Lazarus

by Morris West

  Leo the Pontiff was made aware of the dissension in his talks with Curial Cardinals about new appointments, but only Agostini was prepared to be totally frank.

  ‘In purely political terms, Holiness, it is a folly for any ruler to surrender any instrument of power, even though he may never see the need to use it. I don’t like what you are asking me to do – reduce the powers of Apostolic Nuncios, oblige them to make the local bishops aware of any complaints they make to Rome. I know why you are doing it. I know there are as many causes of friction as there are advantages in the present system; but as a pure matter of political practice, I don’t like to let go what I have. I’m like the museum curator who would rather hang on to five pages of a valuable manuscript than see them restored to the whole book in another place!’

  ‘At least you are open about it, Matteo.’ The Pontiff gave him a smile of weary approval. ‘For a long time I held exactly the same view. This is what Clemens will not accept; I am not, overnight, his enemy or a danger to the Church.’

  ‘He thinks you are.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I think you could be,’ said the Secretary of State. ‘Explain why and how.’

  ‘We begin with a truth. Our Act of Faith, our submission to God, our confession of Jesus as the Lord, is a free act. It is the act which gives us fellowship in the Assembly of believers. The capacity to make the act is a gift. The act is free.’

  ‘And it must remain so. We choose every day.’

  ‘But this, I believe, is where Your Holiness is mistaken. You think that men and women want to be free, that they want to exercise their right of choice. The plain fact of life is that they don’t. They want to be directed, they want to be told, they want the policeman on the corner, the bishop in his mitre proclaiming the Good News with authority and certainty. That’s why they get dictators. That’s why your predecessors ruled like Jove’s thunderbolts! They split the world and the Church, but they bespoke power. The risk you run is quite different. You hand the people the first fruits of salvation, the liberty of the Sons of God. To many, as to Clemens, it will taste like Dead Sea fruit.’

  ‘So!’ There was winter chill in the Pontiff’s voice. ‘We are back to the old catchcries: It is not expedient. It is not timely!’

  ‘I am not saying that.’ Agostini was unusually vehement. ‘I am delivering, as I am obliged to do, a counsel and a warning. But as it happens, I agree with Your Holiness – in principle at least! I read last night, for the first time in many years, the decree of Vatican II on the Dignity of the Human Person. I made myself recite it to fix it in my memory. “Authentic freedom is an exceptional sign of the divine image within man …Hence man’s dignity demands that he act according to a knowing and free choice.” It may be wise to remind our brethren that this is a conciliar document and not a private papal opinion.’

  ‘One wonders why it is necessary to remind grown men of such simplicities!’

  ‘Because, for most of their lives, they never have to address them. They are protected species, living in hot-house conditions. In this allocution, do you propose to say anything about the position of women in the Church?’

  ‘I am working on that section now. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because it seems to me, Holiness, we’re talking to and about only half the world. We’re a patriarchal society whose dialogue with its womenfolk is becoming more and more attenuated, less and less relevant. The heads of major states are women. They are legislators and judges and heads of major business enterprises. Our only recognition of their existence is through the Pontifical Commission on the Family, on which married couples serve but which meets only once a year. Women in religious communities are still “protected” by a Curial Cardinal, who is hardly an adequate voice for their interests or concerns. Matrimonial questions, bio-ethical ones, have to be dealt with by women themselves. The question of women priests is still a taboo subject, but it will come more and more into debate and even on biblical and traditional grounds it is hard to see that it is finally closed …’

  ‘So far,’ said the Pontiff carefully, ‘I have reached a point where I admit our inadequacies and our willingness to reach out for remedies. The remedies themselves are not so easy to come by. Look at this place! We are so busy protecting our unchallenged chastity and our reputation as virtuous priests that it is impossible to have a normal conversation, let alone a stroll in the sunlight with a member of the opposite sex! Inevitably we are going to be forced to admit a married clergy in the Roman rite, as we have already admitted it among the Uniats; but even I am not bold enough to broach the question at this moment. But to answer you: yes, I shall be opening the question of women in the Church, and I shall try not to embellish it with too much Marian imagery. The Mother of Jesus was a woman of her time and of her station. That is the essence of her mystery and it needs no fairytales to decorate it.’

  Agostini shook his head in wonderment and disbelief.

  ‘There is work for two lifetimes in all this. Why not settle for less and spare yourself some heartache?’

  The Pontiff laughed, a free, open sound that Agostini had never heard from him before.

  ‘Why? Because I’m a farmer’s son, Matteo. You plough the ground. You harrow it. You cast the seed and what the birds don’t eat and the rains don’t rot and the mildew doesn’t get, is what you have left to harvest. Besides, for the first time in my life, I think, I’m a truly happy man. I’m gambling everything I am and have on the Gospel truth.’

  Even Agostini, the pure pragmatist, had not the heart to remind him that, win or lose, the reward would be the same: they would nail him to a tree and watch him die, very slowly.

  By a series of Irish progressions – Murtagh, to Murtagh’s cousin on his mother’s side, from his cousin’s wife to her brother, who was known to have connections in the Irish Republican Army and maybe, just maybe, with the Provisionals – Matt Neylan found himself one Thursday morning sitting in the office of Constable Macmanus in the Garda station at Clonakilty.

  He came as a recommended man, which meant that his story would be taken for truth – even though he’d be a fool if he took for gospel everything that was told to him. His request was quickly stated.

  ‘I’m an unfrocked priest, as you know; but I’m looking after two ladies who are very precious to certain high persons at the Vatican. One of them’s a cardinal, no less, and the other’s a grade higher, you might say. I had a call from Rome to tell me we might be getting some unwelcome visitors. So first I’m looking for some advice. What sort of warning can I get if strangers come asking for me? And what can you do to stop ’em getting to me?’

  Constable Macmanus was a slowish thinker, but it took him no time at all to give the answer.

  ‘Not a lot, either way. Unless someone asks for you by name, who’s to know whether they’re here for the fishing or the tourism or a bit of business investment? We get all sorts in Ireland nowadays: Germans, Dutch, Japanese, the whole bloody colour chart. What can we do to stop ’em getting to you? Nothing, unless they’re carrying a banner with “Kill Neylan” printed on it, or a bazooka for which they don’t have a licence. You take my point, I’m sure.’

  ‘It couldn’t be plainer,’ said Matt Neylan agreeably. ‘So I’ll pass to my next question. Where do I get some guns and the licence to carry and use them?’

  ‘I notice you’re using the plural. Why would that be?’

  ‘Because there are two of us who can use ’em, Murtagh and myself. Because I think we should each have a pistol; and, if possible, I’d like a couple of semi-automatics in case there’s a sudden surprise attack on the farmhouse itself.’

  ‘Which I hope there won’t be. I’d hate to deal with the paperwork for a thing like that … Let me think now. Before we go further, you’d be prepared to pay for these items?’

  ‘Unless the Garda wanted to donate them to the cause of law and order.’

  ‘You must be joking!’ ‘Then, of course, we pay.’

  ‘For th
e weapons and the licences – and the procurement service of course.’

  ‘One always pays for that,’ said Matt Neylan – and was glad the constable seemed to miss the point. ‘How long before delivery?’

  ‘Do you have the cash about you, by any chance?’

  ‘No; but I can get it at the bank.’

  ‘Then fine. We’ll take a small drive into the country. You can collect the goods and take ’em home with you. And while we’re about it, we should get you a dog – a big one, like a wolfhound. A friend of mine breeds ’em. He’d make you a good price.’

  ‘And the licences?’

  ‘I’ll make ’em out before we leave and fill in the particulars later. Which reminds me, can you use a typewriter?’ ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then sit yourself down and type me out a complaint, about person or persons unknown, for threats made against yourself and the ladies. Mention their high connections and the warnings you’ve just had. Lay it on as thick as you like, and sign it in your best hand.’

  ‘And what’s that for?’

  ‘It’s called covering your backside, Mr Neylan. Yours and mine. The guns are no problem. There’s more than one shipment for the IRA been landed in Clonakilty Bay and there’s like to be more yet, so long as the war goes on. But in this little corner of Holy Ireland bodies with bullet holes are very hard to explain. So it’s as well to have all the paperwork done in advance.’

  ‘I see that,’ said Matt Neylan fervently. ‘I see it very clearly.’

  Tove Lundberg, on the other hand, did not see it at all. She was aghast at the thought of gun battles in the misty mornings, of blood on the pastures where the placid cattle grazed. She demanded to know: ‘What is this, Matt? Some cheap melodrama that is being invented for us? Let’s pack tonight and go to Dublin. We can fly from there anywhere we want, change planes, cover our tracks. Who knows or cares where we are?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ Matt Neylan explained patiently while Britte listened, nodding and muttering with desperate eagerness to be heard. ‘In this game we’re demonstration models. Wherever we are, we have to be eliminated to show the power of the Sword of Islam. Do you want to live all your lives in hiding?’

  Britte clung to him, signalling desperately: No, no, no! Tove sat immobile, watching them both. Then she thrust herself out of the chair and grasped them both with urgent hands.

  ‘So we fight! Good! In the morning you take me out and teach me to shoot! I refuse to be a spectator any longer!’

  The raid on Omar Asnan’s villa took place on the sixteenth day of October. This was the manner of it. Omar Asnan arrived home at seven-thirty. Immediately afterwards the watchman came out to run the Dobermanns. Just past Erode Attico, he was overtaken by a closed van which forced him and the leashed dogs against a stone wall. The dogs were dropped cold by anaesthetic darts. The watchman was overpowered by masked men. His eyes, mouth, wrists and ankles were taped. His keys were taken. He was driven, with the animals, to a deserted spot in the pine woods near the sea and dumped there. He was discovered late next morning by a pair of joggers. The dogs were beside him, whining and licking his face.

  Meantime, Aharon ben Shaul and three assistants, dressed in black tracksuits and ski masks, entered the villa, overpowered the chauffeur and the woman, drugged them both, then proceeded to deal with Omar Asnan, who was taking a bath before dinner. Naked, shivering and blindfolded, he was taken down to the cellar, laid on the carpet which covered the stone floor and injected with the Pentothal derivative. Forty-five minutes later he had revealed the murder of the Mossad agent and the existence of the underground granary where his body was entombed. He also exposed the nature of the deal with the Korean who had engaged to import one hit team to kill the Pontiff and another to kidnap or kill Tove Lundberg in Ireland. As to how or when the events would take place, Asnan knew nothing. That was the nature of the deal: half the money down, plus expenses, the rest on completion; everything left to the discretion of the hit teams, who could work without fear of betrayal.

  It wasn’t totally satisfactory, but it was the best they could hope for – and Omar Asnan was already in acute discomfort from the heavy dose of the drug. So they rolled back the carpet, lifted the stone that covered the entrance to the crypt and carried him into the chamber where the antique grain jars were stored. Then, single-handedly, Aharon ben Shaul lifted the small brown body, put it in one of the grain jars and closed it with the lid.

  ‘He’ll die,’ said one of the assistants.

  ‘For sure,’ said Aharon ben Shaul. ‘Our friend Khalid died too. That’s the law, isn’t it? Life for life, limb for limb. Now let’s get out of here. There’s still work to do upstairs.’

  They closed the chamber, sealed and covered the entrance, then systematically burgled the house, carried their booty to the garage in pillowcases and stowed it in the trunk of Asnan’s Mercedes. The chauffeur and the housekeeper were still sleeping. Aharon ben Shaul administered an extra shot of opiate, untaped their mouths, loosened their bonds and left them. The intruders drove away in the Mercedes, which was discovered a week later in a disused marble quarry on the road to Hadrian’s Villa. Most of Asnan’s possessions found their way, by devious routes, to Thieves’ Market and were put up for sale to Sunday morning visitors.

  The disappearance of Omar Asnan caused a brief ripple of interest among local investigators and certain confusion among his business associates. His servants were rigorously questioned. Their sojourn permits were withdrawn and they were quietly repatriated. The house and the funds in Asnan’s bank and the contents of his safe were committed to the care of a procurator appointed by the Republic.

  Aharon ben Shaul congratulated himself on a good night’s work. He had broken a terrorist ring and eliminated its leader. The Pope could look after himself and Tove Lundberg was outside his bailiwick.

  Meantime, since no mention of the proceedings was made in the Press and Hyun Myung Kim was out of the country, two highly efficient teams of hunters prepared to move on their quarry.

  The schedule of events for the Consistory – commonly called the Ordo – was sufficiently unusual to raise comment among the participants. It would begin at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, in the new Hall of Consistories in Vatican City. It would open with prayer, the traditional invocation of the Holy Spirit, the Illuminator. His Holiness would announce certain changes in curial appointments. These preludes would finish at eight forty-five, when the allocution would begin. This was timed at one hour. Afterwards there would be half an hour left for questions and comments. At ten-fifteen the cardinals would disperse to vest for the eleven o’clock Mass in St Peter’s which His Holiness would concelebrate with six senior cardinals in the presence of the rest of the Sacred College and members of the Diplomatic Corps accredited to the Holy See.

  Since nothing was ever done in Rome without a reason, the arrangements were read as a move on the part of the Pontiff to defuse any hasty controversy over his speech, to make a large public gesture of Eucharistic unity and to hold himself available for private audiences over the ensuing days. Their Eminences were informed that His Holiness would be available from five to eight in the evening and from eight till noon on ensuing days, and those desiring audience in private or in groups should register their requests with the Cardinal Camerlengo. Certain sceptics suggested that this was a very good way of counting heads. Certain others called it just another version of ‘divide et impera’: divide and rule.

  The simple fact was that for the Pontiff the morning was the only part of the day when he could command a full measure of strength. After a long speech and a very long ceremonial Mass in St Peter’s he would be near to exhaustion and would have to rest for at least two or three hours. He knew beyond any doubt that every ensuing conversation with these senior princes of the Church was crucial to his plans. Even a momentary lapse of attention or a flash of irritation could do damage to the grand, but fragile, design. The full extent of his anxiety was expressed only in his
diary:

  ‘Of the hundred and forty members of the Sacred College, a hundred and twenty-two will be present at the Consistory; the others have excused themselves on the grounds of illness, age or intolerance of long air travel. All have been in personal contact with me, however briefly, and all are anxious to know the direction my address will take. I have tried to reassure them by describing it as a prologue to a fraternal colloquy on matters of concern to us all. That is what I want it to be, a beginning to open-hearted talks between brothers; but my reputation as an ill-tempered autocrat is too deeply etched in their memories to be erased so easily. So I can only pray – for light and for a golden tongue.

  ‘Gerard Hopgood is proving a tower of strength. Though he lacks Malachy O’Rahilly’s wit and bubbling good humour, he is much more solidly grounded in learning and much more confident in his dealings with me. He will not let me shirk an examination of difficult issues in the text. He will not let me take refuge in arguments about expediency and opportunity. He tells me flatly: “It will not do, Holiness. These are all adult men. They cannot have the luxury of papering over the cracks in bad arguments. If you have found the courage to face unpleasant facts, so must they.”

  ‘Sometimes, surrounded by pages of heavily scored manuscript, we drink coffee and he talks to me about the tribe of juvenile delinquents whom he is training as athletes. He has a healthy scepticism about his success. The best ones, he tells me, are likely to be hired as purse-snatchers by the criminal gangs who prey on women tourists in Rome; but there are others for whom he and his friend have become surrogate fathers and uncles. However, he adds a shrewd footnote: “I don’t have to be a priest to do what I’m doing. I don’t have to be celibate either. In fact, it’s probably better if I’m not. The point I’m making, Holiness, and I think we should take another look at it in this document, is that we need to define much more clearly the identity of a modern priest, his true vocation in the Church. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I know how the casualties start.”