Lazarus

by Morris West

  ‘With great respect, Holiness, I doubt you’ll be able to avoid it this morning.’

  ‘How long before Clemens arrives?’

  ‘Forty minutes.’

  ‘Let me take a look at this report. I’ll ring when I’m ready.’

  The authors of the document wrote in the dry, passionless style of money-men everywhere, but their final summation took on, perforce, a bleak eloquence.

  ‘It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that those Catholic congregations which are expanding most rapidly in Third World countries are also the most needy, while those with a no-growth or low-growth rate are the most prosperous and the least generous in the traditional gift-giving.

  ‘In so-called Catholic countries like the South Americas, Spain, Italy, the Philippines, where there is a traditionally wealthy and privileged class, still loyal to the Church, there is an often quite appalling disparity in social conditions, and a hostility born of fear between the privileged and the deprived, the exploiters and the exploited. The privileged use their surplus to improve or protect their position. There is no noticeable increase in the revenues available for education, works of charity or social betterment.

  ‘It has to be said also that in those dioceses and parishes where accounts are published and expenditures thoroughly documented, the level of donations is appreciably higher than elsewhere. So far as the central administration is concerned, it suffers and will continue to suffer from pandemic secrecy and the long consequences of well known scandals and affiliation with known criminals.

  ‘Finally, with the increasing conglomeration of large corporations with diverse interests, it is becoming more and more difficult for those who handle Church funds to find untainted investments – e.g. a chemical company that does not manufacture toxic substances; a manufacturer not connected with arms or military equipment; a pharmaceutical company which does not manufacture birth control products, which Catholics are specifically forbidden to use … With the best will in the world, scandal can hardly be avoided; but in the end, secrecy breeds suspicion and suspicion causes the fountain of charity to dry up very quickly …’

  There was more, much more in the same vein, carefully cross-referenced and footnoted, but the import was the same. Needs were growing, revenue was declining. The traditional sources were drying up. The traditional methods of funding from the worldwide congregations were no longer effective, because the congregations in the affluent countries were getting smaller.

  But the nub of the matter was the ‘why’. The money-men touched only the outer skin, they could not reach down for heart’s reasons. In the old days, when the faithful were lapsing into indifference or their offerings were falling off, the bishop would call in missionary preachers, fiery, eloquent men who set up a cross in the market square and preached hellfire and damnation and the love of God that snatched folk like burning brands from the pit. Some were converted, some were changed for a while, no one was quite unmoved and nine months later the birthrate showed a marked increase. But those were other times and other manners, and it was very hard for the most eloquent of men to get past the glazed eyes and numbed imaginations and atrophied reason of a generation of television addicts and victims of media saturation.

  He himself was faced with the same problem. He was a man framed in splendour, endowed with the mighty numen of an ancient faith and yet he rated less attention than some shouting clown with a guitar or a drunken riot at a soccer match.

  Hopgood ushered in His Eminence Karl Emil Cardinal Clemens. Their greeting was cordial enough. Time had passed. Tempers had cooled. Clemens opened the talk with a compliment.

  ‘Your Holiness looks well and very trim. At least fifteen years younger.’

  ‘I train like a footballer, Karl – and eat like a bird! No fat, no red meat … Never talk to me about the penitential life. I’m compelled to it. And you?’

  ‘I’m well. A touch of gout sometimes. My blood pressure’s a trifle high; but my doctor tells me I’m a hypertensive character.’

  ‘And does he tell you where that can lead?’

  ‘Well, he gives me the usual warnings.’

  ‘If you don’t heed them, Karl, you’ll end up exactly where I did. At your age you can’t afford to play dice games with your health. Which brings me to the reason for this morning’s talk. I am moving you from the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. I am appointing you head of my household: Cardinal Camerlengo. You will retain your appointments with the Congregation for the Oriental Churches and for the Propagation of the Faith. These changes will be announced at the Consistory on November first. I trust that is agreeable to you?’

  ‘It is not agreeable, Holiness, but I bow to Your Holiness’s wishes.’

  ‘You have a right to know the reason.’

  ‘I have not asked for it, Holiness.’

  ‘Nonetheless, I shall give it to you. I propose to make certain drastic changes in the constitution and the functions of the Congregation. You will not agree with them It would be quite unfair to ask you to implement them. Further – and I want you to know this – I appointed you because I saw in you the mirror image of the man I believed myself to be: the stalwart guardian of the Faith committed to us all. You have been that. You have discharged exactly the commission I gave you. Your lapse with Osservatore Romano angered me; but that alone would not have brought me to this decision. The fact is, Karl, I believe I misread my own duty and gave you the wrong brief!’

  Clemens gaped at him in utter disbelief.

  ‘If Your Holiness is saying that it is no longer his duty to guard the Deposit of Faith …’

  ‘No, Karl. I am not saying that. I am saying that the Congregation in its present form and function is not an appropriate instrument. As a matter of historic fact, it never has been. In my view it never can be.’

  ‘I don’t see that at all.’

  ‘I know you don’t, Karl. That’s why I’m moving you; but you are going to hear my explanation, because it has references far beyond this present matter. Suppose you walk me through the procedures.’ He laid open on his desk the large volume of the Acta Apostolicae Sedis for the year 1971. ‘A denunciation is made of a book or publication which is deemed contrary to the Faith. What happens?’

  ‘First, the denunciation has to be serious and it has to be signed. If the error is obvious and – I am quoting now – “if it contains certainly and clearly an error in Faith and if the publication of that opinion would do harm to the faithful”, then the Congregation may ask the bishop or bishops to inform the author and invite him to amend the error.’

  ‘Let’s pause there a moment. I need to be very clear. At this stage, the author knows nothing. Someone has denounced his writing. The Congregation has judged it erroneous and asked for a correction.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He hasn’t been heard, offered a right to reply. He is already presumed guilty.’

  ‘Effectively, yes. But that is only so in the case of blatant error, one immediately visible.’

  ‘So, let us pass to a more complex issue. A controversial opinion is published. The Congregation is required to decide whether it is or is not – and here I quote – “in harmony with divine revelation and the magisterium of the Church”. Immediately, it seems to me, not only the author but we are in real trouble … Divine revelation is one thing. The magisterium, the general authority of the Church, is quite another. Under that authority, things can be and have been done quite contrary to divine revelation: witch-hunts, the burning of heretics. You see the problem?’

  ‘I point out,’ said Clemens stiffly, ‘that these anomalies have existed for a long time and Your Holiness has never found it necessary to object to them.’

  ‘Exactly what I have told you, Karl. I see them now in a different light. I propose to exercise my authority to change them. But let us go on. The author is aware of the doubts cast on his work?’

  ‘Not yet. But we appoint a spokesman for the author; you’ll find him describ
ed in the Acts as relator pro auctore! His function is also described: ‘To indicate in a spirit of truth the merit and positive aspects of the work; to help reach the true meaning of the author’s opinions …” and so on and so on …’

  ‘But this spokesman,’ the Pontiff’s tone was mild, ‘is quite unknown to the author. He is, in fact, forbidden to communicate with him. How can he possibly give an accurate rendering of his opinions, his merit, all the rest?’

  ‘He can do so, Holiness, because he is in exactly the same position as any member of the public reading the book. He rests on the text.’

  The Pontiff did not answer directly. He held up two volumes which had been lying on his desk. One was entitled The Nature of Faith, the other The Word Made Flesh.

  ‘You yourself wrote these, Karl.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you kindly inscribed them to me. I read them with interest. I did not object to them, but I marked certain passages which seemed to me to be obscure, or which could be interpreted as not quite orthodox … Now, let me ask you: would you like to have these works judged by the same criteria and by the same secretive, inquisitorial methods as are presently employed?’

  ‘If Your Holiness required it, yes.’

  ‘Would you feel justice had been done or could be assumed or seen to be done?’

  ‘There are, I admit, certain shortcomings …’

  ‘Which my predecessors and I have condoned but which I can permit no longer. We can go further if you want. I have a long list of objections. Shall I recite them all?’

  ‘It will not be necessary, Holiness.’

  ‘But it will be necessary for you to understand better, Karl. We, you and I, the rest of our brother bishops, we are the City set on a mountain-top. We cannot hide our deeds, our commission is to be a witness to the world – and if we do not give witness to truth, to justice, to our free search for God’s meaning in God’s world, then people will call us liars and hypocrites and turn away. We are going to be living very close together, you and I. Can we not be friends?’

  ‘Your Holiness asks me to deny something I have believed all my life.’

  ‘And what is that, Karl?’

  ‘That the doctrine we hold is a treasure beyond price. Our martyrs died for it. Nothing and no one should be permitted to corrupt it.’

  ‘I have come, by a long road, to another point of view, Karl. The truth is great and it will prevail. We make confession of it every day. But if there are no eyes to see the truth, no ears to hear it, no hearts open to receive it … what then? My dear Karl, when Our Lord called his first Apostles, He said: “Come with me and I will make you fishers of men!” Not theologians, Karl! Not inquisitors, not popes or cardinals! Fishers of men! The greatest sadness of my life is that I have understood it so late.’

  There was a long and deathly silence in the room. Then Karl Emil Cardinal Clemens stood up and made his own confession of Faith.

  ‘In all that conscience allows, I am at the service of Your Holiness and of the Church. For the rest, God give me light! I beg Your Holiness’s leave to go.’

  ‘You have our leave,’ said Leo the Pontiff. Even as he said it, he wondered how many others would walk away and how he himself would endure the solitude.

  Fourteen

  The Old Appian Way was once an imperial highway, that ran south to Naples and across the Appenines to Brindisi. The Romans, courting immortality, lined it with funerary monuments, which were gradually defaced and in part demolished by time and sundry invaders. The Belle Arti put covenants upon the surrounding land, naming it an archaeological zone, where villas might be built only on the sites of existing structures. Between the battered monuments, the pines grew tall and the grass was lush, so the lovers of Rome turned it into a tail-light alley, which every morning was littered with condoms, Kleenex, assorted underwear and other debris. It was no place to make a promenade or a picnic with the children, but for a population crammed into apartments, with a minimum of privacy, it was a splendid place to make love. Even the highway police were discreet and voyeurs tended to get short and violent shrift.

  It was here, just across the road from Omar Asnan’s villa, that Marta Kuhn and a male Mossad agent spent ten nights of vigil, plotting the movements of the servants, the dogs and the master of the house. Asnan came home every evening at seven-thirty, driven by his chauffeur. The garage gates opened and closed electrically. A little later, the watchman came out with two big Dobermans on leash. He did not walk them, but trotted them down the grassy verge, across Erode Attico and down the Appia, almost to the ring road. Then he turned back. The whole run took between fifteen and twenty minutes. The watchman let himself back into the villa through the front gate, using a key. Omar Asnan generally went out again at ten-thirty or eleven, returning at one or two in the morning. Agents who picked up his surveillance from the Porta Latina reported that he went to one of two places: the Alhambra Club or an expensive house of appointment on Parioli patronised by Middle Eastern tourists. The only staff at the villa were the housekeeper, the chauffeur and the watchman, who appeared to be the husband of the housekeeper. All were listed in the files of the local carabinieri as Italian residents of Iranian nationality, working under special permissions and paying full local taxes.

  Armed with this and other information, Aharon ben Shaul made a personal visit to the International Clinic to talk to Sergio Salviati. He had a special and unusual request.

  ‘I’d like to borrow your medical skills for one night.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Supervise an interrogation. There will be no violence involved; but we’ll be using a new Pentothal derivative developed in Israel. It can, however, have certain side effects. In some patients it produces marked arrhythmia. We need an expert to monitor the procedure.’

  ‘Who’s the subject?’

  ‘Omar Asnan, mastermind of the Sword of Islam. We’re going to lift him, question him and free him.’ ‘Which tells me nothing.’

  ‘Our sources tell us that he’s still planning the assassination of the Roman Pontiff, but that he’s sub-contracting the hit to another group, probably Oriental. We’ve got to get detailed information on who they are and how they operate. Will you help us?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because everything about the suggestion stinks to me. It reminds me of all the bloody perversions our profession has been through in this century: the torture rooms in Argentina, with the doctor standing by to keep the poor bastards alive, the medical experiments in Auschwitz, the confinement of dissidents in Soviet mental institutions, what you’re doing now to the Palestinians. I want no part of it!’

  ‘Not even to prevent the assassination of your patient?’

  ‘Not even! I gave the man a new lease of life. After that, he’s on his own like the rest of us.’

  ‘If Omar Asnan has sub-contracted, he will have covered the whole operation – including Tove Lundberg, possibly her daughter as well.’

  ‘They’re out of the country. Tucked away in the Irish countryside.’

  ‘Which is an easy place to get to and where killings are planned everyday of the week! Come on, Professor! What’s this sudden hot flush of morality? I’m not asking you to kill anyone, just to keep a man alive so he can spill his guts about an upcoming assassination. Dammit man! We kept your distinguished patient safe. We lifted the woman who was named to kill him. You owe us – and we’re taking a big discount on the payment.’

  Salviati hesitated and was almost lost. Then he saw the mantrap.

  ‘Why me? Any half-baked student can monitor a heartbeat.’

  ‘Because we’re doing this without the Italians. We need one of our own to help.’

  ‘You forget!’ Salviati’s anger boiled over. ‘I am Italian! Our people have been here for four centuries. I’m a Jew, but I’m not an Israeli. I’m a son of the Law but I’m not a son of your house. In Italy, we’ve taken all the shit that’s been handed to us here down the c
enturies right up to the final Black Sabbath when the Nazis trucked us out of the Roman ghetto to the death camps in Germany. But we stayed, because we belong, from antique Roman times until now. I’ve walked a very thin line to help you and to help Israel. Now you’re insulting me, blackmailing me with Tove Lundberg. You do your own business your own way. Leave me to mine. Now get the hell out here.’

  Aharon ben Shaul simply smiled and shrugged.

  ‘You can’t blame me for trying! Funny though! None of this would have happened if you hadn’t got caught up in all this goyische papistereil.’

  When he had gone, Salviati had an angry conversation with Menachem Avriel, who apologised profusely and disclaimed all knowledge of the affair. Then he made a call to Ireland and spoke briefly to Tove Lundberg and, for a much longer time, to Matt Neylan.

  Now another word was being bandied about the corridors of the Vatican, and in the private correspondence of the hinge-men of the Church. The word was ‘normative’, and it had a very precise meaning: ‘creating or establishing a standard’. Every prelate knew it. Everyone understood exactly the question which Clemens and his friends were asking: ‘What is now to be normative in the government of the Church: the codex of Canon Law, the Acts of the Apostolic See, the Decrees of Synods or the subjective judgements of an ailing pontiff – delivered informally and without consultation?’ It was a two-edged blade that cut to the heart of two issues: the value of papal authority and the power of the institution itself to enforce its own decrees. It was precisely this power which the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, formerly the Holy Inquisition, had been established to preserve and reinforce.

  From its earliest days the Church had been infiltrated by alien ideas, Gnostic, Manichaean, Arian. Their vestiges lingered still, colouring the attitudes of this group or that – the charismatics, the traditionalists, the literalists, the ascetics. In the first centuries the instruments of purification had been public debate, the writings of the great Fathers, the decisions of Synods and Councils. Then, when imperial power was claimed as an endowment of God through His Vicar, the Pope, all the instruments of repression were available: the crusading armies, the public executioners, the merciless inquisitors, absolute in their conviction that error had no right to exist. What was left at the end of the second millennium was a pale shadow of those powers and it seemed to many a folly to surrender them in favour of a purely humanist conception of human rights.