The Hounds of Rome - Mystery of a Fugitive Priest

by Tom Clancy

  Young Peter sneered: “Just like a typical Catholic priest,” he said. “It’s always the money...always the money. You and your kind make me sick.”

  Steve bristled at the criticism. “It takes money,” he replied caustically, “to run schools and hospitals, especially in poor areas where people need financial assistance.” As he said it he was tempted to throw enough money on the table to cover the check and walk out. He resisted the urge. There were things he wanted to find out.

  “Your message sounds like Communism,” Steve said a few minutes later, trying to begin a dialog that would clarify what the young man was trying to accomplish. “Tear down the establishment and distribute the wealth to the common people. The difficulty as we have learned however is that the world now knows the Communist philosophy doesn’t work.”

  “I’m not preaching Communism,” the young man said, as he glanced expectantly over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen waiting for the food to arrive. “If you must know, I’m preaching against the establishment. Any establishment. We hear first the rhetoric—idealized, glorious, full of promise; then the same old authoritarian power grab takes place and the common people are left with little or nothing, as usual.”

  The first course arrived. Young Peter sliced into a piece of veal and began devouring it with obvious relish. “I am not preaching Communism,” he said again between mouthfuls. “You Americans are so simplistic. On the one hand you see Communism, on the other, Capitalism. Is there nothing in between?”

  “There are monarchies,” Steve said.

  “Oh, yes, I forgot—monarchies like the Catholic Church.”

  Steve slowly poured a small hill of sugar on his cafe latte. He watched it sink slowly below the surface. Their talk was turning into an argument. He shrugged, thinking it best to back off...not come on too strong. After all, he suspected he was dealing with a volcanic personality and if the volcano blew, he wouldn’t learn what he had come to learn. “Tell me more about yourself. You claim to be the ‘son’ of Saint Peter—a clone of the saint.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “Well, I’m not sure the average person would believe it.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am inclined to believe it. But tell me this. Do you know if you were cloned from the skull of Saint Peter which legend says is in an urn at Saint John Lateran Basilica? I wasn’t aware that DNA could be extracted from bone for cloning.”

  “It’s not a legend. The head is there. And, for your information, it’s more than a skull—there are still pieces of preserved viable flesh clinging to it.”

  “After two thousand years? DNA from flesh? Look, I believe in the fact of human cloning, but I’m not sure I believe in the possibility of cloning the long dead.”

  “Surely, as a priest you have heard of Saint Catherine Laboure. Her body is perfectly preserved behind glass under an altar in Paris. The body of Saint Bernadette lies in a glass-sided altar in Nevers, France. The church has documentation that their bodies were never embalmed or treated for preservation. And there are dozens of other saints whose bodies are wholly or partly preserved—Saint Teresa and Saint Francis Xavier, for example. Their bodies are still uncorrupted, undecayed. The flesh is supple. The DNA is intact. Going back in time to the 1200s,” young Peter continued, his eyes flashing, “we come upon one of the best examples: St. Anthony of Padua. Pilgrims by the thousands visit Padua every year to see portions of his body including his tongue and jawbone. Now, since Saint Peter was the greatest of the saints, why wouldn’t some of his flesh remain? And even if none remained, there is some evidence that the DNA extracted from bone marrow can be used for cloning.”

  Steve shrugged his shoulders. He had never really thought about the possibility of cloning the long dead, but what he was hearing sounded plausible. “May I ask who your surrogate mother was?”

  “I don’t know. Why all these questions?”

  “I have a reason for wanting to know. You say you’re a clone. I’m a clone too.”

  Young Peter stopped slack-jawed, with the fork halfway to his mouth.

  “I was,” Steve continued, “not cloned from a saint, of course. I learned a short time ago that I was cloned from my older brother with my mother as surrogate. Imagine finding that out when you’re almost fifty years old.”

  “Are you sure it was cloning and not a bit of incest in the family?”

  “I’m sure. I found the medical records. Now this may sound strange, but you are the only human clone I’ve ever met. What was your reaction when you found out?”

  “Probably the same as yours—at first disbelief, then anger, then resignation, then....”

  “Then?”

  “Then, in my case, elation when I found out that I was cloned from Saint Peter. It opened a whole new world for me. Just imagine—me physically related to the first pope!”

  “And I gather,” Steve said as he watched the plates on young Peter’s side of the table being almost licked clean, “you are on a campaign to take over as head of the church.”

  “I am not interested in ‘taking over’ as you put it. People misunderstand me. I have no desire to be pope. I have not been ordained. You’re not going to see me on TV saying midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. I am merely a messenger from two thousand years ago. I bring a reminder of the original church of Christ. The original church, the original Christian religion, was in fact, comprised of numerous small isolated churches spread around the Mediterranean. The people were simple true believers in Christ’s ministry on earth. Who knows the names of the early popes or even if there were popes? The pomp and circumstance, the mitered royalty came later under Constantine who decided he was not only the Roman emperor but also the head of the church. And starting with Constantine, the bureaucracy, like all bureaucracies, grew like a mushroom cloud. My goal is only to see the Vatican emptied of these pompous aristocrats and the bishops sent home to their dioceses. The treasures of the Vatican including its museums, should be sold and the money distributed to the poor.”

  “And the pope? What would happen to him?”

  Young Peter grinned. “We’re not going to shoot him, if that’s what you think. Remember the current, elected pope is the Bishop of Rome. He usually delegates this to a subordinate and ignores Rome while he travels around the world. Very simply, we would give him back his diocese and make him stay home and run it. Period. It’s rather strange that I should be trying to educate a priest about his own church but I suppose I must. In the early days of the Catholic Church, there were no cardinals or archbishops. There were only bishops— Jesus’ apostles were simply the equivalent of today’s bishops. But later came fancy titles like archbishop and cardinal—glorified titles needed to build the establishment. Each of these men is no more than a bishop—in fact, a bishop with a diocese to run. Instead of managing their dioceses, they spend a lot of time clustered around the monarch’s throne in the Vatican seeking to be on high level councils and committees. They attend the king’s court, always angling for power and prestige. All I’m saying is let each of them go home and run his diocese. And in later years, as the establishment grew, to fill out the ranks, they invented a lower level of clergy called ‘priests,’ like you. In a big establishment you need an army of low level people to do the daily work.”

  “This is a nice theory, but without the power of the papacy, the unified, cohesive dogma of the church would break down.”

  Young Peter rose to his feet adjusting his robes. “You, who supposedly have so much faith, have very little faith indeed. Are you saying that these bishops—direct descendents of Christ’s Apostles—cannot be trusted to preach Christ’s message?”

  Almost with a sneer, young Peter offered a peremptory thanks and walked to the door of the trattoria as Steve remained behind to pay the bill. Outside in the piazza, there was a gathering crowd as people learned the young man was inside. When Steve left the trattoria, he was surrounded. He nervously tried to thread his way t
hrough. Suddenly someone shouted, “Young Peter has been with a priest from the Vatican! The Vatican is willing to talk!” On hearing this, the crowd parted to let Steve pass. It was like the parting of the Red Sea. As he walked past the people who were lined closely on left and right, he saw them smiling and applauding him.

  On reaching the outer edge of the piazza, Steve looked back to see young Peter standing on one of the trattoria chairs and addressing a crowd which by now had swelled to over a thousand.

  40

  One evening, three weeks after Steve’s meeting with young Peter, Angelo called out from the small living room of the rectory: “Steve, come quick. There’s something on the television! Hurry!”

  Steve rushed into the room and settled in an armchair beside Angelo. It was the six o’clock news. The scene was outside a hospital in Rome. The reporter said a young man who claimed to be physically related to Peter had been stabbed and was in the emergency room. He wasn’t expected to live. It had happened right after the end of one of his sermons. A man had rushed out of the crowd, shoved a dagger into his stomach and quickly disappeared.

  “Do they know who did it?” asked Steve.

  “Yes and no. Steve, he was stabbed with a dagger. Some sources say the wound was square-shaped, so it was very likely done by one of the Knights of Carthage. The hypocrisy of it is if you attend High Mass on Easter Sunday, you see them all wearing their fancy uniforms sitting in the front row in Saint Peters.”

  “How can a religious group attempt to murder someone?”

  “Usually it’s only a beating, but in this case, you recall that young Peter says he is a clone. To them, I suppose killing a clone is not murder. It’s more like killing an animal that is out of control.”

  *****

  The next day, the news reported that young Peter was dead. But before he died, he said the church would never be rid of him because a clone would be made from his tissue. Thus another direct descendent of Peter would arise. And after that, another. The blood line would go on forever. When he was questioned about the viability of human cloning, he said there were other clones walking around, for example, he had met a priest from America who was now in Rome. The priest had told him he was a clone. When questioned, young Peter said he didn’t know the priest’s name, but he was able to give a description.

  *****

  Angelo was insistent. Steve had to go into hiding. No more jogging in the morning. He should give no more tours of the catacombs. For the time being, he would have to stay hidden in the catacombs.

  Steve was dismayed. “Angelo, do you really think this is necessary? Aren’t we overreacting? How would they know where to look for me—after all, isn’t Rome filled with priests?”

  Angelo had a worried look on his face. “You may have been followed back here after you met with young Peter. Some from the Vatican and others were watching him. If they saw you with him they would have wanted to know more about you.”

  “So you think the Knights of Carthage might have found out I’m staying here?”

  “That’s right. Don’t underestimate their determination my friend. You found out in Israel that they are radicals. Some of them are crazy. The police know that one of them did it. Although young Peter was stabbed in broad daylight, the killer got away. The story goes that he slipped down a side street. He was wearing a disguise so no one could identify him. And when the police gave chase, they were blocked by a jumble of strategically placed trucks and cars. They never recovered the dagger except that from the shape of the wound, they knew it was one of the Knights.”

  “So, if I stay here I have to hide in the catacombs like the early Christians—except that the Christians were hiding from the Romans. Now it’s a Catholic priest hiding from some radical element in the Catholic Church.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Steve was depressed at the thought of sleeping among the ancient tombs. The cold, the rats, the dank odor...almost like being buried alive. But he knew he had little choice.

  “I’ll put a cot down there for you. Probably down on the third level. There is a small room hidden under the staircase. It has little more than a slit in the wall for an opening. You’ll have to familiarize yourself with that area. They would have a hard time finding you down there, but if they did, you’d have to have an escape route planned.”

  “Escape to where?”

  “Into the depths. Back into the labyrinth where they may give up the chase thinking you’ve fallen into a pit. You can stay up here in the daytime as long as you are vigilant, but at night, it would be better if you slept down there.”

  “Angelo, what happens if they interrogate you?”

  “A little white lie. I’ll get rid of it in confession. “If they show up here. Yes, I’ll tell them you were here, but when I found out about you, I kicked you out. And if they don’t believe it, they can go down and search. Don’t worry about me, I can handle them.”

  *****

  Steve rolled over on the cot. He pulled the blankets up almost covering his head. He could hear a couple of rats trying to nibble away at the metal screen that Angelo had rigged up covering the cot. He kicked at the screen. The rats squealed and ran away. But they would be back.

  He was miserable. This was his third night sleeping in a pitch-black room in the catacomb. He got very little sleep. He felt as if he had been entombed alive. Half awake, he mumbled prayers. They were of some comfort—mainly because they temporarily distracted him from his misery. But after a time, they were mechanical, repetitious. Why would God want to listen to something almost akin to gibberish? He rolled over. First on one side, then on the other. He punched the pillow. He kicked the screen again. Another squeal. He wondered whether all of this was worth it. Shouldn’t he just give up and make a deal to leave the priesthood? For months now he had had no ministry. Giving tours of the catacombs hardly qualified as God’s work. As the weeks had gone by, growing into months, it had become less and less likely that the Vatican would resolve his case in his favor.

  He thought of Janet. His one sweet memory, but a memory that had almost faded. Worse, he felt guilty even thinking of her. Another man’s wife. Perhaps the mother of a child, perhaps living a reasonably happy life somewhere in Boston. Probably Cambridge. Did she still have a career in social work? Or did she spend her days tending to the baby, fixing meals, doing housework, talking over the back fence with the neighbors. When her husband came home from work and they both had dinner, did they relax on a sofa in the evening? Then later at night in bed, did they...? The thought made him miserable, but if that was her life, he was happy for her. It could be a good life, a calm, satisfying and productive life. He wondered if she ever thought of him. He thought of the few weeks spent with Alice. They were a pleasure surely, but little more than what she had referred to as a brief encounter.

  It was just a faint sound. More a rustle. In a second he was up, pushed the screen away, slipped out through the opening slit in the wall, and began feeling his way along the passageway. He hoped they wouldn’t find the thin slot in the wall hidden behind the staircase on the lower level leading to his so-called bedchamber. If they did, they would know he was sleeping down there. And it would not go well for Angelo or for him.

  He crept along the passageway in the dark guiding himself by running his fingers along the walls on the sides. Every now and then, his fingers touched nothing. He knew the gap would be an opening to a sepulcher. Then, after six or seven feet, he would feel the wall again.

  He could hear slight sounds above him. They were on the second level, he was down on the third. Perhaps they were afraid of going too deep into the catacombs. He would have been too, if he weren’t so desperate. It was dangerous. Move too fast, make one false step and down twenty or thirty feet into the abyss. A half hour passed, then an hour. It grew quiet. They, whoever they were, had probably given up for the night. But like the rats, Steve was sure they would be back.

  Three nights later they were back. They were down to the third le
vel and Steve had to move quickly to stay ahead. He could hear the muffled thud of boots in the passageway behind him. They sounded so close he almost expected to feel a hand reaching to grab him from the rear. But it occurred to him that if they were close, he would have been caught in the beam of a flashlight. Still, he forced himself to move as fast as possible. How many were there? No way to be sure but it sounded like a small army.

  With more noise than he would have liked, he half stumbled down a staircase to the lowest level. He crept along a rough cut passageway that had a rocky uneven floor with a low ceiling that scraped the top of his head and walls that closed in against his shoulders. Every once in awhile one of his elbows caught on a jagged rock jutting out from the wall. He decided to stop his headlong rush. He slowed his pace. He stopped to listen. It was quiet behind him. Either they were sneaking up on him or they had given up. He twisted down into a crouch with his back against the wall. Suddenly a massive cramp seized one of his legs. It was one of those long inside thigh cramps. The pain was excruciating. Since he couldn’t stand and walk it off, he lay down flat and massaged it. When the cramp subsided, he sat up on the rocky floor, legs extended along the passageway. He leaned against the sidewall. A half hour passed. Then an hour. He decided they had gone. One arm bleeding, miserable and cold, he struggled back to his cot where he slept almost until noon the next day.

  Angelo told him they never found the small chamber he had been sleeping in. And during the chase they were never really sure they were chasing the priest. It could have been that they were only chasing an animal, possibly a dog or a rat. Then climbing down the staircase into the unexplored, forbidden depths of the lowest level, down where these superstitious men thought perhaps the evil spirits of hell dwelt, they had decided to turn back.

  It was a day later when Angelo gave them an excuse to quit the search in the catacomb—one they readily accepted. He told them they were wasting their time looking for the priest there. He showed them a copy of an e-mail receipt from an airline showing that the priest they were looking for was flying out of Rome to America. “If you hurry you can stop him, but why bother? He will soon be gone and won’t be able to cause any trouble.”