range.
‘Who are you?’ Marcinkus asked rudely. Congeniality was never his strong suit.
The young man didn’t seem the least impressed with the importance of the man or his lack of manners.
‘I’m Brother Herbert. I called at the parish to say I was coming,’ the young cleric informed him. Black pants, black shirt and jacket, and a collar identical to what priests wear. Marcinkus deliberated. The young man was carrying a writing case with papers and a bottle.
‘No one’s told me anything. Why are you here?’ Marcinkus shot back. He hated visits, especially from people he didn’t know.
‘I’m coming from Rome. I’m doing my doctorate. Excuse me for bothering you, but my thesis is about the financial world and the Church. And who better than Your Eminence to inform me about that?’ the young man continued, submissive and well mannered.
‘I can’t help you. Good afternoon,’ Marcinkus replied, starting to close the door.
‘I’m not going to take much of your time, Your Eminence. I promise you,’ the young man hastened to argue. ‘I brought you a present from Italy.’ He raised his hand with the bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, a marvelous red nectar from Tuscany, full-bodied with an intense flavor, which should not be confused with the more common Rosso di Montalcino from the same region.
Marcinkus thought for a few seconds.
‘Let’s do the following.’ The young man changed strategy, negotiating, the difference between a good thesis and an excellent one, the gateway to a great career. ‘The bottle stays with you, and I’ll return at a better time. Is that all right?’
Marcinkus looked at the young man awhile longer.
‘Come tomorrow after dinner.’
‘Thank you, Your Eminence. I’m eternally grateful.’
‘I’ll collect on that gratitude.’
‘It will be a privilege.’ The young man started to turn around. ‘Thank you, Your Eminence. Until tomorrow.’
‘Wait,’ Marcinkus ordered. ‘That stays here.’ He took the bottle from the young man’s hand.
‘Of course, of course. A thousand apologies. Until tomorrow, Your Eminence.’
‘Don’t be late.’ And he shut the door, with a slam that almost knocked the plaster from the wall. Marcinkus returned to his memories, to the specters that waited for him from the other side, whatever that was, where the dead live, waiting for time to pass for us. No one has ever returned to tell us what this other side is like, but Marcinkus was going to remember those dead, awaken them, even if only in his own memory. What he didn’t know was that today the dead who had accompanied him for eighty-four years would demand he join them.
‘Rest in peace, Your Eminence,’ the young cleric said. Paul Marcinkus didn’t hear him.
Time runs out. The archbishop, stretched out on his deathbed, knows that his problems are starting now, when he will be called to account by the God he fears so much and forgot on so many occasions. The true banker of God sees himself before the Omnipotent, showing his books of assets and liabilities, what is owed and what is owned, explaining why he committed frauds, convincing Him of the necessity of diversifying the investments and laundering the money of organized crime. In the fever and anguish of death, Marcinkus sees God like the chairman of a board of directors, incapable of recognizing that everything His servant did over eighty-four years was for the good of the Enterprise.
On the floor of the bedroom, beside the bed, an overturned bottle and a broken glass.
8
Raul Brandao Monteiro knew this day had to come. It was not that he had the soul of a mystic or had had some premonitory dream. A retired captain of the Portuguese army didn’t permit himself, at the risk of his professional reputation, to seek foresight in anything other than reason. As much as he tried to convince himself and others that the past was past, he knew a day would come when the past would claim its own. That day was today.
First an old man with a cane came in. His hand covered the cane’s golden lion head. Then a younger man in an impeccable black silk Armani suit entered. If the cane with the lion head supported the old man, it also wouldn’t have been inappropriate for the younger. His pronounced limp revealed a past accident or wound to his left leg. Only a few knew the origin of the injury; perhaps the captain himself, Raul Brandao Monteiro, had some idea of what had happened. The man in the impeccable Armani suit, now a cripple, was not a person who divulged things from the past or raised questions of karma. Everyone must play the cards he’s dealt.
The sudden tension was out of place in the serene Alentejan mountain in Trindade, near Beja, where the captain had decided, several years ago, to take off his boots and enjoy retirement, with his wife, Elizabeth, English by birth. Better that Elizabeth wasn’t in the house, though, with these people. This old man with so much power, capable of bending the CIA to his wishes, knew Elizabeth had gone to the city to shop.
‘My beloved captain. We meet again,’ said the old man, stopping before Raul.
The cripple, ignoring manners, brought a chair over so the elderly man could sit down and catch his breath. Age is a stepmother and time a stepfather. Together they have no mercy; they are implacable, bending down the strong and the oppressed, nobles and commoners.
The captain looked from one man to the other, weighing the possibilities. The old man sitting down was an easy target, despite being the one who gave orders. The other was a different story. His defect was in his leg, not his hands. He wouldn’t hesitate two seconds in pulling a gun, and he’d do it coolly enough to aim well. The fact that the old man had taken the trouble to travel to the meeting clearly indicated important interests at stake, so likely the shot or shots would not be fatal.
‘What do you want from me?’ the soldier asked abruptly.
‘Oh, my good man, where are your manners?’ the old man protested without altering his neutral tone. ‘We are in good wine country. I know you have your own production for home consumption. We can begin there.’ Let no one be confused by the polite tone. That was an order, not a suggestion. These men were not given to friendly requests. Their world is not governed by congeniality.
Raul went to the kitchen under the close watch of the cripple; since as yet he has no other name, we’ll continue to call him that. Not for a moment did he let the soldier out of his sight. Some people only need a second, one opportunity to get away, but not today, not now, not under his watchful eye. Only one man had ever escaped easily and caught him unprepared in the past, leaving a permanent mark. That wouldn’t happen again.
Raul returned with glasses and a bottle. Without ceremony he put them on top of the table in the entrance room in this house in the middle of nowhere, filled the glasses with red wine, and left the rest to the old man, who stretched out a hand for one of the glasses and sipped a mouthful.
‘Magnificent,’ he commented. ‘One of the jewels of your country is undoubtedly the wine.’ He turned to the cripple. ‘Have a drink.’ Then he turned again toward the soldier. ‘Take a glass yourself.’ Savoring a fine wine was always good for moving conversation along.
‘I don’t want one,’ Raul told him as coldly as possible.
‘Our future time together will teach you many things, one of which is that I don’t like to repeat myself,’ the old man stated categorically and raised the glass to his mouth again. The cripple, too, took small sips from his own glass, showing neither delight nor disgust. It was difficult to imagine what he was thinking. He was a professional who never took his eyes off his target, in this case, the Portuguese captain. Work was work, port was port, and, even sipping wine, he didn’t let himself be distracted, whatever the quality of the vintage. It was not the time, and the old man didn’t forgive distractions. Nor did he.
‘Truly magnificent,’ the old man repeated provocatively.
Raul went to look for another glass in the cupboard in the kitchen. He poured a little into it and drank it. The Portuguese knew that nothing would be gained by forcing things. He wouldn’t get answers just by asking. Not with these people, not that the expression ‘these people’ insinuated anything offensive. These people only meant these people. The best strategy was to wait. Eventually they’d come around to saying why they’d come.
The old man finished his wine and didn’t ask for more. The cripple didn’t finish his own. Both set their glasses
