“Not a problem. I will need an hour or so of warning to set this up but after that there should be no difficulty. Our drivers will likely cut the time down to less than two hours, if you see what I mean. I could see if the local police can find out whether these people are still at the house, without actually going to it.”
“That’s an excellent idea, especially if any cars leave, taking registration numbers.”
The officer who had previously left returned and asked to speak to the Comisario. After a couple of minutes of discussion, the Comisario reapproached the table.
“I am sorry to say that Señor Weizmann’s wife and children have escaped us. They took a taxi and gave directions to a hotel near Sol in the centre of Madrid. Apparently she did not turn up at the hotel. We have found the taxi driver who said that she changed her mind and asked him to take them to Terminal One. In the car he overheard her book a flight and pay by credit card, to Newark in New Jersey. That flight left about ten minutes ago. Unless we have formal papers to charge her with a crime committed in Spain I am afraid we cannot require the plane to turn back.”
“That is unexpected but can’t be helped. I think it makes the Yuste connection more important. If you would ask your local people to check if anyone seems to be there that would be good. We don’t want to waste time going there for no reason tomorrow.”
Monday, Yuste
The lunch had been good, as Inma had promised. Both Miriam and she felt satisfied, in more ways than one. They were in that delicious stage of initial discovery, finding to their mutual delight that they had even more in common than merely hours of previous physical pleasure.
Their conversation had started with the usual small simple things, like what each did and how. Miriam explained about Lehmans, without making further mention of Michele, the connection with whom now seemed long in the past. She described living in suburban New Jersey, the relationship with her father, and how the diverted monies from the Santofonino propped up a church that was really a sham. In passing she mentioned that she had taken nothing for herself, though admitted that when she had been doing the research agreed in Nahalal she wondered if she should have. Miriam had not realised how over one million dollars had gone her father’s way, with more still in her account. She even commented how she had passed on only about half.
In response Inma talked about Opus Dei, but no longer trying to sell it. She described the basic principles of the Blessed Josemaria Escrivá and its support for people working while they continued in close contact with the Roman Catholic faith. She touched on how much of the initial attraction came from distaste at her father’s and brothers’ approach to life and money, essentially to borrow rather than earn, combined with revulsion at what had happened at that summer camp. Believing in Opus Dei became easy when it was encouraging her to work, develop a career and provide a smokescreen of immaculate worthiness to avoid the need for relations with men.
Inma giggled: “I confess to having never thought of doing anything with another woman.”
“Same here. For me it was the opposite. I was hooked on men, but what did it get me? Lots of sex, three failed marriages and little more. Time for a rethink?” She smiled coyly.
“Well, I’ll need to do the same and at some point make some choices. Opus won’t tolerate what we have done though it will provide forgiveness if I repent.”
Miriam now realised that though fragile in one sense Inma was a very tough bird in another. Already she was looking forward and thinking through what might happen down different decision paths. Unlike Miriam, when swapping the sex of her partner was a relatively small matter, Inma would be making life and spiritually changing decisions. She decided to divert the subject.
“Tell me more about your career.”
Inma started by describing how Mariano, the man she regarded as her mentor in both Opus and at work, had given her the opportunity to work in reinsurance. He had encouraged and taught her the finer arts of taking in investor’s money to create reinsurance pools against specific disasters, like hurricanes, floods, earthquakes or explosions. Mostly this was sold to insurance companies to cover for losses beyond their capability to insure, a backstop. But clients also included wealthy investors who provided capital to Inma’s firm in the hope of much better income than would be possible normally but with the risk of specific capital pools being wiped out if a reinsured disaster occurred. Miriam could understand this. In a way it was not so different from Wall Street or even investing in property. They were more alike than she expected.
Inma continued by describing how one of Mariano’s recurrent nightmares was that the Catholic Church in Spain was about to implode. Though he had been from the far right, and his family had been close to Franco, he knew that practices that were acceptable then had taken place, ones that would be wholly unacceptable today. In particular the taking of babies at birth from people regarded as opposition sympathisers and then giving those babies to good Catholic Nationalist would-be mothers who could not conceive was, in his view, a nightmare poised to crush the church. How could it have cooperated in something so against natural justice? At this stage Mariano had not known of the children abused by priests that would rock the church in the US, Ireland, Holland, Germany and many other places. Later he had been realistic enough to understand that if this could happen in other countries then it had almost certainly happened in Spain. That was why he initially met with Michele, not to deprive the church but to create a hidden trust fund within Opus Dei to help bail out the church in Spain when revelations finally emerged.
Then he had died unexpectedly.
“But he had already brought me in as his right-hand woman and explained what he was doing and why. In loyalty to him I took his work on from those early beginnings and refined it with Michele. We used much of the Santofonino income, both diverted and mainstream, to invest into reinsurance pools. The results have been good so far. Opus, though it does not know it, has a substantial fund waiting for that black day when it is needed.”
“Did you take any for yourself?”
“No, no. That would have been immoral. That’s not what I was there to do. Indeed, though I control the funds, I have no access to them. I can move them around, but three signatures are needed to make a withdrawal from the system.”
Miriam breathed an internal sigh of relief. Inma, like her, was not participating for personal gain. It made for another connection point, though she was sure that she was not as good a person as Inma. Her only guilt, which was niggling her, was whether her own lust was ruining another.
“Shall we go back to El Roble?”
“Yes. Why? Do you have something in mind?”
They walked out in to the street.
Before Inma could reply to Miriam’s question she was greeted by: “Buenas tardes, Condesa. How are you? It’s been some time since I last saw you in the pueblo. Are you here for long?”
“Buenas tardes, Jesús.” They kissed each other cheek to cheek. “May I present my friend from America, Miriam? She is staying a few days with me here at El Roble, which you are keeping safe for me. Thank you. And how is your María ? Is the business going well?”
“Buenas tardes, Miriam. Mucho gusto. Very well, thank you, and she is good. You should drop in on her for she is in the shop this afternoon. She’d be very pleased to see you. She always sings your praises and the business flourishes. I could retire if I wanted, if I was sure that the women round here would keep buying so much from her.”
“I’m not sure we’ll have the time. If I don’t see her, please give her a kiss from me.”
They left Jesús and walked towards the car.
“Who was that?”
“Jesús? He’s our local police chief and a lovely man. His wife, María, is a tiny but beautiful lady some ten years younger. She opened a lingerie shop some years back. At the start he was very disapproving because she planned to include what he referred to as naughty lingerie. When he would not support her I lent her some money to st
art. It was not much and the business has grown and grown. I’m delighted for her.”
“Have you ever visited? Is it nearby?”
“It’s round the corner and no, I have never entered. Why would I want to? Oh. I’m still thinking like before yesterday.”
“Well, I want to meet this María. So let’s go now.”
“But I can’t. I will be so embarrassed. I have never been before. María knows that.”
“We can say it is for me; that I am staying longer than expected. Let’s find out if there is any naughty lingerie that would be unsuitable for me.”
Dragging a decidedly reluctant Inma, who nevertheless gave directions, they went round that corner.
Monday, Barajas, Madrid
The hours had passed but not as slowly as hours in an airport terminal normally do. Pedro, the Comisario Principal, had offered an early lunch so that they could be ready for the Alitalia flight later. It was a good lunch improved by the news that one part of the stand-off with El Al Security had been resolved. Pedro suggested that if El Al agreed to hold Señor Weizmann within the terminal, then the scheduled morning El Al flight could depart. But he also commented that he did not think this was the end of it. Some tension had evaporated.
Back in the police room in Terminal 4, two mobile telephones went off near simultaneously. Both calls were short. The first officer reported to Pedro that his call came from Cáceres.
“Apparently the local police chief was told of the interest in the Condesa. He took it upon himself to find out, for he apparently knows the Condesa personally. Before he could go to the Condesa’s house he bumped into her in the street with an American. Apparently the Condesa volunteered that they were both staying some days in the house called El Roble.
“Do we want him to do anything more?”
“No, please call him back and say that if we need assistance from him or his people we will be in touch.”
The recipient of the second call now spoke: “That was a call from Security in Terminal 3. They have stopped a man with an Italian ID card with the name Michele Severino. He does not seem like a priest but when they invited him to accompany them he produced a Vatican red passport and is claiming diplomatic immunity and that he should be allowed to proceed onto his flight unhindered. Before calling us they ran a check. He did not come into Spain on this diplomatic passport.”
“Well, well, well, Conor, you do seem to enjoy some peculiar friends,” offered Pedro. “Now we have the makings of a second diplomatic spat.”
“But I don’t even know these people,” protested Conor.
“Never mind, let’s take a car over to Terminal 3 to see what we have. By the way, would you like me to make arrangements for cars to Yuste for tomorrow morning? Fine, I shall organise it.”
He nodded to one of his officers before leading the way down to two police cars that quickly crossed the airport tarmac taking the secure shortcut between the terminals. He led the way up to the equivalent police room in Terminal 3.
“Monsignor Severino? I am Pedro Casals, a Comisario Principal in the Cuerpo Nacional de Policia. Can you understand me in Spanish or would your prefer English or Italian?”
Michele replied in American-accented English: “I am Monsignor Severino. In accordance with the status confirmed by my passport I claim Diplomatic Immunity. I wish to return to Rome on the flight on which I am booked, scheduled to leave in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’m sorry, Monsignor Severino. That won’t be immediately possible. You did not enter Spain using your diplomatic credentials; indeed you checked-in for the flight using your Italian national identification card. There is, therefore, a discrepancy to resolve. In addition, these people,” he gestured towards Conor and Caterina, “are from Interpol and would like to talk with you. It may be relevant that they flew in from Rome yesterday looking for you.”
Michele blanched. This he hadn’t expected. What could they know?
Less assured than he would have liked to have sounded he asked, “May I have contact with the local representative of the Apostolic State and, if possible, with my superiors in Rome? I’m sure this can be sorted swiftly.”
“Of course, Monsignore. If you will come this way we will make a private office available for your calls. Then I must ask you to return here to talk to my Interpol colleagues.”
“Or would you prefer to talk to us in Rome, Monsignore?” added Conor.
“I would prefer to talk to my colleagues first.”
“I should warn you,” continued Pedro, “that entering this country using non-diplomatic identification almost certainly invalidates that immunity. Come, let’s find that office for you.” He led Michele out and a minute or so later returned. “Two diplomatic incidents in one day. What next?”
His wry smile took any sting out of his words.
“A good question but not one that I can answer,” replied Conor. “In fact I am not too bothered about the Monsignore because we can always see him in Rome, once you have resolved matters to Spanish satisfaction. The one I don’t wish to let go is Weizmann because I have the feeling that if he arrives back in Israel he will disappear from sight. He has history on this. He’s widely believed to have caused an Arab bank thought to be supporting anti-Israel causes to fail some years back when working in New York. The Americans never really looked for him, which has always made some of us wonder if they connived at his activities. He was in New York one day and gone the next.”
“That’s useful to know. We’ll do our utmost to keep him from flying out. I expect to hear from the Israeli Embassy people here soon, and it will probably not be pleasant. Dealing with Israelis when they feel affronted or especially if they are actually in the wrong is invariably ugly.”
Monday, Central Rome
The Spanish Ambassador to Italy arrived at the ristorante off the Via Cavour. He was still puzzled that his wife wanted to return here as it never struck him as being special and there were many other places where they could have gone. He gave in because what he had to discuss was uncomfortable in the extreme. He wondered if careers might crash as a consequence, an almost unheard of possibility in the past. He entered, gave his name and was told his guests had already arrived.
When at his table, he bent to kiss his wife.
Jaime, his second at the Embassy, stood and was more formal: “Good evening, Ambassador”.
He winced. Jaime was being proper. Now he had to make a choice. Normal diplomatic practice was to continue being formal. Hopefully Maria Carmen, Jaime’s wife, who preferred the simplicity of Maria to Mamen, was going to be American and refuse to accept that formality, even though this was a working dinner. She obliged, allowing him to peck her on both cheeks. While in part this dented his sense of Ambassadorial self-importance, it did make him feel agreeably normal.
“Please, Jaime, this evening it is Francisco.” He congratulated himself on his phrasing. His response meant this one evening’s informality need not become permanent.
In many ways he liked Maria. She had little patience with the diplomatic circumlocutions that were normal to the rest of them. Indeed he knew his own wife was not immune. He wondered if Maria would be useful this evening or a burden. One never knew with her. Her business background often enabled her to provide insights to him about things that he did not understand. After all, his Ministry had not invested much in equipping him, or Jaime, for a changing world, at least not since they had left Diplomatic School decades earlier.
He looked up. His wife had stepped into the breach while he was letting his thoughts focus. Whatever her failings, she was a wonderful social asset, possessing that mastery of keeping people comfortable even when he was mentally elsewhere.
Maria beat him to it, saying, “You have had a challenging day, according to Jaime. Should we order and then talk? I hope you don’t mind but I ordered some Prosecco when I arrived.”
“Good for you. I think we’ll need it, and more.” He signalled to a waiter and asked for a Barolo to be opened
immediately. Everyone considered. Perhaps, because he had warned them that a difficult conversation would follow, they chose simply — insalata mista, papparadelle or spaghetti con olio y aglio and then agnello arrosto for all.
“Maria, I have this uncomfortable feeling that you are going to laugh at what I am going to tell you. I must warn you that a telegram I received from Madrid today, which was marked for Head of Mission eyes only, is going to challenge us. Even that may be a colossal understatement.”
There was silence, broken only by the bubbles of the Prosecco.
“Seemingly our Minister received a letter a week ago. It makes for very uncomfortable reading, so much so that the text was included in the telegram. I have it here and rather than try to paraphrase or to read it out I have made a copy for each of you, though I will have to take these copies back when you finish.”
He handed out the papers and left them to peruse what he had read several times already. He decided to check again. It was a shock to see his ministry directly accused of incompetence and, worse, lack of ordinary decent employee consideration.
Before he could open his intended discussion the pasta arrived, the salad plates were removed, the Barolo poured, while a phone started to warble.
Discovering it was his, he answered, mouthing to his guests: “It is the chancellery. Yes, it is the ambassador speaking. What? We have a diplomatic incident with the Vatican. But that’s not our affair. What do you mean it is?”
He listened carefully before ending the conversation.
“I’ll have to go shortly. A car is coming for me. In short our esteemed ambassador to the Holy See is on some well-merited holiday somewhere in the middle of South America tracking down an obscure butterfly. He cannot be contacted. His new Chargé d’Affaires was taken to hospital last night with appendicitis. A Vatican bureaucrat has claimed diplomatic immunity at Barajas and Madrid has agreed with the Vatican Secretariat of State that I may temporarily represent Spain to the Holy See in addition to my current representation, at least in this matter. I now will go to meet the Cardinal da Ferraz, the one I pointed out to you, Concha, some weeks back, to try to find a resolution.
The HolyPhone Confessional Crisis Page 28
