Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  "I'm not saying you have anything to do with—"

  "Fine, fine," DiStefano interrupted. "You hear rumors and you become nervous. You think me capable of any sort of crime. But try to look at this rationally, your Eminence. What do I gain from harming the pope? Is there any action I could take that would be more likely to destroy our little relationship?"

  "But the pope is interested in—"

  "I'm not worried about what he's interested in. You and Donato fret, but I have confidence in your ability to keep our transactions secret. And even if he does find out, what then? Do you really think he's stupid enough to make it public? I don't. Donato will be asked to retire with a nice pension, and you will be given a post worthy of your many talents in some other congregation. The trail will be covered up, and life will go on. It can't be otherwise."

  "You don't know Pope John," Riccielli observed.

  "Oh, but I know the Catholic Church, and no matter how saintly this new pope is, he cannot singlehandedly change the way the Vatican operates. Trust me, he won't provoke a scandal."

  He could see Riccielli working it through. He was a trivial little man, but he was not entirely stupid, and he didn't try to dispute the logic of what he had heard. "I just want to warn you, though," the cardinal said. "If the pope is harmed, and I suspect you at all of being involved, I will make public everything—my involvement, your involvement, everything. The world will know what we have done."

  DiStefano stared at Riccielli's grim face, hardened by his resolve to do the right thing, and he couldn't help it, he began to laugh. "Please," he said, "let's act like adults here. If you'd had any intention of confessing your sin, you would have done so long ago. And we both know why you won't: Because it will not harm me, and it will destroy you, whether or not you are convicted of a crime. You care about what others think. You care about your pleasant career in the Church. You don't want to be exiled to some backwater commission like so many of your associates. You can't give it all up, even for the pope. No, my friend, I am not going to kill the pope, but it isn't fear of you that is stopping me."

  "I am not your friend," Riccielli responded, "and you underestimate me, just as you underestimate the Church. You know yourself, and you assume everyone must be like you. But I am not like you, no matter how much you may despise me. Be warned."

  The cardinal's words were stern, but DiStefano could tell he was quaking in his boots as he uttered them. This was all too much for him. But DiStefano merely inclined his head in acknowledgment of the rebuke. "If I misjudge you, I am sorry," he said mildly. "It doesn't matter, in any event."

  "That may be true—I have no idea. But as long as there is this—this relationship, I cannot feel comfortable. And I know what I'm prepared to do."

  DiStefano leaned back in his seat and considered. Finally he shrugged and extended his hands, palms up. "Very well," he said. "It's over."

  "Over?" Riccielli repeated suspiciously. "What is over?"

  "With your new leader, presumably you have less need of the funds I have been happy to provide. Your bank has provided me with certain services that have proved useful, but I have other methods of obtaining these services. It is time to move on."

  Riccielli continued to glare at him, waiting for the catch. DiStefano stared back. "Over," he said. "You need never set eyes on me again after tonight. You and Donato can go out and split another bottle of Chianti."

  The cardinal pursed his bloodless lips, still failing to find the catch. "That is a... reasonable decision," he said at last.

  "I'm so glad you think so. And I believe that leaves us with nothing further to discuss." DiStefano signaled to his driver to pull over.

  When the limousine stopped, the driver opened the door and Riccielli prepared to leave. He stared at DiStefano, as if to fix his face in his memory. "Whether you like it or not," he said, "I'm going to pray for you."

  "I'm sure God will be listening," DiStefano replied. Riccielli got out, the door slammed, and a moment later the limousine was on its way.

  * * *

  From his apartment, Riccielli called Cardinal Monroe. "I think it may be all right," he said. "He really didn't even seem interested in the pope—or in us. He offered to end the relationship with the bank, and of course I accepted. Apparently he has other ways of—of doing what he needs done."

  "But it could be a trick," Monroe pointed out. "Do you think he's up to something?"

  "Believe me, I've considered that. But I just don't see what he gains by it. I threatened to confess everything if any harm came to the pope, and I think he got the message, finally. So how could he hope to benefit from an assassination?"

  "Thank you, Antonio," Monroe said with evident relief. "You're a good friend—and a brave man."

  "It's something I should have done a long time ago. Of course, even now I haven't really done anything, except make the threat. But I do feel good about standing up to him, even a little bit."

  "Someone has to stand up to him. So do you really think there's nothing to be worried about?"

  "In a way it frightens me to say so, but I do. I think we'll be all right."

  "Then I'm forever in your debt."

  "Good luck, Thomas. And try not to worry. We may actually have made it through this, with God's help."

  "Amen, Antonio."

  * * *

  DiStefano walked along the marble floor of his villa near Rome. His bodyguards were stationed outside; his servants were off for the night; his current mistress was visiting her mother. He was alone, which was the way he preferred it most of the time. He went into a dark wood-paneled room dominated by a huge flat-screen TV, sat down, and restlessly switched through the channels, stopping when he found a football match that vaguely held his interest.

  He was annoyed that Riccielli had promised to pray for him. And he was annoyed that he was annoyed. The Church had always been able to do this to him. When he was younger all he had felt was a burning rage toward it, its smugness and its hypocrisy. He thought of the fat little curate who had counseled his mother to offer it up to Our Lady when her husband beat her. Let him feel the heavy fists smashing into his pig face! Let him offer it up, and see what solace he found!

  The rage had been tempered by time, but it had never disappeared. He had thought himself clever when he had struck upon the scheme to use the Vatican Bank to launder money, but he had never been able to treat it as a simple business deal. It had been too much fun making cardinals squirm. It had been too satisfying knowing the black secret lurking beneath the Church's sanctimony. They thought him so despicable. But he knew what he was and what he wanted, and didn't pretend otherwise. They, on the other hand, were nothing but pretense, and he had delighted in ripping away the pretense and rubbing their noses in their real selves.

  But it is never good to let emotion control your business decisions. So he had been pleased with himself tonight when he had resisted the urge to torment Riccielli further, and simply let him off the hook. It was the right thing to do, no matter how much fun he missed out on. Riccielli needed to understand that his nemesis threatened him no longer. For once in his life, he needed to feel good about Dominic DiStefano. The plan would work because DiStefano knew men like Riccielli; he knew that Riccielli wanted to believe him, more than he wanted anything in this world or the next. And so he would.

  There was one thing left to do, then. He muted the football match and picked up the phone by his chair. It was time to take care of that witless American murderer Robert Coulter.

  He had promised Riccielli, after all, and Dominic DiStefano kept his promises.

  Chapter 30

  It was getting worse, but at least there wasn't long to go.

  Coulter had abandoned the green car and stolen another. He lived in cheap motels and campgrounds, never staying in the same place two nights in a row. He stole when he had to.

  And when he slept, he dreamed of the pope, who had turned into the most powerful Devil of all, black-faced and evil beyond imagining, his
hand reaching out for Coulter's throat, ready to squeeze the life out of him, ready to turn the whole world into a graveyard unless, somehow, he could be stopped.

  But sometimes Coulter dreamed of Kathleen Morelli, whose face he still saw staring at him through the windshield of his car on the street outside his apartment. She, too, had to die, not because of the babies who were being killed, but because she tempted him too strongly, he thought about her too much. He would need all his energy, all his focus, to do what he had resolved to do. The only way he was going to keep them, he had decided, was to eliminate the woman he loved.

  Soon, he thought. Soon. Before the pope arrived, and it was time for the ultimate sacrifice.

  * * *

  George Prouse smiled as he stared through the binoculars into the motel room where Robert Coulter paced back and forth. It had been something of a challenge tracking the man down. He could kill him now and be done with it, but that wasn't the way Prouse operated. Coulter had caused him a certain amount of inconvenience, and in return the least he could do was offer Prouse some entertainment.

  Prouse put the binoculars down and considered.

  * * *

  Paolo Fieri was glad when Miranda Cromwell called. He was not a patient man, despite the advantages of patience in his job, and it was time for more progress at the Vatican Bank.

  "It's coming," she told him. "My source just needs a couple more days to put it all together."

  "Does your source say what 'it' is?" he asked.

  "No, but I'm confident that she has what you're looking for. She is very close to the Director."

  "Is there no way of getting the information from her sooner?"

  "I don't think we want to put any more pressure on her than she already feels," Miranda replied. "Please trust me, Monsignor. This is very delicate. If we push too hard, we may end up with nothing."

  "I do trust you, Miranda," Fieri said. "And if you are successful, I'm sure I can obtain for you a much more suitable position than your present one. You are a talented woman."

  "Thank you, Monsignor. I do it for Jesus' sake."

  "As do we all."

  He hung up and glanced at his watch. Time to interrupt the pope. He looked once again through the material his tennis partner had given him. It all seemed like foolishness to him, but the American was right—it was the kind of thing the Holy Father might be interested in. Fieri would get the credit for bringing it to his attention, and Cardinal Valli, he was sure, would be vexed. He grabbed the folder and headed off to the pope's office.

  * * *

  Pope John was conferring with Cardinal Valli when he noticed his secretary standing in the corner of the office. It was just one more burden of his office to know that these two men, whom he had come to rely on so much, despised each other. He signaled to Fieri to wait while he finished his conversation with the secretary of state. When he was done, Valli rose and nodded frostily to Fieri as he left the room.

  "Yes, Paolo, what have you got for me?" the pope asked Fieri as he came forward.

  Fieri inclined his head and placed the folder in front of the pope. "I thought you might be interested in this, your Holiness. It was given me by a friend from America. The parents of the little girl who is mentioned in this material would like you to meet her when you travel to Boston."

  "Sit please, Paolo." Fieri sat, and the pope glanced through the papers. Of course, he thought. He should have expected this. The miracle workers would want scraps of his time, along with everyone else. And they would expect him to be sympathetic—because, after all, wasn't he supposed to be one of them?

  But the little girl...

  He studied the newspaper photo of Erin McKee. Something stirred inside him as he gazed at her, sitting in her wheelchair, her bright eyes staring vacantly towards the camera. There was no guile or deceit in that face. There was no hope of gain in it, no self-importance. There was only a human soul, stripped of everything but God's grace.

  Strange.

  He turned his attention back to Fieri, a very different soul. "Have you looked into this, Paolo?" he asked. "How accurate is the information here?"

  "I've made a few calls," Fieri replied. "The supposed miracles haven't been rigorously investigated, but there's no reason to suspect fraud. The Boston archdiocese wants nothing to do with her, but I expect that's just their standard reaction to this kind of case, rather than doubts about this particular girl."

  "Should I see her, then?"

  "You'll probably annoy Cardinal Monroe, but he's not in a position to complain. And there's the possibility that this will bring out even more requests for your time—but that's something we can deal with. There's one twist here, though, that you should keep in mind."

  "What's that?"

  "The girl's parents apparently entertain the hope that you'll be able to cure her."

  The pope's eyes returned to the photo of the girl. Hit by a car, the newspaper article said. He thought back to a steamy night when he was a young curate, called to a wretched farmhouse where a little girl of a similar age lay beneath a sweaty blanket, delirious, near death. The family was too poor to afford a doctor or medicine, not that either was to be found while the civil war raged. The parents had accepted the inevitable with the stoicism of peasants who have learned to expect nothing better from their existence. He was there to perform the Anointing of the Sick, to provide some solace to the girl as she departed from this life.

  She thrashed on the bed as he approached with the sacred oil. He had led a sheltered life in his brutal land, and had never seen the death of one so young. Such a terrible waste, he thought. When she caught sight of him her thrashing diminished, and her moans softened. "It's all right, little one," he whispered. "I'm here to bring God's grace to you. He will never desert you."

  He leaned over her and placed a hand on her feverish forehead. And then she reached up with her own hand and touched his cheek. The delirium seemed to fade, and her eyes stared into his. He could feel something pass between them. God's grace, he thought, moving through him and into her like a cool breeze. And then he could feel the fever itself rise up through her, passing over him like a hot summer rain, and when it was gone they both seemed to shiver, and he knew it was over.

  "I'm thirsty," the little girl said, and she smiled up at him.

  "Holiness?"

  Pope John looked back up at Fieri. Such a long way from the dusty villages of his homeland. "Everyone should have hope," he said, "but I fear these people will be disappointed."

  "What shall we do, then? Your schedule is tight in Boston, of course. Every moment is already spoken for."

  He considered. "At the Mass," he said, "in the baseball stadium. I'm giving out Communion, am I not? Why couldn't we invite the little girl to receive Communion from me? It won't cure her, but it might give the family some solace."

  Fieri nodded. "I don't know if she has the, er, capacity to receive, but I can check into that."

  "Oh, I think she will be fine. Just fine. I look forward to meeting her."

  "Very good, Holiness. I'm sure you'll make her family very happy."

  "And perhaps the little girl, as well."

  "Let us hope so, Holiness."

  Pope John handed Fieri back the file, and the secretary bowed and made his exit. The pope sat back in his chair and thought again of the old days. The little girl's family wanted to fall on their knees and worship him, but he managed to convince them that her cure had nothing to do with him—it was God's will. Still, they could not be expected to keep quiet about what happened, and before long the whole countryside knew about Father Gurdani, and every sick person was clamoring to be cured by him.

  It was then that Father Klimt took him in hand. In those days his country was still considered a missionary territory, and Klimt was a Dutch priest charged with developing the native hierarchy. He was a hard-bitten, practical man who treated the natives with a perplexing mixture of paternalistic condescension and whole-hearted Christian love.

 
Klimt summoned him to his office. His pale face was beaded with sweat, as always; he never got used to the heat. "You have two choices, Father," Klimt told him. "You can succumb to this hysteria and become a charismatic leader of these childish people. You will gain some notoriety, and a good deal of wealth, if that matters to you, but your career in the Church will be finished. The Church will at best tolerate you, and at worst they will suppress you as an annoying troublemaker and potential heretic. Or you can ignore it all, keep your supposed healing powers to yourself, and stick to the well-worn path of bringing God's word to His people. If you choose this second option, I have every confidence that you will be named an archbishop and become one of the most powerful people and most potent forces for good in this benighted land."

  The pope could still recall the beefy white man's stern gaze, his steel-gray hair, the spreading sweat stains under the arms of his cassock. He was used to obeying such men. It did not occur to him to do otherwise in this case. It did not occur to him to question why the man was uninterested in whether his powers were real. He was astonished that Klimt considered him a potential archbishop; he had wanted and expected nothing more than to be able to serve God as a simple priest.

  But it was not the lure of high office that motivated his decision. It was, he had to admit, fear. Fear that people would ask of him things he wasn't able to do. Fear that he would lead them astray by letting them focus on cures and the man who performed them, rather than on the grace that made them possible. Fear that he would lead himself astray and come to believe that he was more important than the Church that had nourished and sustained him, than the God who had created him.

  And so he had followed Father Klimt's advice. But, if he did not succumb to the hysteria, he also did not totally refuse to employ his gift, if gift it was. Whenever people were suffering, he tried to ease their pain; he could not do otherwise. Often nothing happened, but occasionally he would feel that breeze blow through him, like the breath of God, and he would connect with the patient in some way that he could not begin to explain. The lame did not rise up and walk, but tumors shrank, fevers broke, wounds began to heal. He gained a reputation he did not seek. But his circumspection kept the Vatican from seeing him as a problem, and he never suffered the fate that Father Klimt had warned him of.