goes it with the negotiations with Lord Grayle and his White Horse Resources?” The query came from Francisco Neri, the most powerful member of the so-called Black Nobility—aristocrats with either a direct family connection to the papacy or ones owed a number of favors by the Vatican.
“Well enough, Signor Neri,” Ruffino answered. “One must step carefully when walking with dangerous men.”
“And he is, of course, Templarii, as we all know.”
“Grayle is a man of business before he is a Templar,” said the cardinal, “and he does not take it kindly that you have purchased every available share of his corporation you could get your hands on.”
“It has always been this bank’s practice to keep its enemies close, Your Eminence. What better way to keep him close than to buy him?”
“Or to make him suspicious of our motives.”
“You sit in your office and think lofty thoughts about foreign policy, and all the while the Church is the next best thing to bankrupt. Somebody has to think of the finances of Holy Mother Church or it will cease to exist.”
“And you think an interest in White Horse Resources will give the Church that sort of relief?” asked Cardinal Ruffino.
“A holding interest would give us a foothold.”
“Grayle will never allow it.”
“Then perhaps we should try for a hostile one. We don’t have the capital, but we are friends with enough banks to get it.”
“He’d strip his assets and dissolve the company before you made your first telephone call.”
Neri gave Ruffino a scornful look. “And thus destroy an enemy. It seems worth a phone call, Your Eminence.”
“Should I really take you for such a fool, Signor Neri,” the cardinal replied, “or your friend Archbishop Abanndando beside you?”
Abanndando was an immensely fat man with a taste for handsome young priests, or even younger altar boys, when he could get them. More than once Ruffino had thought of placing an anonymous call to the press about this pig of a man. He knew nothing of real love, only satisfying his lusts. Abanndando suffered from asthma and wheezed when he spoke.
“Your predecessor Cardinal Spada knew his place in the order of things. He always followed the advice of this institution. He did not profess to know the ins and outs of his finance, Your Eminence,” chided the fat man.
Ruffino gave him a sour look. “He knew the ins and outs of this bank better than you know the ins and outs of an altar boy, Ab.” There was dead silence around the table. Abanndando turned the color of a ripe tomato and he began to wheeze and gasp so violently Neri had to guide him from the room.
“There was no need for that, Your Eminence,” said Vincent Lamberto, the chairman of the bank.
“There was every reason for it, Lamberto. Settling lawsuits about creatures like Abanndando is one of the things that have put the bank in this position. From my lofty ivory tower I can sometimes see the larger picture, and this I know already—a little more than seven hundred years ago we took Grayle’s forebears, and we excommunicated, imprisoned, tortured and eventually burned them at the stake, all because of money, all because a king would not pay his debts. This man and others like him have been our enemies for the better part of a millennium. A hostile takeover would only rain God knows what kind of horrors on the Church.”
Federico Mancini, the vice president of international banking, spoke up. Mancini was a force to be reckoned with despite his mild appearance and soft voice. Perhaps he was the snake in the mushrooms—the reptile at your feet you don’t see until it’s too late. “So what are you suggesting?”
“Extend the hand of friendship,” said Ruffino. “The Church needs allies now, not enemies.”
“Will Grayle take that hand?” Mancini asked.
The cardinal smiled. “If he doesn’t, then we shall cut his off.”
• • •
“We cannot stay here,” said Eddie, back at the camp
“Well enough, Signor Neri,” Ruffino answered. “One must step carefully when walking with dangerous men.”
“And he is, of course, Templarii, as we all know.”
“Grayle is a man of business before he is a Templar,” said the cardinal, “and he does not take it kindly that you have purchased every available share of his corporation you could get your hands on.”
“It has always been this bank’s practice to keep its enemies close, Your Eminence. What better way to keep him close than to buy him?”
“Or to make him suspicious of our motives.”
“You sit in your office and think lofty thoughts about foreign policy, and all the while the Church is the next best thing to bankrupt. Somebody has to think of the finances of Holy Mother Church or it will cease to exist.”
“And you think an interest in White Horse Resources will give the Church that sort of relief?” asked Cardinal Ruffino.
“A holding interest would give us a foothold.”
“Grayle will never allow it.”
“Then perhaps we should try for a hostile one. We don’t have the capital, but we are friends with enough banks to get it.”
“He’d strip his assets and dissolve the company before you made your first telephone call.”
Neri gave Ruffino a scornful look. “And thus destroy an enemy. It seems worth a phone call, Your Eminence.”
“Should I really take you for such a fool, Signor Neri,” the cardinal replied, “or your friend Archbishop Abanndando beside you?”
Abanndando was an immensely fat man with a taste for handsome young priests, or even younger altar boys, when he could get them. More than once Ruffino had thought of placing an anonymous call to the press about this pig of a man. He knew nothing of real love, only satisfying his lusts. Abanndando suffered from asthma and wheezed when he spoke.
“Your predecessor Cardinal Spada knew his place in the order of things. He always followed the advice of this institution. He did not profess to know the ins and outs of his finance, Your Eminence,” chided the fat man.
Ruffino gave him a sour look. “He knew the ins and outs of this bank better than you know the ins and outs of an altar boy, Ab.” There was dead silence around the table. Abanndando turned the color of a ripe tomato and he began to wheeze and gasp so violently Neri had to guide him from the room.
“There was no need for that, Your Eminence,” said Vincent Lamberto, the chairman of the bank.
“There was every reason for it, Lamberto. Settling lawsuits about creatures like Abanndando is one of the things that have put the bank in this position. From my lofty ivory tower I can sometimes see the larger picture, and this I know already—a little more than seven hundred years ago we took Grayle’s forebears, and we excommunicated, imprisoned, tortured and eventually burned them at the stake, all because of money, all because a king would not pay his debts. This man and others like him have been our enemies for the better part of a millennium. A hostile takeover would only rain God knows what kind of horrors on the Church.”
Federico Mancini, the vice president of international banking, spoke up. Mancini was a force to be reckoned with despite his mild appearance and soft voice. Perhaps he was the snake in the mushrooms—the reptile at your feet you don’t see until it’s too late. “So what are you suggesting?”
“Extend the hand of friendship,” said Ruffino. “The Church needs allies now, not enemies.”
“Will Grayle take that hand?” Mancini asked.
The cardinal smiled. “If he doesn’t, then we shall cut his off.”
• • •
“We cannot stay here,” said Eddie, back at the camp
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