GOD’$ BANKER (Enforcement Division Book 2)

5-star praise for God’s Banker:

Great Read!
“…Lots of action and enough intrigue to keep you glued to the pages.”

God’s Banker is a must read!
“…Jack Schilling is an amazing hero…As an avid reader of Vince Flynn, David Baldacci and Brad Thor, I was delighted that God’s Banker was a page turner.”

an excerpt from

God’s Banker

by Chris Malburg

Copyright © 2014 by Chris Malburg and published here with his permission

Prologue

Thump went the oak door. His Eminence Cardinal Angelo Armato leaned his substantial body weight against the timbers, thick as his thigh, and shoved. The door to the room of the Segnatura clicked into place as two sets of brass fittings slid from striker to receiver in the equally heavy solid oak doorjamb. Armato shoved home the two iron bolts—each the length of a man’s arm with one above and one below the golden door handle. The Segnatura was now sealed.

He turned from the door and faced the room before him. Torches lined the Vatican’s ancient walls, providing the main illumination. Candelabras of solid gold stood, each bearing multiple candles whose flames danced among the red velvet seat cushions and the oval table. The soft, flickering light made the room—small by Vatican standards—seem warm and cozy. Around the table sat five of the 16th Century Roman Catholic Church’s most powerful cardinals. These were the men who advised the Pope on setting Church doctrine and running the world’s largest religious organization of its time.

His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI, sat at the head of the table. For this meeting the Pope wore his formal regalia. He looked to the back of the Segnatura and nodded permission for Armato take his seat. His Holiness intended to impress his all-powerful manifestation of God’s splendor as His personal representative here on earth to the Cardinals. Every part of his papal regalia this evening was symbolic. His Holiness bent his great head slightly to begin. The five-sided mitre sitting atop his head was of the finest snow-white satin. From the sharp tip at its highest point on down to its ornate headband it was decorated with solid gold fittings and two rubies—front and back—each weighing in at 20 carats. Above all other components of the papal regalia, the mitre established his ultimate authority and signified his accountability only to God. For what he had in mind tonight, this perfectly stated his authority.

He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the amice he wore around his neck—no more than a fancy, stiffened napkin, really—whose function was to prevent chafing from the heavy cope that enshrouded his entire body. The cope’s heavily embroidered eggshell-colored satin shown through the golden thread used to decorate and once again signify the Pope’s ultimate power back here on earth. He looked around the table at each of his Cardinals. Their faces were bathed in the flattering candlelight. Each had a look of expectation on his face. It was as the Pontiff intended. Tonight, he thought, their expectations would be rewarded ten times, twenty times over.

He had chosen his venue carefully. His Holiness loved this room. The Segnatura was his personal study and library. In this room he convened his most intimate and sensitive meetings. His eyes lifted up to the ceiling—as was his habit. His aides had told him the Cardinals thought this affectation meant His Holiness was seeking some divine inspiration before beginning. The glimmer of a smile crossed his lips at this admission. In truth, Pope Alexander VI was merely admiring Raphael’s frescoes that adorned the vaulted ceiling and walls. His Holiness always enjoyed admiring the great artist’s works from this particular seat.

The Pope slowly lowered his eyes and briefly held the golden pectoral cross in both hands. It hung from a golden chain around his neck. How will these men, each more loyal to their own causes than to either me or to the Church, receive what I am about to tell them? It was a question that had haunted the Pontiff for months as he pondered what to do with his information. In the end, he concluded it was too momentous for a single man, even the Pope, to hold alone. So, after months of prayer and deliberation, he decided to hold this meeting and tell them what he alone knew. Its very existence had the ability to tear his precious Church asunder if misused. But Alexander VI had a plan.

“Your Eminences,” began His Holiness as he formally addressed his Cardinals, “I asked you to the Segnatura on this evening to tell you something.” Pope Alexander VI paused to look at each of the five Cardinals again. He saw now that each leaned a little closer, edges of their red capes falling onto the tabletop. None had the temerity or impudence to rush His Holiness. These greedy men could not comprehend the secret he had decided to disclose.

The Pope continued. His 82 year-old voice was firm and unwavering. “The Roman Catholic Church in its history has amassed a fortune in property and businesses.” His comments were well rehearsed. Begin with something they all know. “What you do not know is the base from which this fortune came. Since Constantine recognized Christianity in the year of our Lord 313, the Church began vesting herself with the raiment of the world. Accumulation of a vast treasure of worldly objects became testimony to her strength and power. This wealth was used over the centuries to build the most prestigious cathedrals the world has seen, to dress Church clergy in vestments of vast opulence. As the Church grows, so does its mounting need for ever more earthly riches.”

His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI, knew a pause here would enhance the dramatic effect of what he would say next. He looked at His Eminence Cardinal Angelo Armato seated across the table. Of all his Cardinals, Armato was the one to worry about. Opposite him and across the vast table sat Cardinal Douglusio Esparza. He was the architect and designer of the most beautiful churches and cathedrals throughout his native Spain. Esparza had the smile and look of one eager to get his hands on some of the riches the Pontiff described. But His Holiness knew that in Esparza’s case it would be used to build even more churches, ever grander in their opulence.

The Pope continued, “Still, this vast treasure has been growing for hundreds of years. It is stored in a single place. Throughout the Church’s history, only the current Pope has known its location. Until tonight.” This he said with a firmness of conviction that signified there was no turning back from the decision to share its location.

“Indeed, Your Eminences, I have seen the cavern in which the Church’s wealth is stored. Words cannot describe what is buried deep within. There are thick golden ropes as long as tall men. There are solid golden statues of horses, life size in stature. Hand carved alabaster busts of every Pope and his Cardinals since the beginning line the walls. And there is more. Much, much more. A fleet of sailing ships with masts and sails hoisted sit on blocks, ready to carry these riches to safety should the need arise.”

The Pontiff glanced around the table. Certainly he had every man’s rapt attention, as he knew he would. “I have a map of its location. This is what I want to disclose to you tonight in the Segnatura. The map is too important to our Church to leave in the hands of just one man. Tonight I am entrusting each of you with a fragment of the map.”

The cardinals sat dumbfounded for only a brief moment. Then they began speaking excitedly among themselves. All but Cardinal Armato, who sat silent as stone.

“Please,” said Pope Alexander VI, “this vast treasure is intended for use in the Church’s ministries and to further establish and affirm its predominance as God’s chosen religion.” This stopped the cardinals excited chatter dead. “Yet the incredible value of the Church’s possessions is too immense for a single man—even the Pope—to hold by himself.” The Pope nodded his head to one of his personal acolytes standing motionless off to the side before an object lying on the floor and covered with a brilliant red velvet spread whose borders were embroidered with golden rope. In its center was the richly embroidered three-bared cross of the 16th Century Catholic Church, also in gold.

“You are a counsel of five—my most trusted advisors. I fear that my health is not what it once was. Before our Lord calls me to Hhis side, I must entrust to each of you five a part of the map locating the Church’s secret cavern where it houses these most splendid earthly riches. I caution you not to pool your resources to plunder the cavern. Rather, I ask you to use the best judgment God has bestowed on all of you to allocate it according to our Church’s needs.”

The Pontiff nodded to the acolyte standing next to the red velvet-draped object. The man pulled the richly adorned covering, revealing the object beneath. The velvet cloth slid effortlessly over the flat, polished granite surface it covered. His Holiness heard a collective intake of breath from around the table. Indeed, he too paused to gaze at the stone tablet now sitting before them on the floor. Though he had seen this tablet many times, the map engraved on its flawless, shiny face along with the complicated writing it contained, he always had to stop and wonder at what his predecessors were thinking when they created this most secret of maps.

Set into the tablet were three iron chisels standing upright in the stone. They were equally spaced along a line that scored the tablet. Hitting any one of the chisels would cleave the tablet into two neat pieces; three chisels, meant six pieces.

His Holiness nodded one final time to the acolyte. The man easily hefted an iron hammer with a one-meter hickory handle. The man’s forearms bulged as he brought the hammer up to his shoulder and then paused for the briefest of seconds to glance at the Pope for confirmation. The Pope inclined his head with the ornate mitre, giving final permission. Suddenly the hammer came crashing down on the first chisel. He quickly hoisted the hammer again to his shoulder and again brought it crashing down on the second. He repeated this action a third and final time. Now the granite tablet lay on the floor in six neat pieces.

His Holiness nodded again to his acolyte. The man quickly left by the Pope’s private door to the Segnatura. The Pope rose from his seat slowly, since he was an old man who was weighed down by the gold-decorated cope, mitre and the rest of his ornate vestments as well as his immense responsibilities for his Church. He walked to the six pieces of tablet. His hands rose from his sides, palms up in a commanding gesture for the Cardinals to rise and come to him. His Holiness repeated St. Teresa’s Bookmark prayer. She was the Carmelite nun from Avila who was also a celebrated mystic. The prayer was called St. Teresa’s Bookmark because she had carried it around, stuffed inside her prayer book, where it was found after her death in 1582. The Pontiff picked up a heavy piece of the tablet and handed it to the first of the five Cardinals, repeating St. Teresa’s prayer of trust:

Let nothing disturb you,


Let nothing frighten you,


All things are passing,


God only is changeless,


Patience gains all things,


Who has God wants nothing,


God alone suffices.

Once all five pieces of the tablet that pinpointed the Church’s treasury cavern were distributed, His Holiness picked up the sixth tablet piece, turned on his heel—feet encased in silk and gold slippers—and left the Segnatura through his private door.
* * *

Pope Alexander VI died suddenly within six months of this momentous evening in the Vatican’s most exclusive of rooms. In that sense, his fears for his health were prophetic. Within twelve months after that, each of the five Cardinals had also died. Just two died of natural causes for they were also elderly and medicine in the 16th Century was not what it is today. The other three fell victim to accidents that occurred frequently during that time in history. The last of the Cardinals to succumb was His Eminence Cardinal Angelo Armato, the one that Pope Alexander VI distrusted. None of the pieces of tablet that were distributed that evening have surfaced to date. Nor has the vast treasure promised by Pope Alexander VI ever been found. Though many have searched their entire lives, each has come up empty. Existence of an immense treasure cavern containing the Catholic Church’s vast wealth accumulated from the beginning to the 16th Century remains nothing but a much talked-about rumor to this day.
Chapter 1

Present day

“Wind?” The Professional spoke the single word softly. It was a question tinged with a slow Louisiana drawl. “Wind?” he asked again only a little more insistently but still maintaining his calm, working professional’s demeanor. The Professional’s assistant took his eye from the 14X spotter scope and glanced at the unobtrusive wind meter he had set up on the roof of the building next door to the Castel Sant’Angelo. It was two stories lower than the Castel and allowed him to look down on its roof. Had someone not known exactly where to look, they would have missed the little meter entirely. But the man was not familiar with such an instrument as the little wind meter. He squinted through his spotting scope at its digital readout. There, now in clear focus were the numbers. He searched briefly for the English equivalent to his native Italian.

“Vento,” he said then caught himself. “The wind, she is a still, approximo three,” he said in badly broken English with a heavy Italian accent.

“Vento,” muttered the Professional. Christ. He pulled his right eye off the rifle scope and looked at his spotter. The man was dressed in the drab brown friar’s cassock with rope around the waist. On his feet were the traditional sandals. “She-yit,” he said more in calm frustration than anger. Truth was he actually liked the guy. He was doing the best he could under the circumstances. No one could fault that. The man, dressed as a friar, had never done this before. Hell, who had? Only a very select few. Less than ten men in the world. And of those few, there was just one who could do what the Professional had been hired to do and he was it.

“Three? Seriously? Approximo three? Three what, Greggory? Exactly three what?” He swiveled his own riflescope over at the wind meter. Sure enough it read 3.1 miles per hour. He had already converted the miles per hour into kilometers in his head—5.0 kilometers per hour. He needed metric units of measure since that is what his riflescope used. The reading that Greggory dictated was confirmation. He would just have to be careful they were both communicating the measurements in the metric he was used to rather than the good ol’ American English that Greggory thought he wanted.

He looked out of the darkened room in which they had set up shop. He spotted the orange windsock on top of the Vatican offices across St. Pete’s Square, then aimed the rifle toward it. He had brought along the Barrett M98-Bravo Long Range because of its accuracy over the distance he would have to cover. It rested atop the ancient but hugely sturdy table on which he lay and was supported with four sand bags under and around its 27-inch barrel.

They were using an empty, locked storage room that was way off the tour routes of the ancient castle that originally served as a mausoleum for the emperor Hadrian before it was converted into a papal fortress in the 6th century. The room offered a small window with no glass so it was open to the air. They were perched eight stories directly above the Castle’s entrance on Piazza di San Pietro that had an almost unobstructed sight line up the thoroughfare, Via della Concilliazion, to Piazza de Sant Pietro and next door to the building within that housed his target—the Basillique de Sant Pietro. Sure, the Professional thought, there were some trees and that pesky Obelisk to deal with. But from this particular window nothing interfered with his narrow sight line straight to where his target would soon be standing.

The Professional had chosen the room not only for its height and down-angle to St. Peter’s balcony, but also for its 13th-century secret passageways in the unlikely event things went wrong. These passageways had provided sanctuary to many popes in times of danger. Indeed, Clemente VII hid here during the 1527 Sack of Rome. Its upper floors attracted tourists for its lavishly decorated Renaissance interiors. The fourth floor held the famous Sala Paolina fresco. Two stories above that, Puccini had immortalized the terrace in his opera, Tosca. The Professional was holed up in a nondescript and never used storage room two more stories above that.

At the very top was the restaurant. He had dinner there two nights ago when he was scoping out the place as a possibility. Just another tourist, he thought as he had sat there enjoying a plate of pasta with the view of Rome and its attractions. No wine though. He never consumed alcohol or coffee when he was on assignment. Now as he lay there on the table working on his calculations he could smell the roasting beef, pork, chicken and the delicious sauces that went with them wafting down from above.

Using the riflescope’s metered cross hairs, he calculated the angle of the windsock to the rooftop—just 20 degrees. It gave him the wind reading at the target’s point some 1,790 yards away. Doing the calculation in his head as he had done thousands of times before, he arrived at the wind speed on target—4.9 miles per hour. The wind grew stronger as it progressed along his firing lane—by 1.8 miles per hour. It took him seconds to convert these to metric units. He performed the computations in his head.

“Okay Greggory, enter the rest of the data for me, would ya’,” the Professional drawled.

Greggory worked slowly, clumsily. He muttered to himself as he entered and then reentered the data. This should have been easy. All the Italian spotter actually had to do was enter the temperature, humidity and distance from the sea. From there, the laptop computer would execute the actual calculations. Greggory continued to slowly punch the keys, entering the data into the laptop’s sighting solution software, taking care to enter only metric units.

“Did ya’ remember to get the altitude this room is at?”

“Si grazie. We are 60 meters above sea level–”

Fuck. “No Greggory. We are not 60 meters above sea level. We are exactly 62.3 meters above sea level.” Fuck. The Professional looked at Greggory and saw the horror of his error etched over his face. “No problem man. I caught it. Just put it into the computer correctly at 62.3 meters, okay?”

“Si grazie. I also calculate the down angle from here to the target at 62 degrees.”

The Professional paused for a moment. Over the last week he had struggled to train his spotter. He removed his eye from the scope again and looked down at St. Peter’s Square Balcony where he was pointed. “Sounds about right,” he said. “What about the mirage, Greggory? Y’all rememba’ to factor that in too? The Professional knew that a shot at 1,790 yards—1636.8 meters—would encounter a mirage effect that needed to be factored into the equation. A temperature difference of 10 degrees required one minute of angle correction to counter the mirage effect. “And what’s the temp now Greggory?

“Ah, m-i-r-a-g-e?” the word came out slowly, halting and without comprehension, as if it had never before crossed his lips. “Excuse. What is m-i-r-a-g-e again?”

Christ, the Professional wanted to scream. But he wouldn’t allow his pulse to run away from his absolute control. Not at this late stage. Instead he mustered all of his calm and said softly, “Greggory, if ya don’t rememba what the mirage factor is, then you could not have entered it into the goddamn computer. Am ah right?” Continuing to breath slowly, his voice maintained its even gait. He spoke calmly, patiently. “Just what the fuck do ya’ think we’re doing up here, Greggory? I have failed you in your training. Y’all have mah deepest apologies, Suh.”

Greggory mistook the Professional’s soft, even voice for forgiveness. He smiled and said proudly, “No Signore, you have trained me very well. We now do a very great thing in service to our Lord.”

She-yit, thought the Professional. A religious zealot. But he already knew this. That’s all the fuck I need right now, he thought. Okay. Calm, even breathing. Just talk him through it. With his soft, confident and calm voice he said, “That’s fine, Greggory. Now, tell me the current temperature please.”

Si. It is now 22.8 degrees Celsius. The temperature is dropping as the sun is a-going down behind the buildings.”

Alrighty, then. The Professional knew the answer. Temperature change affected mirage, which affected the shot angle. “Give me minus one degree of down angle, make us at 61 degrees. That is the mirage effect.”

Greggory clumsily pressed the numbers into the keyboard. Then he muttered something in Italian. He reentered the numbers yet another time and hit the Return button. Within three seconds the result popped up on his screen.

“What’s she say? About one click left and one click up?”

“Close, Signore. The computer, she a-says a-two clicks left.”

The Professional pulled his right eye off the scope again. He looked out the window and followed the line of colorful flags lining St. Peter’s Square right up the wall of the building. His eye then climbed up the four stories to the balcony and watched the two flags on either side of the balcony blow in the gentle breeze. Both were the brilliant half gold and half white flag of Vatican City, the Papal State with the Keys of Saint Peter crossed diagonally over the white half. Each flag consistently blew north, in the gentle breeze. “I still say just one click left.”

The Professional reached his right hand to the elevation and windage knobs on the ATN 4-12X80 Day/Night scope and made the adjustment. He had already clicked the parallax control knob to where he wanted it. He reached his thumb and forefinger into the ammo box he had brought and extracted a single cartridge. For this shot he had chosen the .338 Lapua Magnum Long Range Sierra Match King Hollow Point Boat Tail projectile. He would load the Barrett’s detachable 10-round magazine with just five of these highly specialized and deadly Finnish-made cartridges. The Professional figured if he couldn’t hit what he was aiming for with those, it would all be over anyway.

With the assurance of a trained expert who had done this enough times to fill three sniper’s log books, he slowly slid the bolt closed, feeling its smooth action pushing the cartridge into the breach and then clicking precisely closed when it was properly seated. The Barrett was not a new weapon. Indeed, the Professional had used it to fill all of one sniper log book and half of another. Like a favorite hammer that a skilled carpenter used every single day, he knew each crevice and mark on the Barrett. They were entirely of his own making. The Professional had been issued the Barrett when he graduated from SEAL sniper school. The ultra-precise weapon had been in his possession ever since. The Professional kept it cleaned and oiled to the meticulous standards that only a few men in the world with such dedication to his craft would understand.

He laid his finger on the aluminum alloy frame outside the trigger guard and put his eye back into the scope. He took one breath, slowly let it out, relaxed his entire body and began his deadly wait, hoping that he had caught all of Greggory’s errors.
Chapter 2

Jim Cramer had seen hundreds of companies go public on the New York Stock Exchange. Still today’s initial public offering was special. Historic, really. He shifted his stance on the battered hardwood floor of the NYSE. He had been standing here for the last 45 minutes and his feet hurt. He asked himself again why he didn’t wear the Ecco rubber soled walking shoes today instead of the Mezzlan Giotto loafers. The Eccos cost $80 and were his favorite. The Giottos set him back $1,100 and hurt. He shifted his stance, trying again to get comfortable. He had selected a position between the specialist stations of IBM and the newest offering, GOD. He shook his head at this chutzpa. GOD, of all the stock symbols the Vatican Bank could have chosen. This one was a no-brainer. Who but the Catholic Church itself would or could call its stock GOD?

“Booyah Maria. What do ‘ya think of this one?” Cramer spoke into his lapel microphone, directly to his co-anchor for today’s historic first trading day of GOD. Maria Bartaromo was in Rome preparing for her own historic interview of the Pope himself. The interview was to take place in the Pope’s personal residence located on the floors occupying the right side of St. Peter’s Basilica. The famous balcony where the Pope gives the Angelus, the blessing of the faithful, every Sunday was immediately off of the Pope’s personal study where Bartaromo sat impatiently waiting for His Holiness to arrive.

“Should be a wild day,” Maria mumbled without taking her eyes from her notes. “Where GOD goes is anybody’s guess. How’s it going there on the floor?” she asked absently still scanning her list of questions.

Television viewers worldwide would see the two anchors on split screen. Cramer saw in the monitor as she looked up, a look of irritation on her face at being interrupted. This one is big, thought Bartaromo. The stuff of which Pulitzers are made. She wasn’t going to screw it up. Her contract was coming up for renewal. A Pulitzer wouldn’t hurt the negotiations. They had another two minutes, 30 seconds left in the commercial break.

Cramer looked around at the GOD stock specialists. The trading jackets they wore were bright red and looked something like the Cardinal’s capes the six real Cardinals wore as they stood up on the balcony ready to ring today’s opening bell. The Vatican Bank pulled out all the stops, thought Cramer. Of course he had heard the rumors—uttered only within the confines of the deal’s chief underwriter. And even then it was said in sotto voce so as not to be overheard. That Cramer knew of the Vatican’s management difficulties was testimony to his connections over at Goldman Sachs. It was nothing stated in the notes to GOD’s published financial statements. They were pristine as everyone knew. No, thought Cramer, this was something else. Something that could screw over those religious dogmatists who just had to own a piece of the Church.

Cramer knew this was the biggest public offering ever. Bigger than Google. Bigger than Facebook. The Catholic Church was the religious epicenter to 1.2 billion faithful the world over. The only other religion that could lay a glove on the Roman Catholic Church was the Sunni Muslims at around 940 million.

Cramer had begun his two-minute drill before airtime. He started his breathing faster and shallower. He flexed his abdominal muscles to get the blood flowing. He willed his heart rate to ramp up. “Maria, this one is gargantuan. All those Catholics see it as their religious duty to take a position in GOD. Goldman Sachs is managing this issue. They’re underwriting it with four other bow-tie firms.” Cramer looked up to the balcony and saw Cardinal David Caneman reach to the bell ringer as the clock was about to strike 9:30 a.m. New York time, to start the trading day. “Gotta go.”

Jim Cramer looked into the camera facing him and saw the red light glow. His producer’s fingers silently counted down 3-2-1.

His voice was ready to screech out the breathless words that were his attention-grabbing trademark, “Jim Cramer, here on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange! Folks this is going to be the biggest day in IPO history.” The opening bell clanged for the prescribed five seconds. “The Vatican Bank has just gone public.” Cramer made it a point of looking up to the Big Board where the stock prices were listed. He knew the producer in the truck parked outside at the curb would have already cut the picture to the board and that now just his voice boomed out to over 2.2 million television sets tuned to CNBC.

“There are no prices for GOD listed yet folks. As usual the deal runners have allocated the stock they get to sell to their biggest clients—all huge institutional investors—and some of the whales they manage money for. The little guy gets left out. No matter how bad they want this stock—and millions of the religious faithful want it, believe me. None will get any. Word has it that the opening price set during last night’s pricing conference call held by Goldman was $80 a share. We’ll see where it trades by day’s end.” Then, Cramer being Cramer, he could not resist editorializing.

“I just gotta say it; can’t stand not to. Folks, just steer clear of GOD. Who knows where this stock is going? Even if you could get some, don’t. Just don’t.” Cramer’s voice rose to its characteristic squeak when he wanted to make a point. “Let the elephants pound around the stock, taking it wherever they will. Do not let yourself get trampled in the process.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Remember Facebook. It started at too high an issue price, then the managers and underwriters drove it up even further to get their clients out at a profit. From there they allowed it to free-fall. I’m not saying that’s going to happen here. But hey. Why take the chance? Just sit tight and keep your powder dry. Maria?”

Through the ATN scope, the Professional could clearly see Bartaromo. She was seated on a chair placed in front of the Pope’s desk inside the French doors standing open to his office that led out to the famous balcony facing Saint Peter’s Square. There were two television cameras—one on each side of her. The Pope’s chair was two feet to her left. There were also two standards holding the high intensity lights that were needed for the cameras. He shifted the Barrett’s scope so its reticle framed the side of Bartaromo’s right temple. With all the light used there, he could see her plain as day. The cross-hairs intersected inside her right ear. He paused for a few seconds not breathing, not moving. Then he shifted his view down to her notes. From just over one mile away he could read the questions she would be asking the Pope when he finally arrived.

Even from the Castle, the Professional could hear the crowd gathering inside Saint Pete’s Square. The Pope’s scheduled address after the Vatican Bank went public had been announced weeks ago. He had been inside his sniper’s nest for over four hours already. Thousands had beaten him into the Square to get the best places to stand. Well boys, thought the Professional, this is one time your faithfulness will be rewarded. You can tell your grandkids that you saw the Pope get killed on a beautiful summer day in Rome.

He saw Bartaromo suddenly stand up as an acolyte opened a door to the office and His Holiness himself walked in. Through the scope he watched her shake his hand. She did not genuflect or take his hand to kiss the ring. The Professional thought that punctilious ceremony would have demeaned her. She was the interviewer. Let the official clergy bow and scrape.

The Professional’s contract called for a public execution. Would have been just as easy to get the shot off now while the Pope was sitting in his office. He saw the sight lane was clear as the Pope sat down beside the reporter. Still, may as well give the people a show they’ll never forget.

“Greggory?” he asked calmly, “y’all give me the data readings again, please.” The Professional would monitor all the data that went into computing the sight adjustments in case anything changed between the last time he adjusted the scope and just before the shot.

“Si, Signore,” said Greggory. Then he slowly began reciting the numbers from the various instruments. “Temperature, wind, angle of the shot, m-i-r-a-g-e effect, distance.” This last measurement would not change. They had agreed that the shot would be targeted at the middle of the Pontiff’s forehead as he was standing at his microphone on the balcony overlooking the Square. Shortly after the lectern and microphone were placed on the balcony Greggory had used a laser range finder to precisely measure the distance. He raised his spotting scope and pressed the laser range finder button again. A tiny red dot appeared on the microphone for just an instant and then vanished. He read the numbers inside the image he saw through the eyepiece. “Exactly 1,790…” Greggory paused for a second. “Yards.” He heard the Professional release the breath he had just taken in anticipation of asking 1,790 what? Greggory converted the yardage to meters and verified that was what he had entered into the computer.

His Holiness continued chatting amicably with the famous financial reporter. She asked her questions; he answered. They were having a mutually beneficial time. Both were oblivious to the gravely menacing danger lurking just over one mile away in a darkened storage room in the Castel Sant’ Angelo.

Back on the NYSE floor Jim Cramer eyed his guest. His Eminence Cardinal David Caneman stood beside him, resplendent in his red and white Cardinal’s vestments and snow white Roman collar. Cramer pointed his microphone toward His Eminence. Caneman was answering his second question. The cleric tugged at his red cape and touched a finger to his pileolus, the red skull cap.

“…Yes, Jim. But frankly, the Vatican Bank is going public for the same reason all large enterprises do. The Bank needs new capital to grow and to further its business purpose—”

“But Your Eminence,” interrupted Cramer as was his style even with Roman Catholic Cardinals who head the largest financial institutions, “this action will now put the American Vatican Bank under the microscope of regulatory oversight. In light of all the allegations against priests with young boys and allegations of financial improprieties over the years, can the Bank really stand such scrutiny?” Cramer saw the shadow of irritation cross the Cardinal’s face, then vanish just as quickly.

“Of course, Jim. I completely understand such concerns.” The banker-turned-priest-turned-banker responded slowly, deliberately. His slight European accent was utterly charming. He was making his point clearly, for all to hear. What he said in these initial minutes of the Vatican Bank’s public offering would define how the stock would perform for months to come. With a market capitalization of over $200 billion, the Vatican Bank’s CEO was printing money with his every word. The voice and its inflections lent him a cultured, continental aspect, which he played for all it was worth.

“The Bank’s public offering will provide statutory oversight of the Church and its activities by legal authority—the United States Securities and Exchange Commission. This is the most thorough regulatory body in the world. It will prove to itself and everyone that the Church has nothing to hide.” His Eminence paused to flash his most trustworthy smile into the cameras. “Indeed, it is about time that the Church came out from behind its antiquated robes and vestments and into the light. Personally, Jim, I welcome the transparency and visibility to public scrutiny that this unprecedented action provides. For decades the Roman Catholic Church has maintained a policy of strict secrecy in everything it does. No more. We act for the betterment of mankind in everything we do. Perhaps this will now put to rest such accusations of impropriety.”

Cramer’s voice ratcheted up a notch so that his audience could hear the characteristic squeal that signaled he was about to crush his subject with a question from out in left field. “Your Eminence, what about the rumors of a vast treasure the Church has accumulated over the centuries? That would explain the sudden pop GOD is getting in its stock price even in these initial minutes. I mean, investors gotta be thinkin’ what if such vast resources actually do exist. The Vatican Bank will be sitting on a pile of assets that would liquefy its balance sheet into the foreseeable future. If the rumors are even half true, then there is no question ever about GOD’s financial stability.”

Cardinal David Caneman placed a slender, manicured finger inside his Roman collar and pulled it slightly away from his neck. He slowly shook his head as would a patient and beloved teacher working with a misguided student. The gentle, engaging smile appeared again to capture the cameras. “I have heard the same stories ever since I was in seminary….that a secret treasure vault exists somewhere and that over the centuries the Popes have handed down its secret location from one to the other. I can tell you, Jim, there is probably nothing to it. They are most likely just that, rumors. I know His Holiness personally and have since he was a parish priest. If there were any truth to such rumors, he would have told someone—”

“You, perhaps?”

His Eminence paused for a moment at the unexpected impudence. Then he nodded his head as if considering the proposition of being entrusted with such information. “Maybe. Though I would never presume to speak for His Holiness. There are several who have earned His Holiness’ trust.”

Cramer glanced at the Big Board and saw where GOD was now trading. In just the last few minutes it had risen from 91 to 98. Let’s see if such a rumor has legs with this stock, he thought. “Folks, to put this into perspective, the possibility of just $10 billion in hidden assets that the Vatican Bank could tap into would drive up the stock price at least 25 percent. Maybe more, much more, if there’s a reason to believe there’s even more wealth behind that.”

Cardinal David Caneman stepped in, “Jim, if people are buying GOD stock hoping for a sudden discovery of centuries-old, secretly hidden assets, they probably would do better buying T-bills at these inflated yields.”

Cramer heard the urgent voice of his producer through his earpiece. “Folks we’re going to split screen now with Maria Bartaromo in Rome for an exclusive interview with His Holiness, Pope Julian IV.”

The split screen now showed His Holiness with Maria Bartaromo on one side and Jim Cramer with His Eminence Cardinal David Caneman on the other. This Pope’s image was pure magic the world over. Without a doubt he was among the most loved of the modern era Popes even though he had been in his office for just five years now. Cardinal Caneman deeply bowed his head as protocol demanded. Because it was just an electronic image he did not genuflect as would have been the custom had they been meeting face-to-face.

Courtesy due his high office required the Pope to speak first. “Ah, David you are looking well this fine morning—it is morning there in New York, is it not?”

Caneman smiled at his boss. “Yes, Your Holiness, it is a magnificent morning here in New York. And thank you. Today is truly a great day for the Church.” His smile extinguished just after he saw the camera’s red light die away.

Finally, with the niceties out of the way, the road was clear. Maria Bartaromo jumped in with her first question. “Your Holiness, with its public stock offering, the Vatican Bank stands to raise upwards of $200 billion. That is a lot of money, sir. What will you do with it?” Despite her focus on this major interview, Bartaromo could not help looking at the Pope closely as she spoke. She had never seen him in person before. So, it’s true, she thought. The Pope’s ears are every bit as big and standing out from his head as the cartoonists depict them.

The Pope smiled at Bartaromo. There was a twinkle in his eye. This was part of his self-effacing charm and one of the reasons he was so loved by Catholics and others the world over. He was also skilled in disarming his critics. “Maria, it’s okay. My ears are magnificent, are they not?” His Holiness continued smiling at his joke on catching Bartaromo staring. “Really, Maria, I get that a lot. I don’t mind. But you are right. The $200 billion that Vatican Bank will raise today is a lot of money.

“I am personally grateful to all those who may chose to buy stock in the Istituto per le Opere di Religione, The Institute for Works of Religion, or more commonly known as the Vatican Bank. But you know, Maria, the money is not mine to do anything with.” He smiled into the camera. “Why, I would not have the first idea of how to manage such vast resources.” He opened his hands and lifted his palms upward in as clear a gesture as any pope had ever made that this was the God’s honest truth.

“But fortunately, my dear, I have a true banking professional in His Eminence Cardinal David Caneman to run Vatican Bank. Cardinal Caneman reports to a Committee of Cardinals—”

“Excuse me, Your Holiness,” interrupted Jim Cramer from his side of the split screen. “But doesn’t the Committee of Cardinals report directly to you?”

“Ah is that you, Jim Cramer? I am a big fan. Huge,” said the Pope. “Booya, Jim Cramer. I just love it when you bite the heads off of those rubber toy bulls you have on your show and shout, Buy, Buy, Buy.” With that simple, perfectly timed compliment the Pope sucked out any credibility or relevance Cramer’s question might have had as if the air had suddenly escaped fully and completely from a toy balloon. “It is Cardinal Caneman and the Committee of Cardinals who actually run the Vatican Bank.”

The Professional watched on his iPhone connected to a wireless earpiece as Bartaromo led the Pope and Caneman through another three minutes of questions. Each minute he lifted his head to check the flags along St. Peter’s Square that led up to the balcony on which His Holiness would soon appear.

“Greggory?” The Professional’s voice still carried its soft, relaxed intonation that was the stock-in-trade of every marksman the world over when his target was in the crosshairs. “Has there been any change at all in the numbers you fed into the targeting solution? Are you watching…carefully…Greggory?”

“I…I am a-watching, Signore. Nothing has changed. If it does I will tell you immediately and put the change into the computer. I will then-a tell you what adjustments to make. I promise, Signore.”

The Professional lowered his eye back into the scope and said, “That is just what ah wanted to hear, Greggory. Just what ah wanted to hear.” He inhaled deeply, then let it out in a long, slow cleansing breath. He forced his heart rate to drop another three beats per minute.

“…Your Holiness I deeply appreciate the time you have given me.”

“Not at all, Maria,” replied the Pope, gracious as always. “May God bless you and all of those watching us.” He waited until the red lights on both television cameras went out and the grip staff extinguished the bright lights.

The Pope placed his hands on the arms of his chair—his staff always insisted that every chair had sturdy arms. Since his left hip was replaced a year ago he needed the leverage to lift himself into a standing position without making a painful face. The Pope was definitely not one to request assistance for such a simple task that he had been doing all by himself for over 80 years.

As His Holiness Pope Julian IV rose, so did Bartaromo. “Come, walk with me, Maria. Have you ever stood beside the Pope when he addressed the faithful from this magnificent balcony overlooking St. Peter’s Square? I remember the first time Pope John Paul invited me to join him. It was…awesome…as the young ones say.” His eyes twinkled at the upcoming opportunity to commune with his flock on this glorious late summer afternoon.

The Professional’s eye was now glued to the scope. He watched as the reporter linked her arm though the Pope’s and the two seemed to walk right toward him through the French doors that opened onto the balcony. The Professional saw Bartaromo’s arm resting inside the Pope’s. Probably more to steady the old man than anything else. He ignored a wild cheer from the crowd as they caught their first glimpse of their beloved Pope stepping to the microphone. The Professional’s right hand wrapped around the pistol grip integrated into the Barrett’s stock. It felt totally familiar, comfortable. Indeed, over the years, the matte black paint on the grip had worn away in the exact spot where he placed his hand time after time after time. He placed his first finger inside the trigger guard and laid the first joint on the center of the trigger. He slowed his heart rate another few beats per minute.

After a career of firing hundreds of thousands of rounds, his trigger finger was in the most comfortable position for him. It allowed the second joint of his finger to remain pointed straight at the target as he pulled back on the trigger. His refined technique made it nearly impossible to push or pull the shot with his trigger finger.

The Professional watched His Holiness Julian IV step to the microphone. His scope was sighted in for exactly this distance. Just behind the Pope’s right ear he saw Bartaromo standing. Even at this distance he could clearly hear the man’s voice over the loudspeakers. The crosshairs of his scope were glued to the center of the target’s forehead. This was the target picture he wanted. The Professional didn’t pull the trigger with his finger so much as it was a function of what he saw with his eyes. As soon as the sight picture was exactly what he wanted he began squeezing the trigger. Just his right first finger—not the entire hand as some teach. He would continue squeezing the trigger until either one of the two things happened. First, the sight picture may change and require canceling the shot. Or two, the shot breaks and the weapon fires.

This Pope was an expert at using the media. He stood still at the microphone, looking over the glass lectern that held his notes. His head did not move as he had learned so the television cameras would have no trouble keeping him in focus. It was a warm, late afternoon. A gentle breeze blew in from his left and kept him cool in the heavy vestments he wore. He looked over the white roses covering the top of the balcony and out onto his people. Thousands of people. Maybe hundreds of thousands, he thought as he gazed over the green, grassy amphitheater, passed the monolith and through the two buildings that marked the entry into the Square on Via della Concillazione. Way off in the distance, easily discernable even at a mile away, he spotted Castel Sant’Angelo. Through Rome’s summer smog, the sun had turned its circular turret almost blood red.

Every meter of ground in St. Peter’s Square was covered with people. Some held up signs. To his left, in the middle of the crowd the Pope read one that said, Buy GOD stock—Invest in Christ. The pleasant breeze continued to luff around him, keeping him comfortable. Pope Julian IV was quite enjoying himself. This is what being Pope is all about, he thought. God’s humble messenger, taking His word to His people. What an honor. What a privilege.

Finally he raised his right hand. The crowd roared its approval. With his fingers spread wide, he slowly described the sign of the cross, blessing all and blessing this humble address.

The Professional watched the Pontiff’s fingers spread. There was obviously a little wind at the target site a mile away. He could see the target’s long, voluminous silk sleeves moving definitely left to right as the Pope’s right arm raised to give the blessing.

“Greggory? Any change in the settings? Maybe the wind speed? Tell me now, please.” The Professional’s voice as always at this stage of his firing sequence was soft, calm. He had deliberately slowed his heart rate to where he wanted it.

The assistant checked his instruments. He raised the spotter’s glasses to his eyes and focused on the Pope. “I still see the same wind speed as I entered into the computer, Signore. Do you have any changes, prego?”

The Professional watched the sleeves again. They moved back and forth now, no definite direction. “Na. Wind’s swirling a little bit is all. Let’s keep it where we set it, shall we?”

The Professional’s trigger finger resumed its squeezing, waiting for one of the two things to happen. Cancel the shot or fire. Nothing changed in the site picture. The Professional’s heart beat once, then came the definite Phhhhht of the Barrett and the deadly bullet was away. His heart resumed beating. Time slowed to almost a standstill. It always did at this distance. The folding butt of the rifle recoiled into his shoulder. He immediately reacquired the target, unconsciously racked the bolt to send another round into the chamber without taking his eye off the target. He waited for the two full seconds it would take the round to reach its target.

With his hands off of the lectern, palms turned upward to heaven, nothing held the Pope’s notes in place. The gentle breeze continued to swirl. Suddenly the top two pages lifted off the lectern and flew from left to right onto the balcony. The Pope did not need his notes. Not really. He knew what he would say on this day that the Vatican Bank became a publicly held corporation. Yet it was human nature to turn his head and reach out to grab them. This day, there was more at work than just one extraordinarily beloved man, a television reporter and over one hundred thousand faithful watching.

In that critical instant, the .338 Lapua Magnum projectile tore a hole clean through the Pontiff’s left ear. It continued its supersonic downward trajectory unimpeded. It would have hit Maria Bartaromo dead center in the chest had she not quickly stooped to pick up the Pope’s two pages the wind had carried to her feet. As it was, the bullet seared a hot, bloody trail through the outer flesh of her shoulder, then buried itself at the base of the stone column behind the lectern.

The Swiss Guards assigned to the Pope’s protection detail do not all look like court jesters in the red, purple and yellow striped costumes some of them wear in public. Within one tenth of a second after hearing the unmistakable supersonic snap of the bullet, the guard in his charcoal grey suit was on the Pope. In a single motion the big man’s arms wrapped around his charge and launched the two of them through the still open French doors into the office behind the balcony. The three other guards stationed with the Pope were just a hundredth of a second behind. They grabbed the others immediately surrounding the Pope—Bartaromo included—and dived into the office as well, throwing the doors closed behind them. The entire exit took less than two seconds.

The Pope lay there, his ear bleeding a flood of crimson onto the sky-blue carpet. Ear wounds always bleed profusely. The Swiss Guards checked the Pontiff over for any other injuries. The Pope pointed to Maria Bartaromo and ordered his people to treat her first. Her shoulder wound was equally non-life threatening, but bleeding heavily nevertheless. One of the guards already had a field dressing out and was pressing it into her shoulder to stanch the bleeding. For her part, Bartaromo grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and called into CNBC New York headquarters to file her eyewitness account of the assassination attempt on the Pope’s life. Maybe this will get me that Pulitzer and fatten up my contract, she thought as her producer picked up.

The Professional had not missed often. This time it was just a freak incident of the target not cooperating. Gotta hand it to them boys, he thought. At this distance you account for the bullet’s flight time. You always aim for where your target is going to be. Who knew His Holiness would try to catch some papers in the breeze? Never seen a subject get cleared outa the line of fire so fast, he thought again. Yep, gotta hand it to them boys of his. There had been no time—nor a clear shot of any kind—to make another attempt. He knew what came next. He rolled off the sturdy table that had served him well. With the speed and precision touch of the professional he was, his fingers flew over the 98-Bravo and its state of the art sniper’s scope. Each part was dismantled to its smallest component and put into the mid-sized case with foam rubber inserts to hold each part. Just might need this again shortly, he thought.

The Professional should have left the weapon and scope and ran. But he couldn’t. He had long ago defiled the serial number. Even without the serial number, this was a rare piece of equipment—something few even in the higher reaches of law enforcement had ever seen. Eventually Interpol might trace it back to SEAL Team 1 in Coronado, California, then right to him. He had changed his identity, looks and everything else that was traceable no less than four times since leaving the Navy. He was a ghost, an enigma unidentifiable by any law enforcement agency in the world, though several probably had their suspicions.

The Professional set the Barrett’s case on the stone floor and pulled his silenced Sig Sauer 9mm from a small duffel bag containing just his bare essentials. He raised the muzzle of the pistol and fired a bullet into Greggory’s forehead that blew out the entire back of his head. No witnesses. Ever.

Then he picked up his luggage and left the sniper’s nest, calmly and without running. He made his way down to the secret 13th-century passageways that had probably saved many popes in times of danger. They could just as well serve me, he thought as he put his exfiltration plan into gear. The Professional always had an escape plan. This assignment was not yet completed. The target’s protection would now be on high alert. Jest makes the task a wee bit more challenging—and time consuming—is all, he thought as he walked unhurriedly along the ancient stone corridor.
Chapter 3

His Eminence Cardinal David Caneman swept into his offices at the Institute for Works of Religion—the Vatican Bank. His personal suite sat on the top floor of the historic JP Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, right next door to the New York Stock Exchange. The short trip had taken him only five minutes after the camera’s red light faded out. He had quickly shaken hands with that oaf, Jim Cramer, excused himself and made for the exit elevators.

The Bank’s security guards spotted Caneman as he exited the private elevator that served just his suite. They quickly opened the double doors made of heavy, glass-clad polycarbonate that was capable of resisting penetration from 9mm rounds on up a 12-gauge shotgun blast and everything in between. A male secretary hustled from behind his desk and with a practiced expediency helped him out of his red cape.

Without saying a word, Caneman entered his executive office, pushed the door shut behind him, and grabbed the television remote from this desktop. He pressed some buttons and the image of His Holiness arm-in-arm with Maria Bartaromo walking from the Pope’s private study onto the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square emerged. Caneman absently sat down on the plush sofa in the informal conversation area where he entertained visiting dignitaries and watched the screen with unblinking fascination.

His Eminence Cardinal Caneman split his time between his offices in Vatican City, New York, London and Zurich. He was a fixture in the world’s financial capitals. He ruled the vast fortune belonging to the Roman Catholic Church. Most of its investments were held with the Rothschilds in Great Britain and with JP Morgan in the US. At his insistence, the Bank held enormous interests in oil—Shell and BP—and weapons—General Dynamics and BAE. His prized hedge was the famed Vatican gold bullion. It was worth billions and he kept it in the Rothschild-controlled Bank of England and the US Federal Reserve Bank.

Caneman watched as the television screen showed the papal flags gently waving in the late afternoon breeze. He saw the Pope step to the microphone and raise his right arm as he always did when addressing the multitudes. Suddenly, the man twisted and lurched slightly to his right to catch some papers that blew off his lectern. “Shit,” Caneman’s voice exploded in the privacy of his opulent office. In that instant His Eminence Cardinal David Caneman thought that his boss just might actually be the blessed man the Church swore him to be.

The next images were of confusion as the famous balcony immediately emptied. Where the happy crowd was just seconds ago roaring its hearty approval, it was now screaming as one in anguish. Caneman yanked his cell phone out of his vestment inside pocket and pressed a single button. The connection was instantly made. He said, “Your man missed.”

“Yes, so it would seem,” said the urbane and cultured voice. It carried no concern or worry. As if these things sometimes happened and simply could not be avoided. “I will find out what happened. I am truly sorry. But, as I forewarned you, this business is not an exact science.”

“Damn it. I am not interested in exact science,” said Caneman. “I require results. The final result is what I have paid $2.5 million US for.” He continued watching the screen. Apparently the television people had the camera inside the Pope’s office used for the earlier interview now operating and providing the world a live feed. “Your man just managed to clip His Holiness’ left ear. That huge elephant’s ear. An amateur could have hit it. I paid $2.5 million US for a scratch on his ear? The man’s barber accomplishes more when he clips the hair around and inside those enormous ears.”

“He will not miss the next time—”

“Next time? You think your man will get another opportunity? You are a fool.” Caneman was furious. He stabbed at the red button to disconnect the third party cutout he had used to hire the Professional. The man did not know to whom he was actually speaking. His Eminence was careful with his personal security. Caneman thrust himself back on the cashmere sofa, shaking with anger. “What do we need to do next?”, he asked the empty office out loud as he tried to calm himself.

“We do what we set out to do,” he answered himself. Cardinal David Caneman believed his own counsel was better than any of the sycophants who worked for him. He had converted to Catholicism just 15 short years ago. He had become a zealot for the Church even though he had been born Jewish. The Jews held no interest for him. They had allowed themselves to be marched off to the gas chambers once already; they would crumble yet again if forced. The Catholics, on the other hand, had a brave history he could understand and truly embrace. He had used his zeal to become a force within th