Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  At which the reporter leaned forward on the couch and asked, "Mrs. McKee, does it bother you at all that Erin seems able to cure others, but has such severe, uh, challenges herself?"

  Let's hear an honest answer to that one, Mike thought.

  Sandra merely shrugged. "We love Erin with all our hearts. I wish she were a normal little girl and could have all the joys of a normal childhood. But if that isn't to be, I know she's happy even so, and she's given us great happiness as well. So I think we need to be grateful, no matter what."

  She didn't bring up the pope, but the reporter did, near the close of the interview, as if she were reading from Sandra's script. "Do you think Pope John would be interested in meeting Erin when he comes to Boston?"

  "Obviously the pope will be very busy," Sandra replied. "But I think—well, I do think it would be worth some of his time to meet Erin. In a strange way, I believe they have a lot in common."

  It was an astonishing performance—all the more astonishing because Mike wasn't absolutely sure it was a performance. After the reporter left, she was pumped. "The story will be great, I just know it," she said. "That woman absolutely fell in love with Erin. Why wouldn't she, of course? I'll wait a couple of days after the story comes out, and then I'll contact the archdiocese. I wonder if I should let the reporter know. That would put more pressure on them, but maybe they won't respond well to pressure. I don't want them to think I'm just looking for publicity or something. What do you think?"

  What could Mike say to that? I think this whole thing is crazy, and I have no idea what you're doing.

  "Maybe only contact her if they turn you down," he suggested. "Get a follow-up story."

  "Right. Good idea."

  Mike watched her happily cleaning up after the reporter's visit, and he thought, as he had before: This is as much a miracle as anything. Sandra, the Church's greatest enemy, was now convinced that God was interceding in her life, and she was angling to meet the Church's leader in the hope of obtaining yet another miracle. Move over, Saint Paul. Something equally astounding had happened to Sandra McKee on her own road to Damascus.

  Mike was delighted to see her upbeat and full of purpose. He didn't want to do anything to dampen her enthusiasm. He had seen the effect of his initial outburst on her, and that had given him sufficient warning about her state of mind. She had been looking for something like this for a long time, he understood. She had never completely given in, even as their life settled into a new routine after the accident and the operations and the endless consultations with endlessly pessimistic doctors.

  But the more upbeat Sandra became, the more depressed Mike found himself becoming, as if in an attempt to keep the family in psychological equilibrium. He didn't pretend to understand what was going on with Erin, but Sandra's idea that she had somehow intuited God's plan, and that it involved the pope magically repairing Erin's shattered brain, struck him as utter lunacy. And he could see it causing them nothing but pain in the long run, no matter how much excitement Sandra felt now. What if the pope didn't make room in his schedule to meet Erin? Would Sandra pursue him across America? Would she camp out in Saint Peter's Square when he returned to the Vatican? And where would they get the money to pay for all that?

  Or, worse, how would she feel if her wish were granted, they had their audience with the pope, and... nothing happened? Mike was convinced that would be the outcome, though he couldn't hope to convince Sandra. Even if you believed in God and miracles and the whole shebang, you still had to make a wild leap of faith to reach the conclusion that she had reached. It was a leap Mike wasn't about to make. And so the question haunted him: at the end of the day, when the pope had gone back to the Vatican and they had to pick up their old lives once again, how would they carry on?

  Whenever Mike contemplated his future now, he felt as if his life was slipping away from him. He had already lost his privacy, with reporters poking around in his family's private pain and strangers trying to grab moments of his daughter's time. And now he felt as if he were in danger of losing Sandra. He could sense how it would be when her dream was shattered; she would retreat even further inside herself until there was nothing left to share, until there was no life together except the day-to-day struggle of caring for Erin. If she wasn't already, maybe she would become obsessed with the healings, with the miracles Erin could accomplish. If so, Mike wasn't interested. More likely, she would stop the healings altogether. But that didn't mean she would be there for him. He would get nothing but random pieces of her attention. The rest would simply go elsewhere.

  They put Erin to bed together, as they did every night. She didn't say "Ope" very often, but, like Sandra, she seemed especially happy lately. Would she know when the dream had been shattered?

  "God bless you, honey," Sandra whispered, tucking her in.

  Erin smiled and closed her eyes.

  "It's getting closer," Sandra said afterward. "I can feel it."

  "That's wonderful," Mike replied. But he could feel nothing. And that didn't bode well for any of them.

  They went to bed without saying anything more.

  * * *

  George Prouse moved into a small furnished apartment in Boston's South End. He leased a car, but he left it in a garage and used it sparingly. Often he just wandered through the city. Everything interested him, from the strip malls to the museums. He listened to the variations of the Boston accent and tried them out himself, changing from Back Bay Brahmin to South Boston Irish.

  And he met women. Women were attracted to him, to his black hair turning gray at the edges and the green eyes that stared deeply into their own, and of course to his cultivated British accent and manner. Waitresses lingered at his table; saleswomen were eager and attentive when he shopped. And he, in turn, liked women, liked listening to them and watching them move.

  He liked taking them to Red Sox games. They found his interest in baseball as astonishing as the cab driver had when he first arrived in Boston. But he explained that he loved America, and so he had to love baseball, which was such an important part of America. And this made him even more intriguing and attractive to them, so that even if they didn't have the slightest interest in baseball themselves, they were happy to sit through the long games with him, happy to be at Fenway Park and the object of his attentions.

  And late at night, when the women were gone and his wanderings were over for the day, the phone calls would come. He would listen carefully, sitting on his rented couch. Then he would hang up and make his plans in the post-midnight silence. Things were moving, and he had to prepare himself for whatever was going to happen.

  And that was when he truly enjoyed himself.

  Chapter 13

  After due deliberation Monsignor Paolo Fieri decided that sex would be the key to his investigation of the Vatican Bank. He didn't reach this conclusion lightly, and he felt no titillation or even amusement at the prospect. Sex was a tool like any other. The pope would not be pleased if he found out, but the pope would never know. He would get his results, and that was what mattered.

  Things were going much better for Fieri lately than he had any reason to expect, and the satisfactory completion of this little task would only improve matters. His bags had been packed by the time the old pope died; he'd been scouting out opportunities for a while, knowing that the end was approaching, and he'd lined up a post in one of the congregations that could perhaps lead to bigger things. It would not be the same as what he'd had, but what could be?

  Then Gurdani was elected and plans changed. Unlike any of the better known candidates, Gurdani was utterly unprepared for his new role. He had an aide with him from back home, but Fieri quickly sized him up as a pious and amiable nonentity, someone who could take charge of the pope's underwear but nothing serious. So Fieri met with the new pope and made his case. You need help. I can give it to you. Keep me on for a while, and I will show you. If I'm not what you need, get rid of me.

  And then he was subjected to the pope's already
famous gaze, the brown eyes searching his for signs of hypocrisy or evil intent. But Fieri was strangely unafraid. He had nothing to hide. He did not pretend to be anything that he wasn't. He was not a saint. He was not even particularly brilliant. He was simply a man who knew how to get things done.

  And the pope smiled his little smile and told him to unpack his bags. So Fieri remained at the center of things, and there was no reason why he couldn't stay there; he needed only to do his job. And his only job was to keep Pope John the Twenty-Fourth happy.

  To begin with, then, the Vatican Bank. A frontal assault was out of the question, even if the pope had given him the power to carry one out. Donato, and particularly Riccielli, were too smart to succumb easily. It would be expensive, time-consuming, messy, and politically impractical to do a full-scale audit, on nothing more than a suspicion, on whispers of wrongdoing. No, Fieri had to get at the truth by indirection and subtlety. He was comfortable with this; he was a creature of the Vatican, after all, and this was how the Vatican worked.

  Sex was not precisely how the Vatican worked, but it had its place. The Vatican was made up of people, and people, no matter how religious, have needs and desires. If you want something from them, you have to understand how to meet those needs, to fulfill those desires.

  Fieri thought he understood Miranda Cromwell.

  He had met her at a reception. She was a nervous young woman who could have been vaguely pretty in a horsey, British sort of way, but was unwilling or unable to make the effort to be attractive. Her brown hair hung limply alongside her face, and her unstylish glasses hid the sparkle of her green eyes, which in any event refused to make contact with your own. She had a hunched-over way of standing and walking that suggested that she wanted to disappear inside herself. She yearned for religion, he suspected, the way most girls yearned for boys. But she hadn't entered the convent—her self-esteem was apparently too low to consider herself worthy of becoming the bride of Christ. To work at the Vatican, though—in the living heart of the Catholic faith—well, that was something, wasn't it?

  Even if she was merely a clerk in the Vatican Bank.

  Fieri could simply ask her what she knew, telling her the Holy Father required her cooperation, but this would not produce the desired results. She would be terrified. She would know little to begin with; her cooperation would be merely dutiful and would yield little more. No, he had to get further than that. He had to make her a conspirator. A conspirator for Christ. Yes, that was what he needed.

  And that, he believed, required time and patience. It required becoming part of Miranda Cromwell's life. And that was what he set out to do.

  The Vatican Bank was located in a modern-looking structure in the base of the Tower of Nicholas the Fifth, behind the Swiss Guards' barracks. Fieri did not want to go inside; if Riccielli or Donato caught sight of him there, they were bound to be suspicious. So he lingered nearby at closing time and waited until the employees came straggling out. Miranda, as he expected, was alone, walking quickly, head down.

  "Miss Cromwell," he murmured in English as she hurried past.

  She looked up, frightened and embarrassed.

  "Miss Cromwell," he repeated. "Do you remember me? Paolo Fieri. We met at the reception for the British ambassador a year ago."

  She nodded, her face crimson. "Yes, of course, Monsignor," she said in a rushed, breathy voice, her eyes unable to meet his. "How are you?"

  "Quite well. May I walk with you?"

  She nodded again, eyes still downcast, then silently set off. Heading for the bus stop outside the Vatican gates, Fieri supposed. For her small flat, where she would change into comfortable clothes, then microwave a dinner and—what? Listen to classical music, perhaps—Elgar, Handel?—while she read devotional literature or said the rosary. No boyfriend, he was certain. Had she ever had a boyfriend?

  Fieri was not an unattractive man. He was a little given to fat—he liked to play tennis, but found he had more opportunities to eat well than to exercise. His features were strong, and he still had all his hair, with just a becoming touch of gray in the sideburns. He knew, though, that the real source of his attraction, at least for some women, lay in his Roman collar, in the aura of sanctity and, strangely, menace that the priesthood gave him. Menace, because to approach too close might threaten that sanctity, and such women would feel inexpressible guilt at being responsible for his fall. They wanted him; they did not want to want him. They became confused, desperate, helpless.

  He was sure that Miranda Cromwell was such a woman.

  "I trust things are going well for you at the Istituto?" he asked. His English was excellent—something that had also been in his favor with the new pope, he assumed.

  "Oh yes, quite well."

  "And you haven't yet become homesick for England?"

  She shook her head. "No, not at all. This is where I want to be."

  "That is wonderful. We are quite lucky to have you here."

  Miranda looked as if she might faint.

  "I wonder if you might have time to join me for a cup of coffee before you go home?" Fieri asked. "I realize this is an imposition, but there is something I wanted to discuss with you."

  "No, it's not—I mean yes, of course. Whatever you like."

  "Wonderful. I know a little café nearby—perhaps you've been there as well?" Fieri started talking about food and coffee and restaurants as they walked, trying to calm her down. She would be frantically trying to figure out what he wanted to discuss. But he needed to move slowly—he needed to connect with her, to draw her in.

  They reached the café in a few minutes. It was crowded with people stopping on their way home from work, but they found an empty table in the corner and sat down. Fieri ordered coffee and a pastry; he offered Miranda suggestions about which pastries she might enjoy, but she could not be persuaded to have anything more than a mineral water. She fingered her glass nervously; Fieri sipped his coffee. It wouldn't take much more than a healthy dose of self-confidence to make her attractive, he considered. What had prevented her from getting it—overbearing parents? a nasty older brother? It was too bad. But of course, if she had that self-confidence, she wouldn't be of much use to him.

  "Miss Cromwell—may I call you Miranda?"—she nodded and blushed—"obviously I didn't run into you by accident. The fact of the matter is, His Holiness has given me an important assignment, and in considering how to carry it out, I thought of you."

  "Me?" she whispered, as if the word were unfamiliar to her.

  "Yes, you, Miranda. But I just don't know if you are the right person. I have to make sure that I can trust you."

  "But of course you can trust me, Monsignor!" she exclaimed, for the first time showing an emotion besides nervousness. "I would do anything the Holy Father wanted."

  Fieri nodded gravely and leaned forward. "Tell me about yourself, Miranda," he said. "What brings you to the Vatican? What are your hopes and dreams?"

  More blushes. Had anyone asked her such questions before? He wasn't especially interested in the answers; he was interested in the connection the answers would bring. "What can I say, Monsignor?" she began. "I just want to serve the Church. I—I studied Italian at university and after I graduated I thought..." Her voice trailed off, unable to explain what she thought.

  Fieri shook his head. "Please, Miranda. I need to know you. You must help me."

  Miranda's eyes glanced around the room, as if trying to find help there, or at least keep from returning Fieri's penetrating gaze. "There's nothing, really—" she tried, and then it was she who shook her head, realizing that it wouldn't do. "I converted when I was seventeen," she said abruptly, as if she had made up her mind. "My family is Church of England, not very devout, and they just couldn't understand. First they thought it was a 'phase,' as they say, and then they thought there was something wrong with me. They couldn't comprehend why I would even care about religion, much less why I would become a Catholic. They made me see a—a therapist." She pronounced the word
as if it were an obscenity. "They thought I could be cured. Cured of God's love. Well, I shan't be cured." Her nervousness had disappeared in her rage against her family. "God's love brought me here to the Vatican," she went on, "and I pray that someday they will come to understand that."

  Now that was more interesting, Fieri thought, sipping his coffee. "God's love is a strange and marvelous thing," he murmured.

  "Oh yes it is," she gushed. "If only I could make them—and everyone—see."

  "Do you think Cardinal Riccielli experiences God's love?" Fieri asked abruptly.

  Just as abruptly Miranda turned nervous and uncertain again. "I suppose so," she said. "I don't—I've never really spoken to His Eminence."

  "What about Andrea Donato?"

  "Signor Donato? Well yes, I think—I mean, I can't say, really. I am sure he is a religious man, but he often seems..."

  Her voice trailed off. "Seems what?" Fieri prompted. "Nervous? Distracted? Worried?"

  "He has a very important position," Miranda responded meekly.

  "He does indeed," Fieri agreed. He finished his coffee. "Let me think about this, Miranda," he said.

  "About—about what?"

  "About the assignment, and whether you are right for it."

  "But if His Holiness wishes—"

  Fieri shook his head. "I must consider the situation carefully. I cannot afford to make a mistake. Can we talk again?"

  "Of course, but—"

  Fieri arose and put down some notes to pay the bill. "Thank you, Miranda. You have been very patient, and most understanding. I will be in touch."

  He left before she could respond. He felt reasonably satisfied as he walked back to the Vatican. She might have been persuaded then and there, but he thought it better to give her time to obsess about what he wanted, to wonder why he had ended the conversation so quickly—to make her more determined to please him.

  He waited a couple of days, and then called her at home. "Can we speak, Miranda—in person?"