by Morris West
Their walk had brought them to a small arbour with a stone bench and table. A gardener was working a few paces away. The Pontiff called him and asked him to order coffee and mineral water from the kitchen. When they were seated, he asked simply: ‘My Lord Abbot, would you hear my confession?’
The old man showed no surprise.
‘If Your Holiness wishes, of course.’
They sat side by side, leaning on the table while Leo the Pontiff poured out, sometimes haltingly, sometimes in a rush of words, the guilts and confusions that had piled up like windblown leaves in the crannies of his conscience.
He spoke without reserve, because this time he was not asking for counsel or judging the advice given, or weighing its possible consequences. This was another act altogether; this was the completion of the metanoia, the purging of guilt, the acceptance of penance, the resolution to begin anew. It was an act anonymous, secret and fraternal, brother mediating for brother with the Father of all. When the act was done, Leo the penitent bowed his head and heard the old man’s voice pronounce in Greek the words of absolution.
Late the same morning, Matt Neylan called Monsignor Peter Tabni, consultor to the Commission for Religious Relations with Islam. His request was couched in very cautious terms.
‘Peter, there’s a casual acquaintance of mine, an Iranian Muslim called Omar Asnan. He’s expressed interest in a visit to the Vatican. He’s a permanent resident in Rome, a merchant, obviously rich and well educated. I’m wondering if you could perhaps give him an hour or two of your time.’
‘Sure! I’ll be happy to give him a morning. How do you want to arrange it?’
‘I’ll call him and tell him you’ll be in touch with him. You make your own arrangements.’
‘You won’t come?’
‘Best I don’t, Peter. I’ve been granted Archive access. I don’t want to push my luck.’
‘I understand. You’re well and happy?’
‘For today, I’m both. Let me know how it goes with Asnan. I’ll buy you a lunch. Ciao, caro!’
Next he telephoned Omar Asnan, who was effusive in his gratitude.
‘You are a most punctual man, Mr Neylan. I shall not forget your kindness. You will be joining us, of course.’
‘Regrettably, no, but Monsignor Tabni will take very good care of you. We’ll see each other very soon at the Alhambra.’
Then Malachy O’Rahilly called him from Castel Gandolfo. He was obviously distressed.
‘You must have the second sight, Matt.’
‘How come?’
‘I’ve been fired; just as you guessed I might be. Oh, it was all very kind and compassionate. I’ve got three months’ leave to dry out and make a conscience decision. If I can’t cut it after that, I get a quiet pass-out by private rescript.’
‘Malachy, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m not. I’m taking the Man back to the Vatican, settling my successor in the hot seat. Then I take leave.’
‘If you want to hang your hat for a few days, come to my place.’
‘I’ll think about that. Thanks anyway. And there’s one other thing: Tove Lundberg. Your offer was passed on to her this morning. She’s very grateful. She wants to think about it. She’ll call you direct to discuss it.’
‘So what else is new?’
‘Not much. Britte Lundberg’s portrait of the Man is quite wonderful. We had the annual visit of the Abbot of St Neilus – nice old boy, transparent as old porcelain. On his way out, he stopped by my desk and gave me a funny, sidelong smile and said: “Don’t be too angry, Monsignore! His Holiness is doing you a favour.” Then, would you believe, he quoted Francis Bacon: “Princes are like to heavenly bodies which cause good or evil times and which have much veneration but no rest.”’
‘I’ve never met the man. It sounds as though one should invite him to dinner.’
‘Invite me instead, Matt. It’s your turn anyway and I’m needing a shoulder to cry on.’
By then it was midday. He was just getting ready to go out when the doorbell rang. Nicol Peters was standing on the mat. Behind him were Marta Kuhn and a lean, vulpine fellow he had never seen before. Peters had obviously been named master of ceremonies.
‘Do you mind if we come in, Matt? There are things to explain.’
‘It would seem so.’ He waited for a word from Marta. She said nothing.
He stood aside to let them pass into the apartment. When they were seated, he remained standing, looking from one to the other. It was Nicol Peters who made the introductions.
‘Marta Kuhn you know.’
‘Not, it seems, as well as I thought.’
‘And this is Aharon ben Shaul, attached to the Israeli Embassy in Rome.’
‘That’s the identification, Nico. I’m still waiting for the explanation.’
‘I’m the explanation, Mr Neylan.’ Aharon ben Shaul was in command now. ‘I work for Israeli intelligence. Miss Kuhn works for me. Part of our job is anti-terrorist activity. You frequent the Alhambra Club. Last night you left the club with a certain Omar Asnan. Miss Kuhn reported the matter to me. This morning I had a call from the International Clinic indicating that you had offered refuge in your house in Ireland to Tove Lundberg and her child. The connection was puzzling until I discovered you had met her at the house of Mr Nicol Peters, who filled me in on your background. That encouraged me; but still left some areas of doubt.’
‘About what?’
‘Your political sympathies.’
‘Which are my own bloody business!’
‘And your Roman activities, which are very much the business of the Italians, ourselves and the Vatican. Where did you go last night with Mr Asnan?’
We went to a little music club near Monteverde Vecchio called Il Mandolino. We stayed for an hour. We left. He dropped me off at my house.’
‘Why did you go with Mr Asnan?’
‘It was a casual encounter on a dull night. No more.’
‘But you both frequent the Alhambra.’
We had seen each other. We had never talked. I believe Miss Kuhn can confirm that.’
‘She already has. What did you talk about?’
‘Trivia mostly. I told him I was writing a book. He told me he was a merchant. When he heard I was working in the Vatican Archive, he expressed a wish to visit the City. This morning I arranged for him to be in touch with a friend of mine, Monsignor Tabni, who runs the Commission for Religious Relations with Islam. Tabni was going to give him the ten-dollar tour. End of story.’
‘Not the end, Mr Neylan, just the beginning. Mr Omar Asnan is the leader of an extremist Muslim group called the Sword of Islam, about which our friend Nicol Peters has been writing at some length. I hate to tell you, Mr Neylan, but you have just given an assassin the keys of Vatican City.’
Matt Neylan groped for the nearest chair and slumped into it.
‘God in heaven! I’m the fine Vatican diplomat! And I can’t see past the end of my own nose!’
‘Don’t be too rough on yourself, Mr Neylan.’ Ben Shaul gave him a thin smile. ‘You were looking for the pleasant things – not the shit we deal in. Just a month ago, Asnan murdered one of our men. We couldn’t move then without blowing a much bigger operation of which the Alhambra is the centre. Marta’s been the agent in residence for months. Then you showed up …’
‘And she did a very good job of checking me out – full profile, physical and mental! Congratulations, sweetheart!’
‘Hold it, Matt!’ Nicol Peters thrust himself into the argument. ‘You were playing; the girl was risking her life.’
‘Let’s get the priorities straight.’ Suddenly the Israeli took over. ‘Two things are about to happen: a woman’s going to be kidnapped; there will be an attempt on the life of the Pope. You can help prevent both crimes. Are you willing or not?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Yes. If you want out, we can get the Italians to deport you back to Ireland as an undesirable alien.’
‘
On what charge?’
‘You’re associated with a known terrorist. You’ve left the Vatican Secretariat of State under a cloud. Nobody will say what it is, but we can make it look pretty black. We also have reason to suspect you might have sympathetic connections with the IRA, who often come here to shop for arms with Libyan money. How does that sound?’
‘It’s a load of rubbish.’
‘Of course it is; but it will make a hell of a denuncia! And you know how messy things can get after you’re on the books of the security boys. On the other hand, you can join our nice exclusive club here and help us clean up this mess. So what’s it to be, Mr Neylan? Hurt pride or help for the righteous?’
In spite of himself, Matt Neylan laughed.
‘That’s the worst piece of salesmanship I’ve heard in years! … All right, I’m in. What do you want me to do?’
Twelve
‘You’re booked out tomorrow.’ In his usual peremptory fashion, the Mossad man recited the details to Salviati and Tove Lundberg. ‘Aer Lingus direct to Dublin, departure 1405 hours, arrival 1620 local time. Italian security will handle your transport from here to the colonia to pick up your daughter, thence to the airport. You will be taken directly to the VIP lounge, where you’ll be in care of the Carabinieri until departure time. Mr Matt Neylan will meet you there and travel with you. Your tickets will be handed to you at the airport. I wish you a safe journey and a happy return when this mess is cleared up.’
Then he was gone, and Tove Lundberg and Sergio Salviati were left alone. It was a curiously dry and vacant moment, all argument over, all passion spent, each anchored in a bleak private haven of solitude. Finally, Tove asked: ‘Have they told you what’s going to happen when I’m gone?’
‘Nothing. All they’ve said is that things are coming to flash-point, and they want you out.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m the one everyone wants to keep alive – it seems even terrorists can’t do without a plumber!’
‘I’m more scared to be going than I ever was of staying.’
She shivered involuntarily and seemed to be trying to draw an invisible cloak about herself. Salviati knelt in front of her, cupping her face in his hands.
‘We’ve had good times, rich times. We’ll have them again.’
‘I’m sure we will.’
‘And I’m writing around to colleagues in Europe and America to get the best advice we can for Britte’s future.’
‘That’s the part I’m dreading; being totally alone with her, in a strange place. There’s something terrible in the sight of all that passion welling up in her with no hope of satisfaction. I see it even in the way she paints – she almost attacks the canvas!’
‘Drexel’s going to miss her.’
‘He’s going to miss a lot of things. But he will never complain. He’s much more passionate and proud than you would ever imagine – and in his time he’s been a very powerful man.’
‘I’m much more fascinated by his master. I keep asking myself what kind of terrible mutation I’ve loosed upon the world.’
‘You keep using that word. I’ve never found him terrible.’
‘What are you telling me, sweetheart? That you coaxed an angel out of him?’
‘No; but there were moments when it almost seemed I was dealing with my father – all that repressed affection, the compassion he could never find words to express. Anyway, I must go. The car’s waiting. I’ve got a lot to do tonight. We have to pack for autumn and winter now.’ She reached out and drew his face towards her own and kissed him. ‘No more talk, my love. Let’s cut clean. It heals quicker. You taught me that.’
The next moment she was gone, and Sergio Salviati wondered why his eyes were wet and his hands were unsteady, and how the hell he would face a triple bypass at seven in the morning. He was still trying to get a grip on himself when the Mossad man came back.
‘Stage one is completed. We’ve got them covered from now until embarkation time. We’re putting the word about Rome that you and Tove have broken up and she has left for a long holiday with her family in Denmark. Her car is gone, stored in the Embassy garage. Our people in Israel are releasing Miriam Latif. She’ll be delivered safe into the care of her parents in Byblos. She’s given us all the useful information she’s got, and she’ll take some time to recover from the mind-washing, so she’s out of play as well as Tove Lundberg. That forces Asnan to concentrate on his operation against the Pope and leaves us free to concentrate on him and the Sword of Islam group …’
‘And where does that put me?’
‘It allows you, my dear Professor, to continue the fiction – that Tove Lundberg is out of your life and you are beginning to be interested in other women. That, of course, confirms the fairytales we’ll be spreading. So while Omar Asnan is setting up his strategy for assassination, we’ll be drawing the net tighter and tighter round him and his group.’
‘That sounds to me like a very risky race. Who pulls the pin out of the grenade first?’
‘I can think of a pleasanter metaphor,’ said the Mossad man. ‘It’s a very elaborate chess game. The players both know what is going on. The art is to choose the right move and judge all its consequences.’
Leo the Pontiff was already laying out in his head a different chess game.
Tomorrow, in the mid-afternoon, he would go home to the Vatican. The journey would be made by helicopter, courtesy of the Italian airforce. It would save time, risk and the expense of a public procession from the mountains to the city. The Secretary of State was giving him the situation report.
‘The Sword of Islam are already moving towards an attempt on Your Holiness’s life. We are mounting a combined protective operation with the Italian Government and the Israelis. You will find on your return to the Vatican that internal security measures are somewhat more stringent. Apart from that, there will be no perceptible change in your administrative routine. We have noted your appointment of a new Senior Secretary and the retirement of Monsignor Malachy O’Rahilly, which, if I may say it, was generally regarded as a prudent step.’
‘I am glad.’ The Pontiff’s tone was dry and formal. ‘For me, it was a painful decision …You should know that there will be other changes when I get back.’
‘Perhaps we should begin to set the machinery in motion immediately.’
The Secretary of State could not have been more tentative, nor the Pontiff more abrupt. ‘What machinery, Eminence?’
‘If Your Holiness is thinking of a Curial Consistory – a meeting of all the cardinals residing in Rome – then notices should be sent out, an agenda prepared and circulated. If it’s a question of a full Synod, that’s at least twelve months of preparation.’
‘Matteo, I have never thought of you as an obtuse man.’
‘I trust not, Holiness.’
‘Then let’s be clear. I have no intention of using those procedures, which so easily can be an excuse for deferring action. I am living on borrowed time. I am driven to use every moment. Look! We have command of every modern communication. We have, unless our balance sheets lie, even a substantial stake in satellite communications. I can talk by telephone or send a facsimile letter to all our senior bishops around the world. The contact is immediate. I propose to work with these tools. My Curia has a simple choice – work with me or wait around until they can elect a more complaisant candidate. I am prepared to be open with them. They have to be open with me.’
‘And if they oppose you?’
‘I shall respect them as the loyal opposition, take their opinions under advisement and act according to my conscience.’
‘Then we are back to papal absolutism and collegiality goes out the window for good and all!’
‘The Curia already rejects it de facto!’ Once again he was the raptor, poised on the topmost branch ready to dive on the prey. ‘Most of our brethren in the Curia want it both ways. They pay lip-service to collegiality, the consensus of the bishops as apostolic successors in union with the
Bishop of Rome. But that’s not what they really mean, Matteo. They want what they have, a self-perpetuating oligarchy with all real power vested in them – because the Pope can’t move a metre past the barriers they put up around him! I know that. You know it. It’s a set-piece game. So I will play it exactly as it is laid out. I am the Successor of Peter, Supreme Pontiff and Pastor. So I am called; so I shall act: with love, because I have learned love, Matteo, but without fear, because I have looked into the face of Brother Death and seen a smile on it. I wish, I wish so much, that you may understand me!’
‘I do, Holiness, believe me. You have the same loyalty as you had the day I kissed hands as your Secretary of State.’
‘I have demands to make on you, too, Matteo.’
‘I shall do my best to meet them; but I, too, am what I am. The only art I know is the art of the possible. Come the day when you want me to swear that the impossible is the possible, I will not do it.’
‘I ask no more. I expected no less. But I tell you truly, I am dreading my return to duty. I feel like a prisoner being walked back to his cell after a brief hour in the sunlight.’
Agostini gave him a swift, appraising look and uttered the now familiar caution: ‘Salviati warned you, Holiness. This is only the first stage of your recovery. You must not try to do too much.’
‘It is not the doing, Matteo. The real burden is the knowing. I understand the workings of the Church better than any man alive, certainly better than my two immediate predecessors. But that’s the problem: I understand it too well. On the one hand, Vatican City is the Sedes Apostólica, the See of Peter; on the other, it is an apparatus of power which we try always to endow with a sacred character, to justify our own mistakes and excesses. This is propaganda, not religion. It is a political conjuring trick, which impresses the faithful less and less each year. Look at me! Look at yourself! I am dressed in the white of innocence, you in the scarlet piping of a prince. Our Master walked the dusty roads of Palestine, slept under the stars, preached from a fishing boat. I am shamed by what we have become and by my personal contribution to it. Oh, I know what you will tell me. I cannot demean my office. I cannot cancel two thousand years of history. I cannot vacate the City and turn it over to the Vandals. But the plain fact is, Matteo, we cannot afford to go on as we are, a bloated bureaucracy riddled with jealousies and intrigues. I am sure even this long-awaited study of our finances will tell us the same thing in banker’s language. And that brings me back to my first proposition. I propose to act, not sit as chairman of a Curial debating society.’