Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  "What's the plan?" he demanded.

  She shook her head. "I don't think it would be prudent for me to tell you."

  "Well, why will it take a while? His Holiness is anxious for us to make progress."

  "I understand. But this is... delicate. You had to convince me; now I have to convince someone else."

  Fieri raised a hand in warning. "You must not reveal my identity," he insisted. "You must not mention the Holy Father. No one must know who wants this information."

  "Of course. Again, I understand. She will not know anything about you. But still she must be prepared. I will be asking her to commit an act of betrayal, and it won't be easy for her."

  Fieri gazed at Miranda with wonder. What had caused this transformation? She sounded like—like a Vatican veteran. Had he somehow accomplished this, or had he just chosen more wisely than he had imagined? Whatever the reason, he was grateful. His other sources were not providing him with what he needed. Whatever Donato and Riccielli were up to, it was hidden somewhere out of reach of conventional means of investigation. Which was not surprising, though certainly frustrating. But he was beginning to have confidence in this girl, since she so obviously now had confidence in herself. "Miranda," he said in his most ingratiating tone, "I am counting on you. The Holy Father is counting on you."

  "I know," she replied, holding his gaze. "And I will not let you down."

  * * *

  Lucia Gaspari continued to worry about the English girl, no matter how much she tried to put her out of her mind. Miranda did not seem strong enough to survive a failed love affair with a priest. And fail it must, of course. Priests were like married men, only worse, because they presumed they had a better excuse for ending a relationship. For the good of the Church, they could say. Our Lord demands it. They could go to confession, wipe the affair clean from their consciences, then carry on as if nothing had happened, as if they had not broken an innocent girl's heart.

  Lucia did not want Miranda Cromwell to end up cynical and suspicious and unwilling to risk falling in love again—did not want her to end up like herself. But how could it be prevented, when she had already given herself to this wretched monsignor? Lucia knew the feeling only too well. Your heart is bursting with unspoken passion, bursting with the need to love, and no one notices, everyone thinks you are a shy secretary content with your quiet life. And then suddenly you find an outlet for your passion, and your life is transformed. You cannot imagine going back to your old life, and you cannot imagine this passion happening to you again. So you must see it through, even if your brain tells you it is hopeless, that you are dooming yourself to greater unhappiness, greater loneliness, than you had felt before.

  They started taking walks together at lunchtime, and Miranda would bring her up to date on the affair. At first the younger woman was hopeful. "He told me again that he can't live without me," she said, with her usual touching naiveté. "He is going to petition to be laicized. He is going to talk to his superiors and straighten everything out."

  "Do you really think he will?" Lucia asked.

  "Oh yes, of course. He admits that he should have done this a long time ago—just as you said he should. He knows there will be problems—because of his position in the Curia, you see, and his family. But he doesn't care, he will do anything rather than risk losing me. It's not as if he's the only priest this has ever happened to. You'll see, Lucia, it'll all turn out for the best. I just know it."

  But Lucia knew otherwise. So she was hardly surprised the next day when she saw Miranda's downcast expression. Miranda didn't want to talk about the situation. "We need to give these things time," she said, but without conviction, as if she were reciting from a script.

  "He didn't do it, did he?" Lucia said. "He didn't talk to his superiors."

  Miranda didn't respond.

  Lucia put her hand on the younger woman's arm. "You need to understand, Miranda, that men—"

  "That's not it at all," Miranda interrupted with sudden passion. "It's you who don't understand." She put her hand to her mouth, as if regretting the outburst. "I'm sorry," she said. "But he did go to them, you see. He did talk to them. He explained everything, told them everything. He was wonderful."

  She fell silent.

  "And?" Lucia prompted.

  "And—" Miranda took a breath, steeling herself. "They already knew."

  "Already knew what? About his relationship with you?"

  She nodded, her chin wobbling with approaching tears. "They knew everything—about him, about us. He said—they have a videotape. These people—they are very powerful—they have spies..."

  "All the more reason for your friend to get out, then," Lucia said. "How can he stay in an organization that does that sort of thing?"

  "Yes, but don't you see? They won't let him go. They are threatening to make a scandal. They have friends in the media, there would be terrible publicity—his family would be devastated. His mother is in delicate health..."

  Miranda's voice trailed off. To Lucia, this all sounded like yet another excuse—more grandiose than any Signor Donato had used, but the same basic idea. It would kill my poor aged mother. Indeed. "Did you ask him why his superiors are so intent on keeping him?" she demanded. "Surely he can't be that valuable to them. How can they think he'd continue to do his job, after what they've done to him?"

  Miranda shook her head. "No, you don't understand," she sobbed. "They don't care about his job. It's—it's me they want."

  "You? What do you mean? Why you?"

  Miranda looked around before speaking, as if to search for spies lurking in the bushes. "They are out to destroy Signor Donato and Cardinal Riccielli," she whispered.

  Lucia stopped short. "What?" she said, uncertain that she had understood Miranda's Italian.

  "I don't know why," Miranda went on. "Please don't ask me why. It is the Vatican. People seem to take pleasure in destroying others. They want me to find information about the bank. Evidence of wrongdoing. They are certain that it's there, and that it will implicate Signor Donato and His Eminence. They want me to get it for them."

  This was outrageous. "You must tell me who this monsignor of yours is," Lucia commanded. "You must tell me who he works for. We'll put a stop to this."

  Miranda's eyes widened with fright, and she shook her head. "No, no, I can't. If they find out I've told anyone, he is doomed. And that means I am doomed."

  "But Miranda, this is absurd. What can they expect you to know about the secret workings of the bank? You're merely a payroll clerk."

  "They suppose that I have friends," Miranda replied, and she was unable to meet Lucia's gaze.

  Lucia stared at her, and then started walking swiftly back toward the bank. If she couldn't get anything out of Miranda, then perhaps Signor Donato could. And even if he couldn't, he needed to be informed. This could not be allowed to happen. He would know how to proceed.

  At the door to the bank she turned back. Miranda was walking slowly along the path, head down, looking utterly bereft. Lucia let out a frustrated sigh. Well, what was she supposed to do? Let them destroy the man for whom she had worked for almost twenty years? To save this—this child's love affair, which was doomed no matter what she or anyone else did? It was absurd.

  She went inside and returned to her office. Miranda didn't stop by, for which Lucia was grateful. She had had quite enough of Miranda for today.

  Donato came out of the inner office after a while and dropped some sheets on her desk. "Clean these up, please," he said, without looking at her. "Then make seven copies." He returned inside and shut the door. He had gained even more weight lately, she noticed. For a long time she had thought his weight somehow comforting, even attractive in a way; now it struck her as almost grotesque. He'll have a heart attack before he's fifty, she thought. She glanced at the sheets of paper, on which he had scrawled a memo. He didn't know how to type; he scarcely knew how to spell. That was why she was there, after all—why bother doing something if Lucia could be made
to do it?

  Such thoughts were pointless, though. She had many complaints about Andrea, but that didn't mean she wanted to destroy him. It was unthinkable. She set to work on his memo, putting Miranda out of her mind.

  She stayed late, as usual, long past when Donato had gone home to his family and his evening bottle of wine. Then she took the bus to her little apartment; after all these years, she still couldn't afford a car on the salary the Vatican paid her. Her cats rushed to greet her, mewing and rubbing up against her legs, then heading off to the kitchen for the meal they required in return for the display of affection. Lucia took care of them, then changed into comfortable clothes and sat in front of the TV in her small, crowded living room. The room was filled with photographs—of her cats, of her many nephews and nieces, of Donato's children, sent to her by Andrea's ever-thoughtful wife.

  She was loved. Yes, Aunt Lucia had a special place in many hearts. She liked to sit here, surrounded by those smiling faces, and plan what she would do for the next one's birthday or First Communion. They had all come to expect something special from Aunt Lucia.

  There were no statues or crucifixes or religious pictures in the living room. She had long since lost whatever piety she'd once had. Working in the Vatican had done nothing to elevate her view of the Church. She thought of Cardinal Riccielli, whom Donato seemed to think of with something approaching awe, but who to her was little more than a dreary bureaucrat in red robes. The Vatican seemed to be filled with such creatures. What had they ever done for her? What had their God ever done for her?

  And now they had poor Miranda in their clutches. They had taken her unsullied love and turned it to their own sinister purposes. Was Lucia supposed to be grateful for this? Was she supposed to let her new friend be destroyed?

  Was she supposed to let Andrea be destroyed?

  There was a foolish comedy show on TV—people acting stupid while the studio audience applauded wildly. Lucia had tried never to act stupid. Yet here she was, alone, watching television until the evening mercifully ended and she could go to bed. Alone, as she had been for too many evenings, for too many years.

  Stupid.

  Did Andrea think she was stupid? Did he secretly delight in how he had taken advantage of her? More likely he didn't think about her at all, or thought it only his due that she would continue to devote herself to him after all these years.

  In either case, his trust in her was complete. Why shouldn't it be? He would no more expect her to betray him than he would expect it of his dog.

  Was it possible that he had made a mistake?

  Lucia rose and turned off the TV. Anything is possible, she thought, as she went into the kitchen to prepare her frugal dinner. Anything is possible.

  * * *

  The next day Miranda didn't want to go for a walk at lunch, but Lucia insisted. Miranda looked frightened, as if she expected a lecture or a threat. Gray clouds threatened rain, and Miranda folded her arms tightly against her body to ward off the chill air.

  "Have you responded to these people yet?" Lucia asked.

  Miranda shook her head. "I don't know what to say to them," she replied in a small voice.

  "Miranda, I need to know: how can you be sure—" Lucia paused, realizing her tone was too querulous. She started over, more softly. "Have you considered the possibility—and I'm not saying it's true, just that it's a possibility—that this whole thing, even your relationship with this monsignor, has been a plot?"

  Miranda stared at her, uncomprehending. "I don't understand," she said.

  This was going to be hard, Lucia thought. Was it worth it? "What if this was what they were after from the beginning—to get you romantically involved with the monsignor, then blackmail you to do their bidding?"

  Miranda's eyes teared up. "You mean—you think it's all a lie? You think—you think that my friend is part of this, that he never loved me?"

  "I didn't say that, dear. I'm just wondering if it's a possibility. These older men, they can be very smooth, very believable. You think it's love, and to them it's something entirely different."

  "He loves me," Miranda gasped, scarcely able to make a sound. "I know he loves me." She turned away as a couple passed them on the narrow path, walking arm in arm.

  "Miranda, I think you need to be open to the—"

  "No!" Her voice was suddenly clear and insistent. The couple turned around, startled. "It's real, Lucia," she went on, lowering her voice. "I'm not fantasizing. I'm not making this up. He loves me, and he is a victim, too. They are evil people, but they have his life—and mine—in their hands. I need to find a way to do what they are demanding. And if I can't—if I can't have him—then I'm better off dead."

  Shocked and frightened, Lucia put her hand on Miranda's arm. "You mustn't say that, Miranda," she said. "You mustn't even think it."

  Miranda gazed at her and said nothing. But Lucia could feel the meaning of her gaze like a cold hand grasping her heart. Why stay alive? it demanded. Why stay alive and end up like you? "Please," Lucia said. "Please don't—don't do anything. Give me some time to think. There may be something—I don't know. Something you can give them."

  "But what should I say to them now?" Miranda asked, as if not believing what she had heard. "My friend is becoming desperate. These people are relentless. They have no mercy."

  "Tell them—tell them you are making progress."

  Miranda's eyes finally lit up with hope. She reached out and hugged Lucia, burying her face in the older woman's sweater. "Thank you," she sobbed. "You're my only hope. You're my salvation."

  Lucia could say nothing. Was she God now? God judges, then He saves—or condemns. The power was hers—had always been hers, she realized. The question was how to use it. She stroked Miranda's hair, and wondered whom she would choose to condemn.

  * * *

  Miranda dreamed of him now, with his large, liquid brown eyes gazing at her, infinitely understanding, infinitely trusting. Darling, my fate is in your hands. How could she let him down? How could she risk losing him? His hand reached out to her, and she grasped it; his touch was warm and reassuring. They belonged together; they were one. But then he wasn't there, his body dissolved into darkness, and she was lying in bed alone, confused and frightened once again, a simple English girl in a foreign land, playing a game whose risks she could not begin to comprehend.

  But then her mind focused on Jesus, and she began to calm down. What was there to worry about? Hadn't He shown her the way so far? She couldn't have done it on her own. I will trust in You, she thought, just as You trust in me. Their fates were really in each other's hands. And she would not let Him down.

  She would win the game, and He would love her for it.

  Chapter 25

  Captain Ryan called Morelli into his office and chewed her out. She had been sloughing off assignments, missing meetings, failing to return important phone calls. What did she think she was up to?

  Morelli couldn't really argue with him. She had been screwing up. She had been daydreaming about Joe Hurley; she had been obsessing about Bandini. And everything else had started to slide.

  "Is there anything going on?" Ryan asked. "Any reason you're not doing your job?"

  Would he listen if she told him about Bandini? Or would that just make him angrier? She was pretty sure she knew the answer. No way she could tell him about Hurley. "No, nothing," she replied. "I'll try to do better."

  "Do more than try," Ryan said, and he waved her away.

  But still she couldn't focus on her job. She kept thinking about Bandini, and the look on his face behind that windshield. Why was it so terrifying—and so familiar? It wasn't just that he was trying to kill her; there was something more going on, and she couldn't figure it out.

  So she pressed ahead, ignoring Ryan's warning. She talked to the State Police detective in charge of the Leahy murder investigation. They continued to treat it as related to the robbery of the gas station, but still had no suspects, and they didn't sound especially optimi
stic about coming up with any. She brought up Leahy's connection with Bandini, and the possibility that the murder had something to do with the Protectors of the Unborn. Joe Hurley's promise to Leahy's wife was Joe's problem; she needed to protect the pope. Like Lafferty, only much more pleasant, the State Police detective was only mildly interested; he had his theory, and he was focused on that. Bandini's prints weren't going to be helpful; there were no useful prints at the crime scene. Clearly she needed something more; she needed the link to be stronger.

  She decided to return to Bandini's apartment in Roxbury. She hadn't been thinking straight when she searched it before; maybe she had overlooked something. It still wasn't legal, but she still couldn't bring herself to care. After all, she told herself, it didn't matter if Bandini could beat a conviction, as long as they got to him before he harmed the pope.

  She arrived back on Grinnell Street in the middle of the afternoon. It was a sunny late-spring day, and the street seemed very different from the one she had visited just a couple of days ago. The guy in dreadlocks was gone. In his place two little girls were actually playing jump rope on the sidewalk. There was no sign of Bandini's green Honda. Still, the memories remained, a strange mixture of fear and frustration and sexual tension. This was not a good place to be.

  The door of Bandini's apartment had not been repaired, but it was closed, and the damage was not obvious to the casual passerby. She tried the knob, and the door opened. She took out her gun and once again went cautiously inside.

  The apartment was empty. In daylight, with the bright sunshine pouring in, it seemed even more dreary and rundown than when she had seen it before. She looked again for clues to Bandini's identity or purpose, without success. Finally she returned to the bedroom and studied the photograph of the pope, looking serene and prayerful in his white cassock. What would her father have thought of a black pope? she wondered. Her father had had little good to say about blacks, whose problems he took to be evidence of their inability or refusal to live moral American lives. He probably would have been a big fan of Ed McAllister, she thought. But the Church was the embodiment of all truth and wisdom, and the pope was the embodiment of the Church, so—