Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  "Not if he disobeyed direct orders to do it."

  "Yes, yes," Monroe said, backing down again, and feeling foolish as a result. "And let me know if—if you find out anything further. About the—you know, the Vatican angle."

  "But I thought you didn't want me to look into it."

  Monroe could feel himself starting to redden. "Well, do what you think is right," he stammered.

  "Of course, your Eminence."

  Monroe retreated from Doyle's office, dissatisfied with the conversation and uncertain what to do next. The idea of someone trying to kill the pope in Boston was so appalling that he could scarcely contemplate it. But how much more appalling if it had something to do with the Vatican...

  And the ultimate horror was that he knew this was not out of the question. It was knowledge he had tried very hard to forget, but he could no more forget it than he could forget his own name. It was this knowledge that had driven him to seek an appointment outside the Vatican, where he had spent most of his career as a priest, and where he had fully expected to live out his days. But he had been naïve to think he could run from what he knew. It was going to find him, no matter where he was.

  He returned to his residence, where he paced restlessly around his bedroom, until at last he couldn't stand it, and he called Cardinal Riccielli at the Vatican.

  Riccielli was an early riser, and was already at work at the Vatican Bank by the time Monroe reached him. Monroe summarized what he knew and what he feared. Riccielli's reaction was much the same as his. "It's impossible," he said. "It is too awful to contemplate."

  "And yet, Antonio..."

  "Si," the cardinal said disconsolately. "And yet."

  "You've got to find out whatever you can," Monroe said. "If there is any truth to this, you must find a way to stop it."

  "But how, Thomas? How?"

  "I don't know, but you mustn't delay."

  "All right, I'll try. But you know him as well as I do. If he really is behind this—"

  His question drifted off into silence.

  "I'll let you know what I find out, Thomas," Riccielli murmured finally. And there seemed to be nothing left to say.

  Monroe stared out into the darkness after he hung up, feeling sorry for himself, as he often did nowadays. It had all seemed so easy when he was young. Become a priest, give yourself to Christ and His Church, and what harm could come to you? You gave up much, but in return the Church offered even more—above all, it offered you a home, a refuge from the world and its tumults. He had joined up in the post-Vatican II era, when the Church seemed to be in as much chaos as the rest of the world. But it settled down finally, and he found his niche, and all was well.

  But not forever. He knew about money, was an expert at dealing with it, but money is where the Church and the world collide. And like Riccielli he had been caught, finally, in that collision.

  And ever since he could only hope that he would survive.

  He turned out his light and fell into a troubled sleep. The pope was coming, and this was going to be the ultimate test of his abilities, and he was terrified that out of his past and his own shortcomings would come the ultimate failure.

  Chapter 29

  There was nothing unusual about Lucia Gaspari working late. Everyone knew that she had no life outside the bank. What was there for her to go home to? So no one took any notice when she stayed at her desk well past quitting time. Donato left early, as usual, to spend the evening with his family. He made a cheery remark as he swept past, but Lucia scarcely responded. The others dribbled out, with Riccielli the last to go. He never spoke to her; Lucia wondered if he even knew her name.

  And then she was alone. Not that it mattered; no one would question anything she did. But she felt protected in the solitude. Betrayal is never easy.

  She had keys to Donato's office and to all his filing cabinets; she knew the password for his computer. She knew everything. It would never have occurred to him to worry about her access to his most secret information. She was merely an appendage, an extension of his will. Well, no longer. She went into his office and began her search.

  She knew what she was looking for. He hadn't told her about it, but he hadn't bothered to hide it from her. The information was hidden well enough from everyone else, of course, which probably made him confident that he was safe. And he had been right to trust her, at least until tonight. She had scarcely given a thought to what he and Riccielli were doing, hadn't tried to fill in the blanks from the occasional jotted notes she had come across locked in his secret drawer, the email messages he had put into his private mail folder. If he and Riccielli were doing something, there must be a good reason. If he didn't think it was worth telling her about, then it was none of her business.

  She started with his computer, printing out email and files that looked relevant. Then on to the cabinets, going through them methodically, bringing interesting items to the photocopier, then returning the originals to their places. By midnight she had a large stack of paper on her desk; large enough, she supposed, to send several people to prison. She stuffed all the material into her briefcase and headed home.

  Back in her apartment, she was too tired to look at any of it. She realized that it needed to be organized, perhaps even annotated; corroborating records would have to be found in obscure places that, again, only she knew about. Otherwise outsiders might not understand just what a bounty she was bestowing upon them. But it was a start.

  Next day after lunch she told Miranda, "I will give you what they demand. But tell them you need a few more days. Tell them they won't be disappointed."

  Miranda looked at her with eyes wide with wonder and gratitude. "Oh, Lucia, I can't tell you how—"

  "No need, child. I just hope it helps."

  When she returned to her desk, she looked into Donato's office and saw him on the phone, laughing his hearty baritone laugh. She recalled the touch of his hands on her body, the whispered endearments and promises, back when the world seemed new and fresh with hope and possibility. Andrea, she thought. He looked up, and for a moment she wondered if she had spoken his name aloud. He smiled at her and returned to his conversation. She turned away, and all she could think about was prison.

  * * *

  As usual Rick Kelliher lost the tennis match, and exhausted himself in the bargain. Fieri, for his part, looked fresh and chipper as they returned to the bench and put away their rackets. The sun was setting over the city, but the summer heat remained intense. "You must learn patience, my friend," Fieri advised him, taking a swig from his water bottle. "You Americans always want instant gratification. Hit the winner now, get the point over with. That is not always the correct strategy."

  "Especially if you can't hit winners," Kelliher gasped. He wiped himself off with a towel, then found the manila envelope he had stuffed into his gym bag. What I do for friendship, he thought. "Anyway, a priest I know in America asked me to give you this," he said. "It's information about a little girl in Boston who supposedly works miracles. The twist is that she was in a car accident and has suffered severe brain damage, so she apparently has no idea what she's doing. The mother would like her to meet the pope when he comes to Boston."

  Fieri stared at the envelope with evident distaste, as if unwilling to soil his fingers by touching it. "Has the local hierarchy investigated the girl?" he asked. "What do they say?"

  "The local hierarchy doesn't want to rock the boat," Kelliher replied. "The preliminary investigation is supportive of the girl, but Cardinal Monroe has no interest in putting her on the pope's schedule. It means a lot to the mother, though. The information here includes statements from medical experts, the people she cured, and so on. Pretty impressive—to a layperson, anyway."

  Fieri finally took the envelope and glanced through the material. "We don't want to get into a spat with Monroe over the itinerary," he murmured. "The whole point of the trip is to get the pope off to a good start with the American Church."

  "Well, I'm just the mes
senger here, but it seems to me that it's Monroe's job to suck up to the pope, not vice versa. Also, what's going to make a better impression on American Catholics, Pope John schmoozing with a bunch of old bishops, or giving some comfort to a little sick girl who just might be a saint? Finally, Paolo, don't you think it would help your own standing with the pope if you were to bring something like this to his attention? He hasn't been around long, but he sure gives the impression that this is exactly the sort of thing that would catch his fancy."

  Fieri smiled. "Again, you are trying to hit a winner, my friend. A prudent advisor might warn the pope against this sort of thing, to prevent him from giving the impression that he is uninterested in the needs and wishes of the hierarchy."

  "You can advise His Holiness to do whatever you want, once you've told him about the girl," Kelliher pointed out. "The guy performs miracles himself, if you believe the stories. You think he wouldn't want to give his blessing to a sick kid who's just like him?"

  Fieri smiled. "I will take a look and decide what to do. You are very persuasive, Father."

  "Don't take long, Monsignor," Kelliher responded. "He's leaving in a couple of weeks, right?"

  "Yes, indeed. I will give it my prompt attention, and then I will beat you once again on the tennis court."

  "I improve daily. By the end of the summer I may actually take a set."

  Fieri shook his head, laughing, then took a final swig of water and headed off towards his car. Kelliher zipped up his gym bag and watched him go. Did my best, Joe, he thought. And in spite of himself he resolved to say a prayer for Hurley, and for the little girl.

  * * *

  Riccielli decided not to tell Donato about the call from Cardinal Monroe. No good could come of it; Donato would certainly panic, with unpredictable consequences. Riccielli would have to see this through alone, for good or ill.

  Riccielli made the call and set up the time and place for the meeting. That night he waited on the darkened street for the limousine, feeling, as always, frightened and unclean. How had it gotten this far?

  He knew, of course. He had been part of it every step of the way. It had started in the waning years of the previous pontificate with the same old story—not enough money, never enough money to fund the Church's many activities. But this time it was getting worse. You simply couldn't say no to the old pope, with his steely gaze fixed on you. He couldn't be bothered dealing with financial issues; his mind was focused on far greater matters. He wanted to transform the world while there was still time left to him. But there were some causes he wanted to fund that were especially controversial—freedom fighters in a Russian republic, for example—and support for these causes of necessity had to be secret. The pope wasn't interested in the details, or in excuses, he just wanted his wishes carried out. And what higher good could there have been than to do this?

  He left the problem for his secretary of state to solve, and Cardinal Valli had in turn dumped it in their laps—Riccielli, Donato, Monroe.

  And it had been Monroe's assistant, Monsignor Doyle, who produced the name of Dominic DiStefano.

  The very sound of the name struck terror in them. DiStefano was not just a criminal; he was the criminal in Italy, the reputed head of an illegal empire that spanned the world, dealing in drugs and guns and financial misdeeds too complex for any but the most sophisticated investigators to understand. The Mafia had tried to dislodge him, but they had become too weak and scattered to match his cunning and the force of his will. The government had tried to prosecute him, but he was too clever and circumspect to be convicted. Instead he had showered money on popular charities and emerged as a folk hero to ordinary Italians, somehow turning himself into a symbol of a dynamic, successful new Italy.

  How could they deal with a man like that?

  They couldn't afford not to, Doyle had insisted. How else were they going to find the money the Holy Father's causes demanded? The local churches couldn't be asked; they had given all they could give. Rich Catholic businessmen had also been asked so often for so many good causes that they too could not be expected to contribute any more. And besides, these men liked accountability, and that was precisely what the Vatican wanted to avoid in funding the pope's pet projects.

  But why would DiStefano be interested in giving the Church money? they wanted to know. His antipathy to religion was legendary.

  Doyle had the answer to that, as well. DiStefano needed a way to funnel money out of Italy to his operations in other countries. The Vatican, as a sovereign nation, had its own banking laws. Also, it had "branches," as it were, in every nation on earth. If he could use the Vatican Bank for these transactions, he would pay handsomely for the opportunity.

  Totally unacceptable, the others responded initially. How could Doyle expect them to go along with breaking the laws of God and man to help someone like DiStefano?

  Think of the greater good, Doyle argued. One way or another, someone like DiStefano will find a way to get his money where he wants it. They could help him do it, and at the same time help the pope, or they could rest comfortably in their moral superiority and refuse—which would mean refusing the pope, as well.

  Still they resisted, but eventually the resistance started to crumble, as the pope's pressure and the Vatican's fiscal woes kept mounting. Oh, money is a bewitching thing. It wasn't just the pope's favorite causes DiStefano offered to fund, but their own as well. There was so much good to be done, all around the world, and there was no way to do it except with money. And after all, the Church had dealt with worse scoundrels than Dominic DiStefano over the centuries, men who had done far less good and far more evil...

  In the end they had capitulated, and the secret relationship began. For a while everything was fine. They were able to fund the pope's projects, so he was well pleased with their work. And Donato was able to bury the source of the funds and all the questionable transactions, so there seemed to be little chance of anyone uncovering the true nature of what was happening.

  But eventually things changed for the worse, as Riccielli had always known they would. First, Monroe got himself appointed to the Boston archdiocese. He had been as skittish as Donato and Riccielli about what they were doing, and he was clearly relieved to be getting out, even if it meant taking on a challenge for which he was not suited. But he took Larry Doyle with him, and that was the real loss. Doyle had given them backbone; he had been the one they turned to for guidance when things went wrong. Above all, he was the one who dealt directly with DiStefano, a task that none of the others could even contemplate. Without him, Riccielli and Donato felt alone and exposed and, if truth be told, overmatched.

  And then the old pope died. Even at that, all might have remained well if Valli had won the election to succeed him. He understood their problems, and would not have looked too closely at how they solved them. But the African... who could know what he was thinking? Who could know if he would understand the pressure they were under, the compromises they'd had to make? Would he simply tell them to go their way and sin no more? Would he end their careers in shame and ignominy? Or, hardest of all to contemplate, would he turn them over to Italy for prosecution?

  And now this. Was it conceivable that DiStefano wanted to assassinate the pope? Riccielli had certainly made clear the difficulties Pope John posed for the relationship. And what had been DiStefano's response? "Let's talk again after the pope's trip to America." Why after America? Riccielli had assumed that DiStefano had just been putting them off. But now a more sinister motive seemed possible. What if DiStefano knew that, after the trip to America, everything would be changed, and they wouldn't have to worry about Pope John anymore?

  Riccielli shivered, a worried old man waiting in the darkness. A young fellow riding on a motor scooter shouted out something to an attractive girl talking on a cell phone, who sneered at him as he passed. A bus spewed diesel fumes into the air. A pair of nuns walked by, eyes demurely downcast.

  "Your Eminence is alone tonight."

  Ricci
elli started and looked around. The short man with the black goatee was leaning against a store window behind him. His arms were crossed, and he looked at the cardinal with mild amusement.

  "Where is your car?" Riccielli demanded.

  "Around the corner. You don't wish to go for a stroll on such a lovely evening?"

  He forced himself not to respond. DiStefano shrugged and started walking. Riccielli stared at his back for a moment, stifled an oath, and followed.

  * * *

  DiStefano sat back in the limousine and watched the cardinal enter. He looked old and sour, like a rotting lemon—such a model of holiness! "Really, your Eminence, you should have brought Signor Donato," DiStefano said. "I always enjoy my visits with him."

  "Can you convince me that you are not planning to assassinate the pope?" Riccielli demanded.

  DiStefano laughed as he signaled the driver to proceed. "Clearly I need to work on my image," he said. "What else can I be guilty of? Genocide? Disliking opera? Wherever did you get the idea that I wanted to kill our new Holy Father?"

  "That's not an answer," Riccielli shot back. "And you know very well that you have a motive for getting rid of him. You've managed to avoid prison for years, but you won't be so lucky if Pope John goes after you."

  "Oh, I think I'd survive. But I really want to know why you're making such an outrageous charge. Do you have some evidence, or did you and Donato dream this up one night after a second bottle of Chianti?"

  "Things are happening in America," Riccielli said. "There are rumors. Rumors having to do with the American abortionist murderer, Robert Coulter. And rumors about Vatican corruption being involved. Where is there more corruption than in this car?"

  DiStefano waved a hand dismissively. "Rumors—is that all? It's absurd. I certainly have nothing to do with this man Coulter. I didn't know he was still at large. Apparently the American police are incapable of dealing with him. I tell you what—I have certain associates in America. I will have Coulter found and taken care of before he does any more mischief."