The Chimera Sanction Read online

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I don’t need to remind you that we’re on a very tight schedule.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No more screw-ups Vespoli, is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir. I’ll get Tomaso on it right now.’

  The screen went blank. Vespoli rose from his seat and felt the numbness in his legs slowly dissipate. Raw, deep fear overtook him. He knew the man didn’t have a high tolerance for error, sometimes exacting a heavy price from those who had ventured beyond those limits. Vespoli knew he was at that threshold. He was responsible for all men under his command. Their errors were his. Damn that Aguar. Vespoli thought for a moment, searching for options. No, Tomaso had to be called. There was no other way.

  Yet Vespoli still hesitated, fearing the call to Tomaso would also trigger his own death.

  Chapter 13

  Hotel Dante, 8.05 a.m., Thursday 25 May

  Dulac had returned to the hotel, exhausted and frustrated. The clock was ticking and the investigation was stalled. Even if Guadagni made Aguar crack, apart from his role, Aguar probably didn’t know much. Dulac knew the kidnappers would have compartmentalized each and every of their accomplices’ tasks, to avoid any linkage. At best Aguar would know the name of his immediate superior, and it would undoubtedly be false. To go up the chain would take time, a commodity Dulac didn’t have.

  After a quick breakfast with Karen and seeing her off to her meeting with her graduate student, Dulac returned upstairs to his room. He poured himself a coffee from the cheap mixer and lay back on the unmade bed. He lit a Gitane. For a long moment, he stared across the room, blowing bluish puffs towards the cheap copy of the painting of Notre Dame by Monet. Something bothered him about the kidnappers’ message. He took the copy of the DVD Legnano’s secretary had made for him, went to his computer and played the disc again.

  The Pope’s familiar outline came alive, as did the disquieting 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 … If you do not pay, we will destroy the pontiff. We have access to worldwide TV coverage.’ Jesus, Today is Thursday. The Curia has a day to decide, thought Dulac. The idea of the Pope being murdered in cold blood chilled him to the marrow of his bones. The consequences were unthinkable. He replayed the video again.

  ‘We will destroy the pontiff….’

  ‘Merde!’ He jumped up from his desk and, grabbing his cellphone, walked quickly towards the window. He dialed Cardinal Legnano’s number. ‘Your Eminence, I want to meet the members of the Curia. Today.’

  ‘Mr Dulac, this is quite sudden. The members of the Curia and I will be attending meetings of the highest order.’

  That could only mean with the President of Italy, Dulac thought. ‘We have to decide before tomorrow,’ said Legnano.

  ‘I know, but this is urgent, your Eminence. It might even have a bearing on your decision.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. What’s this all about?’ asked Legnano.

  ‘I’ll tell you when we meet.’

  Dulac left his room and went to the lobby, waiting for Legnano’s call. What’s taking him so long? It’s about the Pope, damnit, Dulac thought as he lit a cigarette and reclined in the wraparound imitation leather seat. Suddenly, his encrypted cellphone rang. Dulac looked at the number appearing on its small screen: Harris.

  ‘We’ve got a lead,’ said Harris, excitement in his voice. ‘Bergson in Panama City says he’s been tipped off.’ Harris coughed. ‘Four banks are going to receive large deposits through a single hotwire transfer. It’s going down this week.’

  ‘What’s so unusual about that?’

  ‘They generally stagger hotwire deposits to avoid detection. They don’t bunch them up in one operation.’ said Harris.

  ‘Could be a coincidence.’

  ‘Four banks? That’s a hell of a coincidence.’

  Dulac thought quickly. ‘If you’re right, it would mean that the Vatican already knows where to deposit the money, that the kidnappers have contacted them and that Legnano and company are suddenly acting behind our backs. Plus, would they have prepared a single hotwire transfer and been stupid enough to let us in on it? It’s not impossible, but it’s a bit unlikely, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m not taking any chances. I’m putting two agents in every one of those banks. Once the money is in, we’ll freeze the bloody accounts. We’ll freeze the balls off those bankers.’

  Dulac slumped into the seat, all the while exhaling circular, bluish puffs of Gitane smoke. He tried another tack. ‘If the kidnappers are behind this and get wind of our agents going in, they’ll call it off. Those bankers talk to each other,’ Dulac said. ‘There’s a good chance of a leak.’ Dulac paused and for an instant, thought he heard the sucking sound of Harris taking the bottle from his lips.

  ‘I’ll take that chance,’ said Harris.

  ‘You’ll have to pull units. That’ll weaken our already thin network. If the kidnappers have other plans—’

  ‘We can’t just sit and wait. We have to be sheen as reacting,’ said Harris.

  He’s been hitting it hard.

  ‘Frankly, if this is related to the ransom, they’re obviously baiting us. Panama is bait. Bait and switch at the last minute.’

  ‘I can’t take the bloody risk. Risk they won’t use Panama. They want us to think exactly what you’re thinking. In that case, it’s Panama.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too obvious.’

  ‘So where do you think this will happen?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘No idea? That’s the best you can come up with? I’m being hammered left and right: politicians, the press, the Vatican, you name it. They’re all taking shots at me, and all you can say is no fucking idea? They shay we’re not doing much. You know, I think they’re right. Well, I’m gonna show them, Dulac. I’m definitely gonna show them.’

  ‘Yes sir. That you will.’ The line went dead.

  Drunken bastard!

  Dulac extinguished his cigarette. Harris’s ‘we’ was meant to be a ‘you’. You, Dulac, aren’t doing much. He phoned his assistant in Paris, Daniel Lescop.

  ‘Eight units to Panama? Is he nuts?’

  ‘Would you mind telling him that? I’d appreciate it,’ said Dulac. ‘Yeah, sure. What if Panama is bait?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. I’m giving you a heads up. There’s a good chance you’ll be among the chosen few. You know Panama well.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  Having realized he’d forgotten his computer in the room, Dulac got up and started towards the elevators, only to reopen his buzzing cellphone.

  ‘Dulac.’

  ‘Guadagni. I have news. An hour ago, my men found a man with a bullet in the back of his head, lying along the Rome-Naples Autostrada. His name is Umberto Ascari.

  ‘Sounds like a Mafia hit.’

  ‘We thought so too, until my men went through his boots.’

  ‘Boots?’

  ‘We’re more thorough than his killers were. Ascari had bought two one-way plane tickets from Zürich to Mexico City: one in his name, the other in the name of—’

  ‘Mecem Aguar!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He’s not going to Mexico anytime soon. I— Sorry, I have another incoming call,’ said Dulac. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ He pressed the button. ‘Dulac.’

  ‘Cardinal Legnano. I’ve arranged for you to meet us at 10 a.m. in the Segnatura room. We’ll give you have half an hour, no more.’

  ‘Yes, your Eminence. I’ll be right over.’

  The taxi drive from the hotel to St. Peter’s Square usually took the better part of ten minutes, but soon Dulac’s taxi was sitting immobile in Rome’s mid-morning gridlock, enveloped by vapors of gasoline and diesel fumes. His cabbie was swearing as only Italians can, imploring the Saints without
really offending them. ‘Santa Margherita Ligure, can you believe these idiots? Why don’t they stay on the right? They’re blocking everything. Santa Lucia, look at this imbecile trying to turn left.’ He pounded the horn twice with his right fist and kept it there, to ensure his participation in the rising cacophony.

  Dulac grabbed his laptop, reached into his pocket and handed ten Euros to the cabbie. ‘Here. I’ll walk.’

  The driver took the money and put it on the console, then threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture of abandon.

  Twenty minutes later, Dulac showed his pass to the Swiss Guards at the bronze doors entrance to the Vatican, trading the noise of Roman traffic for the muted, discreet shuffling of prelates within the Vatican’s narrow streets and corridors. Moments later, he entered the Segnatura Room.

  ‘Ah, Mr Dulac, finally. We don’t have much time,’ said Legnano as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and showed Dulac to the empty chair. The members of the Curia, already seated around the table in animated discussion, stopped talking and stared inquisitorially at Dulac.

  ‘Your Eminences, sorry for the delay. Your traffic was deadlier than usual.’ Dulac tried to act as casual as possible. His next question would light the fuse, either way. ‘Oh by the way, before we begin, have any or all of you been in touch with, or received instructions from the kidnappers?’ He eyed the prelates one by one, trying to seem offhand about his query.

  The cardinals stared back at Dulac in bewilderment.

  ‘Mr Dulac. Is this your idea of a joke?’ said Legnano, eyes suddenly ablaze. ‘If you’ve convened us to—’

  ‘Sorry, your Eminence. Just wanted to clear up an in-house misunderstanding. Please don’t take offence.’

  Dulac sat down, reached for his laptop and opened it. ‘Your Eminences, I want to show you the DVD again.’ He inserted the disc, pushed the play button and turned the computer around so the cardinals could see.

  They watched in silence while the DVD played till the end. ‘Does anything seem odd to you?’ asked Dulac.

  ‘Get to the point Mr Dulac,’ said Legnano, his tone edgy.

  ‘They say they will destroy the pontiff. Why not say kill the pontiff?’

  ‘Are you suggesting they will not kill him?’ said Brentano, shuffling in his seat.

  ‘I’m saying perhaps I jumped to that conclusion early.’ Dulac eyed the prelates again one by one. ‘The term “destroy” seems odd in this context. I’m thinking one destroys a person’s reputation, his career perhaps, by revealing something about that person, something secret.’ Dulac paused, then continued. ‘Your Eminences, tell me, is there something I should know about Pope Clement XXI?’

  The prelates sat expressionless, occasionally looking at each other discreetly. Dulac knew he’d hit a nerve. Finally Legnano looked at his watch, got up and said, ‘Mr Dulac, we must leave. We have another meeting starting in two minutes. Would you please excuse us?’

  By Legnano’s tone, Dulac knew the cardinal wasn’t really asking.

  Gstaad, Switzerland. 10.15 a.m.

  Gstaad. Its very name slips so sweetly off the silvered tongues of the wealthy. Longtime Swiss playground of European royalty touring down its narrow streets in horse-drawn calèches, the sparkling, quaint village now resonates with the rumble of black limousines carrying statesmen, oil sheiks and vodka barons to its pastel-hued, turn-of-the-century hotels. A kilometer south of the village, down a narrow country road, the Lorenz Institute, an austere mid-50s building of indeterminate architecture, stands perched on a small hill overlooking the Saane valley. The Lorenz is world-renowned for the facial reconstruction of the severely burned.

  From the rear seat of his chauffeured Opel limo, the passenger could see the Wasserngrat peak towering majestically and the greenness of spring encroaching on the receding snowline of its upper slopes. The limo arrived at the institute’s entrance and stopped. A gray-uniformed woman stepped out from the portico and hastened to open the limo’s back door. The passenger rose quickly, uncoiling his frame in one smooth, effortless movement.

  ‘Welcome to the Lorenz,’ said the woman with a guttural, Prussian accent, smiling at the visitor. ‘Dr Malenski is waiting for you.’

  He followed her as she led him past the entrance and the glassedin registration desk, down a long corridor lined with private rooms. Through a door left ajar he caught a glimpse of a heavily bandaged patient lying mummy-like in one of the baldaquined beds.

  Moments later, a short man with a thin slice for a mouth and a recessed chin, dressed in a white lab coat, emerged from one of the side corridors and proffered his hand to the visitor.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, how was your trip?’ he said in a guttural voice that reverberated off the granite floor.

  ‘Exhausting. I haven’t much time, doctor. Show me to his room.’

  Malenski dismissed the woman with a nod and turned to the man. ‘He’s resting now. After the last operation, we almost lost him.’

  ‘After all the time and money we’ve spent on him, that would be disastrous, doctor.’

  ‘Ya, now please, come with me.’ Malenski led the visitor past some cubicles and laboratories towards the rear of the building.

  ‘Was it the pain?’

  ‘Nein. You see, our work here makes us excellent pain managers, yes? Otherwise we lose our clientele, yes?’ Malenski said, emitting a small guffaw. ‘We are experts at it,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Is he ready to leave?’

  ‘Nein, nein. We keep him here a few more days, to make sure.’

  ‘Impossible. We don’t have that luxury, doctor. He must be there Friday.’

  ‘But that’s tomorrow.’

  ‘No discussion, doctor.’ The visitor wagged a remonstrative finger at Malenski and quickened his step.

  When they reached the end of the corridor, Malenski turned right and they faced a door marked ‘Authorized personnel only’. Malenski took out his key, opened it and they descended a narrow, steel staircase leading to another door, before which stood a woman in a blue frock reading a thick document. She stepped aside and Malenski led the visitor into the small room, dimly lit by a single fluorescent light in the middle of the ceiling. They could make out a man’s shape, lying on a bed at the far side. He seemed to be asleep. As they drew nearer, the man’s face became visible. The visitor stared for a moment, then smiled.

  ‘My congratulations,’ he whispered to Malenski.

  ‘Good, yes?’ said the doctor, his eyes twinkling behind the rimless glasses.

  ‘Yes. Very good.’ The visitor looked at his watch. ‘I must go,’ he said as he turned and started back towards the staircase. ‘Is the package ready?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Malenski. ‘It is in the lab. I will call for it.’

  Malenski stopped at one of the wall-mounted intercoms and moments later, a young red-headed woman met them in the corridor, carrying a small, brown rectangular parcel. Malenski gestured her to hand it to the visitor.

  ‘It’s vacuum packed. Keep it frozen and it will not deteriorate for a week,’ said Malenski.

  ‘Fine.’ The visitor and Malenski walked through the reception area, towards the revolving door of the entrance.

  ‘Ya. We will accelerate the healing with doses of—’

  ‘I don’t have time for details, doctor. Remember. Tomorrow is Friday.’

  Rome, Questura Centrale police station, 4.30 p.m.

  ‘Your name?’ said the woman desk sergeant, obviously bothered by the untimely interruption of her reading a thick report.

  ‘Good afternoon, signora. It’s Nervi, Dottore Alberto Nervi,’ said the man, pushing up his nose a pair of oval, wire-framed spectacles.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m here to see my client, Mecem Aguar. I’m his lawyer.’

  ‘Identity card.’

  He opened his wallet, took out a card bearing his photograph, and handed it to her. It read: ‘Dr Alberto Nervi, lawyer, member #17786, Roma Bar Association, years 2005-2006.�
�

  She looked at the card, then at him. ‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing to the elegantly wrapped box.

  ‘Oh, I forgot. It’s chocolates for my wife. I just bought them at the—’

  ‘They stay here.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She was busy copying the details of the card, when two policemen approached the desk, shouldering between them with great difficulty an obese woman wrapped in a dripping wet blanket.

  ‘She’s American. She’s drunk,’ said the younger policeman. ‘She apparently fell, or jumped off the Ponte Sant’Angelo bridge.’

  ‘Momento,’ said the sergeant, holding up her right hand. ‘I don’t want her dripping all over my desk.’ She turned to the lawyer. ‘I’ll give you twenty minutes.’

  ‘That should be enough.’

  ‘Nina,’ she said, calling over a small frail woman in uniform. ‘Show him to 12B. He’s here to see Aguar. Don’t let them out of your sight.’

  ‘But I must be assured confidentiality. I have to discuss—’

  ‘Nineteen minutes.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said.

  The woman sergeant turned towards the two policemen still propping up the large, wet woman. ‘Get her into cell 3A. I’ll talk to her tomorrow when she’s sober.’

  Pushing the ill-fitting, rimmed glasses upwards again on his nose, Tomaso followed the small woman through the metal detector and down a corridor lined with cells filled with Rome’s rejects, while they vied for Tomaso’s attention. ‘Hey, you a lawyer? You any good? I pay well,’ laughed an old prostitute, pumping lewdly with her pelvis and plumping up her sagging breasts.

  They took the elevator up to the third floor. Its doors opened, and two guards stood before them, blocking the corridor. She showed them her identity card, and the guards let them through. He followed her to a large cell, before which stood two more guards, their Uzis at the ready. Rome’s ‘policia’ weren’t taking any chances. One of them frisked him.