performed in an Australian accent, was not harmonious. More often she was just silent, moody, and uncooperative or voluble and bossy. She would be more preferable if she could find a balance.

  Davide took stock. They had gone out for lunch though he knew Conor felt the same about his temporary assistant. He bore her like an imposed cross, which he supposed she was. After all, Conor had not asked for her.

  The fundamental problem was that they were having to operate secretively. Though he could go openly into the Confessional Call Centre, the other two could not, not without the staff starting to ask questions that would inevitably reveal the existence of their investigation. Nelson remained emphatic that this was not to happen.

  Caterina was constantly pushing to get hold of a replica of the payments system, which was impossible. She had offered to build a replica. According to her it was just a matter of ordering equivalent blade servers from Dell and, because these were standard, they could probably be obtained in a few days. What she kept overlooking in her enthusiasm was how they would obtain the identical software. When Davide had pointed this out she had snapped at him as if it was his fault.

  In some ways he couldn’t blame her. Her idea about going through all the payments had been a good one. That Father Federico had made it so much easier was even better. He knew she had thrown all her energy into analysing possible discrepancies. She had found none and her frustration showed. It was not pleasant.

  The same was true of Conor on the financial side. With Severino being an obvious suspect, despite no evidence to mark him as a prime one, Conor had needed to tread carefully. His unofficial contacts with some of the major banks and credit card companies had confirmed their willingness to support his work but, without at least some detailed pointers, this was worse than looking for a specific raindrop in a storm cloud. The less agreeable and bolshie Irish side of Conor was appearing at times.

  Davide considered asking to see Nelson again. He was disinclined to, if only because he did not wish to report failure. Of course Nelson might see their inability to find anything as proof that they were all barking up the wrong tree. That would protect the Santofonino and the reputation of the church, but only if there really was nothing to find.

  On reflection what bothered him was that the three of them had identified so many possible loopholes and, with the exception of the purchases in which Caterina had found nothing obviously untoward, those remained unclosed. This left them all uncomfortable about stopping. It was premature.

  Davide made his mind up to ask for an appointment for them all to see Nelson on Monday, assuming nothing emerged beforehand. As he proposed to take the weekend off to look at some of the more obscure churches in Rome – there were over 900 to choose from – any progress was unlikely to come from him. He chuckled to himself as he composed a text message to Conor. Should he see how many churches he could visit in two and a half days? That might throw up some oddities he would not expect. Rather like speed-golf but in this case speed-churches.

  Friday, a week later, The Pantheon, Rome

  Conor and Caterina sat down at a ristorante that was not full. Whether this was a good sign or not would soon become clear. Perhaps the Romans loved it or shunned it. The choice on the menu outside had looked reasonable, at least according to her. The prices were high, and then became even higher when they saw the small print informing clients that VAT would be added to the final bill. Too late, they had ordered a beer each, which they were already drinking. They had walked through the Piazza Navona on the way to the Pantheon, a true working relic of a 2,000-year-old empire, but they had not really taken anything in. They were preoccupied.

  “Why is Davide such a …” Caterina had been about to use an obscenity but thought better of it. Conor did not like others to use abusive language and in any case Davide was his friend. “Such a jerk?” seemed neutral enough.

  “Davide?”

  She nodded.

  “Why do you think he is?”

  “He is practical, always pouring cold water on our ideas. Worse, he is a Brit and behaves like one. Stuck up.”

  “That’s not fair. Remember, he’s half Spanish. I sort of agree with you about the cold water though. He’s been a regular damp shower. But I don’t think we give him enough credit. He’s the one in the middle, between us and the Confessional Call Centre, between us and the cardinal, between us and José Antonio, and so on. That’s not easy. I suspect he feels responsible for dragging us in yet he cannot open the floodgates that any normal investigation would expect.”

  “You may be right about the latter. I simply find him cold, lacking sympathy.”

  “Be careful, Caterina.”

  “Why?”

  “Some might say that you are not the most empathetic of people. At times you only seem happy when talking to your machines.” He held up his hands. “No, I am not attacking you. As your so-called mentor I’m merely commenting after you’ve made disparaging remarks about someone who I think is competent and who is the reason we are involved.”

  Caterina visibly seethed. Her saying nothing hopefully meant she understood the unsaid message Conor was trying to convey. He was uncertain whether it would register. She was obviously clever and willing to work. Why did she have to be so prickly and on edge? Was there not a nice person inside trying to escape? He thought he might like her if she could find a softer persona f
or she was always good to look at. Not aggressively feminine but still definitely attractive. Caterina possessed more than she realised. Or maybe she did realise. Mentally he shrugged his shoulders.

  “What do you plan doing next?”

  “I’m going to try some different correlations. I want to go back over all the invoices for the HolyPhone suppliers. There must be something in there. I must not be looking at everything in the right way. Frankly I have nothing better to do. Even if it is a wild goose chase it might at least provide me with some entertainment.”

  “One of the things I like about you, Caterina, is that you don’t give up. You keep looking for lines to pursue. Good for you. I agree that you will probably turn up nothing. No matter. Keep at it and, by the way, I already think you have already done a great job on the analysis of the purchases. I told Paulino. He is pleased.” He considered. “He might not be so pleased if fighting Davide, or me for that matter, comes to his attention.”

  “Okay, your points are taken,” grumbled Caterina. “Do you want me to order, given that your Italian is so good?”

  “Prego.”

  “Miserable old git! You’ve got that right at least.”

  Reluctantly Caterina smiled, making her look much better than when she was miserable.

  Friday, a week later, Nahalal

  Noach sat worrying in his cave, as Tamar now called it. The Settlers were pressing and pressing for more money, always with their stories about how each Settlement needed this or that to survive. He had changed the settings for the redirection of funds three times in his favour. This was too often. He found himself between the proverbial rocks and a hard place: the rocks were the Settlers demanding more, while the hard place was his determination not to be caught.

  So far he had found nothing that explained the cardinal’s suspicions, other than what they were actually doing. In essence this pointed to the real problem. The four of them knew they were taking money and were trying to find a way to demonstrate to the cardinal that the Santofonino system was clean when they were the living proof that it was not. He wondered if Michele had spotted the inherent contradiction that he had set them. In effect they were trying to demonstrate that a false needle in a haystack was not there when they knew where the real one existed.

  At least Tamar was happy about going to Spain, first briefly to Madrid followed by Córdoba and Toledo to see their Sephardi heritage. For an American she was, to him, surprisingly enthusiastic to explore their Jewish heritage and making this relevant to the boys. She was equally pleased they were invited to the Condesa’s house afterwards, for the group’s next meeting. It was not the Condesa or the house that appealed. It was seeing Miriam.

  What was even better was that this did not have to be in the States. Above all Noach wished to keep her from visiting her father and sister there. He was well aware that she could decide to stay and he did not want to provide any unnecessary opportunity. He wanted her – really the boys – with him in the Chosen Land.

  There was the one other attraction of going for almost a week to Spain. He could escape his mother. She had become, if it was conceivable, increasingly overbearing since the Condesa and the others visited. Noach had asked Tamar not to mention they would be visiting the Condesa. Tamar was happy to oblige. Neither wanted Golda with them, however much she might want to spout Ladino.

  Friday, a week later, Parioli, Rome

  Michele did not know where to turn. He was in his apartment preparing for another banker dinner, this time with visitors from Mexico City. They wished to discuss what would happen as the roll out of the Santofonino gathered steam in Mexico and then more broadly in Central America. What they were really asking was how they could profit more from their existing experience with the Santofonino. He could not blame them.

  On another subject Michele was pleased that he had set up the two foundations, as he referred to them, which he had described to Miriam and the Condesa. These were registered in the Netherlands and would be tax-free. He had copied the example of the founder of Ikea who used similar techniques for similar reasons and privacy. He had made some hefty transfers to the foundations. Now they had financial substance.

  Da Ferraz had gone quiet. He was uncertain if this was good or not. Rather than push a point he had chosen to lie low and not ask too many questions or open unassuming cans that might may contain unpredictable worms. As a result he had worked more from home than his Vatican hovel over the past days, minimising the opportunities for the cardinal or his sidekick Father Federico to question him on progress. On the other hand this meant he was removed from the essential gossip on which the Vatican functioned. If anything untoward was happening he was not hearing about it.

  Then there was Miriam. She would just not leave his mind. Her image walking out of the sea and off the beach floated in front of him whenever he relaxed. No amount of meditation or praying diminished his desire. Worse, and better, he would see her in Spain in a week. By then he must have decided what to do for the future.

  Friday, a week later, New Jersey

  Miriam returned from an exhilarating run of almost fifteen miles. It was a favourite because it was tough. She was pleased with herself. Her time was close to a personal best and undoubtedly the fastest she had covered the undulating hills in at least five years. She was recovering peak condition though it was hard.

  Following a shower, Miriam stood before a full-length mirror in her bedroom. She liked her appearance though suspected that many men would think her stringy or even too thin. There was no excess on her frame. Her stomach was flat as a board. Her hair was healthy-looking and her legs, one of her best features in her opinion, were slim yet lightly muscled. Yes, she was happy with her physique.

  Her emotional state was not quite so positive. Miriam had thought frequently of Michele and his last look at her in Tel Aviv. She had considered calling him. Common sense dissuaded her. Could he have seen her on the beach outside the hotel? She had not seen him. But that did not mean he had not seen her. Something chafed about his attitude. Oh well, nothing could be done now. She would see him shortly in Spain.

  That brought up the other complication: Inma. She had accepted by email to arrive on Thursday and leave in the middle of the week after. Was this a mistake? Did Miriam really want a hard sell accompanied by indoctrination from Inma about buying into the virtues of Opus Dei? She had tried some basic research. Opus Dei sounded like a repressive secret society. She had asked around. People had extreme views, if they had any at all. Those who thought they knew something were either wholly for or rabidly against. Was she being a fool by accepting some days with a profoundly religious lady determined to bring her to a state of grace? Her father was bad enough. Might this be worse? The possibility of a celibacy requirement simply repelled her.

  The one interesting thing Miriam had discovered involved that band of bruising on Inma’s leg. Her researches uncovered that certain Opus Dei members wore something called a cilice, a band of rough hair or metal high on the thigh. It was to cause pain, reminding the wearer of their devotion to Christ. It sounded weird to her. Who would want to self-flagellate? Her father? Possibly, if she suggested it to him.

  Balancing this was curiosity. Miriam needed a change, at least until she could find a replacement for John. There was an attractive possibility in the town next door but he was away in the Far East for at least another two weeks. Besides, the one aspect about Inma she was determined to understand more about was her techniques for looking so good. She must be several years older. While running was fine for Miriam now it might not always be. She was aware of her mild predilection for exploring new techniques or fads. Pilates had been one; aggressive Californian yoga another. Inma’s approach seemed refreshingly different and personally evolved. Could she learn the main elements in a few days? There was only one way to find out.

  Of course, visiting had the additional benefit that she would spend time with Judith and her nephews. Counterbalancing this was the need to solve the problem
of the cardinal. She had spotted nothing obviously wrong. If she had not, would Inma or Michele or Noach? Perhaps they were deluding themselves. If Michele and Noach had not treated the problem seriously she would have given up long ago.

  Friday, a week later, Monteverde

  It was late afternoon. Caterina’s eyes were tired and dry. She put some drops in, which gave immediate though not long lasting relief. She had been through so many documents for the second or third time that they were blurring together.

  She opened the folders containing the original purchase details for the VCCC systems. These she had checked out before. But, she realised, beforehand she had only looked at the companies, not at who the people were who were working for them. She dug deeper.

  What was this? The company that helped write the software for the VCCC had somebody of more or less the same name as the company that did much of the original work on the HolyPhone app. That was odd. She seemed to remember that the people involved were supposed to be different and separated, at least according to Father Federico – deliberately so.

  Yet the documentation showed there was a Weizman working for one and a Weizmann for the other. The same person? Could it be? Was this something significant?

  She set her software to do some deeper categorising. Up came twenty-three documents, from different pieces of work, all showing a Weizman or Weizmann. Two of them had identity details, for the obtaining of security passes. Both showed a Noach Weizmann, an Israeli citizen. But both companies were Italian. And both had closed for business. Strange.

  Her excitement rose. Here was something genuinely odd. What was the name of that guy who crashed the Arab bank? She called Conor and asked.

  “I think he was called Weissman or Witzmann or something similar. Why?”