Echoes Through the Vatican: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 2) (10 page)

“You will not have long to wait,”
Soski said.
He will react while you continue to act. You are now ahead in this game.

“Keep something in mind, Julian. You are juggling many balls and all of them are important, but not equally so. You must assign them their priorities, and you must not lose your focus. You must never underestimate either the cardinal or the Russian. You must learn to master yourself and your gifts quickly, but well. You must find the doctor and neutralize the many threats that surround you and her,”
Fr. Soski said.

Julian looked to the high altar.
“Can I do it, Marek?”

Fr. Marek Soski followed Julian’s gaze. What the priest saw caused him to close his eyes, sigh deeply and rest his chin on his chest. What he saw, just for a moment, was the future.

***

In an office on Via del Pellegrino, in the Campo de' Fiori, a man dabbed gingerly at the scalding coffee that had spilled into his lap.

Bogdan Sokolov was really looking forward to that cup of coffee. Instead, what he got was a message, a niggling thought, a recent recollection, a dull tingling inside his head. It made his skin crawl. “
Soon, Sokolov, very soon. Tomorrow in fact
.” He had no way of knowing the message’s origin, but he knew on some primal level all the same.

Sokolov waved one of his men into his office and said, “Blessing. Find him now and bring him to me.”

***

In a church on the other side of Rome, Fr. Soski smiled and nodded once to his companion. “He got the message,” the priest said.

“Eminence, we noticed an irregularity during an audit today,” a small officious looking man with thick glasses said.

Cardinal Manning looked up from the paperwork neatly arranged on his desk. He nodded and the small man continued.

“A transaction took place - that did not. As a result, the Vatican Bank has endured a loss that is not insignificant. That is cryptic I know, so allow me to explain,” the small man said and continued to detail a fraudulent transaction of mind-bending complexity.

Wire transfers, missing account information and bogus remittances followed exploited security weaknesses, simultaneous debits and credits and cascading deposits made to multiple nonexistent accounts at foreign banks. Cardinal Manning sat in emotionless silence absorbing a litany of tortuously circuitous deceits.

“The amount involved?” the cardinal asked

“Seven hundred fifty-three thousand euros, Eminence.”

The little man said nothing further. Cardinal Manning walked to his window overlooking the Papal gardens. “Signore,” Cardinal Manning continued, “seven hundred fifty-three thousand euros has gone astray. I should think it would be missed. Please, tell me when we are going to recover the misplaced funds.”

“Eminence, after an extensive search, we have no idea where they went.”

The cardinal asked, “You have your suspicions, do you not?”

“My suspicions are not evidence, Eminence. The audit of our funds transfer system was decided at the last moment. No one, aside from the auditors, knew an audit would take place.

“I can say with certainty, had an audit not been in progress, this fraud would have gone unnoticed anywhere from days to upwards of a week. Had that happened, we would, I feel sure, have sustained further losses.” The little man stood in respectful silence.

“And, signore? Give me the rest, please,” the cardinal said.

“The methods employed in this attack, Eminence, lead us to two disturbing facts. Seven hundred and fifty-three thousand euros is not insignificant to be sure. However, an attack of this complexity could have easily netted the thieves seven and a half million. This, Eminence, was a test. There will be more attacks and I fear they will be costlier.”

“Signore, you said there were two facts. Why are you keeping the second one from me?”

The small man removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief and never lost eye contact with the cardinal. “Eminence, someone within the Vatican Bank has betrayed us.”

***

“Marek,” Julian said, “there is something that puzzles me. There are actually many things, but for now, let’s consider just one.”

The two men walked down a narrow cobbled street away from Sant' Agostino. The air was cool for a summer day in Rome and graced the Roman evening with an easy breeze and nostalgic feeling of calm.

Julian’s companion smiled.

“When you approached the cardinal and me this afternoon, I saw you coming. I didn’t know who you were – I’ve actually only seen you in the shadows of your office, but I couldn’t really sense you. You had only a slight signature. How is that possible?”

“Through hard work, I assure you,”
the priest thought.
“You will see a brief mention of it in the book, but I researched the subject and talked with people who had the ability. It was a talent I thought would prove to be useful and it has, as you saw today. The cardinal never felt me either. Surprising him is something I enjoy – perhaps too much, but there you have it. Simple pleasures for a simple man.”

“Something else,” Julian said. “There is a man, a policeman. I know he isn’t one of us, but he doesn’t have the slightest bit of signature. I’ve had him follow me, stand right behind me in fact and I never felt a thing. The question is the same, how?”

“I, too, have run into this phenomenon on two occasions. I was so intrigued that I spent a year doing research on the subject. I pestered everyone I knew. All of them had run into occurrences of this, but not one had an explanation. In the end I was left to draw my own conclusions,” the priest looked thoughtful.

“You are one for the dramatic pause. I’ll bite, what did you conclude, Marek?” Julian teased and prompted.

“Again, simple things. There are people, how many I don’t know. A percentage of the population perhaps.”
The priest drew a deep breath and began a painful cough.
“Pardon me, my lungs were burned in my accident and it bothers me sometimes even when I’m not talking. Anyway, what you are describing is what I’ve come to call spiritual transmogrification.”

“Marek, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you do know that is a word only a Jesuit would choose,” Julian said and Fr. Marek began to laugh which devolved into a racking cough, causing Julian to wince.

“Well, I stand guilty. It is a rather grand word to be sure, but it is really the best word for the job and you may trust, I tried many others. I didn’t want anyone accusing me of being a Jesuit.”
The priest smiled.

“I believe it happens when an individual becomes so fixated he gives himself over to something. He does it so completely he transforms into something between himself and the object of his obsession.

“That might be a cult, a political movement, a philosophy, a leader, country, or cause, or anything really that has the power to captivate the person so utterly that the individual lives for the object of his particular mania.”
Fr. Marek concluded,
“Does that fit?”

“I’m sure it does, I just don’t know where. The man I’m thinking of is a good policeman I think, dedicated and seemingly honest, but I don’t know if his commitment rises to the level of mania,” Julian said and wondered. “Perhaps though.”

***

Signorina Joselina Conaletti stood at the front door with her daughters backing her up. It was after closing and even if it wasn’t, the two very large, very ugly, very dangerous men at the door would not be coming in.

“Perhaps you are deaf as well as stupid looking. What am I to do with you my little Russian friends? I will only say it once more. Go. Away,” Signorina Joselina said and smiled an evil smile as she looked up into the faces of the men towering over her as she closed the door.

The larger of the two Russians put out his hand and stopped the heavy wooden door from closing. “We leave when we have Blessing.”

“Well, if that’s all it takes, you have my blessing to leave.” The madam attempted to close the door again and this time, in a murderous rage, the Russian pushed it open throwing the woman back into her employees.

“We search, we find Blessing, we go. Now get out of our way, whore.”

“Provaci ancora!” said a handsome, fiercely muscular, singularly lethal Italian man with a bald head and a huge semiautomatic pistol. He had the muzzle of his weapon wedged firmly in the ear of an unhappy Russian. He seemed to be sighting directly through this Russian’s head and into that of the other Russian.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” signorina Joselina said righting herself and straightening her housecoat. “You have not been formally introduced. My little Russian friends, this is signore Giuseppe Sarro. He is our night watchman, our protector and our friend.” Behind their employer, the girls nodded and smiled enthusiastically.

“In case you need a translation, he says ‘Try again.’ I believe he is inviting you to give him a reason to put a bullet in each of your heads. It looks like he has decided one bullet will do. Bullets are expensive, no?” Joselina said.

“It is like this my friends. Giuseppe is a man of few words, but I can tell you, the dome of St. Peter’s could be filled with all the shits he doesn’t give for whether he kills you or not.”

Magician like, signorina Joselina produced an even larger handgun trained on the face of the second Russian just before he started to move. “We’ve had a good month,” she said. “A few extra bullets won’t matter.” At Casa Felicità, the Russians were finding no joy whatsoever.

Signorina Joselina looked beyond the Russians, her eyes narrowed and she shook her head imperceptibly.

Julian stood on the curb at the rear bumper of the Russian’s car, nodded his head and smiled broadly. The thought he transmitted struck Joselina Conaletti and Giuseppe Sarro simultaneously.
“Please, lower your weapons. There is going to be a very loud explosion soon and I don’t want any guns going off by mistake. Fingers off those triggers, boys and girls.”

Sarro, shrewd and mistrustful, shifted his gaze to his employer and she nodded and lowered her weapon. Her enforcer did the same and the Russians looked confused. Momentarily.

“Gentlemen,” Julian announced as he climbed the stairs toward the front door of the whorehouse. The Russians turned to find their prey standing five steps below them, hands in pockets looking at them with a smile. He stood absolutely still and looked into the two men in front and above him.

“Now, I realize your Mr. Sokolov is impatient to meet me,” Julian began. “However, you must make your boss understand something. I have granted him an appointment, but it is not until tomorrow and he will have to content himself with that.”

The large men stood bunching their fists, impatient to beat Julian senseless and then beat him some more.

Julian said, “Now off you go and tell Mr. Sokolov, he needn’t send people to find me. I know right where to find him. The Russians shifted uneasily and Sarro caressed the trigger guard, anxious to put his pistol to work.

The big men descended toward the still stationary Julian Blessing. Their plan was simple and painfully evident.

When they were three steps above him, the smile on his face turned to a cruel line, “Gentlemen, do not be stupid. Tell Mr. Sokolov I will be at his office at eleven and that it will go badly for him if he keeps me waiting.”

The rear curbside tire of the Russian’s car exploded. Every car alarm within three blocks went off simultaneously. Every dog not sensible enough to take cover was barking. People looked out windows, shouted curses and enthusiastically made rude gestures.

The ground was littered with Russians and prostitutes. Three people remained standing - Joselina Conaletti, Giuseppe Sarro and Julian Blessing.

Julian said, “You two.” The Russians looked up at him with murder in their eyes. Those looks evaporated when they felt the words.
“Don’t call on me unless you are invited and never bother my friends again.”
With that, the front curbside tire blew and the neighborhood again erupted in shouts, curses and spirited gesticulating.

Julian stepped around the Russians and entered the whorehouse saying to the proprietress, “That is just so cool. I’ll never get tired of that.” He began to chuckle and Joselina Conaletti made the sign of the horns after she was sure Julian wasn’t looking.

***

Bogdan Sokolov sat at his desk looking through the windows of his office at his collection of blunt-instrument goons. He cracked his knuckles and thought of murder.

With what, he reasoned, was nothing short of an act of defiance, the clock’s minute hand sat stubbornly a few minutes before eleven o’clock. He looked down at his desk blotter, drew a deep breath and let his shoulders relax. This was not the time for rash decisions. How he would kill Julian Blessing was something that required careful consideration.

He looked up, and sat back in his chair with a start. A chair that had been empty seconds before now contained one Julian Blessing. Sokolov looked into Julian’s steel gray eyes and didn’t like what he saw.

Julian sat with his legs crossed and a modest smile on his face. His forearms were draped casually over the arms of the mobster’s guest chair.

“You are going to die,” Sokolov said with venom in his voice and an ugly sneer on his lips.

“We are all going to die, Mr. Sokolov,” Julian said softly. “Now if you are done stating the embarrassingly obvious, can we move along to business? I am busy and so don’t have time to waste,” Julian said and the ease with which he said it shocked him far more than it did his host.

“That’s it! You are dead fucker!” Sokolov exploded out of his chair, leaned over his desk and glowered at his guest.

Julian looked thoughtful and wondered why he hadn’t soiled his trousers. He turned his gray eyes to Sokolov’s face, looking at the man, into him. What he saw made him sick. The words were whispered and came out one at a time. “Sit. Down. Please.” The mobster’s eyes were hard and cold and Julian held the man’s gaze relentlessly.

“You have two men standing outside your office door. Send them away. You won’t need them and they can’t help you anyway,” Julian said.

Sokolov smirked and moved his head slightly indicating his men should move along. “Both men,” Julian said with a slight smile, a smile he did not enjoy.

With nearly painful slowness, the Russian said, “You are more trouble than you are worth, Blessing. I kill you now.” The man swiveled his chair to the right. Before he could reach for the top desk drawer, Julian said, “Are you thinking of taking notes?” Sokolov looked up, consternation etching his forehead, drawing his eyebrows together.

The Russian looked at Julian. Everything was wrong with this man. “What are you talking about?” the big man said.

“You’re reaching for a pistol in your right hand drawer. In that drawer, there are pads of paper and a porn magazine. The thing you’re looking for is in the upper left hand drawer. For now,” Julian said and smiled a smile he did enjoy this time.

Sokolov tore the right hand drawer open. Pads of paper and a copy of Babes Over 40 magazine. The man, demented with rage, looked up at Julian. Turning to the left upper drawer, the Russian found more pornography and his coffee cup.

The mobster felt the words and looked up to see Julian looking at him, head canted to one side.
“I lied, sorry. Couldn’t resist. Next drawer down,”
Julian thought. The Russian’s shock was soon replaced with nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed into hard slits as he considered using his hands to murder Julian.

Sokolov reached slowly down one drawer, never taking his eyes off of Julian. Without looking, he reached into the drawer and felt the familiar frame of the small Sig P290, 9mm pistol. He left it where it was, but left the drawer open in case a change of heart came upon him.