DiStefano didn't like failure; he didn't like losing. But he was above all a practical man. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable. He went into his study and dialed Prouse's number.
Prouse answered on the second ring. "Yes?"
"It's DiStefano. There's been a leak with Doyle, and I've been compromised. I'm calling it off."
There was a pause. "The police know?" Prouse said.
"Some priest knows. The police may or may not believe him. But they'll certainly believe him if the pope is assassinated."
"I've met that priest, I think," Prouse remarked.
"Well, that's interesting, but hardly relevant," DiStefano replied. "It's over."
There was another pause. Then Prouse said, "Actually, I'm going ahead with it."
"What? Didn't you hear me? You'll get your money. You're at risk over there, too. Just disappear. Get out. Forget about the pope."
"No, I don't think I shall."
DiStefano tasted something unexpected and unfamiliar in the back of his mouth. Fear. "You've got to," he said. "I'll pay you nothing otherwise. And if you disobey, you'd better hope the police catch you, because if I get hold of you first, you'll find yourself praying for something as pleasant as the gas chamber."
"I can take care of myself," Prouse replied calmly. "And I don't need your money."
"What's the point of this if not the money?" DiStefano demanded, feeling himself start to lose control—another very unfamiliar sensation.
"Money isn't the point for you," Prouse replied. "Why should it be for me? I find the challenge interesting, that's all."
"'Interesting'? That's not—" DiStefano tried to calm down. "Look," he said, "don't be a fool. What are the odds that you'll succeed? And if you succeed, what are the odds you'll escape? Don't just throw your life away on a whim."
"Oh, the odds are quite good, I should think. I'm the best in the world at what I do, and this will prove it. Forever. That's why you hired me, isn't it?"
"I didn't hire you to disobey my orders."
"Well then, I shan't ask you for a reference. Good night, Mr. DiStefano." And Prouse hung up.
DiStefano slammed the receiver down. Insolent prick! He called back, but Prouse wasn't answering. Now what? He considered. The pope was leaving for America in less than a day. Not enough time to track Prouse down, even if he had someone capable of it. Not good. Not good.
That left him with only one alternative. He picked up the phone again and dialed another number.
Valli answered immediately; he was already awake. Figured—he'd probably already taken a cold bath and breakfasted on gruel and water. DiStefano briefly explained the situation to him. "You see the problem," he said when he was done. "You can't afford to go ahead with the visit to America until Prouse is taken care of. You can tell the pope the truth, more or less. There's evidence of a significant threat to his life, so the trip has to be cancelled. These things happen nowadays. Clear?"
Again there was silence on the other end of the line. And again the response was not what DiStefano needed. "I have no intention of canceling the papal visit," Valli said.
"What? Don't you understand me? Don't you understand what's happened?"
"I understand perfectly. Nevertheless, the pope is going to America."
"But if Prouse kills the pope it'll all come out—the Protectors of the Unborn, the Vatican Bank, everything."
"Outrages against the Church, each of them," Valli replied. "But they have nothing to do with me. In fact, it will take a steady, experienced hand to set the Church straight after such scandals."
DiStefano clenched his fist, trying to calm himself. "You think I won't bring you down with me?" he demanded.
"I'm sure you'll try," Valli said. "But what evidence do you have? There is evidence against some church leaders, no doubt. And they will suffer the consequences. But against Marcello Valli, who everyone knows has been the pope's most loyal supporter in the Curia? Nothing. Only accusations from a Church-hating criminal, and perhaps from a rogue monsignor bitter that his career isn't advancing as he thinks it should."
"You're insane," DiStefano said. "You know that you can't get away with this."
Valli laughed. "I'm sure that phrase has been spoken to you countless times. And has it ever been true? Good day."
And the cardinal, too, hung up on DiStefano. He was shaking now. Prouse and Valli—they were both insane. He could deal with idiocy, but not with insanity. He paced through his villa, feeling trapped, helpless. When at last he came up with an idea, he knew that it was desperate, but he was now a desperate man.
One more phone call.
* * *
The sound of the phone in the silent building almost gave Monsignor Doyle a heart attack. He was confused, disoriented. What was going on? He realized that he must have fallen asleep at his desk. He looked at the computer screen, and he remembered. Oh, Lord. He picked up the phone.
It was DiStefano. "Prouse won't go along," he said.
Doyle didn't understand, and it took him a few minutes to grasp what had happened while he'd been dozing. In the end, he felt as if he were still asleep, experiencing a nightmare beyond any he could have imagined. This was inconceivable. How could it be real? "Valli," he said, "surely must understand—"
"Valli understands everything all too well," DiStefano said. "If the pope is murdered, the blame will fall on us, not on him. Unless you happen to have something we can use against him?"
Doyle wracked his brain. "No," he admitted. "There were just... conversations. He was always very careful."
"Of course he was."
"But what about Prouse? Surely you can stop him."
"I can't," DiStefano replied. "But perhaps you can."
"What do you mean?"
"You have to arrange a meeting with him. And then you have to kill him."
Doyle closed his eyes. The nightmare was not going to end. "I can't do that," he whispered.
"You have no choice. Convince him you're still on his side. Tell him you have to talk to him about new security arrangements or something."
"It won't work," Doyle protested. "He'll see right through me."
"You're a persuasive man, Monsignor. You have persuaded princes of the Church to commit crimes. This shouldn't be as difficult."
"But he's a professional killer. What chance do I have against him?"
"It's not a duel," DiStefano replied. "Prouse is good but he's human. If he doesn't expect it, he won't be prepared for it."
"But I don't have a gun, I—"
"Look," DiStefano said. "You're clever. You've proved your courage in other areas. And you know the consequences of failure. You can do this. You must do this."
Doyle felt tears pressing against his eyes. He wanted to argue; he wanted to crawl into a hole. But DiStefano was right. He had no choice. "All right," he whispered.
"Good man," DiStefano replied. "Now it is up to you."
Doyle hung up, feeling terribly alone. What was Hurley doing now? Where was Prouse? He could feel the seconds ticking away towards his doom—in prison, in disgrace, or worse. There had been a time when he hadn't given a thought to any problems. There were just his causes and his career; and, yes, he had been clever about both. But he had a feeling he would need much more than cleverness to survive now.
He was not even sure it would be possible.
* * *
Prouse was living in a flophouse that made Robert Coulter's recent accommodations look palatial. It was where he needed to be, though, lost among the detritus of the city. Invisible.
Prouse was good at turning invisible.
He still had his cell phone, of course, and it was surprisingly active, considering how few people knew his number. Monsignor Doyle interrupted his sleep with a request for a meeting.
"Have you been talking to Signor DiStefano, by any chance?" Prouse asked.
"Yes, and that's what I need to discuss with you. He's going to try to stop you at the Mass. We have to talk about
alternative strategies."
"Aren't you opposed to my going through with this? I understand that it will put you in a certain amount of jeopardy."
"DiStefano is getting cold feet," Doyle replied. "But I think we'll be okay, if we don't panic."
"I like your attitude, Monsignor. Yes, then, perhaps we should meet." He considered for a moment, then proposed a location and time.
"All right," Doyle replied. "I'll see you then."
"Rest up, Monsignor. Things are going to get very busy."
Prouse hung up, smiling softly. Now that was an interesting development. DiStefano might be looking for him now, along with the FBI and everyone else. But DiStefano would be no more successful than the rest of them. Prouse's only concern was that someone would get the pope to cancel—a reasonable course of action under the circumstances. But Prouse assumed they would fail there as well. Because the pope, he suspected, was like him—utterly fearless, and a willing victim of fate. Fate had brought him the papacy, and fate would bring him to Boston, just as it had brought George Prouse here. God wills it, the pope would think. Prouse wasn't so sure about God. But he was sure that something—call it God, or call it God's opposite—was drawing them together, and that was why he had shrugged off DiStefano's order to give it up, rejecting the arguments and the money and the threats.
It was going to happen, whether any of them wanted it or not.
But first he needed to have a conversation with Monsignor Doyle.
Chapter 36
The sight of Donato at Lucia Gaspari's funeral convinced Cardinal Riccielli that he'd had enough. The hypocrite, choking back sobs with the rest of the mourners while his own black soul shared in the responsibility for her death. Riccielli, who was one of the concelebrants of the Mass, considered denying Donato the Eucharist as he approached the altar at Communion. He could see in Donato's eyes the fear that he would do just that. It would have served him right.
Riccielli didn't understand everything that had happened—how the English girl fit in, or whether Monsignor Fieri's death was related to the deaths at the Bank—but he understood enough, understood that DiStefano was cleaning up problems in his usual way, and that Donato must have been involved. Riccielli didn't bother confronting him about it; he didn't have to. And at this point he realized that he was better off not saying anything to either of those men, if he wanted to spare himself the fate that had befallen Donato's secretary.
He decided that this couldn't wait until after the pope's trip to America. Pope John's schedule was in some disarray with the last-minute trip preparations and without Fieri to manage his time, but Riccielli managed to browbeat his African aide into granting him a few moments alone with the pontiff. Pope John seemed happy to see him but, as usual, also seemed able to lay bare the secrets of his soul with a glance.
"Antonio," the pope said after Riccielli had kissed his ring, "I understand you have had some very sad news at the Bank."
"That is what I wanted to speak to you about, Holiness," he said. He gestured at the aide hovering nearby. "In private, if possible."
"Certainly." The pope waved the aide away. "Now tell me what's on your mind."
Riccielli bit his lip. Did he really want to do this? He was not a brave man. The words he had to say would certainly end his career, might even land him in prison. Could he bring himself to utter them?
The pope's gaze seemed to say: I know this is hard. But I also know that you have it in you to do the right thing. Tell me, and I won't let you down.
Riccielli put his trust in that gaze. "Have you heard of a man named Dominic DiStefano?" he asked. His voice trembled slightly.
The pope considered, then shook his head. "The name seems familiar, but I meet so many people..."
"It is unlikely that you've met Signor DiStefano, Holiness. But I have, much to my sorrow. I need to tell you about DiStefano, and the Bank, and many other things."
And so it began. He omitted nothing, downplayed nothing, including his own culpability. The pope said little, only what was necessary to keep him going when it seemed that he could say no more. By the end Riccielli was weeping—and how many years had it been since he had shed tears? "Holiness, you must believe me," he sobbed, "I have much that I am guilty of, many sins to expiate, but I had nothing to do with the deaths of those two women. If I ever thought it would come to that—of course, I was stupid not to understand that such things are possible when dealing with a man like DiStefano, but..." He was unable to continue.
"I do believe you, Antonio," the pope replied.
"Can you forgive me, Holiness? I have sinned especially against you, in trying to hide all this from you, thinking of you as the enemy instead of as the leader we are pledged to serve."
The pope contemplated him. "You haven't sinned against me, Antonio, but against God, and as God's representative I absolve you of these sins." He sketched a sign of the cross in the air, and Riccielli bowed his head with relief and gratitude.
"Thank you, Holiness," he whispered. "But can you—as a human being—?"
In response the pope rose stiffly from his chair and held out his arms to Riccielli. The cardinal hesitated, then rose in turn and entered the pope's embrace. "I too forgive you, Antonio," the pope said. "We are all sinners, but we are all God's children. These are serious matters, of course, but I have seen such evil in my time that whatever faults you have displayed seem hardly worth mentioning in comparison."
"Thank you," Riccielli whispered once more. "Thank you, your Holiness."
"Now sit back down, and let me tell you some things I know about this awful business."
Riccielli obeyed, and listened intently as the pope explained what he knew—of Fieri's involvement in an investigation of the Bank, and of the police's cover up of the truth about Fieri's death. It was chilling, but it all fit together. "Holiness," he said, "I'm more frightened than ever. If they will kill your private secretary, what will they stop at?"
The pope considered this. "I don't know. What do you propose that we do?"
"You must tell the world the truth. You must launch a public investigation, bring in the Italian authorities if necessary, and clean out everyone—including me—who was involved in this."
The pope nodded. "Cardinal Valli has offered to take over the investigation from Fieri. We can talk to him, and then decide how to proceed."
Riccielli hadn't thought about this situation. He had only wanted to confess his sins; he hadn't considered all the many ramifications of them. "Holiness," he said, "I don't want to speak evil of anyone I don't have to, but if I were you I wouldn't trust Cardinal Valli. He may act like your friend, but I believe he is your greatest enemy. Don't ask me for evidence, because I have none. It's just a feeling in my bones."
"Well, I respect such feelings, Antonio, especially when they are expressed honestly. Cardinal Valli is not an easy man to warm up to, but his advice to me has always been sound."
"There can be more than one reason to give sound advice, Holiness," Riccielli pointed out. "I still would not trust him. He feels that your job should have been his, and I think that colors everything he does."
The pope smiled. "I am not planning on retiring soon, Antonio." The African aide padded into the room and gestured at his watch. "We will talk more about this, though," he said. "In the meantime, your job is to go in peace. You have done a good thing today, your Eminence."
Riccielli felt tears welling up again. "Thank you, Holiness. You have my undying gratitude. But—be careful, Holiness. There is evil here."
"Yes, that I know, Antonio." Pope John sketched another blessing in the air as the cardinal bowed his head. Then Riccielli left, feeling as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.
* * *
Valli was in the pope's office not long afterward, bringing last-minute changes to speeches and itineraries to be approved. Pope John considered bringing up the Vatican Bank, but decided against it. In any event, he had received enough advice from his secreta
ry of state by now that he was fairly sure what his response would be. Yes, of course we must pursue this vigorously. But wouldn't it be better to wait until you return from America? A major scandal involving an American cardinal just as the trip begins... the whole point of the visit would be lost in the media uproar. Nothing must stand in the way of the trip to America. True, as always.
There can be more than one reason to give sound advice.
No need to ask Valli's opinion on the other issue that was of concern to the pope. Cardinal Monroe had called him directly yesterday to try to persuade him not to give Communion to the little McKee girl. There was evidence, Monroe insisted, that her "miracles" were fakes, and that her family was only trying to make money off her. It was the kind of matter that the pope would once have handed to Monsignor Fieri for further investigation. Now there was no one to deal with it, so he was left to his own instincts. And his instincts told him to ignore Monroe and whatever evidence he possessed; he had refused to change his plans. Looking back on it now after the meeting with Riccielli, Pope John was pleased that he hadn't given in to Monroe's pleadings; Monroe was not the sort of man you want to believe.
Was Valli?
The secretary of state continued through his list of final issues, in total command of every detail of the preparations. If he asked for the pope's opinion or guidance, he was sure to frame the question so that only one option was sensible; if the pope were to choose another, it would be evidence of a deficient intellect, or at best a lack of attention.
Finally the pope interrupted. "Marcello, I wonder if you might pray with me for the success of the trip."
"Of course, Holiness," Valli responded. "It is in my prayers constantly."
"I understand that, but I meant here. Now. Let us kneel and ask God's blessing on our endeavor."
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