The Hounds of Rome - Mystery of a Fugitive Priest

by Tom Clancy

  “He’s ninety-five but seems to be going strong,” Henry replied. “But, what about you, Steve? What’s your situation? Are you just on vacation? Do you mind my asking?”

  “Not at all,” Steve replied, trying to sound as if he meant it. But mine is a strange story and I’m not sure you’d believe it if I told you. However, it will be awhile before I go back home. I can tell you this much: I was removed from my parish by the cardinal.”

  “I see,” Henry said with a wry grin. He was aware of the outrage in America over pedophile priests.

  “No, you don’t, really. Let me just say I had to get away for awhile. I was under a lot of stress running the parish and building a new church on top of that. But getting back to the American church’s problems,” Steve said, trying to change the subject, “the number of nuns has had a big fall-off too. In the years following Vatican II, the numbers dropped by an astonishing one-hundred thousand, now numbering about eighty thousand. That’s a tough one to explain too. I suppose a lot had to do with the church not allowing women to become priests and generally keeping them as second class citizens.”

  “I expect America’s general declining morality and materialism had a lot to do with it too. A lot of Hollywood movies and television are just filled with sex.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Steve replied, hoping to steer the conversation away from sex. “By the way, Henry, I’m about ready to shove off from Paris.”

  “Where to?” Henry asked as he wound the spaghetti around his fork with the aid of a large spoon. “Why are you leaving so soon? I’ll really miss you, and there’s lots more to see in Paris.”

  “I’m sure there is, but I’m heading off to see other places.”

  “For example?”

  “I want to visit the Holy Land—you know, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Jerusalem… and I might travel to Turkey to see the house of the Virgin Mary on the mountain at Ephesus. I’m sure you know the story. The Virgin and John of the Cross escaped north after the Crucifixion to get away from Christ’s enemies and, as the story goes, settled in Turkey at Ephesus. John lived in the town in the valley and Mary lived up on the mountain.”

  “Well, at least that’s one of the stories about her,” Henry commented. “Another story has her remaining in Jerusalem in hiding and after she died, as that story goes, her body was assumed into heaven. Still another story has her living in Nazareth where she was born. In fact, the Church of the Assumption was built at the place where her body was assumed into heaven. But I’m strongly inclined to agree that she lived out her days in that house on the mountaintop while John lived in the valley below. John eventually died and is buried at Ephesus. His grave has been located. It’s well documented. In fact, Pope John Paul II visited the house and blessed the waters of a spring that appeared from the side of the mountain. The water supposedly has miraculous powers. The pontiff’s visit to that house gave a lot of authenticity to her living in Ephesus.”

  “Have you been there, Henry?”

  “Oh yes. When the fleet docked at Ephesus, I took a trip up the mountain to see Mary’s house. But, Steve, before you leave Paris, there’s one more place we have to visit. Ever been up the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Nope. They tell me there’s a four-hour wait for the elevator—not to the top—just up to the observation platform. Not for me.”

  “Steve, I have a way of getting up there quickly.”

  Steve laughed. “By flying?”

  “No. You’ll see. Let’s meet at the center under the tower at noon tomorrow.”

  *****

  Promptly at noon, Steve was standing under the tower when he saw Henry approaching. They were both in clerical garb because Henry had said they would have lunch in a rather dressy restaurant. Steve was puzzled. He didn’t see any nearby restaurants.

  When Henry arrived, he took Steve by the arm and led him over to one of the legs of the tower. An attendant confirmed Henry’s reservation and the pair entered a private elevator that took them up to the main observation landing. There they were greeted by a head waiter and shown to a table.”

  “Where are we?” Steve asked.

  “”You are,” Henry said with a good deal of satisfaction, about to have a marvelous lunch in the Jules Verne Restaurant—somewhat expensive but excellent and with a marvelous view of Paris.”

  “Incidentally,” Steve, said, “I’m paying for this lunch. You haven’t let me pay for anything in all the time we’ve been sightseeing.”

  “No way,” Henry said emphatically. “Since I am the host, my policy is that the host pays for everything.”

  *****

  After dinner that evening, the two priests walked through the crowded streets of the Latin Quarter in the direction of Steve’s hotel.

  “Never been in the Saint-Michel,” Henry said. I’m curious about your room. I remember that you said it’s on the top floor, a garret, with a balcony. Must be a great view of the Latin Quarter all lit up at night. Maybe we could stop by there… just to take a peek.”

  Steve wanted to say no, but in a weak moment. He agreed.

  Passing through the tiny lobby, they squeezed into the tube-like elevator that had a limit of two people. Henry started laughing at what he said must be the tiniest elevator in the world. Then, on the way up, Henry pressed himself against Steve and groped for his hand.

  “Ye gods,” Steve said to himself. “This guy wants to hold hands. God knows what’s going to happen when we get to my room.”

  In the room, Henry admired the view from the balcony, took off his jacket and shoes and threw himself on Steve’s bed. He lay flat-out on his back with his hands behind his head. He uttered a sigh of delight. Steve sat in a chair near the bed. Then, Henry suddenly reached out with his stocking’d foot to tickle Steve’s leg.

  “Please don’t do that,” Steve said pushing Henry’s leg away. Now he was convinced about why Henry wanted to see the room. He regretted his decision to bring Henry up, but he tried to keep things as casual as possible. “Henry,” he said, “now that you’ve seen the place I think it’s time for you to leave. I’m pretty exhausted. It’s been a big day. Let’s meet tomorrow for lunch, and this time, I’m going to pay.”

  “Why? We’re just getting comfy. Besides, I think I understand why your bishop in America took your parish away.” He gave Steve a wink. “Look at it this way—since we’re both priests we can confess to one another later and be absolved right on the spot.”

  “Henry, among the things that guarantee excommunication from the church is for sexual partners to absolve each other of the sin. I’m sorry if I inadvertently gave you the wrong impression, but it wasn’t clear to me right off that you and I have vastly different ideas about relationships. When we first met, you said you had been a Navy chaplain. It didn’t occur to me that you might be gay.”

  Henry put a finger to his lips. “You know the rule: Don’t ask. Don’t tell.” He lay on the bed, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly and began to slide his trousers down.

  With that, Steve got up and walked to the door. He held it open. “Let me say this: you’ve got the wrong idea about why I was removed and, by the way, I am what they call straight. If the day comes when I decide to have sex it will be with a woman. Only with a woman. I’m not condemning you, Henry. Let’s say, I’m just not interested. So, zip up and maybe we can get together tomorrow, perhaps in some nice café. My treat.”

  “That’s a helluva way to treat someone who has spent the last week and a half ushering you around town paying for everything. Now you’re telling me I was wasting my time and money?”

  Steve picked up Henry’s jacket and shoes and placed them in a neat pile on the floor in the hall.

  “Goodnight, Henry!”

  Henry got up from the bed and went into the hall to retrieve his jacket and shoes as Steve closed the door behind him.

  *****

  Jonathon fiddled with the old fashioned rolodex file on the desk in his Wayland real estate office. He inserted a new card whi
ch listed an address for his brother, Steve. “Marge, do me a favor, will you?”

  Marge walked over and stood at Jonathon’s desk. “What’s the favor?”

  “It’s a bit unusual, I admit, but if a man comes in here in the next few weeks say, and I’m not here, and the man seems like he might just be nosing around—not actually interested buying real estate, sort of killing time and maybe asking a few dumb questions to cover his visit… do me a favor will you?”

  “Sure, Jonathon, but I still don’t get the favor. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just find a way to leave the room for a few minutes.”

  “I don’t get it. Why?”

  “What I mean is: leave the room on some pretext. I’m thinking the man will go through my rolodex file trying to find my brother Steve’s address.”

  “I still don’t get it, Jonathon. If you want him to find Steve’s address and the man wants to know it, why don’t we just tell him?”

  “It’s complicated,” Jonathon responded. “One of these days, I’ll tell you the whole story, but for now, I want anyone who comes in trying to find Steve to be able to take a peek at the address in my file. That’s all there is to it. All I’m asking you to do is find some reason, like going to the bathroom, to leave the man alone in the office for a few minutes. For Christ sake, Marge, is that so difficult?”

  “Of course I’ll do it. It’s not difficult at all, but it seems kind of stupid.”

  *****

  Philip Cardinal Rhinehart sat in his office in Washington and sounded unusually pleasant as he spoke into the phone with a friendly “Hello Dear Brother” to Bishop Hernandez in Tucson. For his part, the Bishop of Tucson was perplexed. He would have expected an icy greeting from the cardinal who had spent fifty thousand dollars and received nothing for it. His two monks had failed twice to capture Steve Murphy.

  “My Dear Bishop,” the cardinal said in a voice that seemed to transmit a smile through the phone wires, let’s try again, shall we? I don’t fault your monks for not apprehending Murphy in New Hampshire or the Aleutians. I understand he’s a slippery eel. But now we have a new address on him, and I’d like you to send the brothers to find him. And, as before, I will be happy to cover their expenses.”

  “Your Eminence, do you mean another fifty thousand?” Bishop asked with a faint hope that sprang from necessity.

  “Good heavens, no. I’m talking about actual documented expenses, not a major stipend for your diocese. Will you do it? Will you do it for Holy Mother Church?”

  “Yes, Eminence. And let me say that after the Alaska mission failed, I know I should have returned the generous sum you sent, but I honestly didn’t have it to send. So, to partially compensate, we will continue this search at the smallest possible cost to your diocese. Now please tell me, where has this Murphy gone? What is his current address?”

  “He is,” the cardinal said with unconcealed relish as he leaned back in his swivel chair and studied with approval a new fresco he had commissioned for the ceiling in his office, “in the Hawaiian Islands, on the island of Maui. I gather Murphy had enough of the cold weather in Alaska and decided to find a more pleasant place. We have the address of a small guest house he may be staying at. The local address was somewhat garbled so it may take awhile for your brothers to actually locate him. My secretary will forward whatever details we have.”

  “May I ask how you determined this, Eminence? According to my monks, Murphy left no forwarding address when he left Alaska.”

  “God works in mysterious way, my Dear Bishop. Truly in mysterious ways.”

  36

  When the Greek ship Olympus out of Piraeus docked at Ashdod in Israel, Steve got into a taxi to take him to the old city of Jerusalem. Since the driver did not speak English, Steve called an old friend, Lou Lavine on his cell phone for directions. Barbara and Lou, a middle-aged Jewish couple who formerly lived in his parish had emigrated to Israel and were living in Jerusalem. Although they had not been parishioners, Steve counted them as old friends because they had participated in food drives and t-ball and softball tournaments with their kids and the kids in his parish. He had even attended their son David’s Bar Mitzah and their daughter Sarah’s Bas Mitzvah.

  “Good to hear your voice, Father Murphy.”

  “Lou, the ship just docked at Ashdod. But this taxi driver doesn’t speak English so what do I tell him?”

  “Just say ‘Jaffa Gate’. He’ll understand that. The Jaffa Gate is one of the entrances to the old city which is surrounded by a wall with a number of gates. Jaffa is the western gate that leads into the city from the port. As you go through the gate just wave to the driver to keep going straight on. You’ll be going along King David Street which becomes El Wad. That’s our street, and when you get to a few blocks approaching the Western Wall, you’ll get a glimpse of the Western Wall with the big Dome of the Rock on top set somewhat back from the wall. Then you’ll be near our house. It looks like every other white stone row house around here but we’ll be in the doorway waiting for you. The trip is about 40 miles so it will take about an hour to get here. You can pay the driver in dollars. He’ll take dollars or euros.”

  “Lou, are you saying you can see the Wailing Wall from your house?”

  “Yes, but we call it the Western Wall. That’s the official name for it here. We can see it from the windows on the second floor. You’ll be able to see it from the room we have ready for you.”

  *****

  As the taxi approached the Western Wall, Steve had to laugh when he saw the couple standing in the doorway of their house each waving small American flags.

  “First we’ll eat and then we’ll talk,” Barbara said as they sat Steve down in their beautiful dining room surrounded with flowers and pictures of home.

  Barbara and Lou looked older to Steve—they were not as plump as they had seemed when they lived in Maryland. They both appeared quite fit as they bustled about but Steve noticed that Barbara had let her hair grow out gray and he found he had to speak a bit louder when he talked. They seemed contented in their new surroundings. The thought occurred to him that much of the devout couples’ apparent happiness probably came from the realization that they were finally settled in the ‘promised land’.

  “As you know Father Murphy, we’re running a guest house here for tourists,” Lou explained. “We have six rooms for guests. You are welcome to stay as long as you like and there is no charge.”

  “Lou, thanks for your kindness, but I plan to be in Israel about a week or two and I insist on paying your usual rate. While I was in the parish I never let anyone know that I came from a very wealthy family. And, you may be surprised to learn that I’m not in the parish any more.”

  “I know, you’re now a bishop,” Lou said with a big smile.

  “Hardly that, but there have been big changes in my life.”

  “What happened? You were building a beautiful new church.”

  “It’s a long, long story my friends and not a very pleasant one. Are David and Sarah here with you?”

  “They were for awhile,” Barbara said with a crestfallen look, “but they soon left and said they liked it better at home in Maryland.”

  “I hate to admit it, Father Steve,” Lou cut in, “they said Israel was Okay, but they liked living conditions better in Maryland, I really believe they were both afraid of being drafted into the Israeli Army. You know, military service is compulsory for young people, male and female, in Israel. And Sarah in particular was running scared. She was in a market not far from here when a terrorist‘s bomb went off. She wasn’t harmed but she said the horrible things she saw really scared her, and she decided to leave. Sarah and David do visit us every year and we get e-mails and telephone calls, but no more than that. And although they’re both married now, there are no grandchildren yet.”

  “And, as I have been telling Lou,” Barbara said, “grown children separating from their parents and making their own lives is a natural thing to do, although it would b
e nice to have them raise their children—when the days come when give us grandchildren—nearby rather than thousands of miles away.”

  As they sat down for a snack of warm potato knishes and coffee, Steve asked, “Where are your other roomers? I’d like to tell you some of my story but it’s kind of private.”

  “No problem. They’re all off sightseeing,” Lou said. “They won‘t be home until dinner at six o’clock and, I might add, no one wants to miss one of Barbara’s dinners.”

  “About my story,” Steve said as he looked down staring into his coffee cup, “I was removed from my parish by the archbishop.”

  To their look of shocked surprise, he quickly added, “I didn’t do anything wrong, please believe me, but the church came to the conclusion that I should be transferred. There was no explanation. And in the Catholic Church, a cleric is bound by a vow of obedience. If your bishop wants to tell you the reason, fine, but if not, you have no right to demand an explanation. In fact, I was transferred twice—first to a parttime teaching post at Catholic University in Washington, but then, after Cardinal Wollman died, I was transferred again to a monastery in the Arizona desert. This transfer was arranged by Bishop Rhinehart who took over after Cardinal Wollman’s heart attack.”

  “I’ve heard things about Rhinehart when he was auxiliary bishop, from some Catholic friends we knew in your parish,” Lou commented. “One of your former parishioners even said that if Rhinehart was alive during the French Revolution, he would have been the chief executioner.”

  Steve laughed. “Rhinehart is a strict tradionalist and he has a gift for making people miserable, but I think he’d stop short of executions.”

  “But Father Steve, you still haven’t given us any clue about why they would do this to you,” Barbara said puzzled.

  Steve decided to tell the couple some but not all of the story.