Finally, under the bed, I found a locked attaché case. I mourned my picklocks. Using the barrel of the Smith & Wesson, I smashed the hinges. I hated doing anything so blatant, but time was short.
The case was stacked with papers, most in Italian, some in Spanish. I looked at my watch. Five o’clock. Thirty minutes more. I shuffled through the stack. A number of papers with the Vatican seal-the keys to the kingdom-dealt with O’Faolin’s fund-raising tour of the States. However, Ajax’s name caught my eye and I looked slowly through the papers until I found three or four referring to the insurance company. I don’t read Italian as fast as I do English, but these seemed to be technical documents from a financial house, detailing the assets, outstanding debt, number of shares of common stock, and names and expiration dates of the terms of the current board of directors.
The most interesting document in the collection was clipped to the inside cover of Ajax’s 1983 annual report. It was a letter, in Spanish, to O’Faolin from someone named Raül Diaz Figueredo. The letterhead, embossed with an intricate logo, and Figueredo’s name as Presidente, was for the Italo-Panama Import-Export Company. Spanish is enough like Italian that I could work out the gist: After reviewing many U.S. financial institutions, Figueredo wished to bring Ajax to O’Faolin’s attention, the easiest object-target?-for a plan of acquisition. The Banco Ambrosiano assets resided happily-no, safely-in Panamanian and Bahamian banks. Yet for these assets to be-fecund, no, productive-as His Excellency wisely understands, they must be usable in public works.
I sat back on my heels and looked soberly at the document. Here was evidence of what lay behind the Ajax takeover. And the connection with Wood-Sage and Corpus Christi? I looked nervously at my watch. Time enough to sort that out later. I slipped the letter from the paper clip, folded it, and put it in my jeans pocket under the robe. Stacking the papers together as neatly as I could, I put them back in the attaché case and slid the case under the bed.
The hallway was still deserted. I had one more stop. Given the Figueredo letter, it was worth the significant risk of being caught.
Father Pelly’s room was at the other end of the hall, near the stairs. I cocked an ear. No voices below. The service must still be in progress. I pushed open his door.
As spartan as the other rooms, Pelly’s nonetheless had the personal stamp of a place that’s been inhabited for a long time by one person. Some family photographs stood on the little deal table, and a bookcase was filled several layers deep.
I found what I was looking for in the bottom drawer of the dresser. A list of Chicago area members of Corpus Christi with their addresses and phone numbers. I went through it quickly, keeping one nervous ear strained for voices. If worse came to worst, I might be able to leave from the window. It was narrow, but we were only on the second floor and I thought I could squeeze through.
Cecelia Paciorek Gleason was listed, and Catherine Paciorek of course. And near the bottom of the list, Rosa Vignelli. Don Pasquale was not a member. One secret society was enough for the man, I supposed.
As I stuck the list in the drawer and got up to leave, I heard voices in the hallway outside, and then a hand on the door. It was too late to try the window. I looked around desperately and slid under the bed, the rosary making a faint clicking noise as I pulled my robes in around me.
My heart was pounding so hard that my body vibrated. I took deep, silent breaths, trying to still the movement. Black shoes appeared near my left eye. Then Pelly kicked them off and climbed onto the bed. The mattress and springs were old and not in the best of shape. The springs sagging under his weight almost touched my nose.
We lay like that for a good quarter of an hour, me stifling a sneeze prompted by the cold steel, Pelly breathing gently. Someone knocked at the door. Pelly sat up. “Come in.”
“Gus. Someone’s been in my room and broken into my attaché case.”
O’Faolin. I’d know his voice anywhere for the rest of my life. Silence. Then Pelly: “When did you last look at it?”
“This morning. I needed to write a letter to an address I had in there. It’s hard to believe one of your brothers would do a thing like this. But who? It couldn’t possibly be Warshawski.”
No indeed.
Pelly asked him sharply if anything was missing.
“Not as far as I can tell. And there wasn’t anything that would prove anything, anyway… Except for a letter Figueredo wrote me.”
“If Warshawski broke in-” Pelly began.
“If Warshawski broke in, it doesn’t really matter,” O’Faolin interrupted. “She isn’t going to be a problem after tonight. But if she shows the letter to someone in the meantime, I’ll have to start all over again. I should never have left you on your own to handle this business. Forging those securities was a lunatic idea, and now…“ He broke off. “No point rehashing all that. Let’s just see if the letter’s missing.”
He turned abruptly and left. Pelly pulled his shoes back on and followed him. I got up quickly. Pulled the hood well around my face and cracked the door to watch Pelly disappear into O’Faolin’s room. Then, trying to remain calm, I went down the stairs with my head tucked into my chin. A couple of brothers greeted me en route, and I mumbled in response. At the bottom, Carroll said good evening. I mumbled and took off for the front door. Carroll said sharply, “Brother!” Then to someone else, “Who is that? I don’t recognize him.”
Outside, I hitched up my habit and ran to the back of the building, started the Toyota, and drove it bumpily down the drive back to Melrose Park. There I quickly divested myself of the robe at a dry cleaner, telling them it was for Augustine Pelly.
In the car I sat laughing for a few minutes, then soberly considered what I’d found and what it meant. The letter from Figueredo seemed to imply that they wanted to acquire Ajax in order to launder Banco Ambrosiano money. Bizarre. Or maybe not. A bank, or an insurance company, made a highly respectable cover for moving questionable capital into circulation. If you could do it so the multitude of auditors didn’t notice… I thought of Michael Sindona and the Franklin National Bank. Some people thought the Vatican had been involved in that escapade. With the Banco Ambrosiano, the connection was documented, if not understood: The Vatican was part owner of Ambrosiano’s Panamanian subsidiaries. So was it strange that the head of the Vatican’s finance committee would take an interest in the disposition of the ‘Ambrosiano assets?
O’Faolin was an old friend of Kitty Paciorek. Mrs. Paciorek’s sizable fortune was tied up with Corpus Christi. Ergo… She was expecting me in a couple of hours. I had some evidence, evidence she wanted badly enough to get someone to search the Bellerophon. But did it link her to the Wood-Sage/Corpus Christi connection strongly enough to make her talk? I didn’t think so.
Thoughts of Mrs. Paciorek reminded me of O’Faolin’s last remark: I wasn’t going to be a problem after tonight. The queasiness, which seemed to be more and more a permanent resident, returned to my stomach. He might have meant they’d have Ajax sewn up by tonight. But I didn’t think so. It seemed more likely that Walter Novick would be waiting for me in Lake Forest. Mrs. Paciorek presumably had no scruples about doing such a favor for her old friend, although she probably wouldn’t have me killed while her husband and Barbara were watching. What would she try? An ambush on the grounds?
Between Melrose and Elmwood Park, North Avenue forms a continuous strip of fast-food restaurants, factories, used-car lots, and cheap, small shopping malls. I selected one of these at random and found a public phone. Mrs. Paciorek answered. Using the nasal twang of the South Side, I asked for Barbara. She was spending the night with friends, Mrs. Paciorek said, demanding in a sharp voice to know who was calling. “Lucy van Pelt,” I answered, hanging up. I couldn’t think of a way to find out where the doctor and the servants were.