Read from the beginning
Read Part 12
Cardinal Armando Mara sat at the small desk in the room he had been given for his use and studied the paperwork officer Gilbert had faxed to his friend Father Martin Miller. He had asked that a copy be made before releasing the originals to Fr. Miller. He instructed the younger priest not to respond to his friend until he had chance to study the material himself. Fr. Miller didn’t look like he understood the request, but he understood chain of command. That was something Mara knew well, also.
Even after being a priest for more than 25 years, Mara still didn’t consider himself a priest first. He was a soldier who happened to preach the Gospel of Christ. Not a soldier for Christ, for Jesus could never condone the work he did for the Church. Rather, Mara was a trained killer. He took the body and blood of Christ in Communion each day, and the blood of those who opposed his Lord whenever possible.
He held the page with the Seal of God up to the light of the small lamp. It was not the real seal, he realized. It was altered, making it something else. Something Mara recognized. He had half expected this when the Monsignor had asked him what it all meant. Miller had left the room, presumably to return to his office and the work of investigating Church finances, leaving Mara alone with Monsignor Copani.
“What does this all mean?” Copani had asked, his right hand was clenched into a fat fist on the desk while his left played idly with the silver crucifix that hung by a chain around his neck. Mara couldn’t help but notice that the Monsignor didn’t know how to make a proper fist. He would dislocate his thumb if he ever hit anyone with that hand, not that Mara could imagine the older man doing such a thing. He wasn’t a fighter. His first wasn’t a sign of aggression; he was clinging to something, something he hoped would save him. Cardinal Mara rose from his chair and paced to the other side of the room.
When he turned back to face the Monsignor, he was no longer the friendly Italian clergyman who had arrived, unannounced, the previous evening.
“We are under attack,” he said, closing on the Monsignor’s desk and leaning over it. Copani leaded back in his chair, his eyes wide. He started to mouth a response, but Mara wasn’t done. “What we do next may well decide the fate of the Holy Catholic Church in America.”
Mara saw the shock and fear in the older man’s face and sighed internally. It was as he feared. He would get no help from this office. He stepped back away from the desk and lowered himself into the seat that Fr. Miller had previously occupied. He resisted the urge to shake his head. These American priests were so soft. They were completed disconnected from the epic struggle the Church was intended to win for Christ on Earth. He couldn’t possibly explain to this man what was really going on. Fortunately, thanks to his rank in the Church, he didn’t have to.
“This is not something that truly concerns you, Monsignor Cobani. My apologies. I must travel to meet with this police officer and find out how this involves the Church precisely,” he said.
“Oh, of course,” Copani whispered the words. The relief on his face was unmistakable and his hand opened on the desk, still trembling slightly. “I’ll ask Fr. Carlson to make any arrangements you need.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mara said, rising. “I have my own transportation. I’ll be leaving as soon as I’m packed.” He turned toward the door, taking the file with him. Copani seemed pleased to see the information leaving his office.
Mara opened the door and stepped into the hall, but before he closed it, he turned back to Copani. “I’ll be taking Fr. Miller with me, as a translator. I’ll return him when we’re finished.” He stepped into the hall and closed the door.
Now, back in his small room, his small suitcase packed and sitting on the made bed, Cardinal Mara glanced through the paperwork one last time. He resisted the urge to break out his satellite phone and place another call to his team. At last contact, they were headed to La Paz to deal with something that could not be ignored. He knew they were unavailable. He was on his own.
There was a knock at the door. Well, not completely, he thought. He opened the door to find Fr. Miller standing in the hallway.
“Are you packed?” Mara asked.
“I’m ready,” Miller replied, but said nothing more. Mara smiled for the first time that day.
Read Part 14
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
12. A Friendship Questioned
Read from the beginning
Read Part 11
Fr. Carlson led Fr. Miller down the long hallway that ran the length of the main building and when he reached his destination, turned abruptly to face the door to Monsignor Copani’s office. There was no marking on the door, just a wooden portal similar in all respects to the others they had passed. Carlson knocked twice and opened the door, leading Fr. Miller into a richly appointed office. The Monsignor sat behind his very large desk, where a second chair had been pulled around for a man that Fr. Miller had not yet met.
“Fr. Miller, as requested,” Fr. Carlson said and then stepped smartly to the side to allow Fr. Miller to step up. When he failed to do so, Fr. Carlson cast him a disapproving glance.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.”
This clearly caught the smaller priest by surprise, but he recovered quickly and stepped from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Thank you for coming straight away, Martin,” the Monsignor said. Copani had been a Catholic priest for over 30 years. Now, at the midpoint of his 50s, he appeared much older. There was a tiredness hanging under his eyes that made him look melancholy even when he smiled, which was rare. He was not smiling now. “Please meet Cardinal Armando Mara.”
The Cardinal stood and Fr. Miller let out a small gasp. He hadn’t been paying attention. The clerical clothing worn by the clergy in Italy differed from that worn in America. He had assumed that Copani was the highest ranking priest in the building. A thoughtless mistake! Mara saw the younger priest’s embarrassment clearly on his face and extended his hand with a smile. Smaller of frame and darker of hair and eye than Copani, Mara seemed younger than the Monsignor, and quite fit.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father Miller.” His English was excellent, but the Italian accent made it twist and curl like a true romance language. “Please have a seat.”
Fr. Miller sat down in a high backed chair that faced the desk squarely. Behind and on both sides of the large desk were framed paintings, that could have come from an Italian museum for all he knew, not being an expert. The dark wood of the frames went well with the dark paneling. It all conspired to make the room feel like it was home to more power than a similar 12-foot by 12-foot office elsewhere in the building. However, Fr. Miller thought, with both the Monsignor and the Cardinal tucked behind the large wooden desk, it probably was the epicenter of power at the moment.
“You haven’t been to your office yet,” the Monsignor said. It wasn’t a question so Fr. Miller merely nodded. “When you get there, you’ll find that you have received a message from an old friend of yours, a police officer by the name of Rob Gilbert. Do you remember this person?”
Fr. Miller was momentarily taken aback. First, how did the Monsignor know about his message before he did? And what form did this message take? Was it a voice mail message? E-mail? And Rob Gilbert. He hadn’t heard that name since he was an undergraduate at the University, almost a decade ago now. These thoughts, though moving quickly, gave him pause and he realized that he had been silent a moment and that both priests were now watching him very closely. He suddenly felt like he was being examined.
“I do remember, Rob. He was my roommate when I was in college many years ago,” he replied. “Is there some problem that I should be aware of? Has something happened?”
“Have you been in touch with Officer Gilbert recently?” the Cardinal asked. His accent made the question sound less like an accusation, but something in his eyes was giving Fr. Miller an uncomfortable feeling.
“No, I have not,” he replied. “What is this about, please? What is this message and why, if I may ask, did it come to your attention before my own?”
The Cardinal started to lean further across the desk, his face darkening, but the Monsignor spoke first.
“Martin, your message came to my desk because a keyword filter directed it to me. We set that system up during the crisis that almost bankrupted our diocese some years ago. The fact that the message came from a law enforcement organization caused it to be re-routed to me.”
Fr. Miller had just become a priest when the child abuse scandal rocked the Church to its core. By the time it was over (if one could ever call it over, given the ongoing suffering of those involved), hundreds of millions of dollars had been paid out by the Church in legal settlements, leaving a number of diocese across the nation bankrupt. The Archdiocese of Boston was particularly hard hit, but survived, financially, in large part due to the measures taken by the Monsignor’s office.
“I didn’t know such a system existed,” Fr. Miller said. He felt a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. He personally knew priests, men he had known for years and respected, who were accused during the scandal. He felt certain then that they were innocent of any crimes and continued to be convinced to this day, but during the crisis, even the suggestion of wrongdoing put enormous pressure on the Church to settle. Had someone accused him? “But I see why one is necessary. Of course, this could not be related to…”
The Monsignor stopped him with a raised hand. “Of course not, Martin. That has not been suggested.”
“But we are very interested in what this is related to,” the Cardinal added.
Fr. Miller looked from one priest to another and then shook his head. “I haven’t even seen the message.”
Monsignor Copani explained that Gilbert was asking for help on a case and had promised to send over materials that he would like Fr. Miller to examine. Those materials were expected to be faxed to his office as soon as the staff at his parish in Texas arrived at the church office. Instructions had been sent that would reroute those materials to the Monsignor’s office.
Fr. Miller’s confusion showed clearly on his face. “I have no idea what this could be about,” he said.
“It could be nothing,” Monsignor Copani said. “Just an old friend seeking some spiritual support.”
“Or,” added the Cardinal, “it could have to do with the government’s investigation of our financial records, in which case we must take great care in how we respond.”
Now, Fr. Miller was really confused. He recalled Rob Gilbert as a serious young man who’s only goal was to get into law enforcement and investigate crimes, specifically those against what he called defenseless victims. He was not involved in financial crimes and, in any event, Fr. Miller had found no evidence that there was any crime to be found in the Church’s financial records -- aside from the possible crime of losing too much money. He was about to point this out when they were interrupted by two quick knocks on the door, which was then opened to admit Fr. Carlson. He held a stack of papers.
He placed them carefully on the desk, each page stacked perfectly above the one below it, and then stood at attention near the corner of the desk. The monsignor pulled the stack of papers over, messing them up in the process and causing Fr. Carlson to grimace.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.” The small priest’s grimace began to trend toward a scowl. He spun on his heel and left the room.
The Monsignor and the Cardinal studied the printouts for a moment and then both sat back in their chairs. Neither man looked happy. Fr. Miller waited. Finally, the Cardinal took one sheet from the stack and pushed it slowly across the desk. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Fr. Miller studied the page for a moment. It was a copy of a drawing of the Sigillum Dei, the Seal of God. “Yes,” he replied.
“Is it possible that your friend is investigating the Church?” the Monsignor asked him directly.
Fr. Miller shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t even spoken to him yet. Besides,” he said, lifting the sheet with the medieval symbol and holding it up to the light, “what can the Church’s finances possibly have to do with this?”
Monsignor Copani sat back in his chair but Cardinal Mara leaned forward. “Everything,” he said.
Read Part 13
Read Part 11
Fr. Carlson led Fr. Miller down the long hallway that ran the length of the main building and when he reached his destination, turned abruptly to face the door to Monsignor Copani’s office. There was no marking on the door, just a wooden portal similar in all respects to the others they had passed. Carlson knocked twice and opened the door, leading Fr. Miller into a richly appointed office. The Monsignor sat behind his very large desk, where a second chair had been pulled around for a man that Fr. Miller had not yet met.
“Fr. Miller, as requested,” Fr. Carlson said and then stepped smartly to the side to allow Fr. Miller to step up. When he failed to do so, Fr. Carlson cast him a disapproving glance.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.”
This clearly caught the smaller priest by surprise, but he recovered quickly and stepped from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Thank you for coming straight away, Martin,” the Monsignor said. Copani had been a Catholic priest for over 30 years. Now, at the midpoint of his 50s, he appeared much older. There was a tiredness hanging under his eyes that made him look melancholy even when he smiled, which was rare. He was not smiling now. “Please meet Cardinal Armando Mara.”
The Cardinal stood and Fr. Miller let out a small gasp. He hadn’t been paying attention. The clerical clothing worn by the clergy in Italy differed from that worn in America. He had assumed that Copani was the highest ranking priest in the building. A thoughtless mistake! Mara saw the younger priest’s embarrassment clearly on his face and extended his hand with a smile. Smaller of frame and darker of hair and eye than Copani, Mara seemed younger than the Monsignor, and quite fit.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father Miller.” His English was excellent, but the Italian accent made it twist and curl like a true romance language. “Please have a seat.”
Fr. Miller sat down in a high backed chair that faced the desk squarely. Behind and on both sides of the large desk were framed paintings, that could have come from an Italian museum for all he knew, not being an expert. The dark wood of the frames went well with the dark paneling. It all conspired to make the room feel like it was home to more power than a similar 12-foot by 12-foot office elsewhere in the building. However, Fr. Miller thought, with both the Monsignor and the Cardinal tucked behind the large wooden desk, it probably was the epicenter of power at the moment.
“You haven’t been to your office yet,” the Monsignor said. It wasn’t a question so Fr. Miller merely nodded. “When you get there, you’ll find that you have received a message from an old friend of yours, a police officer by the name of Rob Gilbert. Do you remember this person?”
Fr. Miller was momentarily taken aback. First, how did the Monsignor know about his message before he did? And what form did this message take? Was it a voice mail message? E-mail? And Rob Gilbert. He hadn’t heard that name since he was an undergraduate at the University, almost a decade ago now. These thoughts, though moving quickly, gave him pause and he realized that he had been silent a moment and that both priests were now watching him very closely. He suddenly felt like he was being examined.
“I do remember, Rob. He was my roommate when I was in college many years ago,” he replied. “Is there some problem that I should be aware of? Has something happened?”
“Have you been in touch with Officer Gilbert recently?” the Cardinal asked. His accent made the question sound less like an accusation, but something in his eyes was giving Fr. Miller an uncomfortable feeling.
“No, I have not,” he replied. “What is this about, please? What is this message and why, if I may ask, did it come to your attention before my own?”
The Cardinal started to lean further across the desk, his face darkening, but the Monsignor spoke first.
“Martin, your message came to my desk because a keyword filter directed it to me. We set that system up during the crisis that almost bankrupted our diocese some years ago. The fact that the message came from a law enforcement organization caused it to be re-routed to me.”
Fr. Miller had just become a priest when the child abuse scandal rocked the Church to its core. By the time it was over (if one could ever call it over, given the ongoing suffering of those involved), hundreds of millions of dollars had been paid out by the Church in legal settlements, leaving a number of diocese across the nation bankrupt. The Archdiocese of Boston was particularly hard hit, but survived, financially, in large part due to the measures taken by the Monsignor’s office.
“I didn’t know such a system existed,” Fr. Miller said. He felt a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. He personally knew priests, men he had known for years and respected, who were accused during the scandal. He felt certain then that they were innocent of any crimes and continued to be convinced to this day, but during the crisis, even the suggestion of wrongdoing put enormous pressure on the Church to settle. Had someone accused him? “But I see why one is necessary. Of course, this could not be related to…”
The Monsignor stopped him with a raised hand. “Of course not, Martin. That has not been suggested.”
“But we are very interested in what this is related to,” the Cardinal added.
Fr. Miller looked from one priest to another and then shook his head. “I haven’t even seen the message.”
Monsignor Copani explained that Gilbert was asking for help on a case and had promised to send over materials that he would like Fr. Miller to examine. Those materials were expected to be faxed to his office as soon as the staff at his parish in Texas arrived at the church office. Instructions had been sent that would reroute those materials to the Monsignor’s office.
Fr. Miller’s confusion showed clearly on his face. “I have no idea what this could be about,” he said.
“It could be nothing,” Monsignor Copani said. “Just an old friend seeking some spiritual support.”
“Or,” added the Cardinal, “it could have to do with the government’s investigation of our financial records, in which case we must take great care in how we respond.”
Now, Fr. Miller was really confused. He recalled Rob Gilbert as a serious young man who’s only goal was to get into law enforcement and investigate crimes, specifically those against what he called defenseless victims. He was not involved in financial crimes and, in any event, Fr. Miller had found no evidence that there was any crime to be found in the Church’s financial records -- aside from the possible crime of losing too much money. He was about to point this out when they were interrupted by two quick knocks on the door, which was then opened to admit Fr. Carlson. He held a stack of papers.
He placed them carefully on the desk, each page stacked perfectly above the one below it, and then stood at attention near the corner of the desk. The monsignor pulled the stack of papers over, messing them up in the process and causing Fr. Carlson to grimace.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.” The small priest’s grimace began to trend toward a scowl. He spun on his heel and left the room.
The Monsignor and the Cardinal studied the printouts for a moment and then both sat back in their chairs. Neither man looked happy. Fr. Miller waited. Finally, the Cardinal took one sheet from the stack and pushed it slowly across the desk. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Fr. Miller studied the page for a moment. It was a copy of a drawing of the Sigillum Dei, the Seal of God. “Yes,” he replied.
“Is it possible that your friend is investigating the Church?” the Monsignor asked him directly.
Fr. Miller shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t even spoken to him yet. Besides,” he said, lifting the sheet with the medieval symbol and holding it up to the light, “what can the Church’s finances possibly have to do with this?”
Monsignor Copani sat back in his chair but Cardinal Mara leaned forward. “Everything,” he said.
Read Part 13
Saturday, March 14, 2015
11. An Urgent Mission
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 10
Gilbert’s telephone voicemail message to Fr. Martin Miller remained unheard for most of the following day. He wouldn’t find it until about the time that Gilbert was waking up and checking in with his partner about the failed DNA test. Fr. Miller would hear of the accompanying e-mail message from his old friend much sooner, as it had already come to the attention of his superiors by the time he arrived at his temporary office in Boston that morning.
As Fr. Miller was making his way carefully across the snow and ice covered parking lot of the Archdiocesan Pastoral Council building in Braintree, Monsignor Copani, the head of financial affairs for the Archdiocese, and Cardinal Armando Mara, the Vatican’s director of Financial Forensics were studying Gilbert’s e-mail message. A keyword had been detected by scanning software used by the Archdiocese and caused the message to be diverted to land on the Monsignor’s desk.
The message referred to an open case his friend -- a US law enforcement officer -- was working on. Gilbert’s e-mail said he had tracked Fr. Miller down to St. Bartholomew's Catholic Church in Pawchuck, Texas, where he had been assigned until very recently. He got this e-mail address from one of the nuns working in the church there, but was unable to get a fax number that he could be sure would reach his friend. So, he had faxed some documents to the church in Texas that he hoped Fr. Miller could examine at his earliest convenience. He did not provide any details regarding the documents, but said that Sister Katie promised to forward it to Fr. Miller in his weekly package.
The two read through the brief e-mail and then sat back in their chairs. They frowned, but did not speak to each other. Cardinal Mara placed a call to the church in Texas, but it was early there and no one was in the office. He left a terse message. The Monsignor dispatched his assistant to fetch Fr. Miller as soon as he arrived.
It had been many years since Fr. Miller had heard from his college roommate and he would be very surprised to learn that he had received a message from him. In truth, he hadn’t thought of his old friend in a long time. During the two semesters they had shared a dorm they had became like brothers. Miller had enjoyed similar relationships after he left school and went to the seminary, but he had never met anyone else like Gilbert. Since then, their relationship had faded into the back of his mind, displaced by the work of running his church and ministering to his parishioners.
The two had enjoyed many long theological discussions in those days, even before Miller had confided in Gilbert his desire to leave school to join the priesthood. Gilbert was in pre-law. Miller was studying forensic accounting. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had attracted him to it. If asked, he would reply, “God’s will” for it was his training in that discipline that had quickly elevated him from priest of a small parish in southwest Texas to the role of important advisor to the Archbishop and, by extension, to the Vatican.
Fr. Miller had recently been flown to Boston and asked to take on a special project. Of course, being asked by an Archbishop is rather like being asked to send a check by the Internal Revenue Service. Refusal is frowned upon. In this case, Fr. Miller had been excited by the prospect. This seemed like important work and while he wasn’t sure what he could bring to the project, he was proud, despite his best efforts to be humble, that he had been called from so far away to serve in this capacity.
The Bank of the Vatican had run afoul of American bank regulators when a Catholic priest working for the bank was found carrying a large amount of cash, U.S. dollars, by train from Italy to Switzerland. The United States wanted to know that the dollars were not on their way to a country that was currently under sanction. The Vatican had stalled for as long as possible, but when it became apparent that it would have to share information with the American government, the Vatican had requested a trusted expert look over the records before they were released. Fr. Miller was called to Boston.
As he understood it, the project required him to investigate the records just like the U.S. government would and reveal to the Archbishop anything that the records would reveal to the government’s investigators. When he asked what he was supposed to find, he was simply told, “whatever is there to find.”
And so for the past three weeks, Fr. Miller had been poring through bank records involving hundreds of international transactions, originating at the Bank of the Vatican but moving through institutions around the world, involving many parties and multiple currencies. Sure enough in his faith to know that the transactions represented God’s work, he was still finding reason to feel troubled.
First, there were a great many transactions that went to third parties that were either impossible to identify or described in such general terms that it was impossible to tell what they were. Secondly, the Vatican seemed to switch currencies on a whim, sending first dollars, then British pounds, and even using Bitcoin for some transactions. Finally, and perhaps most troubling, the Church as consistently losing money on the currency swaps. A lot of money was being lost in what appeared to be highly inefficient fiscal practices. He wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but it was there for him to find and so he planned to get to the bottom of it, in service to the Archbishop and the Holy Catholic Church.
Fr. Miller entered the building and shook the snow off of the heavy coat he had been loaned and ran a hand through his short blonde hair. It came away wet and cold. His ears were burning, not because at that very moment Robert Gilbert was mentioning him to his partner over a greasy breakfast, but rather because he hadn’t been loaned a hat. Something he planned to ask for shortly. He rubbed his hands together and then clapped them over his ears. He was standing like that, exactly like the hear no evil monkey, when Farther Carlson stepped around in front of him.
Fr. Carlson was a short man. He wore the traditional garb of the Catholic priest with the addition of a clipboard. Fr. Miller had never seen him without it, nor the worried expression he always wore along with his wire-framed glasses. From the moment he’d met him, Fr. Carlson gave the impression that he was late for something, or thought you were.
In truth, it wasn’t time that worried Fr. Carlson, it was entropy. He lived in fear of nature’s tendency to march forever toward disorder. Maintaining order was his true calling, one he secretly held even higher than his mandate to preach the living Gospel. There were a great many priests who were capable of delivering a decent sermon. There were few that could keep an operation like the financial center for the archdiocese on track. Maybe one. His prayer each night was that he continue to be that one.
For now, helping Monsignor Copani keep his department orderly was his role, but he dreamed -- and prayed -- that one day he would be called to a higher purpose. Some said that the Devil was in the details. Fr. Carlson knew that was wrong. The Devil was hiding just beyond those details and waiting for the opportunity to reveal himself should they be mishandled, as they too often were.
Fr. Carlson always got a small thrill from urgent missions because he knew that crisis was the battlefield where entropy clashed swords with order. He could hear the call to battle in the Monsignor’s order to fetch Fr. Miller. He wasn’t sure the reason, but he was quite sure that disorder would follow in the wake of failure to fulfill this mission. He opened his mouth to address his charge when he was interrupted.
“Good morning, Father Carlson. Do we have any hats in the chancery?”
The shorter man was caught by surprise at the question. He sputtered for a moment and then admitted that he did not know, but would ask someone who might at a more appropriate time.
“We’ll see to that later,” Fr. Carlson said. “You are summoned by the Monsignor. He would have words with you.”
“Very good. I’ll just drop my coat in my office,” Fr. Miller began.
“Actually, we should go now,” Fr. Carlson said. His light blue eyes, made slightly larger by his glasses and his will to see order maintained, stared at the other priest and did not blink.
Fr. Miller managed a half-hearted smile. “Very good. Lead on.”
Fr. Carlson stepped out ahead of him and marched down the narrow corridor toward the Monsignor’s office. Fr. Miller shook his head and followed
Read Part 12
Read Part 10
Gilbert’s telephone voicemail message to Fr. Martin Miller remained unheard for most of the following day. He wouldn’t find it until about the time that Gilbert was waking up and checking in with his partner about the failed DNA test. Fr. Miller would hear of the accompanying e-mail message from his old friend much sooner, as it had already come to the attention of his superiors by the time he arrived at his temporary office in Boston that morning.
As Fr. Miller was making his way carefully across the snow and ice covered parking lot of the Archdiocesan Pastoral Council building in Braintree, Monsignor Copani, the head of financial affairs for the Archdiocese, and Cardinal Armando Mara, the Vatican’s director of Financial Forensics were studying Gilbert’s e-mail message. A keyword had been detected by scanning software used by the Archdiocese and caused the message to be diverted to land on the Monsignor’s desk.
The message referred to an open case his friend -- a US law enforcement officer -- was working on. Gilbert’s e-mail said he had tracked Fr. Miller down to St. Bartholomew's Catholic Church in Pawchuck, Texas, where he had been assigned until very recently. He got this e-mail address from one of the nuns working in the church there, but was unable to get a fax number that he could be sure would reach his friend. So, he had faxed some documents to the church in Texas that he hoped Fr. Miller could examine at his earliest convenience. He did not provide any details regarding the documents, but said that Sister Katie promised to forward it to Fr. Miller in his weekly package.
The two read through the brief e-mail and then sat back in their chairs. They frowned, but did not speak to each other. Cardinal Mara placed a call to the church in Texas, but it was early there and no one was in the office. He left a terse message. The Monsignor dispatched his assistant to fetch Fr. Miller as soon as he arrived.
It had been many years since Fr. Miller had heard from his college roommate and he would be very surprised to learn that he had received a message from him. In truth, he hadn’t thought of his old friend in a long time. During the two semesters they had shared a dorm they had became like brothers. Miller had enjoyed similar relationships after he left school and went to the seminary, but he had never met anyone else like Gilbert. Since then, their relationship had faded into the back of his mind, displaced by the work of running his church and ministering to his parishioners.
The two had enjoyed many long theological discussions in those days, even before Miller had confided in Gilbert his desire to leave school to join the priesthood. Gilbert was in pre-law. Miller was studying forensic accounting. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had attracted him to it. If asked, he would reply, “God’s will” for it was his training in that discipline that had quickly elevated him from priest of a small parish in southwest Texas to the role of important advisor to the Archbishop and, by extension, to the Vatican.
Fr. Miller had recently been flown to Boston and asked to take on a special project. Of course, being asked by an Archbishop is rather like being asked to send a check by the Internal Revenue Service. Refusal is frowned upon. In this case, Fr. Miller had been excited by the prospect. This seemed like important work and while he wasn’t sure what he could bring to the project, he was proud, despite his best efforts to be humble, that he had been called from so far away to serve in this capacity.
The Bank of the Vatican had run afoul of American bank regulators when a Catholic priest working for the bank was found carrying a large amount of cash, U.S. dollars, by train from Italy to Switzerland. The United States wanted to know that the dollars were not on their way to a country that was currently under sanction. The Vatican had stalled for as long as possible, but when it became apparent that it would have to share information with the American government, the Vatican had requested a trusted expert look over the records before they were released. Fr. Miller was called to Boston.
As he understood it, the project required him to investigate the records just like the U.S. government would and reveal to the Archbishop anything that the records would reveal to the government’s investigators. When he asked what he was supposed to find, he was simply told, “whatever is there to find.”
And so for the past three weeks, Fr. Miller had been poring through bank records involving hundreds of international transactions, originating at the Bank of the Vatican but moving through institutions around the world, involving many parties and multiple currencies. Sure enough in his faith to know that the transactions represented God’s work, he was still finding reason to feel troubled.
First, there were a great many transactions that went to third parties that were either impossible to identify or described in such general terms that it was impossible to tell what they were. Secondly, the Vatican seemed to switch currencies on a whim, sending first dollars, then British pounds, and even using Bitcoin for some transactions. Finally, and perhaps most troubling, the Church as consistently losing money on the currency swaps. A lot of money was being lost in what appeared to be highly inefficient fiscal practices. He wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but it was there for him to find and so he planned to get to the bottom of it, in service to the Archbishop and the Holy Catholic Church.
Fr. Miller entered the building and shook the snow off of the heavy coat he had been loaned and ran a hand through his short blonde hair. It came away wet and cold. His ears were burning, not because at that very moment Robert Gilbert was mentioning him to his partner over a greasy breakfast, but rather because he hadn’t been loaned a hat. Something he planned to ask for shortly. He rubbed his hands together and then clapped them over his ears. He was standing like that, exactly like the hear no evil monkey, when Farther Carlson stepped around in front of him.
Fr. Carlson was a short man. He wore the traditional garb of the Catholic priest with the addition of a clipboard. Fr. Miller had never seen him without it, nor the worried expression he always wore along with his wire-framed glasses. From the moment he’d met him, Fr. Carlson gave the impression that he was late for something, or thought you were.
In truth, it wasn’t time that worried Fr. Carlson, it was entropy. He lived in fear of nature’s tendency to march forever toward disorder. Maintaining order was his true calling, one he secretly held even higher than his mandate to preach the living Gospel. There were a great many priests who were capable of delivering a decent sermon. There were few that could keep an operation like the financial center for the archdiocese on track. Maybe one. His prayer each night was that he continue to be that one.
For now, helping Monsignor Copani keep his department orderly was his role, but he dreamed -- and prayed -- that one day he would be called to a higher purpose. Some said that the Devil was in the details. Fr. Carlson knew that was wrong. The Devil was hiding just beyond those details and waiting for the opportunity to reveal himself should they be mishandled, as they too often were.
Fr. Carlson always got a small thrill from urgent missions because he knew that crisis was the battlefield where entropy clashed swords with order. He could hear the call to battle in the Monsignor’s order to fetch Fr. Miller. He wasn’t sure the reason, but he was quite sure that disorder would follow in the wake of failure to fulfill this mission. He opened his mouth to address his charge when he was interrupted.
“Good morning, Father Carlson. Do we have any hats in the chancery?”
The shorter man was caught by surprise at the question. He sputtered for a moment and then admitted that he did not know, but would ask someone who might at a more appropriate time.
“We’ll see to that later,” Fr. Carlson said. “You are summoned by the Monsignor. He would have words with you.”
“Very good. I’ll just drop my coat in my office,” Fr. Miller began.
“Actually, we should go now,” Fr. Carlson said. His light blue eyes, made slightly larger by his glasses and his will to see order maintained, stared at the other priest and did not blink.
Fr. Miller managed a half-hearted smile. “Very good. Lead on.”
Fr. Carlson stepped out ahead of him and marched down the narrow corridor toward the Monsignor’s office. Fr. Miller shook his head and followed
Read Part 12
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