Lazarus

by Morris West

‘I’m fine. I’m in my own home. For the moment, I’m happy. I’m working well.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. One day I’m going to get a twitch and an itch and I’ll drive to Dublin and take a flight to somewhere and come back when I’ve played myself out. The Murtaghs will see to Britte. You’ll be around. That’s my end of the bargain. Do you have any problem with it?’

  ‘No, Matt. But I think you have.’

  ‘Sure, I’ve got problems!’ Suddenly the urge was on him to talk. ‘But they’re mine. They have nothing to do with you and Britte. I looked forward to coming back – and in one way I wasn’t disappointed. It’s a comfortable living. It’s a nice cushion to have at my back if the bad times come. But that’s it! There’s no future for me here, no continuity. The taproot’s been cut. I don’t belong to the old Catholic Ireland; I’ve no taste for the new rich and the tax-haveners from Europe. When the day comes that I fall in love and want to settle down with a woman, I know it isn’t going to be here …’

  ‘I understand how you feel.’

  ‘I believe you do.’

  ‘Don’t you see? Our lives run parallel to each other. We both left an old, harsh religion, a small country, a small language, a narrow history. We both became mercenaries in a foreign service. I couldn’t live in Denmark now, any more than you could live here.’

  ‘That’s the country. What about marriage?’

  ‘Out of the question for me.’

  ‘Where does that leave Salviati?’

  ‘Where he needs to be: free to make a new start with a new woman.’

  ‘That’s noble of you!’

  ‘For God’s sake! It’s a selfish choice right down the line. I couldn’t ask any man to share the responsibility of Britte. I don’t want to risk another child at my age. And even if I had one, it would put Britte into a kind of permanent exile. I’ve seen it happen in many families. The normal children resent the maimed one.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Matt Neylan quietly, ‘you’re predicating everything on a perfect world, which we both know doesn’t exist. For most of us, life’s a make-and-mend affair. I’m sure many of my former colleagues see me as a happy-go-lucky infidel with alley-cat morals and all the women in the world to play with. Given the headlong way I’ve been living lately, I don’t blame them. But the real truth is something different. I’m like the camel-driver who fell asleep under a palm tree and woke to find the caravan gone and himself alone in the middle of a desert. I’m not crying about it, just trying to make a point.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Britte and I. We get along very well. We manage to communicate. We’re companionable. I’m at least a useful father figure to take the place of Nonno Drexel. Inside that beautiful head and behind all that gobbledegook muttering is a mind like a razor and I know she’s slicing me up every day and putting me under a microscope. Right now, we’re talking about an exhibition in a good gallery in Cork or Dublin.’

  ‘I presume you were going to consult me at some stage?’

  ‘At some stage, sure; but it’s too early yet. As far as you and I are concerned … Oh hell! How did we get into all this?’

  ‘I don’t know; but you’ve got the floor, Matt. First, your speech!’

  He plunged ahead recklessly.

  ‘Then I’ll say it fast and if you don’t like it you can spit in my eye. You’re a thousand times welcome under my roof. Whether I’m here or not, this house is your house and there’s neither rent nor board to be thought of. But I sleep just across the hall and I lie awake at night wanting you and knowing I’d take you on any terms, for as long or as little time as you wanted me, because you’re a very special woman, Tove Lundberg, and if I thought they’d make you happy I’d pull the stars out of the sky and toss them in your lap! There now, it’s out! You’ll hear no more of it. Would you join me in a drink, madam? I think I need one!’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Tove Lundberg. ‘You Irish make such a big mouthful of simple things. Why didn’t you just ask me, instead of wasting all this time?’

  Late in September, His Excellency Yukishege Hayashi, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the Holy See, received a letter from Tokyo. The letter informed His Excellency that a team of independent film-makers would be visiting Rome during October and November. Part of their assignment would be to make a two-hour documentary for Japanese television on the Vatican and its treasures. His Excellency was asked to facilitate this work and secure the good offices of the Pontifical Commission on Social Communications, through whom all the required permissions must be secured.

  The letter was accompanied by a copy of a recommendation from the Pro-Nuncio Apostolic Archbishop, Paul Ryuji Arai, to the President of the Commission, requesting his personal interest in the project.

  It was one of hundreds of such requests the Commissioners received during a year. Its provenance was impeccable. There were very sound reasons for extending special courtesies to the Japanese. His Excellency was assured that permissions would be issued as soon as the team arrived in Rome and had filed the usual information: number of persons in the team, subjects to be photographed, equipment and transport, thus and thus and thus.

  At the same time, the President wrote personally to the Ambassador, pointing out that, on the Feast of All Saints, the whole College of Cardinals would assist at a Pontifical High Mass in St Peter’s and that the Diplomatic Corps would be invited to attend. This would seem to be a ceremony, unique in character, which would recommend itself to the film-makers, especially since His Excellency himself would be present, representing the Emperor.

  The information was mentioned casually in a conversation with Nicol Peters, who had called on the Commission to discuss the announcement of the Consistory and how it fitted into the hidden subtext of Vatican affairs. On that question, the President was bland but vague. To inform himself more fully, Peters telephoned Cardinal Drexel and was promptly invited to lunch. The old man was trenchant and vigorous as ever, but admitted frankly that there was a gap in his life.

  ‘I miss my Britte. I miss her mother too. Still, I am glad they are safe and they appear to be happy. Britte sends me sketches and watercolours and they are cheerful pieces. Tove writes regularly. She speaks very warmly of your friend Neylan and his care of them both. I never knew the man, of course. There was never any scandal about him as priest … However, you didn’t come here to talk about my family affairs. What do you want to know?’

  ‘This Consistory. It seems an old-fashioned, almost retrograde, step. After Vatican II the notion was always to continue and to emphasise collegiality, the role of the bishops. So far the Synods have produced more window-dressing than results; but at least the principle has been affirmed. Now this private Consistory, as I understand it, is to be limited to members of the College of Cardinals. Why?’

  Drexel did not answer immediately. He sat slicing a piece of country cheese and selecting a pear to go with it. Finally, he set down his knife and explained carefully.

  ‘You will not quote me on this. That would create jealousy and do harm, since I am retired and I must not seem to be trying to intrude into Curial affairs. On the other hand, I would like you to record very accurately what I am about to tell you. It is important. You know that this Pontiff is by nature an old-fashioned man. He is changed, profoundly changed; but instead of trying to create a new image for himself, he has chosen to live with the old one of which – you may not know this – he is often ashamed. He thinks of himself as an ugly man with an ugly nature. For a long time he was just that. Now, however, he has made a decision, a wise one I believe, not to concern himself with image, but with fact and practice in the Church today. He is also holding strictly to protocol. A Consistory, by tradition, is not a consultative assembly. It is a meeting at which the Pontiff promulgates appointments, makes known his personal sentiments on matters of concern, forewarns of his personal decisions. A Synod is another matter. It is a discussive, deliberative, deciding b
ody of bishops in union with the Bishop of Rome. Its acts are collegial acts.’

  ‘So, on the face of it,’ said Nicol Peters deliberately, ‘Leo XIV is abrogating the collegial procedure and going straight to promulgation.’

  ‘That’s what they think he will do. It’s absolutely in character. He will begin by announcing changes and appointments within the Curia.’

  ‘Do you have any information on those, Eminence?’

  ‘Some, but I cannot discuss them. After that announcement, His Holiness will deliver an allocution, an address outlining his views on matters of importance. That address will foreshadow a more formal document, the motu proprio, which will be issued shortly afterwards.’

  ‘Will there be debate or discussion after the speech?’

  ‘That will depend entirely on the Pontiff.’

  ‘Will the speech be available to the press?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Protocol again. This is a private and not a public Consistory. However, His Holiness may well direct that a summary be published by Osservatore Romano or distributed through the Sala Stampa … Try some of this cheese, it’s very good. Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘May we talk now, off the record?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘The policies of Leo XIV have been both rigorous and divisive.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Will he reverse those policies?’ ‘He will try, yes.’

  ‘Will he be able to heal the rifts in the Church?’

  ‘Some, yes. Others, no. In any case, none of it will happen overnight. You see, my friend, we call ourselves the One, Holy, Universal and Apostolic Church. We are all of those things and none of them. That’s the paradox and the mystery. In and through Christ we are one, we are holy, we are brothers and sisters in a worldwide family and the word we preach is that preached by the first Apostles who heard it from the lips of the Lord. But away from Him, without Him, of ourselves only, what are we? A lost race in a tiny planetary system, vagrant in the deeps of space.’

  ‘And how does Your Eminence regard those millions who do not, and cannot, share this Faith? How does His Holiness regard them?’

  ‘I can answer only for myself,’ said Anton Cardinal Drexel. ‘This time we have is a bridge between two eternities. This light we have has been travelling to us for uncounted years. The tongues we speak, the symbols we use, are human inventions, inadequate for anything but the uses of the moment, yet always seeking to express that ineffable mystery of a Godhead which contains and maintains and sustains us all. When you get old, my dear Nico, you are much less conscious of difference than of identity. Plant us in the ground and we all turn into daffodils!’

  ‘Which brings me to my last question, Eminence. The threat to assassinate the Pontiff was made by an Islamic group. Is it possible that he is hated enough to be killed by one of his own?’

  Anton Cardinal Drexel knew this man too well to dismiss the question. He frowned and said: ‘We’ve known each other too long to play games, Nico. What exactly is on your mind?’

  ‘The terrorist threat has been widely publicised. I’m asking whether another group, or another person even, might take advantage of that to stage a private execution.’

  ‘It’s possible. Anything is possible in this crazy world. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘Do you remember Lorenzo de Rosa?’

  ‘Only too well.’

  ‘I was going through my files the other day and it occured to me that I’d never bothered to follow up that story. De Rosa, his wife, their children, were dead. The police had taken over. Basta! End of story.’

  ‘Not quite. His Holiness is moving towards reforms prompted by that sad business.’

  ‘Good! But that’s not what I was thinking about. There were families involved, parents, aunt and uncles, cousins. Lorenzo was Tuscan, his wife was Sicilian, old family from Palermo, lots of relatives.’

  ‘Are you telling me they have made threats?’

  ‘No. But all of us in the Press Club got one of these and there was one pinned to the message board.’ He fished in his wallet and brought out one of those small obituary cards, with a black cross and a black border which friends and relatives of the deceased kept in their prayer books. There was a photograph of Lorenzo de Rosa with his wife and children, the date of their deaths and the place of their burial. The inscription read: ‘God has a long memory. He demands to be paid. May these we loved rest in peace.’

  Drexel handed back the card and said, almost pleadingly, ‘Once before we called up the ghosts and look what happened. Forget it, my friend! Tear it up and forget it! We know where the real threat comes from. This is just the excuse people would use to avoid trouble with the Islamic world. We cannot bow to terror, whoever practises it.’

  In the most secure room at the Israeli Embassy, Menachem Avriel was in conference with the man who called himself Aharon ben Shaul. They had a decision to make. It was Aharon who laid down the terms of it.

  ‘Do we deal with the Sword of Islam ourselves or do we leave it to the Italians?’

  ‘Can we be sure they’ll take the action we want?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even with an extra push from the Vatican?’ ‘No again.’

  ‘Once more, please, walk me through what we’ve got.’

  ‘Item one. Omar Asnan is the head of the organisation in this country. Item two. His three lieutenants are no longer in Italy. Two are in Tunis, one in Malta. The other members of the group, those we’ve identified at the Alhambra Club and other places, are still here, though inactive. Which brings us to item three. There is strong evidence to suggest that Omar Asnan has not abandoned his operations, but sub-contracted them. It’s not an uncommon practice, as you know. Terror is big business, international business. The currencies are arms, cash, drugs and the barter of facilities.’

  ‘With whom is Asnan dealing?’

  ‘This man.’ He shoved a photograph across the table. ‘Hyun Myung Kim, a Korean who peddles shipping space and sells spot cargoes around the world. He’s a travelling man, who’s known for driving hard bargains but delivering what he sells. Omar Asnan met him over lunch at Alfredo’s the same day his henchmen left for Tunis … We weren’t able to bug him, but we had a camera on him. Money was passed, as you see.’

  ‘The Italians have this information?’

  ‘Sure. We’re playing strictly according to the book. Their question was: what had we really got to take to court? Then I played them the tapes from the bugs in Asnan’s house. They agreed they meant what they seemed to say, but again the question: how would they sound in court? We’d have to admit they were composites and, knowing the risks involved of reprisals against aircraft, shipping, Italian citizens travelling in Islamic countries, the Italians wouldn’t buy anything but a watertight case – the smoking gun, the assassin standing over the body. They’re willing to deport Asnan quietly; but that gets us nowhere. We need to sweat him for information.’

  ‘So Asnan goes scot-free.’

  ‘Unless we lift him ourselves.’

  ‘How the hell do you do that? The man’s a permanent resident. He goes to Embassy functions. He maintains an expensive life style …’

  ‘He also killed our man and made him disappear very effectively.’

  ‘Which isn’t the hardest thing in the world in that archaeological zone. There are three major catacombs and a whole series of others never opened to the public. There’s even one called the Catacomb of the Jews, in case you’re interested!’

  ‘I’m very interested,’ said Aharon ben Shaul. ‘So interested that I staged a power failure at Mr Asnan’s villa and put a couple of electricians in to check the wiring. They discovered a reverse cycle air conditioner that’s much too big for a villa that size, with wiring and ducting that doesn’t fit the registered plan …’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So before I go back to the Italians
or you decide we’ll go without them, I’d like to do a real job on Mr Asnan’s villa.’ ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Old-fashioned break and enter. Put the dogs and the servants to sleep, strip out the valuables. The Appia Antica is a very vulnerable area. Insurance premiums are high. And they haven’t had a decent robbery for nearly three months!’

  ‘And where will Omar Asnan be while all this is happening?’

  ‘Good question, Mr Ambassador. When I have the answer, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Avriel. ‘Please, don’t even tell me the time of day!’

  ‘I’m not looking forward to this session.’ The Pontiff sat at his desk, tapping an impatient rhythm on the documents Hopgood had laid in front of him. ‘Clemens will be here exactly at ten. Make sure he is not kept waiting.’

  ‘How much time shall I allow for the meeting, Holiness?’

  ‘As long as it takes. Offer coffee when he arrives; then don’t come in unless I ring.’

  ‘A suggestion, Holiness.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The leatherbound volume under your hand is the report on the financial condition of the Church; three hundred and fifty pages of it, with figures, graphics and comments on every item.’

  ‘I can’t even begin to think about this today.’

  ‘With respect, Holiness, I think you should read the last ten pages before Cardinal Clemens arrives. They deal with conclusions and recommendations and they confirm the main lines of the arguments you will be presenting to His Eminence.’

  ‘Who else has seen this document?’

  ‘Copies were delivered simultaneously yesterday evening to Your Holiness, to the Prefecture for the Economic Affairs of the Holy See, the Institute for Works of Religion and the Administration of the Patrimony of the Apostolic See. No one will have had time to read or digest it; Your Holiness should, I believe, have the advantage of a first glance. There’s an old English proverb which translates quite well into Italian: “Twice armed is he whose cause is just; thrice armed the one who gets his blow in first.”’

  ‘And that, I would remind you, my dear Hopgood, is still the-language of confrontation, which is exactly what we are trying to avoid.’