The Holy Bullet (37 page)

“My subordinates are looking at every detail, but so far it seems everything is legal.”

“Any flight requested at the last minute?”

“Daily we have four or five requests. Among the private flights, of course.”

“Any at the last minute?”

“Define the last minute.”

The trembler must think he’s a comedian
, Barnes said to himself.

“We only authorize private flight requests a minimum of five hours ahead. Unless it’s a serious situation,” McTwain clarified pedantically.

“We need to know all the touch-and-gos requested in the last twenty-four hours,” Herbert ordered.

“Aren’t we neglecting the commercial flights?” Staughton alerted them.

“I have the team distributed throughout the airport. If they’re on a commercial flight, they’ll still be in the terminal and will be seen,” Thompson informed them.

“Why do I have the feeling someone is making fun of us?” Barnes showed his irritation, once again, nothing new.

“What do you mean, Barnes?” Littel asked.

“It just seems to me we’re where he wants us to be.”

Wally Johnson joined the group waving a paper in the air.

“I think I’ve found them,” he said.

“Where?”

“A Learjet 45 from an Italian rental company landed less than two hours ago,” he told them.

“Let me see that.” Herbert grabbed the paper from Wally Johnson’s hand. It wasn’t the time to observe courtesy. He ran his index finger down the page. “In the name of Joseph Connelly?”

“Exactly.”

“What does this ass have to do with anything?” Barnes asked impatiently.

“What called my attention was not the name, but the flight code.”

Herbert looked again at the page and identified the code. He passed it to Barnes.

“Son of a bitch.” He turned suddenly to McTwain. “Contact the tower and see if they’ve taken off.”

The director took the radio.

“Attention, tower. McTwain here. Code 139346.”

“Code 139346. Tower here. I’m listening.”

“Tower, what is the current situation with flight JC1981?”

“One moment.”

The whole group was in suspense, ears fastened, in a figurative sense, to the radio.

Scarcely five seconds passed, but they seemed interminable. Finally . . .

“Code 139346, McTwain, authorization for takeoff of flight JC1981, accelerating down runway 26.”

“Tower, abort the authorization for takeoff. I repeat, abort the authorization for takeoff.”

“Code 139346, McTwain. Understood,” the tower responded.

Barnes looked at the pretentious trembler with other eyes. It was clear why he was the director. Decision and rapid reaction, a praiseworthy quality in any profession.

More seconds waiting. Agonizing.

“Code 139346, McTwain. Negative on aborting flight JC1981 on runway 26. Flight JC1981 is at two thousand feet with instructions to rise to eleven thousand.”

“Tower, Code 139346, McTwain here. Communication terminated.” He turned to Barnes. “It’s not in my hands, sir. As you know, my power ends when the plane takes off. You’ll have to contact the NATS.”

Barnes turned his back on him, frustrated but not defeated.

“Charades. I’m sick of charades.”

“Order the plane shot down,” Herbert suggested.

Littel interposed himself. “Don’t be crazy. What’s the destination of the flight?”

Barnes showed him the paper with the information. Littel turned red when he read it and confronted Barnes’s stare.

“He knows.”

THE BUSINESS DEAL

February 1969

—
PAUL VI
,
Humanae Vitae,
1968

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
wo very different men shared the same room in the papal summer residence in Castel Gandolfo.

Giovanni Battista Montini was modest and reserved; he thought more than he spoke. The other wore his heart on his sleeve and expressed himself enthusiastically. He dressed well, fashionably, and if he had any fault, although he wouldn’t have said so, it was vanity. He liked what was extraordinary, and always got what he wanted. He loved to be eulogized, flattered, deferred to. Not every man succeeded in reaching what he had acquired. He was the ruler of an empire in the name of God, Opus Dei. He had thousands of followers and millions of financial donations daily. He’d become the greatest and most influential prelate ever; if not, he wouldn’t be here in this house talking informally with Paul VI, his friend.

“José María, things are not that straightforward.”

“Of course they are. You yourself told me that the finances were full of spiderwebs. You don’t know what you have.”

“They’re not mine. I need an inventory of the goods of the Church,” Giovanni Montini answered civilly.

“The goods of the Church belong to the pope. You know that very well. They’re yours. You can give and take.” While he spoke, José María gestured effusively. With his loud voice the gestures made him someone who had to be listened to. “Money generates money, Giovanni. You can be the master of an unlimited patrimony, so powerful you can bend anyone to the will of
your
Church.”

“The Church is not mine. I’m her highest representative, and it doesn’t seem right to go investing her assets in financial operations that could go bad. That’s not the role of the Church.”

“For the love of God, Giovanni. It’s the duty of the Church to invest the money that the faithful deposit in the offertories. They don’t expect anything else. I only ask you to give this man an opportunity. Let him inventory and organize the house. Then we’ll see.”

They were drinking Burmester Port, vintage 1963, the year Giovanni Battista Montini was elected pope, adopting the name of Paul for the sixth time in the history of the Church. The conclave differed from others, since the moribund Angelo Roncalli, better known as John XXIII, had pronounced his name as successor. It’s known that the will of the pope should always be obeyed . . . or almost always.

José María Escrivá had brought the bottle that morning, a gift to his lord, his pastor, and everyone else’s.

“Who’s the man?”

“A bishop who has served in other capacities. Extremely competent.”

“What’s his name?”

“Paul Marcinkus.”

“Paul Marcinkus? He’s a personal friend. Principal translator and bodyguard.”

Escrivá smiled affirmatively.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if he has the qualifications for a responsibility like this,” the pope said in a distrustful tone.

“He does, you can be confident. He’s a suitable person.”

“And what is the press going to say? The pope employs a member of Opus Dei to direct the Vatican bank? I don’t think so.”

“There’s the advantage, Giovanni,” Escrivá emphasized. “No one knows he’s Opus Dei. Only you and I. No one else needs to know.” A boyish smile spread over his lips. So easy.

“If I were to agree, everything must be very clear. He cannot invest according to his own whims.”

“Of course not,” Escrivá agreed.

“He’ll have to spell out a concrete, clear plan for the potential of all business deals.” He raised an admonishing finger. “Only after cleaning out the cobwebs in the house.”

“Of course. You’re the boss. Don’t forget it.”

“Don’t say that,” Paul said uncomfortably.

“But it’s the truth. You may not want to understand it or see it, but it’s all yours. This palace and everything in it, the Vatican State . . . Damn, one word from you, and Saint Peter’s Square is closed until you say so.”

Paul preferred not to think of these things. Other affairs were much more important than the administration of the State and its assets. Nevertheless, he viewed favorably the idea of someone with understanding taking on these more mundane matters and putting the house in order.

“Tell him to come and see me,” Paul finally said.

Escrivá smiled. “Agreed.”

“Make an appointment with my secretary. I’m going to ask Villot to come also. It’ll be good to have a friend taking this on.”

“Perfect, Giovanni. You’ll see how I am going to show my appreciation,” he declared confidently.

“And what are you going to want as a sign of gratitude?” Paul asked ingenuously.

“A statue in the Vatican after my canonization.”

Paul laughed, while Escrivá remained thoughtful.

“I’m serious.”

A
fter a night of good sleep, bodies awaken invigorated, ready to accept new challenges, alert and active. This was how Raul and Elizabeth felt after a flight of thousands of miles over the Mediterranean, in a plane so luxurious it even had two bedrooms with king-sized beds. They felt a little guilty, as if they’d sinned by the simple act of having rested.

“How do you think our little girl is?” Elizabeth asked, truly worried. Her heart contracted again with the paralyzing anguish of motherly anxiety.

“Surely she’s well,” Raul answered, putting a timid hand on her shoulder.

“Where are we?”

Raul looked out one of the small windows. It had dawned, the sun shone, but they still flew at the altitude of their cruising speed.

“I have no idea.”

The door of the bedroom opened slightly, enough for a voice to be heard, the cripple’s, who didn’t want to interfere with the privacy of his guests.

“Breakfast is served,” he informed them.

“We’re coming, thanks,” Raul answered.

The door closed without a sound.

“If someone had told me that today I’d be having breakfast aboard a private jet that has bedrooms, flying I don’t know where, I’d have called him crazy,” Elizabeth said. “I feel bad about all the kind attention with no news of Sarah.”

Raul hugged her.

“Relax. These people know what they’re doing. And she’s protected. Rafael can be trusted.”

“Yes, but people make mistakes. Whoever is pursuing them must also have resources. Perhaps more.”

“Think positively, my dear.”

“I’m trying, but I have a bad feeling.”

“Let’s eat something,” Raul suggested, directing her to the door.

“I’m not hungry.”

Raul turned toward his wife and hugged her with one hand around her shoulder—they were like a pair of newlyweds on their honeymoon.

“You have to eat, dear. We can’t let ourselves get weak. Our daughter needs us in good shape to take care of her,” he argued.

“What can we do against those people?” Elizabeth observed hopelessly.

Raul led his wife over to the bed and they sat on the edge. A slight turbulence began to shake the plane, causing some unease.

“I used to think that, too, Liz. But last year your daughter taught us all a lesson,” Raul recounted hesitantly. “Things come to an end and not before that. We can sit here completely deceived, crushed, without hope, with death whistling in our ears, but God, or whatever you want to call it, has given us something precious, our intelligence. And everything can change in a second.” His words were deeply felt, almost moving. “This is what happened last year, thanks to our daughter. We can never give up. She’s going to be all right.”

Tears ran down Elizabeth’s face. She could only think of her daughter as a little girl, since for parents their children are always adolescents. Perhaps it was destiny, some divine order, that exposed her path to the most lethal and shameless side of the pious Church.

“Shall we go?” Raul insisted one more time.

“Yes, I’ll go,” Elizabeth agreed, getting up. “We need to keep going, for Sarah.”

They left the bedroom for the cabin, where six movable leather easy chairs were installed. At the moment four of them in pairs, facing each other, were separated by a table loaded with breakfast dishes. Plates of bri oches, muffins, bread, a mixture of continental and English, with plenty of sausages, bacon, beans, and poached eggs. Probably prepared with Elizabeth and her Saxon blood in mind. All this with Darjeeling and Earl Grey tea, milk, coffee, fresh fruit juice, oranges, as always, and to finish up, a plate of four
sfogliatelle napoletane
, a fine puff pastry of difficult confection, but exquisite taste, in honor of the Italian travelers. Even a butler dressed in black and white was doing the honors at the table.

JC was seated in one of the chairs, eating a
sfogliatella
. At his side, the cripple made do with a piece of bread and butter.

Various plasma-screen televisions were arranged around the cabin tuned into the best news and financial channels. Elizabeth watched the one with Sky News.

“Good morning,” JC greeted them. “I hope you like what I ordered.”

Raul greeted everyone and sat down. Elizabeth kept watching television.

“Come over and sit down, my dear. There’s no news,” JC advised. “Come and eat. I’ve ordered scalloped eggs and beans for you.”

Elizabeth sat in the only empty chair next to the table.

“What would you like to drink,
signora
?” the butler asked.

“Tea with milk, please.”

“
E voi, signore
?” he asked Raul.

“Coffee.”

The butler prepared the orders on a cart like those used by flight attendants.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Elizabeth thanked JC.

“Elizabeth, dear, what gets us through this life is comfort. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Raul replied, spreading some cheese over his brioche.

“There was a time when I could sleep on any side and took two minutes to fall asleep,” JC complained. “Now everything bothers me. I don’t know if it’s the engine noise or the altitude.”