Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  Hurley couldn't take his eyes off the pope. Even from where he stood he could feel the man's holiness. It was almost palpable; it seemed to fill Hurley with a sense of calm, and a sense of hope. The Church was a fallible, flawed institution, but it couldn't be all bad, if it could produce a man like this. He began to recall why he had become a priest—because the Church provided that sense of hope. Things can be better, in this world and the next. There is a loving God, even if His face is too often hidden from us.

  I can't stop trying, Hurley realized, and he felt his despair of the previous night start to fade. This man was too valuable to lose. And Hurley's own vocation was too valuable to collapse into despair and futility.

  Somehow, he had to find a way to save both.

  * * *

  On the tarmac, Monroe made his way up to Cardinal Valli, who nodded amiably to him. "It is good to see you again, Thomas," Valli said in English. "But the loss of Monsignor Doyle—such a tragedy."

  "You've got to stop the visit, Marcello," Monroe replied. "You're the only one who can do it. You've got to convince the pope that his life is in danger."

  Valli raised an eyebrow. "I'm told that security here in America is excellent," he said.

  "We believe—there is evidence that there may be a plot against the pope. I'm very worried."

  "But there's no need, my friend. That crazy pro-life murderer—what was his name?—is dead, correct? I'm sure there are other crazy people around, but we can't let them stop us, can we?"

  How much did Valli know? Monroe had no idea. There had always been a sense that he understood everything that was going on at the Bank—indeed, everything that was going on at the Vatican. But Monroe had no proof. For all he knew, Valli was clueless, and it was only his aristocratic bearing and supercilious demeanor that made people assume he was the master of every detail in the city-state. So what could Monroe say? "Marcello," he stammered, "there are things going on—the death of Monsignor Fieri—I believe they may all be related. We can't take any chances."

  "Monsignor Fieri—yes, a tragic loss. But what's the relationship?" Valli asked. "What is the danger? Thomas, I don't understand. What do you know?"

  "I—it is very complicated. Please, you've got to trust me."

  Valli shrugged. "I'll speak to his Holiness," he said, "but I wouldn't be optimistic. The pope is intent on making this a successful trip, and he isn't a man to worry about personal risk. Of course, you can also speak to him yourself."

  "All right. Perhaps I will. Perhaps I will."

  Monroe could feel himself becoming desperate. He needed Doyle's advice. But Doyle was dead. And it had been Doyle who had gotten him into this mess. He needed to figure this out for himself.

  He needed to talk to the pope.

  There was no chance on the tarmac. He could only exchange brief pleasantries during the welcoming speeches; he could only feel the pope's brown eyes appraising him. Then the motorcade began, and he found himself alone in the bubble-topped popemobile next to Pope John. The pope seemed distant and preoccupied as he smiled and waved to the crowds. "Such a shame about your Vicar General," he said, echoing Valli's comment.

  "Yes indeed, Holiness. He was a fine man." Now, he thought. My only chance is now. "Holiness—"

  The motorcade entered the tunnel, and the pope turned to face him. "A fine man," he agreed, "but I think you know that he was involved with activities and people he had no business being involved with."

  Monroe's mind suddenly went blank, and his heart started to pound. "Holiness, I have no idea—"

  "Your Eminence, you know exactly what I'm talking about—activities at the Vatican Bank that we need not go into right now. And here is what I suggest. Wait some suitable—but short—period after I have left America, and then quietly petition to be relieved of your duties in the archdiocese. Make some plausible excuse to the public: You have decided you can better serve the Church in another capacity; the death of Monsignor Doyle has made it difficult for you to continue in this position. I'm sure you can come up with something. We will accept your request with regret and find a post for you that will let you serve the Church out of the public eye."

  "But Holiness—"

  "The alternative is that we reveal everything," the pope continued. "Many would say that this is exactly what we should do, and I'm not sure I disagree. There would be consequences, of course, and I'm sure they would be unpleasant for you. So, do I have your commitment to resign?"

  Monroe gaped at him, unable to respond. They came out of the tunnel and the crowds cheered; the pope waved. The cardinal had dreaded this moment for so long, and now it was upon him. There was nothing he could do, of course. Arguing was impossible; disobedience was unthinkable. "Of course, Holiness," he said finally. "Whatever you wish. I only want to say—I never meant to do harm. I am not an evil man."

  The pope turned to gaze at him once more. "I believe you, Thomas," he said softly. "But still you must resign." And then he turned away.

  "Holiness—I have to tell you: I believe you are in great danger."

  The pope didn't look at him. "I know," he murmured, as if to himself. "I know."

  Monroe wondered if he should say more, but decided not to. The pope knew what he had to, and would do what he had to. He had no need of advice from someone like Thomas Monroe. He gazed out the window of the popemobile at the adoring crowds and tried to fight back his tears.

  * * *

  Morelli's lawyer finally arrived, and he went off to see about getting her released. Meanwhile, she stewed as the minutes passed.

  It was late morning before the police commissioner came to see her. His kindly face masked an inner toughness equal to that of anyone in the department, she knew. And, if it was possible, he was even more religious than her father, a bond that had caused him to go to bat more often than he probably should have for his friend's wayward daughter.

  "I'm innocent," she told him as soon as he entered the room, "and the pope is in danger, and you've got to let me go."

  "Kathleen," he said, shaking his head, "what am I going to do with you?"

  "You're going to believe me, sir. There's an assassin on the loose and I'm stuck here because my father did something nasty to Tim Lafferty twenty years ago. We both know it, sir. Please let me go."

  "Have you thought, Kathleen, that maybe you're not cut out to be a police officer?"

  "I think that every single day of my life. Do you believe anything I'm telling you, sir?"

  "I don't know what to believe, to tell you the truth. But I'm ordering Lafferty to let you go. And I'm ordering you to listen to your lawyer and stay out of trouble, for God's sake."

  Morelli stood up. "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

  "I think I've heard that before. Now I have to get to the Mass at Fenway."

  Me too, she thought. Me too.

  Her car had probably been towed from where she had parked it last night, so she borrowed a car from one of her friends in the Department, drove home, and immediately turned on the TV. The pope's motorcade was making its way through the city. The commentator droned on about Boston's hopes for racial harmony, how proud it was to be the first city the new pope was visiting. The crowds lining the streets looked happy, excited. Mothers held up babies to catch a glimpse of him; old ladies crossed themselves reverently as he passed. The pope was going straight to Fenway. And Prouse would be there, waiting for him.

  She realized that she didn't know where Joe Hurley was. Maybe he was still at headquarters, getting the third-degree from Lafferty and company.

  It was all up to her.

  She quickly changed into her uniform.

  Perhaps she wasn't cut out to be a police officer, she thought as she left her apartment, but she would wear the uniform one final time. She didn't know how she was going to do it, but she was determined to stop George Prouse.

  * * *

  Father Hurley took a cab from the airport to Fenway Park. He had no plan, no clever idea how to find Prouse and s
top the assassination, no idea even how to get inside the ballpark to see the Mass, since he had no ticket. He was just going there, he thought, because he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

  It was a strange crowd to be entering Fenway, filled with nuns and priests and well-dressed families with well-behaved children. The vendors were selling holy pictures instead of scorecards, rosary beads instead of baseball caps. It all seemed somewhat other-worldly.

  And, of course, there were the hordes of security people, the metal detectors set up at the entrances, the bomb-sniffing dogs, the State Police helicopter circling overhead. Ballplayers didn't need them, but the pope did. Hurley didn't find them reassuring. They weren't going to stop Prouse, he thought. What would?

  Hurley wandered outside the park until he saw a familiar face in the midst of a knot of people. It was Sandra McKee, pushing Erin in her wheelchair. He hadn't given a thought to them lately, he realized guiltily. He made his way through the well-wishers and gawkers until she caught sight of him. "Father Hurley!" she called out. "Isn't this a wonderful day? And it's all thanks to you."

  He shook hands with Mike McKee, who seemed tense and distracted, and Sandra introduced him to her mother. Then he squatted down next to Erin, who looked heartbreakingly beautiful in a white First Communion dress. He felt a pang, thinking about being a parent and producing such beauty. "Hi, Sunshine," he said, holding her hand. "Today you'll finally meet the pope, huh?"

  She smiled at him.

  "She's excited," Sandra said. "She knows what's happening, I'm sure she does."

  "That's great," Hurley replied, standing up again. He wondered how great it really was. They would soon find out.

  "Are you going to the Mass?" Sandra asked.

  He shrugged. "I don't have a ticket. I haven't been on Cardinal Monroe's dance card since I went over his head to get the pope interested in Erin."

  Sandra looked chagrined. "I'm sorry, Father. It's just so wonderful, what you've done for us—you shouldn't have to suffer for it. But if you want to go to the Mass—they gave us this pass, and it doesn't say how many people it covers. I can't imagine there'd be any problem if you went in with us."

  Hurley wasn't so sure there wouldn't be a problem. The McKees apparently didn't know that he was a suspect in Doyle's murder, but the security people checking tickets very well might. Still, this was the best chance he'd get. "That's very kind of you," he replied. "I'd be extremely grateful."

  "It's the least we can do," Sandra said. "Everyone wants to see the pope."

  Hurley walked with them as they approached the gate. "Heard about that Monsignor Doyle on the news," Mike McKee murmured to him, out of earshot of the others. "Your name was mentioned, too."

  Hurley nodded; he didn't know what to say.

  "I didn't tell Sandra," Mike went on. "She's too excited to read the paper or anything. What's going on, Father? What was that all about?"

  "I don't know," Hurley replied honestly. "I really don't know."

  "I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin, I'm so nervous. I'm not a religious man, but I've been praying that everything turns out okay today."

  "Prayer can only help," Hurley pointed out.

  "But you're not telling me there's nothing to worry about."

  "Mike, just keep praying."

  The security guards studied Sandra's pass, studied Hurley's driver's license, and seemed to struggle to remember whether they had heard of him before. They passed a wand over him and patted him down. A soldier with a rifle stood a few feet away; he looked prepared to take out any of them with a single shot. Finally they let him in along with Sandra's family.

  Within minutes he and the McKees were standing at the end of a ramp and looking out at the baseball field. The stands were filling up; a huge altar had been set up on the infield; folding chairs covered the outfield. A choir was singing a hymn over the loudspeakers.

  "We're here, honey," Sandra said to Erin. "I can't believe it, but we're finally here." She kissed the top of Erin's head, and then they headed for the altar.

  Hurley took a deep breath, and then followed.

  Chapter 39

  Cardinal Valli stood in the crowded clubhouse, silently donning his vestments for the concelebrated Mass. His aides were busily ensuring that every detail of the event would come off as planned, but he had done his work already, and now it was time to prepare himself spiritually for the Mass.

  He could still stop what was about to happen.

  The thought would not leave him, no matter how often he tried to banish it. The decision was entirely his. Stopping it at this point would involve unpleasant explanations, and even more unpleasant consequences for himself, but it was not impossible. If he chose.

  It was clear that the pope suspected something. What did he know? What didn't he know? Difficult to say. He was clever about keeping his own counsel. But clearly he didn't know enough, if he was still planning to walk out into this stadium and say Mass.

  "Your Eminence?"

  Valli looked up to see the pope, with his own vestments on, gazing at him from a few feet away. He had the sense that the pope had been standing there for some time. He knew that deep, unwavering gaze by now; lesser men, even fellow cardinals, were cowed or even awed by it. Had the pope addressed him more than once while he was pondering his fate? No matter. "Yes, your Holiness?"

  "Could we speak in private?"

  "Of course. I believe we have a few moments."

  They went into a small room with a steel desk, a couple of chairs, some video equipment, and a leather sofa in it. On the walls were photographs of men wearing caps and uniforms—baseball players, Valli surmised. Both men remained standing.

  "I have, I believe, some disappointing news for you, Marcello," the pope began.

  "Yes, Holiness?"

  "I am requesting your resignation as my secretary of state."

  Valli stared at the pope. The little black man didn't flinch, showed no sign of intimidation, no sign that he was going to offer an explanation. "Well of course, Holiness," the cardinal replied, "I will serve the Church in whatever way you require. But might I ask: have I displeased you in some respect?"

  "Let me just say that I have lost confidence that your actions are in my best interest."

  He still couldn't know everything, Valli thought, or he would do much more than ask for his resignation. Better not to probe, perhaps; he took a different tack. "As you wish, Holiness," Valli said. "You realize, of course, that unfortunately you have many enemies in the Vatican, and—please excuse my bluntness—you are very inexperienced. I honestly believe that it would be unwise for you to try to deal with these men without someone like me to advise you."

  "I will be perfectly fine, your Eminence," the pope said. "But thank you for your concern."

  Valli considered whether to press him further, if only to avoid arousing suspicion. But the pope had his vestments on; the Mass was going to start. And nothing else mattered. And of course the pope's decision only confirmed that Valli had made the right decision himself. There would be no opportunity to be the power behind the throne. There was the throne itself, or nothing.

  And delay would be fatal.

  "I trust, your Holiness," he said, "that you will listen to at least one final piece of advice from me: Don't publicize the resignation until you return to the Vatican. This monsignor's murder is distraction enough. The media doesn't need something else to write about while you're here."

  The pope shrugged. "Very well. We'll proceed with this when we get back."

  "Thank you, Holiness."

  Pope John left the room and returned to the clubhouse. Valli stood where he was, staring absently at the smiling photo of a bearded athlete. The pope was a tougher adversary than he had anticipated. But he wasn't tough enough. Valli followed the pope back to the clubhouse to finish vesting. And he had only one thought now:

  George Prouse was out there somewhere. And he must do his job. Soon.

  * * *

  Tra
ffic was horrendous, and eventually Morelli parked in a handicapped spot near the Prudential Center and sprinted the rest of the way to the park. She glanced at her watch: the Mass was just beginning. Outside the park it was still crowded, but she sensed that in a few minutes the only ones remaining would be the security people, the food sellers, the souvenir vendors, and the pious folks who were unable to get a ticket but just couldn't stay away.

  Morelli had no ticket either. But she had an advantage over the pious folks—she was wearing a police uniform.

  She walked along Yawkey Way, considering her options.

  "Fried sausage here! Fried sausage!"

  "Get your genuine Pope John pins and photos, two for the price of one now, two for one!"

  A scruffy old man wearing a sandwich board with a gruesome photo of an embryo on it took a pro-life leaflet out of a satchel and tried to stuff it into her hand. Morelli barely glanced at it. She had no time for abortion protests. She suddenly saw her chance to get inside.

  * * *

  "God bless," the old man murmured, watching her hurry away from him. He set the satchel down and smiled. It was nearly time.

  * * *

  Morelli spotted Jimmy Gorecki manning one of the entrances. Jimmy was a Boston cop who had reported to her once, and she had always treated him well, though he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. She thought maybe he had a crush on her. She strode up to him as he stood next to the security checkpoint. "Hey, Jimmy," she said, "things quiet here?"

  "Hi, Lieutenant," he replied. "Yeah, no problems."

  "Seen Captain Ryan?"

  He shook his head. "Probably up at the command center." A puzzled look started to work its way onto his face. "Say, Lieutenant, aren't you—?"

  "They've got me back on duty, Jimmy. They need everyone they've got to protect the pope. Check with Ryan if you're concerned. But I'm late reporting to him, so..."

  "Oh no, that's okay, Lieutenant," he replied, looking a little sheepish at having questioned her. He turned to the other security personnel. "She's fine," he said.