Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

She couldn't deny she enjoyed the obvious interest Prouse took in her. But still, her conversation with Joe Hurley made her uneasy. She hadn't exactly expected him to be happy about Prouse, but she hadn't anticipated the tension she sensed in his voice. Why not, though? She was still feeling tense, and he had far more reason to brood about the situation than she did.

  She couldn't—wouldn't—think about Joe now. She had a ballgame to go to. She met Prouse in Kenmore Square, and they joined the fans streaming over the turnpike headed to Fenway. Prouse seemed enraptured to be part of the experience. "For almost a century people have been coming to watch baseball at Fenway Park," he said. "That's not long by European standards, but in America that makes it a venerable institution."

  "My father took me to a couple of games when I was a kid," she remarked. "All I remember is that the bathrooms were awful."

  Prouse laughed. "I suppose a little inconvenience is to be expected at a shrine."

  "No one told me it was a shrine." Her father would have found such an idea sacrilegious, she supposed. They went through the turnstiles and entered the shrine's inner sanctum. The concourse was filled with concession stands and hawkers shouting at her to get her program. Prouse led her through the crowds and up a ramp, and then the field appeared before her. It was beautiful, she had to admit. Under the bright lights, everything was almost too vivid, like a Technicolor movie: the grass was impossibly green, the Red Sox uniforms were preternaturally white. Too bad they had to spoil the scene by playing a game, she thought.

  Their seats were about ten rows back, behind the Red Sox dugout. Prouse started explaining things to her, as men liked to do, and she listened contentedly. He wasn't going to make her a baseball fan, but it was interesting to hear how an outsider viewed the sport, as opposed to some of the guys she worked with, who seemed to consider the fortunes of the Red Sox to be more important than those of their own family—or of Western Civilization, for that matter.

  "Do you see the left-field wall out there?" he asked, pointing to the large wall, topped by an equally large net, in the outfield.

  "The Green Monster," she said. She knew that much about Fenway Park, at least.

  "Indeed it is," Prouse replied. "It's thirty-seven feet tall and contains one of the last of the hand-operated scoreboards. While it's a unique and famous feature of the ballpark, it has probably harmed the fortunes of the Red Sox more than it's—" He glanced at her and then stopped, smiling. "Feel free to push the 'Pause' button when I start blithering," he said. "I do tend to get carried away, I fear."

  "Not at all," Morelli replied. "This is highly educational. I should know this stuff, considering I've lived here all my life. Kind of strange that I have to learn it from a foreigner, though."

  "I daresay it's not required knowledge, even for a native," Prouse said. "But I find it interesting."

  The game started. The first batter spat and scratched his crotch, and Morelli smiled, thinking of Hurley's description of the game. The pitcher seemed to be taking his time, as if reluctant to actually throw the ball and risk having it hit. But that was okay, because the batter seemed reluctant to swing at any of the pitches that came his way. Prouse had better be awfully charming, she thought, because otherwise it was going to be a long evening.

  And then she became aware of the presence looming in the aisle next to her. She looked up; it was Joe Hurley.

  She was so astonished that she couldn't speak. What was he doing here? And then her surprise turned to anger. It was his idea to break it off. Couldn't he leave her alone to get on with her life?

  He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at Prouse. Oh God, she thought, he isn't going to start a fight, is he? "Joe," she said. "What in the world are you—"

  Hurley's gaze shifted to her. "Can I speak to you in private?" he said.

  "What? Joe, this is nuts. Go home."

  Something happened on the field, and a guy behind them shouted, "Down in front!"

  Hurley crouched in the aisle. "In private," he repeated urgently. "It's important."

  Morelli looked over at Prouse. He arched an eyebrow and looked at her quizzically. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

  "Yeah—uh, would you excuse me for a minute?"

  "Of course."

  Morelli followed Hurley down the stairs to the concourse. He was wearing civvies—jeans and a khaki jacket. "What the hell are you doing here, Joe?" she demanded. "This is really—"

  "I think you're in danger," Hurley said. "This guy is not George Prouse."

  "What?"

  "The real George Prouse is in Paris," he explained. "Has been all week. I talked to him today. This guy's an impostor."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I called the European Observer," Hurley explained. "Call them yourself if you don't believe me. I got worried when I found out he was lying, but I couldn't reach you by phone. So here I am."

  Morelli stared at him. Had she screwed up again? And was Hurley here to save her—again? She couldn't stand it. She turned and headed back into the stands, with Hurley behind her.

  She sat down next to Prouse. He had the same smiling, unconcerned expression she'd seen when she'd surprised him in Bandini's apartment and had a gun aimed at him. "Is this true?" she demanded. "You don't really work for that magazine? You're not really George Prouse?"

  Prouse gazed past her at Hurley, as if trying to size him up, to determine what kind of foe he had.

  Prouse's smile didn't waver. "It is true," he said finally.

  Morelli looked at him, feeling a mixture of rage and frustration. "Then who are you?" she said.

  He shrugged the faintest of shrugs, as if further concealment wasn't worth the bother. "I work for Vatican security," he said, "and I'm here to prevent the assassination of Pope John."

  Chapter 27

  "You what?"

  Prouse inclined his head, as if to confirm the correctness of what she had heard. "I'm very sorry for the pretense, but this is the way we are supposed to operate."

  "The way who is supposed to operate?" Morelli demanded. "We've met with the Vatican security people. We talk to them every day. There's no secrecy. No deceit. We're supposed to work together."

  "There is the official team, and there are those who are... unofficial," Prouse explained. "I do not attend meetings. I am not a liaison to law enforcement agencies. My job is different. It is to learn what can't be learned through these channels."

  "So you're what—a secret agent for the Vatican?"

  "You might call me that. But I have only one role—to ensure the safety of the Holy Father."

  The crowd cheered, and the Red Sox headed for the dugout. Morelli looked at Hurley, who was making no attempt to hide his suspicion and disbelief. "Why does the Vatican need unofficial security people?" he demanded.

  "Excuse me," Prouse said, smiling at Hurley, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

  "My name is Hurley. Father Joseph Hurley. I'm from the Boston archdiocese."

  Prouse nodded towards him. "All right, Father Hurley. Unofficial people get to do things that official people may not deem appropriate. Kathleen saw me break into Bandini's apartment the other day. That's not something the Vatican would want to admit to. I'm sure her superiors would be displeased with me—just as they would be displeased with her if they found out she was there without a warrant."

  "You were lying before," Hurley pointed out. "How do we know you're not lying now? The Vatican liaison I met was named Agnello. Will he vouch for you?"

  Prouse shook his head. "Signor Agnello is unaware of my existence. He may suspect that there are other activities surrounding the pope's security, but he has never been told what they are, or who carries them out, and I'm sure he's prudent enough not to press for information he doesn't need."

  "So we're just supposed to believe you?" Hurley persisted.

  "It's rather immaterial exactly what you believe, Father," Prouse responded frostily. Then he looked at Morelli. "I realize I've deceived you, Kathleen, and I
do apologize for that. If you like, I will give you the number of someone to call in the Vatican Secretariat of State. They will be able to vouch for me. You must give me a chance to call them first and explain, however, or they will simply deny my existence."

  Morelli didn't respond, so eventually Prouse took out an elegant silver pen and a card, wrote a name and number on the back of it, and handed it to her. "In case you feel the need," he said.

  Morelli took the card and put it in her pocket. "What's your real name?" she asked, realizing she that she didn't even have that information about him.

  Prouse considered, then shook his head. "I think it's best if you didn't know. After this is all over, perhaps I can tell you."

  "Well, what do you do next?"

  Prouse shrugged. "Find Bandini."

  "And what do you do if you find him?"

  "I do my job, and make sure he doesn't kill the pope." He put a hand on her arm. "Again, I apologize for the deception. My job is not always a pleasant one. I would much rather we had met under different circumstances." He stood up and moved past her to the aisle. He nodded briefly to Hurley, who moved slightly to let him pass. Then he walked quickly down the stairs to the ramp leading to the concourse and disappeared from sight.

  Should I follow him? Morelli wondered. Demand a better explanation? She had no idea what to do. She moved over to Prouse's seat finally, and Hurley took hers.

  "I still don't trust him," Hurley said. "Why should we believe this new story of his?"

  "I don't know," she admitted. On the field, the batter called time and started scratching his crotch. She glanced at Hurley, who rolled his eyes. "Do you think he'll kill Bandini if he finds him?" she asked.

  "He looks to me like the kind of guy who'd kill someone without giving it a second thought."

  Morelli was taken aback by the ferocity of Hurley's response. How completely had she misjudged Prouse? Was he a good guy or a bad guy?

  She recalled the card Prouse had given her, and took it out of her pocket. "Anyway, we should call this person at the Vatican, see what he has to say."

  "I'm not supposed to be doing anything about this case," Hurley said. "I'm not supposed to be sitting here with you. I'm supposed to be home praying for my immortal soul."

  "You speak Italian, don't you? You told me you went to the seminary over there. So you could just—"

  He held out his hand, still not looking at her. She put the card in it. "Thanks, Joe," she said.

  He put it in his shirt pocket. "I was worried about you," he said. "I seem to worry about you a lot."

  "I'm grateful."

  "Everyone tells me I'm a good priest," he said. "You hear it often enough, you start to believe it."

  "I'm sure you're a wonderful priest."

  He rested his chin on his hands. "I'm going to leave very soon," he said softly. "I'm not going to walk you to your car, I'm not going to go home with you. You're going to sit here by yourself and try to figure out why baseball is a metaphor for life, or something."

  "If you're leaving, I'm leaving," she said.

  He let out a sigh. "Let's go."

  They walked slowly out of Fenway and back into the real world. Outside the park, the air was filled with the odor of sausages and fried dough. A few stragglers were still hurrying inside to see the game. The crowd roared its approval of something happening on the field; Morelli would never know what it was. "The pope will be here in a couple of weeks," she remarked. "Think he'll be safe?"

  "I honestly have no idea."

  They walked slowly toward Kenmore Square. "I feel so inadequate," she murmured. "I'm a professional police officer. But it seems as if everything I've done lately has been a mistake. Is it me? Or is it this—this thing I'm a part of?"

  "We just haven't come out the other side of the tunnel yet," Hurley said. "I spent my entire time in the seminary feeling inadequate. But somehow I made it through."

  "Are you really going home?" she asked.

  "I am."

  "Will you kiss me first?"

  He shook his head. "Not a good idea."

  "Will you call me if you find out anything about Prouse?"

  "That I'll do."

  She put her hand on his arm. "It really was good of you to come after me tonight to warn me about him. It makes me feel better about —everything."

  "You're a wonderful, smart woman, Kathleen. You have no reason to feel bad about yourself."

  She reached up and kissed his cheek; he didn't resist. "Good night, Joe," she said.

  "Good night, Kathleen."

  She headed off to retrieve her Jeep.

  * * *

  Prouse walked home to his apartment in the South End, pondering the situation. Things kept getting more complicated. He believed they were under control, but just barely. Bandini was still at large, a wild card that should never have been in the deck. And Lieutenant Morelli and Father Hurley—they were certainly an odd couple, and worth further cogitation.

  The situation would work itself out, he was certain, but not without care and attention. He decided that he needed some advice. He found a public phone, and called the person who could advise him.

  * * *

  Hurley felt a lot better after leaving Kathleen, but he was still uneasy about Prouse. He supposed it shouldn't be terribly surprising if the Vatican would have someone like him in its employ. They were a nation, just like America, more or less. They could have their own version of the CIA, with their own spies ready to flout another nation's laws in the service of some higher good. Well, he would find out what he could. He certainly was less worried that Prouse would somehow sweep Morelli off her feet with his European charm. He was charming, Hurley supposed, but it was a superficial charm, and she was smart enough not to be fooled by surfaces.

  In the morning, before leaving for work, he called the number Prouse had given Morelli. His Italian was much better than his French; his years in Rome at the seminary had given him plenty of opportunity to work on it. The person he reached was an undersecretary, who seemed to understand his request but was unwilling or unable to accede to it. "I have no information at this moment," the man said. "Please call back later."

  "Is there someone else I could speak to?" Hurley asked. "This matter is important. There could be an international incident if we can't confirm that this man is employed by the Vatican." He had no idea if this was true, but he hoped it might make an impression.

  It didn't. "I have no information," the man repeated. "Please call back."

  Hurley gave up. Typical Vatican conversation. No one in the Holy City had ever been fired for refusing to give out information. He went to work pondering what to do next.

  Father Julian Hynes confronted him on his way to his office. Hynes was Cardinal Monroe's personal secretary, and the kind of priest that made Hurley despair for the Church's future. Prissy and sanctimonious, he reveled in the trappings of being a priest and the prestige they conveyed. He also reveled in the reflected power of Monroe's office. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than giving orders that came from His Eminence. He probably got beat up all the time as a kid, Hurley thought. If Hurley had been there, he'd probably have joined in. "Father Hurley, His Eminence would like to see you as soon as possible."

  Hurley was puzzled. He had convinced himself that Monroe had totally forgotten who he was—perhaps simply thinking of him as some random cleric who happened to show up at a lot of meetings. What did the cardinal want with him? "Okay, Julie," he replied; Hynes hated being called anything but "Father." "Be right there."

  He went to his office first, trying to figure out what it was all about. He supposed he knew, but was there any possibility he could be wrong? Not likely. Oh, well; better to get it over with. He headed off to meet his fate. Hynes was seated at his desk outside Monroe's office, and told him to go right in. He had a pleased twinkle in his eye that Hurley didn't like the look of. He went into Monroe's ornate office, staring at the dour little bespectacled man sitting at the huge desk. Doy
le was standing next to him. Neither of them offered Hurley a chair.

  "Father Hurley," Monroe said, and he made it sound like a death warrant.

  "Your Eminence."

  "It has come to our attention that you were seen in public—at a Red Sox game!—fondling and kissing a young woman," Monroe began. He made it sound as if the Red Sox game had increased the magnitude of the offense in some dramatic way. "This is outrageous behavior from any priest," he went on, "but especially from a priest who is a member of my extended staff. Monsignor Doyle has been explaining some of the background to me, and I understand that this woman is a police officer with whom you have been working. The fact that the woman is a public servant who is supposed to be protecting the pope only makes matters worse, of course. Imagine the headlines if the media found out! Haven't we had enough scandals in this archdiocese?"

  "Your Eminence," Hurley said, "I don't know what you have heard about last night, but really nothing—"

  "Are you denying that you are having an affair with this woman?"

  "Well, it's not really an—"

  Monroe waved him to silence. "My inclination is to fire you and be done with it. But Monsignor Doyle has been trying to convince me you're worth another chance. Lord knows we need priests, but not ones who flout their sacred vows and risk a scandal that would bring dishonor on the Church. If we do keep you on, you will have nothing more to do with this woman. That is a direct order from your superior, to whom you owe a duty of obedience. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, your Eminence," Hurley managed to croak.

  "All right. And I urge you to get counseling to help you deal with this situation. We're not heartless, Father. We understand that the flesh is weak. These things happen. But they need to be nipped in the bud, before they get out of hand."

  Monroe made a little gesture that Hurley interpreted as dismissal. "Thank you, your Eminence," he said, and he left the cardinal's office.

  He walked quickly out of the office, smiling pleasantly at Father Hynes and everyone he encountered on his way back to his own office. Nothing out of the ordinary, he wanted his expression to say, just coming from a little chat with my buddy the cardinal. When he reached his office, he shut the door and drop-kicked his wastebasket across the room. Smug little bureaucrat, he thought. "We understand that the flesh is weak," he mimicked. The only flesh Monroe had ever touched was probably his own.