Bianca
"It's phenomenal, Raphael." Bianca looked up from the report she held. "Seventy-five million dollars profit from the Lemay campaign alone. I had no idea George was so good with advertising."
"He's more than good, my Dear. He's a genius." Munoz pointed his index finger toward the report. "That's net profit. We've paid enough taxes to the Transnational group to fill their war chests to the brim, support the cost of all their military research, and pay their Senate salaries. What's left over will more than take care of their poor and needy—or whatever."
"I thought the Vatican was tax exempt."
"Not any more. We agreed to pay taxes for the privilege of introducing Lemay Cosmetics to the Transnational population." Leaning back in his chair, he tented his fingers beneath his chin. "A small price to pay, don't you think?"
"I'm not so sure, Raphael. That influx of tax dollars could be dangerous. We're receiving requests from the Transnationals on a daily basis now. All military oriented and all paid for with cash."
"Such requests could take years to perfect. Will take years. Is that not so?"
"For the most part, yes. But that's not the point. The Transnationals are gearing up, Raphael. If we aren't careful, we're going to find ourselves right in the middle of a global war."
"The Triune nations, the Eastern Bloc—they are not catching up?"
"What do you think?"
Munoz grinned. "Balance is everything, Bianca. Until that is removed, there will be no war."
Bianca said, "I hope you know what you are doing, Raphael. I really do." God help us if the public ever finds out who owns Tartarus, she thought. Or Deuteronomy International, or The Kayman Keys or the hundreds of other organizations he has scattered around the globe.
As if he had read her thoughts, Munoz spoke. "Stop fretting. The Plan is solid, built on a truth far greater than you or I or the Church."
"Many truths have fallen beneath the sword, Raphael," she said wryly. "If you continue to support the military ambitions of every major nation on this globe, yours may be one of them."
He threw his head back and laughter rolled across the room. "I continue to support because those ambitions are mere shadows in the grand scheme of things. Besides, if they're concentrating on their own objectives, they can't focus on mine. Has that mind of yours been so engrossed with George Kayman that you have forgotten the other elements necessary to gain world ownership?" He wiped the moisture of laughter from his eyes.
Bianca felt the sting of anger spot her cheeks. "Do not laugh at me, Raphael."
He sobered instantly. "Oh, my dear, my dear. It is not you I am laughing at. It is the world. How they fight each other for supremacy, how weak and divided they become while I . . . We grow in strength. Do you not see the humor in that?" He glanced at his watch. "Enough chatting. I must finish this report before Vittorio arrives."
Bianca leaned against the window sill and looked down into the piazza. The fountain, lit from below, sprayed upward to form water tulips of green, blue, and dark amber. The fragrance of roses drifted and eddied. The grounds are beautiful, she thought, but not as beautiful as my bluff palace. Her eyes lifted and she gazed out at the city sprawled all around the Vatican domain, the lights twinkling like ground stars. Lights that were supplied by grid power that pulsed across the lands from massive fusion plants half a continent away. Her mouth drew into a broad smile. Of course. How could I have forgotten. The fusion plants! Specifically concentrated in, and designed to be controlled from, the Triune lands. And the Church holds the Triune reins. One flip of the switch would close down every grid in the World and then where would military might come from? Of what use if their equipment received no grid signal?
Chuckling to herself, she turned back to the man sitting at the large desk behind her. Her face grew thoughtful. How did it feel to be the Pope of Universals, to have such power? When all was said and done and the plan was fulfilled, would he keep his promise? Would he share his throne with her?
She studied the face bent so intently over the papers before him and nodded to herself. Yes. He would keep that promise. Raphael Munoz was as intricately bound to her as she was to him.
His handsome profile excited her and she welcomed the desire that washed through her thighs. With a final glance out the window, she turned, silently walked behind him, and thumbs digging gently, she massaged his shoulders. Reaching up, he absently patted her hand.
"You'll have to wait, my dear. Vittorio will be here any minute. In this office, I am Pope Munoz, not Raphael Munoz."
She kissed the back of his neck, let her lips move to his earlobe.
Lifting his arm higher, he grasped her hair and pulled her face down to his. His breathing grew shallow as she forced her tongue between his teeth to caress the roof of his mouth. Twisting around, he pulled her onto his lap. His hand slid up the inside of her leg.
"Jezebel incarnate. That’s who you are, Bianca Raborman," he whispered at last. "A wicked woman, indeed."
"I've been called that before." Her fingers stroked the length of his erection one more time before she jumped up and moved around his desk to sit in a maroon leather chair.
"Does he still call you wicked?"
She flushed. "Occasionally. But not for the same reasons," she said boldly. She looked into the glittering blackness of Munoz's eyes and smiled. "Try not to keep Vittorio here too long, Raphael. I may not be able to wait," she said.
A discreet knock interrupted his reply and Vittorio glided into the room, crimson robes whispering in the silence. "I apologize for my tardiness, Holiness. The traffic from Banco was horrendous." He saw Bianca sitting in his customary chair. "Doctor Raborman! I didn't know you had arrived."
"Only just, Cardinal Morandi." She rose, sleek and fluid, and retreated to a couch against the far wall.
Vittorio brushed at the vacated chair as if matted hairs from a mongrel dog marred its surface. His nose twitched. Sitting on the edge of the chair, he leaned across his Pope's desk.
"That looks like a map of the desert."
"It is, Vittorio." Munoz swung the paper around to face the Cardinal. "When you were Minister of Land Holdings, you traveled this area extensively, did you not?" His finger tapped on a spot east of the Moroccan High Atlas Mountains.
Vittorio nodded. "From Marrakesh to Erfoud to Cairo, Holiness. I made the journey many times."
"Here, in this area—there is water?"
"Only two wells and both are Tuareg controlled. If you're thinking of traveling through that desert, you'd be better off taking this route." Vittorio moved his finger two inches North. "Springs are more easily found."
"We have land options here," Munoz said, tapping his original position. "The wells are where?"
Vittorio studied the map landmarks. "One here and one here. The water is limited, though. It takes a long time to seep and the Tuareg take full advantage of that fact. Their price is high."
Munoz placed a mark at each spot Vittorio pointed out. "If We drilled, how deep would We have to go?"
"Two, three, four thousand feet. No one knows for sure. Previous attempts always came up dry sand and the sites were abandoned. Why would you want to drill wells? The Bedouins are happy with what they have."
"We're going to build a city that will draw thousands to that desert," Munoz said, "thousands of the wealthiest, most influential people in the world."
Vittorio leaned back into the chair. "Raphael, that land is nothing but desolate, uninhabited sand dunes. It's not likely to draw a crowd of ten, even if you do provide water. Besides that, we have no ownership rights to the land."
"The crowd We will draw won't demand much water, Vittorio," Munoz said reaching for his phone. "You say it is there. That's good enough for Us." He punched in a number. His finger tapped rhythmically as he waited. The tapping ceased.
"Exercise the option. Ten million cash," Munoz said into the phone without preface. "If it's Ours by noon Friday, another ten million. I have the well locations on my map. As soon as the signatures are in place, start drilling."
He listened then nodded his head. "Yes, Deuteronomy will build the city. Did you renew that young engineer's contract—what was his name?"
His head nodded vigorously. "That's the one. Dane Wyland. He has a gift for design. I don't care what it takes, I want him to run the project."
He replaced the hand set in its cradle and smiled at his cardinal. "Sleep under desert stars in the golden sands of eternity." Munoz waved his palm in a short arc. "That has a nice ring to it don't you think, Vittorio? The Golden Sands of Eternity. That little phrase of George Kayman's has brought in truckloads of advance reservations for Our preservation centers and requests are still pouring in. This new development will be the grandest of all." His laughter filled the room at Vittorio's shock. "We are now in the freezing business, Cardinal, thanks to Doctor Raborman."
Cardinal Morandi leaned to the side of his chair and stared at Bianca sitting in the shadows. He whirled back to Munoz. "You've gone too far, Raphael. The people will never accept Church participation in such a process. There will be an uprising."
"I don't think so, Vittorio. They have accepted the Pittman Scrolls and understand the finality of death. Body preservation is the next logical step if they would have everlasting life. The concept will not be difficult to embrace."
"You're mad, Raphael."
Munoz pulled away from the glow of the desk lamp. "Now, now, Vittorio. We have a guest present. Doctor Raborman will be in Rome for at least two weeks, possibly longer. Find a suitable hotel for her and a car." He didn't wait for an answer. "Doctor Raborman, if you will accompany Cardinal Morandi. Call me when you are settled. We will complete our business discussion over dinner."
From the couch, Bianca watched the Cardinal stare down at his Pope, his face tight and unreadable. This man has drawn a line beyond which he will not step, she thought. Raphael must take care or he could lose a valuable champion.
"Vittorio," she said. "Shall we go and let our Pope return to work?"
The spell was broken. Cardinal Morandi bowed slightly to his Pope. "Your Holiness."
He whirled and left the study. Bianca trailed behind.