Authors: John Gordon Davis
Morgan shook his head. ‘It’s too sensitive, it’s for his ears only.’
‘Well, then, if you write a letter –’
‘But will he be the only one to read it?’
‘I’m afraid not. You can imagine how much mail passes through this office.’
‘
Father
,’ Morgan pleaded ‘– just two minutes of his time, tomorrow, or Saturday, or Sunday, anywhere you like –’
Father Ryan said, ‘Impossible. So I suggest you take it up with the British authorities. I may be able to short-circuit that by phoning the British ambassador for you.’
Morgan sighed. ‘No. Thank you, I’ll do it.’ He looked at the book,
Letters to the Mighty
, then made a snap decision. No, it was too risky to leave the passwords lying around. And the man might not even see it until he came back from his trip. Morgan had to say the words to his face. He said stiffly:
‘Well, at least I’ve tried to do my duty. As a man of God …’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye.’
Father Ryan said earnestly, ‘Reverend, if you tell me what this is about I give you my word it will be treated with confidentiality.’
‘Thank you, but no.’ Morgan shook his head, a man depressed by the folly of the world. ‘Goodbye. I have to get back to Zambia.’ He turned away.
Father Ryan hesitated. ‘Reverend?’
Morgan stopped. The priest sighed. ‘Look, where are you staying? I’ll mention this to Cardinal Gunter when I see him later tonight. Maybe he’ll squeeze you in, as you’ve come all the way from Zambia.’
Morgan beamed. ‘Oh, thank you!’ He pulled the slip of paper
out of the book. ‘God bless you, Father! I’ll wait in the hotel for your call!’
‘
Dominus tecum
,’ Father Ryan smiled.
He ordered two bottles of beer sent up to his room in the Grand Hotel.
He paced about, excited. He had done it!
He had done it.
He had played that so well! Exactly right – made the man feel a shit for turning him away.
You’re a genius, Morgan! …
It was seven o’clock when the telephone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Hullo!’
‘Reverend?’ Father Ryan said. ‘I have good news for you …’
Oh yes! ‘Oh, excellent!’
Father Ryan said, ‘Because you’ve come all the way from Zambia, Cardinal Gunter has arranged that you see Archbishop Lorenzo at noon tomorrow.’
Morgan’s heart sank. ‘Who?’
‘Archbishop Lorenzo is Cardinal Gunter’s deputy. But I’m afraid the appointment must be brief – ten, fifteen minutes maximum.’
Morgan stared across the room. ‘Can’t I possibly see the cardinal?’
‘Definitely not. Seeing Archbishop Lorenzo in these circumstances is extraordinary enough, Reverend. And this time I will arrange a pass to be waiting for you at the Prefecture.’
Morgan held his head. So near and yet so far!
‘Thank you, Father Ryan. And please convey my compliments to Cardinal Gunter. I will be there at noon tomorrow.’
They said their goodbyes.
Morgan collapsed back on the bed. He wanted to bellow his frustration to the sky.
‘
SHIT …
’
He pulled off his priest’s suit angrily, and had a shower. He got dressed in his civilian clothes. He put on his shoulder holster
and packed everything into the hold-all. He left the hotel. He went back to the Excelsior, where he had stayed the previous night. Maybe this move was an unnecessary precaution, but there was no point in taking the risk of staying at the address he had given Father Ryan.
He ordered dinner and wine sent up to his room. He hardly tasted any of it, and got into bed.
Before switching out his light, he telephoned the Grand Hotel, and asked if there were any messages for Reverend Anderson. There were none.
He lay in the dark, thinking of Anna.
At nine o’clock the next morning he telephoned the Grand Hotel and asked for messages for Reverend Anderson. Again there were none. He telephoned
Il Figaro
newspaper: again Mike Milano was not available. He then telephoned the Vatican and left a polite message: Reverend Anderson regretted he was unable to keep his noon appointment with Archbishop Lorenzo as he had to fly back to Zambia very urgently. He would be in touch again.
He then telephoned the Maltese consulate. He said to the girl who answered:
‘I’m trying to trace a shipment of goods I ordered flown from Malta to Panama last year by a company called Meteor Air. Have you got a Malta telephone directory?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘May I come and look at it?’
‘I’ll look it up for you, sir. How do you spell it?’
He told her. He heard her leafing through the book.
‘I’m sorry, sir, no Meteors here.’
‘Can you give me the numbers of some Maltese freight agents, so I can ask about this airline?’
A few minutes later he had the numbers of three freight agents in Malta.
The first two had never heard of Meteor Air. The third man said: ‘Yes, small outfit, sometimes comes this way.’
‘Have you a telephone number or address for them, please?’
‘No. But they used to operate out of Marseilles, I think. You can telephone our agents there. Ask for Louis, say George referred you, here’s the number …’
Three minutes later he was speaking to Louis Laval in Marseilles.
‘Ah, yes,’ Louis said in French, ‘Alex Wallen, Meteor Air. I have a number. How is George?’
‘Sends you his best wishes.’
‘Tell him to send me some business. Here is the number …’ Morgan thanked him and hung up. He sat on the bed, feeling very lucky.
He rehearsed it. Then he dialled the number in France.
‘Yes,’ a gruff voice said, ‘I am Monsieur Wallen.’
Morgan spoke in French. ‘Monsieur Wallen, I’m calling on behalf of Bellatrix SA, Panama.’
Silence. Then: ‘Indeed?’
‘Monsieur Wallen, we had a contract last year for you to deliver some goods to us from Malta, you remember?’
Silence. ‘No, I don’t. But continue.’
‘I have the waybill here, I can give you the number. It was for sixteen crates of bulldozer equipment.’
‘Indeed?’
‘And we would like to do the same again. Fifteen crates this time. Can you do it? But it must be prompt.’
Silence. ‘Who are you?’
Morgan said, ‘Jacques Viljoen.’
‘You don’t sound French, Monsieur Viljoen.’
‘I’m not. Only my ancestors.’
‘And where are you?’
‘In Genoa. Monsieur Wallen, all we want to know –’
‘And what I want to know is, is this consignment all arranged this time, Monsieur Viljoen, or are there going to be … disappointments?’
So he was right!
‘No, we think it is all arranged this time.’
‘You think? Have the experts seen it yet?’
Morgan hesitated. ‘Which experts?’
‘The quality-control experts. I don’t want that going on in my warehouse. I run a legitimate airline.’
Oh so!
‘Yes, that’s been done.’
‘And the funds, Monsieur Viljoen?’
Morgan hesitated again. ‘We believe the funds are all available.’
‘You believe? Has Sanchez paid Henri yet?’
Morgan’s mind raced. ‘Which Henry? There are two …’
‘There is only one Hank.’
Morgan fumbled. ‘Oh, Hank. Well, I’m told the bank transfers are going through. I’m not handling the money side myself. I thought maybe you meant Henry the lawyer.’
Pause. ‘Monsieur Viljoen, who exactly do you work for?’
‘I’m an associate of Max Hapsburg.’ He added: ‘He’s dead now.’
‘I would probably be sorry to hear that if I knew who Max Hapsburg was.’
‘He was involved in the last transaction. It’s fallen to me to arrange this one.’
Another silence. Then:
‘I’ll speak to Hank myself.’
Morgan said hurriedly. ‘You’ve got his new number, have you?’
Surprise: ‘His new number?’
‘I believe it’s new. What number do you have?’
There was a long silence. Then the telephone went click, as Alex Wallen of Meteor Air hung up.
Morgan slammed down the telephone.
Goddammit he had blown it! He should have arranged to meet Wallen instead of trying to get Hank’s number so artlessly! If he only knew who this Hank was! And Sanchez. If he only had got a telephone number!
He got up, exasperated, and paced across the room.
But one thing was clear. That waybill was not about a legitimate cargo of bulldozer parts.
Quality-control experts?
For what? For drugs? The famous ‘French Connection’? …
But Bellatrix was the importer, and Bellatrix was controlled by the Vatican. He simply could not believe that the Vatican was involved in drugs …
He looked at his watch angrily. It was time to play goddam golf!
It was a cold, sunny day. It was nearly eleven when his taxi drove through the gates of the Appia Antia Golf Club.
There were only a few cars parked. Morgan mounted the steps, into the club house.
There was a hall with a large lounge beyond. Morgan walked through it. Out onto the verandah.
Below him the greens and fairways stretched away.
A few people were playing, small figures far away. Morgan swept his eyes along the fairways. There were clumps of trees sprinkled alongside various parts. From this distance he could not be sure how good they would be as hiding places. He would have to walk the course.
He retraced his steps to the entrance. He went into the club secretary’s office. A female clerk came forward. Morgan said, in English, ‘May I see the club secretary, please?’
The girl led him to a door. She opened it, and smiled him through. A well-groomed elderly Italian looked up from his papers. Morgan said: ‘Good morning. Do you speak English?’
‘A little,’ the Italian smiled back.
‘I am a guest today of one of your members. I wonder if I may ask a favour?’ He unzipped his bag and pulled out
Letters to the Mighty.
This copy did not have the passwords written on it. ‘I believe Cardinal Gunter is also a member?’
‘He is, sir.’
‘This is one of his books. I’m an admirer of his. If I left the book with you, do you think he might autograph it next time he comes?’
‘I think that could be arranged. He is a most agreeable man.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Morgan added: ‘How frequently does he play? When should I come back for the book?’
‘He usually plays on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. But I haven’t seen him this week. Maybe he’s away.’ He held up his finger. ‘One moment.’ He went into the general office. He came back with a ledger.
‘He is playing in the tournament commencing seventh of December. Will you still be in Rome then?’
‘Yes. He’s not booked to play before?’
The secretary flicked over pages shaking his head. ‘No …’
‘Well, I’ll telephone you and see if you’ve had any luck. One last question: I’m a member of the Plymouth Country Club, but I haven’t got my card with me. Do you have reciprocal visiting-member rights with Plymouth?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the secretary said. ‘But anybody can play here if they pay a green fee of forty thousand lire.’
Morgan looked at him. ‘Anybody? If they pay twenty pounds?’
‘Yes, sir. Subject to space.’
Jesus, Morgan thought – so all my clever deception with Kevin Munro is unnecessary. And I still have to make a fool of myself playing golf with the man. This is getting local knowledge the hard way. But he felt elated. He had found out Cardinal Gunter’s movements.
He left the secretary’s office and made his way through the club house. He stopped at the public telephones. He dialled
Il Figaro
newspaper and asked for Miguel Milano.
‘Good morning, Mr Milano! My name is Jack Armstrong. I’m a friend of Whacker Ball and he told me you are very knowledgeable on the Roberto Calvi affair, God’s Banker …’
One minute later he continued on his way with a spring in his step. He might not be much good at golf but he had the gift of the gab! He followed the signs down to the changing rooms.
They were empty. Rows of lockers. Shower booths. A door opening onto the first green.
He changed into his tracksuit and new walking shoes.
There was a driver’s club lying on the bench. Morgan picked it up unhappily.
He gripped the club in both hands and took up his stance.
He squared his shoulders, and wriggled his feet, trying to get the feel of the thing again. He addressed the imaginary ball, frowning in concentration. He took a swing.
There was a crash of glass, as his club smashed the overhead light.
He leant on the club, eyes closed. He whispered, ‘I’m
doing this for the Church, God. So please give me a hand, Or how about some rain … ?
’
He found a broom and swept up the glass. He still had an hour and a half to wait. He set off on the fairways, to walk quickly around the course before Kevin Munro arrived.
And maybe God did give him a hand. By the time he got back to the club house, it was starting to rain. And there was something else to be relieved about: there were a good number
of ancient ruins and aqueducts sprinkled along the golf course, and thickets of trees. He hurried back into the changing rooms. He hastily drew a sketch of the fairways, marking in the hiding places he had seen.
Then he dressed in his ordinary clothes again. He hurried up to the bar.
Kevin Munro was a good-natured man in his forties. ‘What bad luck this rain is,’ he said. ‘But the beer’s all right.’
And there was more good luck. Over lunch Morgan said: ‘Well, my day wasn’t wasted. I’m a fan of Cardinal Gunter’s, so I brought a copy of his book along. And the club secretary is going to ask him to autograph it for me. But the secretary says he’s out of town and doesn’t know when he’ll be back.’
‘Well, when I get back to my desk, I’ll phone the Vatican press officer. He’s a friend of mine, he’ll tell me. Give me a call later today.’
‘
Thank
you,’ Morgan said.
And there was more good luck:
When Kevin Munro drove him back to Rome, Morgan called Renata from a public telephone. She said:
‘
Good
news. I have an appointment for you with Benetti for six o’clock tonight! The only thing is you must lead him to believe that you are really in love with me. Okay? And I have spent the day in the library. I have a great deal to tell you tonight! …’