The Chimera Sanction (7 page)

The Swiss Guard hurried from the Vatican’s Sant’Anna entrance directly across to the barracks’ office and handed the small package to Colonel Romer, sitting at his desk. ‘It’s for Cardinal Legnano. It was delivered by courier ten minutes ago. We checked it through security. It’s safe. It’s a DVD.’

Romer read the inscription in bold red letters on the lower left side of the small package. ‘Urgent. Hand deliver only.’ He rushed to Legnano’s office.

Under Romer’s expectant gaze, the cardinal opened the package, took out the DVD and inserted it into his computer. ‘Mio Dio,’ he
exclaimed. Legnano pushed the stop button, picked up the phone and called Sforza. ‘Come to my office quickly. I’ll phone the others.’

Moments later, the prelates and Romer looking over his shoulder, Legnano hit the play button of his computer again. The picture of a seated man, dressed in a plain white cassock, appeared on the screen.

‘It’s His Holiness,’ exclaimed Sforza.

‘He’s alive!’ chimed in Brentano and Fouquet. Legnano called for silence as the video continued.

‘Monsignori,’ said an electronically altered voice. ‘We are taking every precaution to keep your pontiff in good health. His remaining so depends on you. We must receive the sum of $310 USD million, hot wire transfer, by 5 p.m. Rome time Friday May 26. You will receive our deposit instructions shortly. If you do not pay, we will destroy the pontiff. We have access to worldwide TV coverage.’

Legnano shouted to his secretary, ‘Call Dulac. Call Guadagni. Tell them to come immediately.’

Seated at his hotel room desk, Dulac had been busy coordinating between the Vatican and Interpol a system of classification of outside calls. He’d ensured that they be filtered through Interpol’s Lyon
headquarters
, to check their credibility and authenticity: Code three was for pranksters, nut cases and known fame-seekers. Code two for the vast majority of well-meaning, well wishing, but not necessarily helpful calls from the world at large. Code one was reserved for the verified, authenticated calls from law enforcement agencies, local, national and international, including Italy’s security agency SISMI, the FBI, the French Bureau and the Russian FSB.

Dulac had just received two code one calls when he recognized the Vatican’s number on his encrypted cell. It was Legnano.

Twenty minutes later, Dulac hurried through the Sant’Anna entrance, flashing his credentials to the Swiss Guards. Cardinal Legnano’s secretary was waiting inside and they rushed to Legnano’s office. Guadagni, his hair disheveled, entered moments later, and stood next to Dulac in the center while the other cardinals milled about expectantly.

‘$310 million USD! That’s what these criminals want for the pontiff,’ said Legnano as he paced back and forth in front of the large window, throwing his hands in the air and casting a glance at Dulac. ‘Do they think we’re the US Federal Reserve?’

Dulac eyed the Cardinal and feigned a look of sympathy. He knew this was pocket change for the Vatican Bank, one of the world’s biggest. ‘Your Eminence, I’d like to see the video,’ he said calmly. ‘By the way, you should have called us before opening the package.’

‘Oh? Why?’ said Legnano.

‘Because you’ve probably compromised the evidence. The kidnappers might have left fingerprints.’

Legnano looked at Romer accusingly.

‘The damage is done. Let’s have a look,’ said Dulac.

‘Sì, sì. Come over here, gentlemen,’ said Legnano to Dulac and Guadagni, as he walked back to his desk before pressing the start button.

He’s worn out, thought Dulac as he saw the Pope sitting
expressionless
, shoulders hunched. ‘We’ll see if our technicians can get something out of this. That voice can be unscrambled. We may be able to trace the disk if it’s not too old. Also, this might be a clever montage. We’ve been duped before. In the meantime, have your secretary copy me a DVD,’ said Dulac.

‘What do you think of these, these supposed accounts?’ Cardinal Sforza asked Dulac.

‘They’re smart. That’s why they are creating a time lag between now and payment time. They won’t create those accounts until the last
possible
minute, so we can’t trace them,’ said Dulac. ‘They’ll have trustees with false identities set them up, and when their dirty work is done, they’ll disappear into space. Once the money is distributed, the accounts will self-destruct. For the outside world, it’s as if they never existed.’

‘Can’t you do anything to stop them?’ said Legnano, his voice strident.

‘It depends on how sophisticated they are. From what we’ve seen so far, I wouldn’t bet on it.’

‘You’re saying that once the money is transferred, we have no hope of retrieving it, or tracing it back to the kidnappers?’

‘Unfortunately that’s correct, your Eminence,’ replied Dulac. ‘They’ll probably create an instant bank or offshore foundation and do some
corporate
layering to mask the ownership structure. Then they’ll distribute small amounts to accounts in other countries. They’ll make sure those amounts are under the reportable thresholds of the receiving banks, then they will collapse the sending bank the same day. That’s the standard
pattern. It’ll take us anywhere between two to six months just to clear the jurisdiction hurdles, before we can even begin to investigate.’

For a moment, Dulac felt he would give way to the urge of telling the cardinals that $310 million was a mere pittance in the secretive world of offshore money transfers, but resisted the temptation.

‘Mr Dulac, what do they mean by hot wire transfer?’ said Sforza.

‘It’s like hot-wiring a car to start it. Short-circuiting all the checks and balances of the SWIFT wire transfer system, and local banking security regulations, such as they are in these offshore countries.’

The expressions on the cardinals’ faces grew somber, as they seemed to absorb the fundamentals of international money laundering for the first time. Legnano leaned back in his chair, and then looked at the other cardinals. ‘Monsignori, we have a basic decision to make. Any
preliminary
thoughts?’

Fouquet spoke first. ‘How do we contact them? We cannot—’

Dulac interrupted him. ‘Don’t worry, your Eminence. They’ll contact you. Probably shortly before 1 p.m. Friday. They know it takes some time for even a hot wire transfer to go through.’

‘That’s only two days away,’ said Sforza. ‘If we start—’

‘This is completely immoral,’ interrupted Cardinal Brentano. ‘We don’t deal with criminals.’

To be expected from the keeper of the Church’s doctrine, Dulac thought, as he waited for a reaction from the other cardinals.

‘Are you suggesting we sit here and do nothing? Call their bluff?’ said Legnano, glaring at Brentano.

‘I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. But we can’t just simply hand them the money. The Church would be seen as condoning
extortion
,’ replied Brentano.

Fouquet spoke up. ‘I’m sorry but I won’t stand here on high moral ground and risk signing the Pope’s death warrant. These criminals know they have all the cards.’

‘Not necessarily, your Eminence,’ said Dulac.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you remember the Bulgarian hostage taking of the Korean nurses?’

‘Of course.’

‘After the French intervened and got the hostages out, the French
government officially denied any payment of ransom, saying they used a mole to get the nurses out.’

‘But surely, the government must have paid,’ said Legnano.

‘Did it? No proof of where that payment came from, or even if there was any payment,’ said Dulac.

‘I suppose, but we all know that someone must have,’ said Legnano.

‘Your Eminence, surely you’re aware that ransom demands can be met in other, shall I say, creative ways.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Legnano.

‘The Canadians rescued one of their kidnapped diplomats from Bolivian terrorists by giving a large chunk of money to a so-called humanitarian organization in Bolivia. That way, they were able to categorically state that they never paid the ransom. A few years later, Interpol traced an arms deal between the Bolivian rebels and a Canadian arms dealer for exactly that amount.’

‘I see,’ said Legnano.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m certainly not suggesting that you contact an arms dealer. My question to you is simply the following: can the Vatican live with the perception, but not the proof of the reality by the world at large?’

‘Certainly,’ said Sforza.

Dulac knew that in today’s faltering faith, the Vatican’s very
existence
and survival depended more than ever upon perception. Perception of its God-given authority, perception of the Pope’s infallibility,
perception
of ultimate good and justice crushing the forces of evil, and most important, perception and promise of eternal bliss.

‘What are you suggesting Mr Dulac?’ said Sforza.

‘I’m asking you not to exclude negotiating, when the opportunity arises.’

‘You said, “when”, inspector?’ interjected Legnano.

‘Yes. When. When you send them the down payment on Friday.’

As Dulac and Guadagni waited beside the stand at the entrance of
Il Cortile
, Dulac could see the customers fighting for the attention of the two blasé waiters, taking their sweet time only as Italian waiters can, flagrantly oblivious to the hand-signaling and clamors of their expectant clients.

‘Reservations?’ asked the maître d’. Guadagni flashed his credentials. ‘Yes, inspector. Right this way.’

Guadagni and Dulac followed the maître d’, past the now angry couple who had been waiting for the sole remaining table.

Guadagni sat down and said, ‘You seem confident that—’

Dulac suddenly hit his forehead with his right hand. ‘Shit. Shit. I’m in deep shit.’ Dulac grabbed his cell and dialed the hotel’s number. ‘Ms. Dawson please, room 348.’

After a moment the receptionist said, ‘There is no answer.’

‘Please leave her the following message: Sorry about dinner. I’ll explain later.’ ‘You were saying?’ Dulac said, turning back to Guadagni.

‘You seem confident these people will negotiate.’

‘The cardinals are in a tough spot,’ said Dulac, unbuttoning his jacket and relocating his unruly lock off his forehead. ‘They can’t condone extortion, yet if they don’t pay, these kidnappers might do something stupid.’

‘Like those who murdered Archbishop Kaharo in Iraq.’

‘I’m sure the thought crossed everyone’s mind at the Vatican.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Guadagni, putting on his bifocals and reading the menu. ‘Their calf’s sweetbreads in butter are simply delicioso.’

‘I’ll pass. I’m up for some spaghetti.’

‘Spaghetti? In Italy? Suit yourself,’ said Guadagni, obviously
unimpressed
by Dulac’s mundane selection.

Fifteen minutes later, the waiter arrived with their orders, and Dulac inserted his napkin between collar and neck, to Guadagni’s unconcealed amusement.

‘I know. But it saves me a dry cleaning later,’ said Dulac.

After dinner, as they waited for their coffees, Dulac opened his laptop and typed Paolo Valetta’s name into the encrypted Interpol
search engine. After a moment, he said, ‘Just as I thought. Your busboy isn’t Italian at all. He’s gone under a half dozen names, the last of which is Mecem Aguar.’

‘Sounds Bulgarian.’

‘Turkish. I’ve got about a dozen crime organizations, anyone of which could have hired Aguar. Let’s see, he’s worked for the Basque’s ETA, the Medellin boys, even the Russian FSB. That’s only the ones we know.’

‘What’s his background?’

‘Just a second.’ Dulac scrolled down. ‘Here. Chemistry. Our man got his PhD in pharmacology at the University of Ankara. Hmm,
interesting,
he’s probably in shape. He tried out for the Turkish wrestling team for the 1988 Olympics. A bit overqualified for a simple busboy, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Why the hell didn’t Romer pick all this up before hiring him?’ said Guadagni.

‘My very thoughts,’ said Dulac, removing his napkin from his collar.

‘I guess a busboy doesn’t get a high-level screening in the Vatican.’

‘Even if he can poison the Pope?’ said Dulac.

‘I’ll get the details of Aguar’s hiring from Romer.’

‘While you’re at it, you might check Romer’s also,’ said Dulac, his eyes searching for the brunette.

‘You can’t be serious.’

Dulac looked at Guadagni. ‘Dead serious.’

Dulac had left two more messages for Karen and was heading back to the hotel.

‘Code One call for Inspector Dulac,’ said the voice on Dulac’s encrypted cellphone, as he got out of the taxi.

‘Speaking,’ said Dulac, taking quick strides towards the hotel’s entrance.

‘David Béland, Interpol Intercept Division. We received a Code One from an Inspector Maurice Shabbat, in Casablanca. They apparently have a voice transcript of a video-voice signal between an unknown source and a receptor in Sicily. They intercepted a short exchange between the two. Initial unscrambling shows the Sicilian source could be a match with the Pope’s voice.’

‘Fantastic. Send it to Gina at forensics for corroboration.’

‘She’s already on it.’

‘Good man. Did Shabbat get the longitude-latitude coordinates?’

‘No, the call was too short.’

‘When can you get confirmation?’

‘Hard to tell. Gina says the unscrambling may take hours, maybe days. It depends on the degree and complexity of the scrambling.’

‘What about the sender’s identity?’ said Dulac, stopping in front of the revolving door.

‘Impossible. It’s a frequency-modulated, computer-created voice. Very latest equipment.’

‘Let me know.’ Dulac took a few steps away from the hotel entrance, stopped and punched Guadagni’s number at the Questura Centrale. ‘Dulac. We have a Code One that the Holy Father may be in Sicily.’

‘That’s a big piece of territory.’

‘What is your situation there?’

‘We’re pretty thin. Plus, we’re fighting a resurgence of the Cosa Nostra.’

‘Could they be involved?’ said Dulac.

‘I doubt it. They’re staunch Catholics, Sicilian style: go to confession on Sunday, commit a murder or two on Monday. Kidnapping prelates is not their style. But we have, shall we say, contacts, yes contacts within the Familia in Sicily.’

Dulac smiled at the thought of the unholy, perhaps incestuous alliance.

‘I’ll order air and sea coverage on Sardinia and Sicily. We’ll cover all the ferries, ports, public and private landing strips, even yacht clubs. I don’t want a mosquito to leave without us knowing.’

‘Call me when you have news,’ said Dulac as he headed through the revolving door into the Hotel Dante’s lobby.

As she sat sipping her glass of Cabernet-Sauvignon at Hotel Dante’s bar, trying to control her anger after Dulac’s latest slight, Karen immersed herself into her student’s thesis.

‘Is this seat taken?’

Jolted, she turned to face Dulac, who hadn’t waited for an answer before placing his computer satchel on the bar and sitting down beside her.

‘You could have at least called,’ said Karen, trying to fix her most reproachful gaze on Dulac.

‘I did. I left messages at the reception. Didn’t they reach you?’

‘That’s the lamest, most overused attempt to shift the blame I’ve heard in a long time.’

‘I really had a terrible supper with Guadagni, if that’s any
consolation
. Have you eaten?’

‘The Black Sea caviar was fantastique. So was the lobster risotto. The Neapolitan mousse was out of this galaxy. By the way, you paid for all of it.’

‘Of course. Anything else?’

‘A grappa might be a good start. A Nardini Riserva Speciale to be exact.’

Dulac signaled the bartender. ‘You heard the woman.’

Moments later, the bartender returned with a bottle of one of Italy’s priciest liqueurs and showed it to Karen, then Dulac, who nodded reluctantly.

The bartender filled her glass, then Dulac’s.

‘With my apologies,’ said Dulac, toasting her.

‘I’ll consider the matter.’

Time for the sympathy tack, Dulac thought as he put down his glass. ‘You know, I’m getting too old for this harried, suitcase living. Hotels and more hotels. The airport lineups. Late planes that sit for hours on the tarmac. Fat, sweaty passengers. Why do I always get the fattest, sweatiest, smelliest slob sitting right next to me? It’s as if the girls at the flight desk think, “Well, he looks thin enough. We’ll put him next to fatso. That way, things will even out on that side of the plane.”’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Karen.

Dulac thought he saw the beginning of a smile forming from Karen’s generous lips. ‘Soft hotel beds, hard beds, showers that run cold, suits pressed inside out, trousers with double creases, lost shirts and
underwear
, shrunk socks. I can’t count the number of times I’ve gone to meetings in dirty underwear.’ He took a sip of grappa. ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

Karen emitted a small guffaw. ‘Pure Hell, Thierry. How can you stand it? Give me a break. You have the biggest challenge a man could have. The Pope’s life is at stake and the world’s police forces are at your
fingertips, and—’

‘I know, I know. I complain. I can’t help it. It’s in my genes. You must understand. The French have got to complain, or die. We’ve
developed
the reflex over centuries. We’ve been given realms, just to shut us up. When the French and the British signed the Treaty of Versailles, when was it?’ Dulac paused and scoured his memory. ‘1763 I think. Yes, 1763. The Brits gave us half the world. Christ, we’d lost the war! But we won the argument. Same thing after World War II: France lies in ruins and de Gaulle talks the country back into glory. We French bluster our way through, and the world loves us for it.’

Karen flicked back a wisp of hair from her forehead. ‘Glad you think so. Getting back to business. What’s happening with your case?’

‘We’re trying to trace a guy named Aguar who might be the person who drugged the Pope.’

‘Trying to, might be. Sounds about as firm as hot Jell-O, inspector.’

Dulac leaned conspiratorially towards Karen and whispered in her ear, ‘Since we’re on that subject, care for something harder?’

As the train to Zurich twisted and turned through the foothills of the Apennines, Aguar, tense and tired, would doze off then wake fitfully, to catch a fleeting glimpse of one of the many pastel-colored renaissance palaces and Romanesque churches that dot the Upper Ticino valley. Suddenly the squawk of the train’s intercom jolted Aguar from his light sleep.

‘Attention all passengers,’ said the harsh voice. ‘We will be stopping in Chiasso to change locomotives. Please have your passports ready.’

Damn. Aguar slammed his fist against the side of the compartment, underneath the window. This was supposed to be a non-stop trip. They don’t check passports on non-stops. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead as the train snaked its way slowly into Chiasso’s triage yard, its multiple rail sidings stretching out like the giant fingers of a steel hand, ready to clutch him in its vice-like grip. Gradually, the train came to a full stop.

Aguar took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Moments later, a border guard entered Aguar’s railcar and started to check passports. The short, middle-aged man, his beer paunch straddled by his suspenders, made his way through the rows of seats, chatting with the passengers sometimes in Swiss-German, sometimes in Italian. Aguar tensed, his heart pounding like an out-of-control jackhammer.

The guard smiled down at him as Aguar handed him the passport. ‘Ah, you are from Montreal?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know it well. My brother works there.’ Aguar nodded knowingly.

‘What brings you to Zurich?’

‘Business.’ Aguar could feel the perspiration forming on his upper lip and brow.

‘What kind of business?’ said the guard, his tone still cordial but firm.

‘Investment banking.’

‘Anything to declare?’

‘No.’ As the word left his lips, Aguar knew the ‘No’ had been one decibel too many.

‘I see,’ said the guard, looking suspiciously at Aguar, then at the leather carry-all above him on the rack. ‘Is this yours?’

‘No,’ said Aguar, hunching his shoulders in ignorance.

‘Really? You’re the only passenger—’

Aguar had a millisecond to react. He sprang up, shoved the guard across the aisle onto a seated, bewildered woman, grabbed the carry-all and made a run for the door.

‘Stop!’ yelled the guard.

Aguar heard the loud, strident whistle as he jumped off the train onto the cement platform. He stopped for an instant, looking for an escape route. Directly across the sets of tracks, about a hundred yards away, a small concrete wall separated the triage yard from Chiasso’s busy streets. If he could get there, he could easily bolt it. Carrying the bag in his left hand, he ran towards the wall, careful not to trip on the tracks.

Only three more sets of tracks and….

Suddenly, he heard a dog’s furious barking, getting louder.

One more set. The dog was right behind him. Aguar turned, only to glimpse a mass of German shepherd fury hurtling through the air, its open jaws aiming at his left arm. He brought up the bag, trying to
fend off the dog with the bag. He missed and the dog’s jaw clamped onto his left forearm. Aguar dropped the bag and fell backwards, hitting the top of the cement wall with his lower back. He felt the pain jab through his kidney like a sword. The dog went down on top of him, tearing back and forth at Aguar’s forearm while Aguar tried
desperately
to grab the dog’s throat. The dog snapped viciously at Aguar’s hands, then bit into his right forearm. Two guards rushed up to Aguar and drew their pistols as one of them called off the dog.

Aguar, his forearms and hands bloodied, lay panting and very, very still.