“A billion dollars, with interest, repaid in two years?”
He said nothing. Just chewed, letting the revelation simmer.
“Like I said, your corporation is heavily in debt. This loan would not be viewed favorably by my approval committees.”
He finally voiced what the man wanted to hear. “You’ll succeed me on the Council of Ten.”
Surprise came to Benoit’s face. “How would you know that? It’s a random selection from the membership.”
“You’ll come to learn, Arthur, that nothing is random. My time is about up. Your two years will begin shortly.”
He knew Benoit desperately wanted to serve on the Council. And he needed friends there. Friends who owed him. So far, four of the five members who would not cycle off were friends. Now he’d just bought one more.
“Okay,” Benoit said. “But I’ll need a few days to broker out the risk among several of my banks.”
He grinned and continued to eat. “You do that. But trust me, Arthur, don’t forget to call your broker.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
FORTY-FIVE
ZOVASTINA CHECKED HER LOUIS VUITTON WATCH, A GIFT FROM the Swedish foreign minister during a state visit a few years back. He’d been a charming man who’d actually flirted with her. She’d returned the attention even though little about the diplomat had been stimulating. The same was true of papal nuncio Colin Michener, who seemed to delight in irritating her. For the past few minutes she and the monsignor had wandered the basilica’s nave—waiting, she assumed, for the altar preparations to be completed.
“What brings you to work for the pope?” she asked. “Once the papal secretary to the last pope, now a mere nuncio.”
“The Holy Father likes to call on me for special projects.”
“Like me?”
He nodded. “You’re quite special.”
“And why is that?”
“You’re a head of state. Why else?”
This man was good, like that Swedish diplomat and his French watch, quick with thoughts and words, but lacking in answers. She pointed at one of the massive marble pillars, its base wrapped with a stone bench and roped off to prevent anyone from sitting. “What are the black smears?” She’d noticed them on all of the columns.
“I asked that once myself.” Michener pointed. “Centuries of the faithful sitting on the benches, leaning their heads onto the marble. Hair grease absorbed into the stone. Imagine how many millions of heads it took to leave those impressions.”
She envied the West such historical nuances. Unfortunately, her homeland had been tormented by invaders who’d each made a point of eliminating all vestiges of what came before them. First Persians, then Greeks, Mongols, Turks, and finally, worst of all, Russians. Here and there a building remained, but nothing like this golden edifice.
They were standing to the left of the high altar, outside the iconostasis, her two guardsmen within shouting distance. Michener pointed down at the mosaic floor. “See the heart-shaped stone?”
She did. Small, unobtrusive, trying to blend with the exuberant designs that swirled around it.
“Nobody knew what that was. Then, about fifty years ago, during a restoration of the floor, the stone was lifted and beneath they found a small box containing a shriveled human heart. It belonged to Doge Francesco Erizzo who died in 1646. I’m told his body lies in the church of San Martino, but he willed his innermost being to be buried close to the patron saint of Venetians.” Michener motioned toward the high altar. “St. Mark.”
“You know of the innermost being?”
“The human heart? Who doesn’t? The ancients saw the heart as the seat of wisdom, intelligence, the essence of the person.”
Which was precisely why, she reasoned, Ptolemy had used that description. Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion.
“Let me show you one other thing,” Michener said.
They crossed before the elaborate rood screen rich with squares, rhomboids, and quadrilobes formed in colored marble. Behind the divider, men were on their knees, working beneath the altar table, where a stone sarcophagus sat bathed in light. An iron grating that protected its front, about two meters long and a meter high, was being removed.
Michener noticed her interest and stopped. “In 1835 the altar table was hollowed out and a prominent place made for the saint. There, he’s rested. Tonight will be the first time the sarcophagus has been opened since then.” The nuncio checked his watch. “Nearly one A.M.They’ll be ready for us shortly.”
She continued to follow the irritating man to the other side of the basilica, into the dim south transept. Michener stopped before another of the towering marble columns.
“The basilica was destroyed by fire in 976,” he said, “then rebuilt and dedicated in 1094. As you mentioned when I was in Samarkand, during those one hundred and eighteen years the whereabouts of St. Mark’s corpse became forgotten. Then, during a mass to dedicate the new basilica, on June 26, 1094 , a crumbling noise came from this pillar. A flaking of stone. A shaking. First a hand, an arm, then the entire saintly body was revealed. Priests and people crowded around, even the doge himself, and it was widely believed that, with St. Mark’s reappearance, all was right with the world again.”
She was more amused than impressed. “I’ve heard that tale. Amazing how the body suddenly reappeared just when the new church, and the doge, needed political and financial support from the Venetians. Their patron saint revealed by a miracle. Quite a show that must have been. I imagine the doge, or some clever minister, stage-managed that entire scene. A brilliant political stunt. It’s still being talked about nine hundred years later.”
Michener shook his head in amusement. “Such little faith.”
“I focus on what’s real.”