But the gift had one consequence that he still found it difficult to think about, though it still haunted his dreams. Instead he shook his head to clear away the cobwebs of memory and arose from his desk. He decided that he needed to talk to Cardinal Valli again.
The pope walked downstairs to Valli's office in the Apostolic Palace. He knew that some people found it incomprehensible that he would go to them rather than summon them to him, but his life was confining enough as it was. What harm was there in taking a walk? The staff made their obeisances to him as he passed, and he smiled to let them know that he wasn't going to strike them dead.
In his office, Valli greeted him with his usual dignified correctness. "I'm more than happy to attend on you, Holiness," he pointed out.
"Don't worry about it," the pope replied. "The stairs are good for me. I wanted to get your opinion about something." He described the situation with the little girl in Boston. "I've told Monsignor Fieri to arrange for me to give her Communion during the public Mass, but I thought I should check with you about the politics of it. Cardinal Monroe apparently wants no part of her during the visit, and I suppose we'll be offending him by doing this without his consent. Am I making a mistake? Fieri doesn't think His Eminence is likely to complain."
"Monsignor Fieri is right, for once," Valli replied, smiling just enough to indicate that this was a joke. "Monroe is not the one you have to impress—he'll do anything to make sure he's on your good side. It's the American public that needs to be your target. And what better way is there to win their hearts than to show your compassion for one holy little girl in a wheelchair? Frankly, I'm annoyed that I didn't think to focus more on this sort of thing myself."
"I need to meet disabled children in all the cities I visit?" the pope asked, smiling in turn.
Valli shrugged. "I know it sounds overly calculated, but images matter. Everything matters. You're making this trip for a reason, and we want to make sure that we get the results we're seeking. Of course you shouldn't do anything you'd feel uncomfortable doing. But if you want to meet this girl, by all means do so. You can only help the cause."
"Well, that's good to know. Clearly I still have a lot to learn. I was quite sure you'd object."
"Your Holiness is a quick learner. I expect that before long you will be the one giving me lessons on these matters."
Pope John doubted that. But he accepted the flattery in good grace and returned upstairs feeling better about the day. He had not been looking forward to going to America, but now the trip seemed a little easier to endure, knowing that he was going to meet Erin McKee there.
* * *
Lucia Gaspari knew all Donato's moods, and she couldn't recall him being this happy in years. It wasn't simply happiness; there was a lightness in him that had been missing in him for even longer. He seemed to have shed years from his age. He has a new mistress, she thought. But that couldn't be it. He wouldn't have been able—or bothered—to hide that from her. And besides...
He brought her flowers at lunchtime. He looked rather embarrassed giving them to her, but he had a little speech to make, and he made his way through it. "Lucia, I know that I haven't always treated you well. Certainly not as well as you deserve. But I want you to know how much affection I have for you, and... and, well, I promise things will be better in the future. I can change. I will change."
Then he kissed her cheek and went off to a meeting.
She sat at her desk and stared at the flowers. How long had it been since he'd brought her flowers? Could he really change? He was what he was. Above all, he was married, and that wasn't going to change—certainly not on her account.
Miranda appeared in her doorway. "Excuse me, Lucia," she said softly, "but I was wondering—you know, the information you promised..."
"Yes. It's—it's not quite ready, Miranda. Give me another day."
"All right, but I don't think I can put them off much longer. They think my—my friend is just leading them on. That we have no intention of giving them what they want. I'm very afraid—"
"I understand," Lucia replied sharply. She closed her eyes and softened her tone. "I know, dear," she said. "I'll do my best. This is... hard."
Miranda stood there, and for a moment looked like she wanted to argue with Lucia. But then she, too, seemed to soften, and she bit her lip. "You've already been kinder than I could have hoped, Lucia," she said. "Whatever you can do for me, I'd be most grateful."
She walked quickly away, and Lucia gazed after her. Now what? She thought of the stack of documents in her apartment, now organized and annotated and cross-referenced, ready to be handed over to Miranda, and from her to the nameless priests eager to ruin the leaders of the Bank. She thought of Donato, blissfully ignorant of the danger he was in.
Was she so weak that one bouquet, one peck on the cheek, was enough to melt her resolve?
But Miranda was just a foolish young girl who was demanding a large favor. Donato was... her life. What would her life be like after she gave Miranda what she wanted? She would probably be required to testify in court. Her photo would appear in the newspapers. The whole story would come out: "Jilted Mistress Betrays Ex-Lover". She would look foolish, vindictive... old. Certainly she would lose her position, one way or another. If she didn't work here, what would she do with herself? How could she survive?
The flowers were yellow roses—her favorite. Had he remembered, or was it a lucky guess? Lucia leaned over to smell them. Of course he remembered. He was not a monster. He was just a man, that's all.
When he returned from his meeting she asked to speak with him.
"I'm quite busy, Lucia," he responded. "Can it wait?"
"I don't think so," she said. "It's about Dominic DiStefano."
Lucia enjoyed the way the color drained from his face at the mention of the man's name; she couldn't deny that.
"Come into my office," he muttered, and strode past her.
She told him her story carefully, leaving out Miranda's name, as well as any mention of the effort she had already expended in gathering the damning information. "How do you know about DiStefano?" Donato demanded.
"Andrea," she replied. "I know everything. That is my job."
"But you don't know who these other people are—the ones who are trying to destroy me?"
She shook her head. "I've tried to find out, but my friend is circumspect. She is very frightened."
"And you haven't told her about DiStefano?"
He said the man's name softly, Lucia noticed, as if it were the secret name of God. "No," she replied. "But these people who are blackmailing her know something. It's not clear how much, but something. They're looking for more evidence. My friend hopes I can help her. I can just turn her down, but I thought I should consult with you first. Andrea, I'm afraid you might be in a lot of trouble. You need to tell me what to do."
Donato wrung his hands. She had never seen him do such a thing before. "Yes, of course," he said in a rushed tone. "Thank you for telling me about this, Lucia. You are a true friend. Please don't do or say anything for now. If this woman puts pressure on you, you must put her off. I—I need to get some advice."
"How soon?" Lucia asked. "She might ask someone else, you see. Or, these people—they may have other sources of information that they're using. You must act quickly."
Donato looked as if he might burst into tears. "I understand, Lucia. Believe me, I understand. I will do this immediately. Now, return to work, and—and we will talk further."
Lucia rose. "I'm sorry, Andrea," she said. "Truly, I am."
He nodded but said nothing. As she left he was looking nervously out the window, as if his pursuers were right outside, waiting to burst in upon him.
* * *
It was what Donato had always feared. And of course it had happened just as he had started to relax. Riccielli had given him the news about DiStefano, and he was savoring the realization that at long last this evil being would be out of his life. God must have been saving up this blo
w from Lucia for maximum effect. Let him think he's in the clear, and then I will show him what it means to flout My will.
What to do? If they (and who were "they"?) were after him, was there any way he could escape? He picked up the phone to call Cardinal Riccielli. He would need to be informed. He would know what to do.
Donato hung up before dialing the number, however. He recalled his last conversation with Riccielli, who had almost boastfully described his willingness to make public everything if DiStefano harmed the pope. That was easy enough for him to say, Donato had thought at the time. He didn't have a family to support. The Church would be forced to take care of him, no matter what. But would they take care of Andrea Donato? Not likely. They would throw him to the dogs instead—probably claim that the whole thing had been his idea, that he had led the naïve, trusting churchmen into this nefarious scheme.
So how would Riccielli act now? Would he meekly submit himself to whatever investigation was in the works? Would he confess his sins, trust in God, and let his friend and colleague be damned?
Yes, Donato was pretty sure he would. Riccielli was at bottom a priest, and that was how priests acted; Donato had worked for the Church long enough to understand this. So what should he do, if he couldn't rely on Riccielli?
It slowly dawned on Donato that he had no need to rely on him. The realization was both terrifying and liberating. Riccielli had his concerns, but Donato had his own. As did Dominic DiStefano. And DiStefano was the man he had to speak to.
He had never made contact before. It had always been Monsignor Doyle, and then Riccielli, who made the call, and Donato had been happy to let them. But that meant nothing now. It was his future, his life. He had to do it.
The number was written on a slip of paper taped to the bottom of a desk drawer—someplace even Lucia was unlikely to look. Donato gazed at the digits until he had memorized them, then reluctantly called the number. He left a brief message, then hung up. So it was done. And now he could only wait.
* * *
DiStefano got the message a couple of hours later. He was puzzled and intrigued by it. What in the world could that sweaty, timid creature want with him? He returned the call and set up the usual meeting in his limousine.
Donato looked even worse than he usually did at such meetings, and the story he had to tell explained why.
"Interesting," DiStefano remarked when Donato was done. "And we don't know who it is that is showing so much concern about the Bank?"
"No. I could try to find out, but my secretary—"
"All right, fine. It doesn't matter, I suppose. Let me think about this and get back to you. When I do, you will, of course, do exactly what I tell you. Understood?"
"I understand," Donato said. "But—"
DiStefano waved away the incipient complaint. He had no desire to listen to the man any more than he had to. This was a vexing problem, but it had within it the seeds of its own solution. If Signor Donato didn't get in the way. He thought about it for a few moments, satisfied himself that he understood the situation, and then he dropped off Donato and turned his attention to other matters.
* * *
The grinning skeleton beckoned to him from across the room. "Come closer," it rasped through the empty hole where its mouth should have been. And he couldn't disobey; his feet brought him ever nearer to the obscene being lying in sheets of silk. The eye sockets seemed to sparkle with delight at his discomfort. "Join me," it said, reaching out and grabbing his arm with a bony hand.
And the skull was right in front of his face now, its grin of the purest evil. "Join me," it repeated savagely, "in HELL!"
The pope awoke and lunged forward in bed, grunting with fear. My sweet Jesus, save me, he thought, his heart racing. He had not had the dream for a long time, but even the Holy City and the power of the papacy were not strong enough to keep it away forever.
He went to the bathroom and threw cold water onto his face, then returned to bed, still trying to calm down.
Yes, here he sat, at the center of Christendom, but a part of him would always be in his homeland. There were so many things that were impossible to forget.
The civil war ended as badly as it could have. One of the warlords, Leonard Tokomi, had taken power—helped by American weapons and CIA training, it would later be revealed. Tokomi immediately set out to prove that sometimes war was preferable to peace, anarchy better than a government that was the embodiment of evil. And young Father Gurdani, whether he wanted to or not, was drawn into the struggle against him.
It was a struggle that defined his life. Father Klimt's assessment had been correct, and eventually he had been named a bishop, and this gave more weight to his opposition, but still he faced an uneven match with a foe who cared nothing about moral authority, and little about what the rest of the world thought, as long as he continued to be America's client. More than once Gurdani wondered how he managed to stay alive amid the carnage that surrounded him.
Finally Tokomi threw him in prison, and that was perhaps a tactical error by the dictator. The world began to pay attention to the courageous black churchman beloved by his people; Americans began to question their country's support for the strongman accused of such heinous crimes. It was then that the old pope had named Gurdani a cardinal, hoping the prestige would provide him with an extra measure of protection. It was one thing to do away with a troublesome priest, or even a minor African bishop; it was something else again to kill a prince of the Church.
Tokomi did not relent. An enemy was an enemy, and Gurdani was first among the legion of Tokomi's foes. But at least he took no action beyond imprisonment, where Gurdani endured the occasional beating, but none of the systematic torture that crippled so many of his fellow inmates.
And then, finally, he was rousted in the middle of the night and hustled from his cell. The guards, burly peasants who were well-paid for their loyalty, said nothing, as usual, as they handcuffed him, then pushed him along the foul-smelling corridor. Gurdani tried to get ready for death. He had expected it daily for years now, but the abrupt reality of it left him unprepared. He had to go to the bathroom; he had forgotten to take his missal. Would they give him time to pray?
The guards led him to a crisply dressed army officer, who looked him over with evident distaste. "All right," the man said. "Let's go." They brought him through a series of locked doors, then out into the night. Gurdani was always grateful for fresh air, but he was allowed only a couple of breaths of it before they pushed him into the backseat of a waiting car. The doors were locked from the outside, and the car sped off. He could see nothing through the smoked-glass windows. Why not kill me in the prison, he wondered. But, grateful for the reprieve, he closed his eyes and started saying the rosary in his mind.
Before he had finished the car screeched to a halt, the door opened, and he was dragged outside. He caught a glimpse of where he was headed before he was pushed through another door.
The presidential palace.
What, then? Did Tokomi want to kill him himself? That seemed more than plausible; there were rumors of far worse outrages that had taken place inside the palace walls.
He was led through softly lit hallways and up a flight of stairs, until finally he faced a couple of enormous men standing guard in front of a set of equally enormous double doors.
"He is to go in alone," the army officer instructed the guards. The guards said nothing, but searched Gurdani thoroughly. When they were satisfied, one of them grunted, and the officer removed his handcuffs. "Even though you are alone, you will be watched every moment," the officer said to him. "Do not think of trying anything, or you will be dead before the thought is finished."
Gurdani rubbed his wrists and said nothing. One of the guards opened the doors, and the other guard pushed him inside.
He was in a huge room dominated by a large canopied four-poster bed. He was so used to the grim monochrome life of a prison cell that his senses were momentarily overloaded by the luxury that surrounded him—fro
m the vivid wall-hangings to the thick carpet beneath his feet. It was only when he noticed the shrunken figure lying in the bed that his brain started to clear. At first glance the figure looked like a corpse, but then it raised a bony arm and beckoned to him to come closer.
Gurdani did as he was instructed, and it was only when he was standing next to the bed that he recognized the figure lying before him. It was Tokomi, though so wasted by illness that Gurdani could scarcely believe that this was the monster who had bludgeoned an entire nation into submission through the force of his will.
But his eyes still sparkled with fierce intelligence, and his mouth still twisted into a malevolent sneer. There could be no doubt that Gurdani was now in the presence of the foe he had battled for so many years.
"Welcome, your Eminence," Tokomi rasped.
He didn't reply. Tokomi's face was blotched; he was sweating, and he breathed with difficulty. Death has him in his grip, Gurdani thought. And that made it difficult to think about anything else.
"Are you pleased to see me in this condition, Joseph?" Tokomi went on. In their previous meetings he had always liked to use Gurdani's first name, as if he were dealing with a child. "Are you savoring the punishment of the wicked?"
"What is it?" Gurdani asked finally. "Cancer?"
Tokomi waved the guess away. "Some new disease. The idiot doctors know nothing about it, except that it is contracted from sexual encounters. Even more reason for God's punishment, eh? It does nothing itself, they say, but leaves your body open to every other disease that comes along. Not good. Not good."
Tokomi's gaze drifted away, and Gurdani tried to figure out why he had been brought here. He didn't think it likely that Tokomi was seeking a deathbed reconciliation with the Church. If not that, then what? He stood by the bed, waiting to find out.
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