Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  "You're saying it can still be done?"

  "It can still be done."

  "Without relying on some unstable fanatic?"

  "The complete opposite of a fanatic. There is a backup plan in place. It needs our go-ahead."

  Valli's eyes flickered down to the cell phone lying on the white linen tablecloth. DiStefano smiled.

  * * *

  The decision was clear to DiStefano, at any rate. If anything, it was more obvious than ever, now that Pope John had shown the depth of his interest in the Vatican Bank. DiStefano had done what he'd had to do to take care of the situation there, but it had been messy, and no doubt there would be repercussions, no matter how well Valli thought he had things under control.

  But that whole business was merely defensive and tactical. His overarching strategy had not changed, as long as Valli didn't change.

  The strategy was to develop the same power over the Church that the Church had once had over DiStefano, back when the stupid priest told his mother that it was God's will that her husband assaulted her, advised her to offer her sufferings up to the Virgin Mary and take comfort in the prospect of heaven. DiStefano had learned then what he had always suspected, that the Church was just another instrument of oppression. It oppressed his mother; if it could, it would oppress him. But he feared nothing—not the wrath of the priest, not the threat of hellfire, not his father's drunken abuse. That was the first person he'd killed, stabbing him to death as the brute came after him with a broken wine bottle.

  And of course his mother didn't see that her son had saved her, only that her son had sinned. That was the Church's real power—the power to control the minds of simple people, people who believed those who spoke from a position of authority, even if what they said was a dung heap of fables and lies.

  His mother was dead now. She had forgiven him, but she'd never seen any need to forgive the Church. He wasn't interested in forgiveness, either.

  Marcello Valli was the instrument of his revenge. Valli, he supposed, had his own ideas about who was using whom. But DiStefano knew what he was doing and what he was getting: a pragmatist who was willing to make a deal with the devil for what he believed to be the greater good of the Church. And the greater good of the Church, of course, was dependent upon Valli's own election to the papacy.

  DiStefano had worked hard to get Valli elected the first time around, providing him with the funds he needed to ingratiate himself with the cardinals whose votes he needed. But, DiStefano understood now, money has little influence in a conclave. Cardinals were happy to take the contributions for their archdioceses and then vote for whomever they chose, confident that the secrecy of the balloting protected them from reprisals. And no amount of money could make Valli any more likeable or less feared.

  But if Pope John was assassinated, DiStefano believed that Valli's chances would be infinitely better in the next conclave. Many of the cardinals who had gotten caught up in the excitement of electing a black pope by now had realized the danger of elevating a complete unknown to the papal throne. John's opinions on sexuality had apparently horrified the conservatives, who would not stray a second time. No one would want a long, bitter conclave; everyone would be looking for a safe candidate, someone they could be confident would lead them through the troubled times that would inevitably follow John's death. Prelates who had scorned Valli before would now greet the prospect of his papacy with relief. No one would be thrilled, no one would even be very excited, but he would be elected, and that was all that mattered.

  Then the fun would begin. The Church was a global institution, and everywhere there would be opportunities to take advantage of DiStefano's privileged relationship with its leader. He wouldn't ask much—an occasional intervention with local authorities, a blind eye turned toward certain activities; no need to risk revealing the relationship. But he would get what he needed, because Valli would have no choice.

  Did DiStefano have any qualms? None that had bothered him yet. Even if you ignored the countless injustices perpetrated by the Church, even if you assumed that this latest pope was one of the better ones, as many people were apparently beginning to believe—the fact remained that he dealt in neither truth nor wisdom, only dreams and fantasies. The dream of a life after death. The fantasy that there was a God who would somehow redress all the wrongs of this world in the next. All phony and worthless. DiStefano would be the first to admit that he too dealt in dreams and fantasies—after all, wasn't that what drugs and gambling and prostitution provided? But at least they gave some real pleasure to people before they turned to dust.

  No, the prospect of this particular death gave DiStefano only satisfaction. And it would happen within a matter of days, if the man across the table would nod his head.

  * * *

  They all complained and fretted, Valli thought. Little men with little minds. He will destroy our Church. We have made a terrible mistake. Of course they had made a mistake in electing Gurdani. And if the mistake was not rectified, future generations would look back and revile them all for what they allowed to happen to the most precious institution humanity possessed.

  The little men didn't dare imagine how the mistake could be rectified. They looked to Valli to lead them, but they thought only of persuasion, of reasoned argument. He listens to you. You can make him see the light.

  But Valli knew better. He understood Gurdani as well as he understood himself. And he knew that the pope was not the kind of man who listened to reason—at least, not about the things that were closest to his heart. Reason marred the purity of the impulse to do good, to ease suffering, to make people happy. He thought he had a special relationship with God that transcended reason, a direct access to the truth that superseded the collective wisdom of the Church. There was no arguing with such a man.

  But that couldn't be the end of it. One couldn't simply sit by and allow the Church to be destroyed, watch it degenerate into some permissive, feel-good congeries of meaningless rituals and inoffensive, lightly held beliefs. Either it was the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church, or it was nothing. Valli couldn't let it be nothing.

  Even if it cost him his immortal soul.

  All his career he had been a prudent, careful steward, and it had carried him far—not that he expected any less of himself. But the time comes when you can no longer simply carry out the will of others; you must become an instrument of God's will, no matter what others thought, no matter what the consequences were.

  Kill the pope to save the Church. Would God damn him for that? Valli didn't know. But he believed that it was essential to accept such a possibility in order to have the purity of heart necessary to commit such a deed. He wasn't doing this for his own aggrandizement. He was doing it because it needed to be done, and he was the only one who could do it.

  God demanded no less of him. Valli had gotten used to this cup, and knew it wasn't going to pass away from him. And so he would make sure he did the task as well as he was able.

  A part of him scorned the idea of using this peasant thug opposite him to carry out God's will, but he could not escape the logic of it. Valli could kill the pope himself, poison his milk or smother him as he slept, but that would accomplish so much less. It would discredit Valli's position, and increase the chance that Gurdani's successor would feel obliged to carry on his mission. Better to have it happen anonymously in America, that cesspool of vice and moral relativism. Let the other cardinals understand the danger of what they had unleashed, let them realize that it was time to turn to someone who could be firm and just and, above all, true to God's will. Afterward the thug would demand his price, but Valli would be able to deal with him. One can make compromises if one does not lose sight of the larger goal. And that Valli, with God's help, would never do.

  * * *

  Valli slowly nodded.

  DiStefano picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Are you ready?" he asked. He listened for a moment, and then said, "Fine. The answer is yes. And may God be with you," he
added with a mischievous smile. He ended the call and put the phone back into his pocket.

  He stared at Valli. "It is done," he said.

  Valli, for all his aristocratic condescension, looked a little pale at the promptness with which the matter had been settled, but of course he didn't react. "Very good," he replied, and rose from the table. "I expect that no further communication between us is required?"

  DiStefano shook his head. "None whatsoever," he said. "Enjoy your trip to America, your Eminence."

  Valli didn't bother to respond, and strode quickly out of the restaurant into the twilight.

  DiStefano smiled and finished his coffee.

  Chapter 35

  It was all hands on deck for the papal visit, now only two days away, but no one asked Joe Hurley to do anything. Nothing had been said publicly about his status, but it was clear he was on his way out, so people left him alone, out of pity or respect or because it was the politically astute thing to do.

  It was too painful hanging around people trying to act as if nothing had happened, so he decided to go to his office late at night and clean out the possessions he had moved in not so very long ago. There were still some folks working on last-minute details, but he ignored them, and they ignored him. He closed the door and set to work: pack the books and photographs and gifts from parishioners into a couple of cartons, put a few personal papers into his briefcase—there wasn't really very much to take care of.

  When he was done he sat down behind his desk and took a look around. There goes the pope of America, he thought. Hadn't been here long; hadn't accomplished much of anything, except to ruin his career. Now back to his little apartment. Maybe he'd end up at his parents' house, like Kathleen, while he awaited the archdiocese's pleasure in granting him a new assignment. Of course, he also had her offer of marriage to consider. He smiled. The two misfits. He imagined the two of them up late with sick kids and no sleep and the dishwasher not working. Holding on for dear life, as families often had to do. Well, what was wrong with that?

  He thought of the McKees. Sandra McKee was probably counting the hours until the pope's Mass. Expecting a miracle. He'd have to pray harder that she would get it.

  It occurred to him that he hadn't thanked Rick Kelliher. He looked at his watch and calculated the time difference; Rick could conceivably be awake by now. If not, it would do him good to get up early. Besides, he always enjoyed these chats with his transatlantic buddy. Hurley wondered if Doyle would charge him for the phone call. Let him try. He dialed the number. "Wake up, Sunshine," he said cheerily after Kelliher mumbled a greeting into the phone. "At least you've got a job to go to."

  "See that phone you're talking into?" Kelliher said. "Kindly take it and stick it where the sun don't shine. What do you mean, 'at least I've got a job to go to'?"

  "Remember that favor you did for me? You did a great job, and I appreciate it. Your friend got the pope to agree to see that little girl. Only problem is, when Monroe found out, he threw a tantrum, and the upshot was that Doyle fired me."

  "Holy shit. I'm sorry, Joe." Kelliher paused. "Think of it this way," he said finally. "You're out of work, but at least you're alive."

  It was Hurley's turn to be puzzled. "Huh?"

  "Well, not that the two things are related, but my tennis buddy Monsignor Fieri up and died last night. He was found floating in the Tiber. Apparently he'd fallen from a bridge or something."

  "Jesus. Are they sure it was an accident?"

  "That's what the police are saying, although you never know around here. What's spooky is that a couple of other Vatican people died the same night—one apparently committed suicide, and the other one was in a hit-and-run accident. Both of them worked over at the Vatican Bank."

  Hurley struggled to make connections. "Rick, the Vatican Bank—that's where Doyle and Monroe worked before they came to Boston, right?"

  "Well, yeah, of course. Are you back in conspiracy mode again, Joe?"

  "I don't know. I just—something is going on, Rick. Laugh if you want, but this is serious. Did Robert Coulter's death make the news over there?"

  "Sure. Good riddance."

  "Well, let me tell you what didn't get into the papers." And Hurley explained about George Prouse and the circumstances of Coulter's murder.

  "Okay," Kelliher said, "I must have been absent for the criminal investigation classes at seminary. Probably thought they'd never come in handy, silly me. But none of this is making any sense, at least to my feeble, sleep-deprived brain."

  Hurley couldn't say it was making a whole lot of sense to him, either. But still... Doyle at the Bank. Doyle ordering him not to investigate Edzo's murder. Doyle getting Kathleen taken off the case... "What do you think of Larry Doyle, Rick?"

  "Doyle? He scared the wits out of me when I took his class. I stayed as far away from him as possible."

  "Sure, he was intimidating, but he wasn't—look, I can't say I've got anything figured out, but... but, dammit, Doyle has changed, Rick."

  "He's got a different job. You've got a different relationship with him. You think he's involved in—in whatever this is?"

  "I don't know. But why else has he blocked every attempt to investigate a possible assassination plot? He fired me, he made sure my friend Kathleen's off the case... I don't know. Maybe it's got to do with the Bank—maybe he's hiding something. Maybe your friend Fieri was investigating the Bank, and that's what got him killed."

  "Well, it seems like a stretch to blame Paolo's death on Larry Doyle. But even if something's happening, what are you going to do about it? And how are you going to figure it out? The pope'll be there in a couple of days, and—"

  "I know," Hurley said. "All I can think at the moment is, Doyle's office is right down the corridor from where I'm sitting."

  "You're going to break into his office?"

  "Why not? It's a long shot, but I suppose there could be something lying around there that'll tie this all together. Some link between Doyle and this guy Prouse, for example."

  "'Why not' is you're in enough trouble already. Do you really want to get into more?"

  "To tell you the truth, Rick, I don't see that I have much to lose at this point. If I don't do all I can, and something happens to Pope John, how am I going to live with myself? Back me up here."

  Hurley could feel his friend working it through on another continent. "You know, Joe," Kelliher said, "I sort of envy you. I've got to roll out of bed now and go shuffle papers all day with a bunch of people who think they're overworked if they're asked to come back to the office after lunch. Do what you have to do. But for God's sake be careful."

  "Thanks, Rick. I'll keep you posted."

  Hurley hung up. And he felt his resolve immediately start to melt as he contemplated the short walk down the hall to Doyle's office. He thought of Kathleen breaking into Bandini's apartment, as if rules didn't apply to her. Did he really think Larry Doyle was involved in this? Was he sure enough to risk being arrested? Because he knew Doyle was out of patience, and he'd throw the book at him if he found out.

  If he called Kathleen, she'd be over here in a heartbeat, he supposed. The rules don't matter, we're trying to save the pope, she'd insist. But there was always something more, wasn't there? Something personal, maybe irrational. And that was what complicated things. Was he suspicious of Doyle because Doyle had treated him so unfairly? Was he hoping to find evidence of some sort of guilt so that he could feel better about his own misdeeds?

  Still, Kathleen was probably right. Impure motives were not reason enough to avoid doing what needed to be done. Maybe it was just nerves. He was frightened by what he was about to do. But he was going to do it.

  Hurley got up and left his office. He checked out the other offices; the lights were all off now. He was alone on the floor. Doyle's office was locked, but he knew that Mrs. O'Hara, the departmental secretary, kept spare keys to all the offices in her desk, which she didn't bother to lock. Hurley got Doyle's key, opened the door, went inside, caref
ully shutting the door behind him, and switched on the desk lamp.

  He had never been in here at night. He noticed the familiar photo on the wall of Doyle with Monroe and the old pope. On his desk were smaller photos of gap-toothed boys and a pair of gawky teenage girls. Nephews and nieces, presumably. Hurley realized he knew next to nothing about Doyle's background, just as he knew nothing about whatever private struggles he'd had as a priest. He glanced at the books on the shelf next to his desk—standard theology texts, a couple of books on management, a Bible.

  All right. So far he was just, well, visiting. Still time to back out. But he wasn't going to. He took a deep breath, then sat down behind Doyle's desk and started going through it. There was nothing of interest in it except the key to Doyle's filing cabinet, which he searched next. Inside was lots of stuff about mundane archdiocesan matters, as well as some older files, but he didn't find anything about George Prouse or the Vatican Bank.

  Maybe I'm wrong, Hurley thought. Maybe there was nothing to be found. But if Doyle possessed incriminating information about himself, would he keep it in a filing cabinet with a flimsy lock?

  Hurley went to the computer next. Doyle's screen was locked, but Hurley knew the system administrator's password, and that got him as much access as he needed. He perused Doyle's current email. The only items of interest there were some correspondence about abortion; Hurley hadn't realized Doyle was quite so avidly pro-life as the emails indicated. No crime there, though. Then he looked through Doyle's folders of old email and scanned through his files. Still nothing.

  Hurley sat there and considered. If Kelliher were in the room, he'd be smirking at him by now, telling him he must have been absent for the detective classes, too. But he recalled going through Ed McAllister's stuff and finally stumbling on the first clue that had led him here. Maybe this just required the same level of persistence.

  But he couldn't exactly go take Doyle's Rolodex and call people to ask if the archdiocesan Vicar General was some kind of crook. What, then?