Paolo stopped, and Guillermo picked up immediately. He had followed every word, even if he had kept his eyes on Helena for most of the time.
“However, Madame Virenque – if that is in fact, your name - we are still not sure if we can fully trust you. In the pharmaceutical industry it is not unusual to try to sell botched products to your competitors, dressing it up like a promising startup, in the hope to restore part of the investment. That is why we tend to favor in-house research. Origin matters a lot.”
As he moved his eyes back to Lee with the content grin of rejecting the proposal, Helena crossed his glance and shouted,
“Guillermo, todavia no te recuerdas de mi? Soy Helena!”
Guillermo froze for a long second, with his eyes and mouth wide open, until Lee stood up from the table. “Maybe Paolo has understood thanks to his Latin background, but I need an explanation from my team. Can the two of you excuse us for a few minutes?”
After George closed the door behind them, he collapsed into the nearest chair, bewildered, and looked up at Helena for clarification.
“It's OK, Guillermo has recognized me. He was one of the bodyguards of Emiliano. Since he was also a clever boy, they decided to send him to high school. I was not the only beneficiary of narco scholarships. He saw me for the last time around thirty-five years ago, when I left to attend college in the US. He must have made a very good career if they send him to negotiate global deals like this. He now knows two things; that I am from the clan, and there is some truth in the rejuvenating power of Telomerax.”
They were called back in after about a half an hour. Lee addressed George.
“Mr. Virenque, we have come to the conclusion that you do not have a solid business case for cocaine. Maybe we should explore more in detail the anti-aging effects of Telomerax. Trading cosmetics is a fully legitimate business. I am sure you have already developed a plan to set up a robust and secure supply chain for the product that you want to show us.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Lee. It is just like distributing fine chocolates, you make it in a Swiss factory and send it all over the globe via Dubai and Hong Kong.”
Chapter 12
Valerio was driving his rented Alfa Romeo along the Grand Junction Ring of Rome, or GRA as it was universally known, the three lane highway that encloses the city.
Like the walls of Emperor Aurelianus in the third century AD, its purpose was to contain and protect the city. This time not from barbaric invasions, but from traffic congestions. And just like the walls, it had failed miserably.
Luckily, traffic was very rare at 5 PM on a late August Sunday, as most Romans were soaking in the last rays of sunshine on the beaches or trekking along the lakes and hills surrounding the Capital. Valerio accelerated as soon as he went past the last speed radar and got off the GRA at the Via Ardeatina exit, heading south into the countryside.
He arrived at the Shrine of Our Lady of Divine Love in Castel di Leva at 5:30 PM, just one hour before the beginning of the evening Mass. He went straight to the church rectory and pushed on the intercom.
As he anticipated, nobody answered on the first ring. He waited three minutes and rang again, and again. On the fourth attempt, the voice of an aged woman answered. She started by apologizing for the delay, but she had to make sure it was not a prank from the local teenagers. What was the reason for the call?
Valerio spoke softly, asking if it was possible to see Father Giacomo Bontardini. He asked for her to announce the arrival of Valerio Orsini.
Two minutes later the door opened and the woman led Valerio through the cool shade of the entrance and up the stairs, to the first floor. There was a simple hallway with five doors, that were left open to let the evening air refresh the rooms. The parish secretary pointed towards the last door and then walked back downstairs.
Valerio stepped into the small living room and was greeted by a very old man, with a big smile on his round face, in which two dark eyes were full of surprise and joy.
“Valerio, my dear son, it seems to have been ages since the last time we saw each other.”
He hugged him, and Valerio realized he was using him to stay upright. They sat on the couch next to the tea table and Valerio pondered an answer. He could recap every minute of their last meeting.
They had last talked on May 17th, 1985, exactly twenty-seven years and three months ago. Valerio had already left the Vatican and broken up with Anna, while Father Giacomo was a powerful Monsignor in his mid-fifties at the peak of his career, working with the Cardinal Secretary of State, for whom he kept the relations with the Roman political world.
Unlike many of his peers in the Curia, Father Giacomo had asked to take care of a small parish in the outskirts of Rome. Many within the Vatican walls disapproved of Father Giacomo managing both the Palace and the parrochial affairs at the same time.
Normally it would not have lasted long, but his brilliant intelligence and shrewdness made him very respected and sometimes feared in the Curia. Plus, the unconditional love he showed for his herd of working-class parishioners had deterred more than one attempt to get him removed.
Father Giacomo was aware of the reasons that had driven Valerio away from what he called “the pulsing and bleeding heart of the Church” and one day he had managed to invite him to lunch with a good friend of his, Father Ivano Zaccardo, who had dedicated his life to the assistance of troubled teenagers by setting up a public school near Venice. Valerio had accepted the invitation more out of courtesy and curiosity than anything else. He had heard several times about “Father Zac”, as Father Giacomo called him, and he had no important meetings scheduled that day.
Father Giacomo remembered that day, too, even if his memory was fading at the age of eighty-one.
“You are right. It was a great day. I remember Father Zac also had to organize the summer trip of his pupils to Rome and was seeking some help with the accomodation. He was furious with the Jesuits,” Fr. Giacomo chuckled, “he insulted them in Venetian dialect claiming that lodging in a brothel would have been less of a ripoff and much less of a moral inconvenience. How humorous he could be in his wrath! Do you know that he passed away six years ago? Just after the election of Pope Benedict XVI.”
“I read the article in the local newspapers. It said he had grown his small school to a landmark educational institution in the Northeast of Italy, and he was opening up in Latin America. Yes, it was a great day. The two of you were talking about very ordinary things: the organization of the trip, the political gossip of the day, I was expecting some spiritual advice and questioning about my life but you were deeply conversing with each other...not that you were cutting me off from the conversation...then at some point the two of you started recalling the Gospel where John and Andrew met Jesus for the first time...and I can still tell every word of your dialogue. It was like...the two of you...”
Valerio started stumbling with his words. The speech he had prepared for the meeting started to fall apart, despite the help of the superintelligence of Telomerax.
“By the way, Valerio, you look absolutely great - as if time has not passed at all. I will have to review my homilies about the dangers of secular life habits. You are disproving them all! Please do not show up to Mass now or my herd will never trust me any more.”
Father Giacomo was getting to the point.
“Father, do not get me wrong. I do not consider myself much of a believer now, if I ever been that. However, I have come back to you, because you showed me the possibility of....I do not know exactly. I would say grace, but you are the theologian here.”
“Grace....” Father Giacomo repeated slowly, his eyes wandering to the shelves, where books and photos covered the whole wall.
“....yes, grace....but Mass time is approaching, and I have to prepare myself in ten minutes.”
“There is another reason I came to you today, Father. I need your help to meet the Pope, alone. I see in the press that leakages do indeed happen also in the Vatican, and I must avoid that.”
“How can I do that, Valerio? Who would listen to a dying priest in a sleepy countryside parish, who all of the sudden is seeking to arrange a private meeting between a media tycoon and the Holy Father about an unknown topic?”
Valerio saw a flash in Father Giacomo eyes. Maybe that was also grace. He thought a few seconds and replied.
“You know how to handle the Curia. As for my soul, Father Giacomo, please hear my confession.”
Three weeks later, Valerio was preparing the weekly meeting of his public relations team in the East End offices of his company at Canary Wharf. It was rainy and cool, making Valerio think that the wet London fall was arriving in advance. The phone rang at five o'clock. It was a landline number from Rome. He picked up the call, on the other side there was the voice of Father Giacomo.
“I think you may want to be in Rome tomorrow for a special meeting that you requested. It will last fifteen minutes only, so be prepared.”
“Tomorrow?! How can I....it is five o'clock here! I live in London, I told you!”
“I know you will find a way. See you tomorrow, at the online reservations line of the Vatican Museum. Eleven o'clock sharp.”
Valerio hung up, looked around at his team, and called the meeting off. He had to leave for urgent personal issues and would be back in a couple of days. He asked Sarah, his assistant, to book a place on the first available flight to Italy and got on the road.
At that time of day in the East End, the only possibility to get to Italy was the last evening flight directly from London City to Milan, so he had to hurry. At the duty free shop, he bought a suit and change of clothes for the day after.
He then called Caroline, his girlfriend of one year, to cancel the evening dinner. She wanted to know why he was rushing to Italy. He thought shortly, and then replied with the plainest tone he could manag.
“Caroline, I cannot tell you now and I do not want to make up a lie. Maybe one day...”
“Oh, Tony, maybe one day you will stop playing secret agent! It's not the first time you hide your whereabouts from me. I am looking for a decent relationship, not to play the Bond girl.”
She hung up. Gone. Valerio started thinking he was sacrificing too much for this meeting.
When he arrived in Milan at 10:30 PM, a black Mercedes was already waiting for him. The car took the highway and began the five hour trip to Rome. Sarah had managed to book a room in one of the many, small hotels surrounding the Vatican. At least he would enjoy some sleep.
He showed up at the online reservations line at precisely eleven o'clock, skipping the long snake of tourists that lining the Vatican walls, under the warm September sun. Father Giacomo was there, and he smiled, while he handed the entry ticket over to Valerio.
“I know you would make it,” he said, as he patted Valerio on the back. “From here, I will take care of things. When was the last time you visited the Museum?”
Valerio was puzzled, why didn't they go through the Saint Anne Gate, the main entry point for non-tourist visitors? Father Giacomo read his face and explained, “that is the official entry point and everybody is recorded. I understood you wanted a reserved meeting, or did I get it wrong?”
They strolled through the courts and the Belvedere palace, following the tourist flow into the Museum. Just before the Room of the Maps, a door opened on what, according to the Latin inscriptions, was a new wing of the Vatican Library rennovated by Pope Benedict XVI in 2005. A young priest appeared in the doorway, his eyes scrutinizing the tourist crowd. Father Giacomo took Valerio’s right arm and with energy unexpected from an eighty-year-old, he veered into the door, which was then quickly closed behind them by the young priest.
They walked along corridors and upstairs for about twenty minutes. Valerio noticed that Father Giacomo did not seem to mind the long walk at all. On the contrary, he looked more and more childish, like a toddler strolling in a grass field. Then they entered a wide passageway from which he could see St. Peter’s Square, and Valerio realized they had entered the Pope’s apartment. The trio stopped in front of a white door and the young priest knocked. The door opened, and one of the nuns that assisted Pope Benedict XVI appeared.
Valerio turned to Father Giacomo, who smiled, reassuring him.
“It's up to you now. Be concise, you have only fifteen minutes. And do not forget to ask for the blessing at the end.”
Valerio left the room exactly fifteen minutes after the door had opened to welcome him. Father Giacomo had been waiting for him, praying with his rosary, while staring out of the window towards St. Peter’s Square.
The young priest led them back to the Vatican Museum. They all stayed silent and entered the Sistine Chapel. The priest quickly shook hands and disappeared, leaving Father Giacomo and Valerio in the midst of the crowd of tourists swirling about the Chapel, with the saints and devils looming on the walls above.
Father Giacomo spoke just after they left the Museum, “How did it go?”
“Well, I briefed him with the ten-minute speech I had put together on my way to Rome and…”
“That is not what I meant. How was the Pope? What was your impression of him?”
“He listened carefully. I have the impression he suffers from the pressure of the recent leaks. One thing that surprised me, was that I expected him to get more nervous as I continued, but instead it was the opposite. At the end, he was almost relieved. He did not take any notes, he just thanked me and asked if he could help me in any way. I answered I had come to him because I felt he and the Church, in general, could help in this transition, so they better know in advance.”
“He added that this meeting was the sign he needed to make a decision on something he had been pondering for a while but I have no idea what he was referring to. And we should not worry too much about the future, he said, as it does not depend on us. Then it was blessing time.”
“You seem disappointed,” said Father Giacomo.
“I am,” replied Valerio, “I was hoping for some reaction, some inspiring advice but none of this happened. Alright, he is a man after all…”
“Valerio, Valerio….you brought him big news, but secular news after all. You brought news from this world, and remember, the world prospers without Jesus Christ.”
Valerio looked at Father Giacomo, astonished.
“I was not expecting that from you.”
“Oh, you should know that by now. But all the prosperity in this world cannot buy you a single, unexpected minute of grace.”
Valerio could not respond before a blue, rather worn down Volkswagen Golf stopped by the roadside and from inside two men started waving at Father Giacomo.
“Look, Silvio and Maurizio! They are two of my parishioners. They must really love me, if you think that they left their families on a Saturday morning to come to pick me up here.”
Father Giacomo hugged Valerio, then entered the car, and disappeared in the flow of Roman traffic.
Chapter 13
Irina Kanchelskaya was living in the Arab Emirates since the end of 2009, leading the double life of a secret agent and a top class whore. She was born in Tambov, Russia in 1985, and by the time she graduated in Astrophysics in 2007 from the University of St. Petersburg she had realized she could make a much better living accompanying rich foreign and Russian businessmen in the night clubs than working as a teacher or an engineer.
She also felt a deep sense of sorrow, not so much for herself but for her country, which despite the progress made by President Putin, was still far away from being as strong and respected as it used to be.
She would have liked to find a way to serve her motherland - the Rodina as they called it in Russia - also to feel closer to her father. She knew him only through the stories her mother shared. He had died in Afghanistan in 1986, when his helicopter was hit by a guerilla rocket.
One night, in February of 2009, a man who introduced himself as Gennady had approached her at the club pretending he had a job for her. She immediately noticed he was not even sl
ightly drunk and he did not order any drinks while asking some questions about her customers. When he left, without trying to ask her to spend the night, Irina understood that she had an opportunity she could not miss.
It has been almost three years now, since she agreed to three careers. Her official profession was as a public relations worker in a small Russian company that used to work in the oil and gas sector. The insignificant company served Gazprom, one of their most valuable clients, and tried to do business with the local energy and utility companies.
Everybody knew it was a cover up for a model agency, managing a steady flow of girls between Russia and the Gulf monarchies. The “maskirovka” - or what the Russians call, the art of masking - did not end there though. Many of the models were actually informants and some outright illegal agents of the FSB, the Russian secret service. In the Foreign Operations Directorate, better known as ‘Moscow Center’, the handlers were using the girls to extract information from the rich and the powerful of the Arab countries.
Irina had quickly moved from simple informant to lieutenant of the FSB, and although the pay was not much higher than the one of a mathematics teacher, she felt she was doing her country a far more valuable service.
As she put the finishing touches to her makeup, preparing for the $5,000 stay arranged that night, Irina thought about how smartphones have made her job so much easier. The technology department of the FSB had managed to install a number of backdoors in the most popular applications, so all Irina had to do was to leave her iPhone switched on during the date.
An invisible application would automatically search for all smartphones within range, activate the backdoors, and silently sync all data onto her own device. To safely send the data to the Russian Embassy, she just had to connect to wi-fi for an hour. The data was downloaded onto the Embassy’s secure database, transferred onto a memory card, and then flown to Moscow Center, where it was analysed and stored.
The Last Enemy - A history of the present future - 1934-2084 Page 12
