Van Burgh chose a single malt whisky. Versano topped up Mennini’s dry vermouth and his own Negroni. The plopping of ice cubes seemed to amplify the pregnant silence. They raised their glasses in a wordless toast, then in a businesslike voice Versano said, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the meal beforehand. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Also it means we’ll have fewer interruptions.’ The youngest man present seemed to have no difficulty in establishing his authority over the meeting.
He paused for effect, and then said sombrely, ‘For what I have to tell you tonight has the gravest implications for our beloved Father and for the entire Church.’
Van Burgh coughed and looked dubiously around the plush room. Versano smiled and raised a placating hand. ‘Don’t worry, Pieter, this room - the entire restaurant - has been “swept” this afternoon. There are no bugs, and I can tell you that the entire Vatican itself is now secure.’
He was referring to the incident in 1977 when Camilio Ciban, head of Vatican Security, had persuaded Secretary of State Cardinal Villot to have the Secretariat checked for listening devices. Eleven sophisticated ‘bugs’ had been found of both American and Russian origin. One of the most secret institutions on earth had been shocked to its core.
Cardinal Mennini was studying the Dutch priest opposite him. With his round, ruddy cheeks and wide girth he could have been Friar Tuck straight out of a medieval Sherwood Forest. He had a habit of rubbing the pads of his fingers against his palms and of looking around with a slightly surprised air; a bit like a child finding himself suddenly alone in a chocolate factory. But at sixty-two he was no child and Mennini well knew that his simple manner hid a razor mind and a vast repertoire of talents.
Father Pieter Van Burgh headed the Vatican’s Iron Curtain Church Relief Fund. Since the early ‘60s he had made numerous clandestine visits to Eastern Europe in a variety of disguises. The Vatican allows no publicity to surround him. He is loathed by anti-Church officials in Eastern Europe but although they know of his activities they have never been able to trap him. He is a ‘Pimpernel’ called the ‘Bacon Priest’ because, on his frequent incursions behind the Iron Curtain, he always carries slabs of bacon to hand out to those in his secret flock who are particularly deprived or lonely in their clandestine work. He had been a close friend of the Pope since his early days as Archbishop of Cracow.
A door silently opened and a beautiful black girl wheeled in a trolley. They watched in appreciation as she modestly served the fettuccine con cacio e pepe. She then poured the Falerno and silently retired. The food served in the main restaurant was French, moderately good and inexpensive. In the back room the food was Italian, superb and vastly expensive. In dining there a parish priest would wipe out a month’s stipend.
Versano picked up his fork with anticipation but was stopped by Van Burgh’s discreet cough. He was looking at the Cardinal expectantly. Mennini had a puzzled expression, then he understood. He nodded, lowered his head and muttered rapidly, ‘Benedictus benedicat per Jesum Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.’
They raised their heads and with an unrepentant grin Versano tucked into the pasta. He ate rapidly, impatiently, as did Mennini, as though food was nothing more than a necessary fuel. Van Burgh took his time, savouring the delicate flavouring. There had been many times in his life when a meal consisted of nothing more than a heel of bread and with luck a lump of cheese; and several times when there had been no meal at all.
Versano sat back and said, ‘I told them to leave a little time between courses.’ He held up a cigarette. ‘Do you mind? I like eating here,’ he said, ‘even if no one can see us in this room!’ Van Burgh allowed himself a smile at the younger cleric’s self-deprecating comment, but he knew they were not here for small-talk.
‘I wonder why we find ourselves thus separated from the other guests?’ he mused, pointedly.
‘Ah, Pieter,’ said the American. ‘Like you, I have to resort to disguises and subterfuge. I find it stimulating.’
Van Burgh grunted through a mouthful of fettuccine, and wondered whether the Archbishop would find it so stimulating if arrest meant subsequent torture and death.
Mennini, fingering the heavy gold crucifix at his waist, showed signs of impatience. He said, ‘The company and surroundings are congenial, Mario, but apparently the matter at hand is less so. Perhaps you had better explain.’
Versano nodded, his face turning serious. He laid his cigarette carefully on to an ashtray. Looking first at Mennini and then Van Burgh, he said, ‘I gave much thought as to whom I should consult on this matter.’ He paused and his voice dropped to a deeper note. ‘I can say that there are no two people in our entire Church who are better equipped to advise and take part in this fateful matter . . . However, before discussing it, I need your assurances of total confidentiality . . . total.’
Van Burgh had finished his pasta. He pushed the plate away, picked up his glass and took a gulp of wine. Versano was watching Mennini. The thin-faced, grey-haired Cardinal sucked on his teeth in thought. Van Burgh could see the curiosity in his eyes. He knew what the answer would be. Finally Mennini nodded.
‘You have it, Mario. Within the grounds of the Faith, of course.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Angelo.’
He turned an enquiring look on the Dutchman. Van Burgh didn’t hesitate. A lifetime of conspiracy could not allow that. He said firmly, ‘Naturally I follow the Cardinal’s example.’
Versano leaned forward and lowered his voice and said, ‘The sacred life of our beloved Pope John Paul is in imminent danger.’
To his rapt and pained audience of two, he spelled out precisely what he had learned that afternoon.
The second course was abbacchio alla cacciatora and during it they discussed the general picture. Versano and Mennini deferred to the Bacon Priest. He was the most junior in rank but his knowledge and insight into the Russian mind was legendary. He propounded the theory that the Russians were quite satisfied that the last attempt on the Pope’s life by Ali Agca was generally thought to have originated in Moscow. In his view it was a barely veiled warning that this Pope, or any other, had better not meddle in their affairs. If it had succeeded, so much the better. They had done their sums. It was unlikely that another East European prelate would be elected Pope for generations. If it narrowly failed, as it did, then the warning would be perceived.
At first it looked as though it had been. Papal anti-Communist rhetoric diminished. The American Bishops’ stand against Reagan’s nuclear policies went unanswered by the Vatican. Solidarity was crushed, witnessed by Papal anguish but without action. But, explained Van Burgh, this was not a change in Papal policy, but a shift in emphasis, and a new pragmatism. The Pope had been busy redefining the role of the Church; heading off an internal liberalism that he believed threatened the Church in a more subtle but dangerous way. In recent months the Kremlin would have perceived that the Papa’s anti-Communism was in no way diluted and, as he fashioned the Church more firmly to his own image, it would endanger them even more.
From what he knew of Andropov, and he knew a very great deal, Van Burgh was not at all surprised that he was planning another attempt. He summed up solemnly by stating that a betting man, knowing all the facts, would not give the Pope even a ten per cent chance of survival. It would be one thing to assassinate someone like Reagan whose country could retaliate, but ironically, to quote Stalin: ‘How many Divisions does the Pope have?’
Versano then turned to the Cardinal. ‘Angelo, we are all pragmatists here and need no false modesty as to our sources and no inhibitions as to our opinions. You head the most pragmatic of all sections of the Church. We know that the Papa was pleased and relieved at your election as the head of the Society. We need betray no confidences in discussing how we were all pained by your predecessor’s policies. There is relief throughout the Curia, you know that. Now, I invited you tonight for your wisdom and for your help in what I propose . . . but first, your opinion on Father Van Burgh’s prognos
is?’
Cardinal Mennini, who had risen from a peasant background in Tuscany, wiped his plate clean with a hunk of bread - fuel should not be wasted - chewed on it contemplatively and then nodded.
‘I agree with the Father here. In both cases. It is logical that Andropov will try again. It is also logical that with the machinery at his disposal, and with the determination of the Papa to continue his pastoral work abroad, the attempt will succeed.’ He wiped his mouth with a napkin, slid a look at Versano and said, ‘Incidentally, my sources in South Korea indicate that Kim II Sung in the North would be delighted if the Pope came to harm on his visit.’
Versano’s eyes met those of Van Burgh. They knew that the members of his Order were thick on the ground in the Far East. The Dutchman asked, ‘You have advised him of this? Advised him not to go?’
Mennini shrugged. ‘Of course. But the Papa is determined. His comment was that fishermen must sometimes face stormy waters.’ He turned to Versano. ‘Now, Mario, what is your proposal?’
But they were interrupted by the arrival of the last course, a tartuffo. They were truly oblivious to the beauty of the serving nun.
Versano felt a rare nervousness. The nun departed. He waited a few moments. The only sounds in the room were the chinks of silver against bone china. Then he said very quietly, ‘I propose that a secret Papal envoy be sent to Andropov.’
They both looked up sharply. The Dutchman had a piece of ice cream on his chin.
‘What would he say to Andropov?’ Mennini asked. ‘What would be the message?’
Versano again waited a few moments, the actor in him savouring the moment. He looked from one to the other, into their curious eyes, and then stated flatly, ‘He would say nothing. He would kill Andropov.’
He expected surprise, astonishment, outrage, laughter, the clatter of a spoon on a plate, a snort of derision, a look of incomprehension.
Nothing. Nothing but total silence and stillness. They could have been two figures woven for ever into the tapestry hanging on the wall.
The first things that moved were Mennini’s eyes. They swivelled to look at the Dutchman. He was gazing down at his plate as though seeing ice cream for the first time. Very slowly he moved his hand and spooned up a little, and carried it to his mouth. He swallowed and sadly shook his head.
‘The Pope . . . this Pope would never consider such a thing . . . never.’
Mennini nodded his gaunt head in agreement. Versano was inwardly elated. He congratulated himself. He had chosen his men well. Like a wolf in an Arctic winter, he had chosen only the strongest to run with him. He took a cigarette, lit it, blew smoke at the chandelier and said, ‘Of course, but he would never know; must never know . . .’
Another silence while again Versano mentally preened himself on his intuition.
Then the Dutchman asked, ‘How could a Papal envoy be sent without the Pope’s knowledge and consent?’
Versano chided him gently, ‘Pieter, you of all people have to ask that?’
Van Burgh surveyed him across the table and then gave a nod and a grim little smile. The American smiled back.
Mennini mused: ‘It would be a great sin.’ It was said matter-of-factly, as though he had said, ‘It would be a great pity.’
Versano had been waiting for this. He was not about to pit his intellect against this renowned debater. Few men would be foolish enough to try that. He remembered Mennini’s remark to the renegade Hans Kung. ‘Your religion is practised within the confines of your brain, and your brain does not acknowledge the existence of your heart.’
Versano had decided to debate with extreme simplicity and rock solid logic.
‘Angelo, if one of your missionaries in Africa awoke in a mud hut and found himself cornered by a poisonous snake, what would he do? What would you expect him to do?’
The corners of the Cardinal’s thin lips twitched as he answered immediately.
‘Of course he would take a stick and kill it. . . but that is a reptile. You are talking of a human being.’
Versano had his next line ready but was surprised when the Dutchman said it for him. Van Burgh, emphasising every word by tapping his fingers on the table, said to Mennini, ‘In acknowledging the devil and his works and his ways we recognise that man can become animal. There are precedents in our teachings and in our reactions.’
Versano knew that the Bacon Priest was running beside him. From the sides of his eyes he watched and waited for Mennini’s reaction.
The Cardinal ran a hand across his forehead, shrugged and said, ‘Sin apart, what about the mechanics of such a thing?’
Slowly Versano let his breath out. They were all running together. Quickly he pointed a finger at Van Burgh.
‘Pieter. Think of this. Through your network which spirits thousands of people in and out of the Soviet bloc, is it not possible to put one man secretly into the heart of Moscow? Even into the Kremlin?’
‘I don’t have to think.’ The Dutchman leaned back and stretched his bulk, his vast belly protruding. The fragile chair squeaked ominously. ‘In such matters we are the equal of the KGB, if not their masters. Yes, I could send a man across Europe and into Moscow . . . indeed into the Kremlin. But there are then three questions. How to get him close to the snake? What kind of stick does he carry? And, after he kills the snake, how to get him out again?’
While Versano was formulating an answer Mennini interjected.
‘And another one. Where to find such a man? We are not Islam. We cannot guarantee such a man automatic entry to paradise. We cannot give absolution for suicide.’
Versano said confidently, ‘Somewhere there is a man and somehow we shall find him. Our contacts are extensive - worldwide. Moscow found Agca . . . there are other such men.’
Mennini, although seemingly committed, was now playing the devil’s advocate. ‘But what about motive? Agca had a mental illness fuelled by hatred for the Pope and others. Would you try to find a man who is motivated by faith . . . or insanity?’
Again Van Burgh interjected, seemingly able to read Versano’s thoughts.
‘In Eastern Europe it would not be impossible to find a man with a motive . . . and it should certainly not be religious -’ Versano started to say something but the Dutchman held up a hand. ‘Wait . . . let me think . . .’ He was quite still for two minutes, his eyes narrowed, then slowly he nodded. ‘Even now I know of such a man. It would appear that he has the motive -’
‘And what is that?’ Mennini asked.
‘Hatred, pure and simple. He hates the Russians. He abhors the KGB . . . and in particular he loathes Andropov, apparently with an intensity that defies description.’
Fascinated, Versano asked, ‘Why?’ The Dutchman shrugged. ‘I don’t know - yet. I had a report about four weeks ago that a renegade SB man was on the run.’ He waved a hand apologetically and explained. ‘The SB is short for Sluba Bezpieczenstwa, the department of the Secret Police in Poland which is directed against the Church. This man, his name is Mirek Scibor, was a Major in the SB. A very well-known Major; and at thirty years old very young to be a Major. He owed his position not to family or party influence, but to intelligence, dedication and ruthlessness.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I can attest to that. Four years ago when he was still a Captain he almost caught me - in Poznan. He laid a very sophisticated trap which I avoided only by luck.’ He raised his eyes. ‘Or, I should say, heavenly intervention.’
‘But why the hatred?’ asked the Cardinal.
Van Burgh spread his hands. ‘I don’t yet know, Your Eminence. I do know that on the seventh of last month Mirek Scibor walked into the SB headquarters in Cracow and gunned down his immediate superior - a Colonel Konopka - and a Brigadier. It was almost a miracle that he escaped from the building but he did. He contacted one of our priests, obviously one whom he had under surveillance, and begged help to escape from Poland. Naturally the priest was suspicious. Mirek Scibor is a name to strike terror into such people. But fortunately the priest was also in
telligent and intuitive. He hid Scibor for several days during which time we learned of his killing of the SB Brigadier and the Colonel. He questioned him at length. Scibor offered a vast amount of information about the State’s policy and tactics against our Church. Much of it we were able to corroborate. He expressed a desire to meet me and to tell me more. He refused to talk about the reason for his turnabout or for his hatred. The priest reported that he had never seen a man so consumed with that passion . . . and the centre of its target is Andropov. I gave orders for him to be brought out through one of our pipelines.’
‘Where is he now?’ Versano asked.
‘The last news I had was four days ago. He was in a Friary in Esztergom. By now he should be in Budapest, looked after by the same brotherhood. In a week he’ll be in Vienna.’
This information brought a sober silence to the room. They had been speculating and theorising and now, abruptly, they were faced with the reality of having at hand the possible tool.
Mennini broke the silence.
‘What about the other questions? How to get him into the Kremlin? How does he perform his task? How does he get out?’
The Dutchman spoke firmly.
‘Your Eminence, you must, for the time being, leave those questions to me. It is possible that we shall need the help of your Society but that will come later. First, if this man Mirek Scibor proves suitable, he must be trained. My organisation obviously does not have the facilities to train an assassin . . .’ He drank the last of his wine and, with a glance at both of them, said quietly, ‘But we are in touch with organisations that do have such facilities. During his journey to Moscow we cannot use any of our existing pipelines. For such a mission it is too dangerous. If caught he will talk. Either physical torture or drugs, or a combination. We shall have to create a new and very temporary pipeline.’ He gazed down at the empty wine glass in his hand and mused. ‘Of course, he cannot travel alone. He must have a companion - a “wife”.’
‘A wife!’ Versano’s face expressed his astonishment. ‘On such a mission he takes a wife?’
In The Name of The Father Page 3