Godsent

by Richard Burton

  “What?”

  “You said yourself that people are curious about me. I want to show them I’m not afraid. It’s important that I be seen in public, Papa Jim. Surely you of all people can appreciate that.”

  Papa Jim just puffed on his cigar.

  I’ll be goddamned, he thought. He did it to me again!

  CHAPTER 18

  Father O’Malley pulled a corner of the curtains aside and peered down at St. Peter’s Square. The lights had come on, giving the ancient white and gray marble of the surrounding stones, buildings, statues, fountains, and monuments an icy sheen, as if they were encased in a transparent covering of frozen time. Even the hordes of pigeons, normally the filthiest of birds, seemed rendered pristine in this light, their wings taking on an angelic glow. As much of eternity as existed in the perishable works of man was to be found here, he thought, in these tangible representations of God’s Heavenly kingdom. No wonder that, even in this century of secular ascendancy, the square had maintained its spiritual authority.

  For centuries people had gathered here in times of uncertainty and peril, seeking guidance and reassurance, the blessings of the heirs of St. Peter, and it was no different today. A crowd numbering in the high hundreds was camped out in the square below. Its numbers had been steadily growing for the past three days, ever since the Miracle of Olathe Medical and the press conference that had followed it. Similar gatherings were taking place in church and public squares around the world, but of course the main focus of the media was here. Pope Peter II had released a statement dismissing Ethan as “misguided at best,” but the crowd in the square hadn’t been mollified by this, and in fact had been calling for His Holiness to address them in person. These calls had only increased since yesterday, when Ethan had released a statement of his own from protective custody, announcing his intention to speak to the public after the funeral of his mother, which was scheduled to take place just minutes from now.

  A few hours ago, O’Malley had been dispatched by Cardinal Ehrlich to stroll through the square and mingle with the people who had been drawn there, then report back with his impressions of what he observed. After the failure of their first attempt to neutralize Ethan, the Congregation was treading more carefully, trying to take public opinion into account. There was no longer any room for failure; the next time they struck at Ethan, they would succeed. O’Malley had been told that a massive bomb was going to be set off as Ethan spoke. But it was important to gauge the public mood in order to manipulate it properly in the aftermath of the blast, so that Ethan did not wind up viewed as a martyr but instead as a monster, a beast, the Antichrist. Or so Cardinal Ehrlich had explained it to O’Malley before sending him out into the crowd. Ehrlich seemed to have developed an interest in O’Malley, an interest the young priest was eager to cultivate; the pope’s oldest and closest friend would be a powerful mentor in the atmosphere of backbiting intrigue that characterized so much of Vatican politics.

  O’Malley had entered the crowd with some misgivings, despite his curiosity. He’d never been one of those priests who had an easy rapport with parishioners, who knew just what words to say and when to say them. No, he’d always been a scholar, a computer scientist—not to put too fine a point on it, a nerd. Being around people, even performing the Mass, had always made him feel nervous and awkward, as if he were only playing the part of a priest and would quickly be unmasked as an imposter. Yet his faith was strong and his talents had been recognized by his superiors, who had summoned him to the Vatican, where he’d won a coveted place in the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, in the elite unit of programmers who interacted with Grand Inquisitor. Of course, he wasn’t at that level yet; as in everything concerned with the Church, there was an apprenticeship to serve, a hierarchy to ascend. But at thirty-four years of age, O’Malley had no complaints. He was exactly where he wanted to be, doing the work that he felt called to do. And if part of that work involved mingling with the crowd in St. Peter’s Square, so be it.

  Yet as he made his way through the crowd, moving tentatively, even apologetically, with a self-consciousness that had expanded along with the girth that made it impossible for him to avoid bumping into people in such situations, O’Malley’s nervousness faded. Regardless of their reasons for being there, people seemed to take comfort in the presence of a priest.

  Some had come to the square in fear and trembling, some in the calm certitude of salvation. There were young people and old, couples and families, solitary figures sunk in contemplation and prayer. Even—this being Rome, after all—a smattering of communists and atheists who wandered around with bemused expressions, like anthropologists observing the strange customs of a primitive tribe. There were as well, O’Malley had no doubt, Conversatio agents scattered through the crowd as well as fellow members of the Congregation more suited to subterfuge than he, the two groups pursuing their cloak-and-dagger games as they had for centuries, as if Ethan’s coming hadn’t changed anything. He made a game of his own out of trying to spot them, though with what success he couldn’t say.

  In places there was an indisputably festive air to the gathering. Musicians played, people sang, jugglers and mimes performed in front of upturned hats. But O’Malley also detected an undercurrent of anxiety running through the crowd. It was as if people had decided to put their hopes and worries on hold and wait to hear what Ethan had to say—and what, if anything, the pope might have to say in reply—before allowing their anxiety to come to the surface. Whether it would do so peacefully or violently, for good or ill, O’Malley didn’t feel qualified to predict. But he had no doubt that it would express itself in action of some kind, and he intended to report as much to Cardinal Ehrlich.

  O’Malley turned from the window as the cardinal entered his office.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Father,” said Ehrlich as he seated himself briskly behind his antique wooden desk and motioned for O’Malley to take a seat opposite him. “Give me your report.”

  O’Malley settled into the chair indicated and related all that he had seen and heard. Ehrlich listened with interest, his long fingers steepled before his sharp, narrow nose, occasionally asking probing questions.

  “Well done, Father,” he said when O’Malley finished. “We must tread with care, that much is plain. This young man has tapped into one of the most fundamental and powerful longings we humans possess, the longing for God. The Almighty implanted this longing in our souls, but He also instituted the Holy Church to direct it and channel it productively. Whenever people, whatever their intentions, bypass the Church and seek to satisfy that longing in their own way, then they fling open the door to disaster. And waiting there on the other side to tempt the unwary into sin and error is Satan. Without the Church, there can be only confusion and chaos. That, Father O’Malley, is what Ethan is threatening to unleash on the world. That is why he must be stopped.”

  “Surely things aren’t so bad yet,” said O’Malley, taken aback by the vehemence of the cardinal’s words, especially since his report had been essentially positive.

  “Perhaps not here, on the very doorstep of the Church,” Ehrlich replied. He got to his feet and began to pace his office, gesticulating forcefully as he spoke. “But while you were making your rounds below, I’ve been monitoring news reports as well as information coming through our private channels. For the most part, yes, things are still peaceful. But there have been riots in South America and Africa pitting Catholics against each other and against other Christian denominations, while, in the Middle East, at last the Sunnis and Shiites have found something they can agree on: hatred of the infidel who, by proclaiming himself the Son of God, has blasphemed against the prophet Mohammed, according to the infallible Koran God’s final messenger to humanity. Bin Laden’s disciples have pronounced a fatwa against Ethan. Were you aware of that, Father?”

  O’Malley had to admit that he wasn’t.

  “They’re far from the only ones to have done so,” Ehrlich continued. “Even th
e more moderate Muslim voices are calling for blood. And as if that isn’t bad enough, Grand Inquisitor has detected a sharp upturn in domestic violence, murders, and suicides across the globe. Do you see, Father, how disruptive Ethan’s existence is proving to be? All this chaos stirred up by two purported miracles and the aura of mystery and martyrdom that has coalesced around the idea of him following that disaster of a press conference, where our agent bungled a simple task! Now those of the Christian faith are afraid the end times are at hand, that the trumpet has blown to signal the Apocalypse. Some will repent of their sins, but others will simply take the opportunity to commit new and worse ones. Such is human nature. And his effect on the followers of other faiths will be just as bad, if not worse. We don’t have much time to act. Already, Grand Inquisitor has forecast a 96.8 percent probability of worldwide economic collapse, violent popular uprisings, and rabid religious conflict spreading uncontrollably into war, a war that will make the War on Terror look like a child’s game.”

  O’Malley hadn’t realized that Grand Inquisitor’s projections had reached that level of certainty. “Ninety-six point eight? That’s a jump of almost twenty points since this morning!”

  Nodding, Ehrlich reseated himself behind his desk. “Make no mistake, Father. This is a crisis unlike anything the Church has ever faced before. It’s for this that Grand Inquisitor was created.”

  “What are we to do?” O’Malley asked. “What does Grand Inquisitor advise?”

  “I wish I could confide in you, Father. But the truth is, we have reason to suspect the GI team has been compromised.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yes. It’s not the first time Conversatio has succeeded in placing an agent in close proximity to Grand Inquisitor, but this latest infiltration comes at the worst possible time. In the past, their agents have been content to simply funnel information back to their masters, enabling Conversatio to stay a step ahead of us. But now the situation is different. Grand Inquisitor is our best hope of getting to Ethan. Conversatio is surely aware of that. His Holiness is concerned that they may decide to blow their agent’s cover by having him attempt to destroy GI now, before it can marshal its resources to get to Ethan.”

  “But I thought we had people in Homeland Security.”

  “So we do. The only problem is, Ethan isn’t being held by Homeland Security.”

  “He’s not? Where is he, then?”

  “We’ve known for some time that the Secretary of Homeland Security, Osbourne, is a Conversatio director. Apparently he’s put those munchies of his at their service. And he’s got the boy stashed at a Conversatio facility near Phoenix, Arizona. Unfortunately, that’s all we know. We haven’t been able to get a look inside. They’ve got some kind of protection there that GI can’t crack.”

  “Can’t crack? But that’s impossible! Excuse me, Your Eminence, but there isn’t any kind of software code that GI can’t hack into.”

  “Apparently there is now.”

  O’Malley tried to digest this information. “But . . . but that means . . .”

  “Yes?” Ehrlich raised an eyebrow, like a teacher teasing an answer out of a slightly backward student.

  “That means they have their own massively parallel quantum-computing device.”

  “Bravo, O’Malley. Well reasoned. And GI agrees with you. It seems that Schrödinger’s cat is out of the bag at last.”

  O’Malley smiled at the witticism and assayed one of his own. “Then, Your Eminence, we must endeavor to bell this cat before it scratches us.”

  “The cat concerns me less than the rat, O’Malley.”

  “Your Eminence?”

  “We must find the Conversatio agent before he can strike.”

  “How can I help?”

  “That is indeed the question. You see, Grand Inquisitor has compiled a list of those members of the Congregation it considers the most likely candidates. Your name is at the top of that list.”

  O’Malley sat up straight at this. “My—my name, Your Eminence?”

  “Yes. Any idea why it should appear there?”

  “It’s a mistake, obviously.”

  “GI doesn’t make mistakes, Father,” Ehrlich said, raising an admonitory finger. “It assesses probabilities.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say. I’m no spy or traitor, Your Eminence, I assure you.”

  “I’d like to believe you,” said Ehrlich. “But sadly, in these times, one can’t be too careful. Or too trusting. No, Father, we need more than your assurances. We need proof.”

  “I’ll do anything to clear my name,” O’Malley insisted. “Grand Inquisitor may not make mistakes, but at the same time, it isn’t infallible.”

  “No, only His Holiness can claim that distinction. You have a promising career ahead of you, O’Malley. That’s why I’ve interceded personally in this matter.”

  “Interceded?” O’Malley could feel cold sweat trickling down his back like melting ice.

  “The normal procedure in cases like this is to simply eliminate the top tier of names on the list, those at 70 percent or above. It’s the most efficient method, even though it has the regrettable effect of removing the innocent along with the guilty. Still, God understands the need for such sacrifices, and to die a martyr’s death is a privilege any loyal priest should gladly embrace. You’re lucky, O’Malley. Usually you would be dead already, along with the other six names on the list. However, the current situation does not favor such expediency. His Holiness has decided it’s more important to identify the spy and interrogate him as only we are equipped to do.”

  “Interrogate?” O’Malley tried to keep his voice steady. “Your Eminence, I—”

  Cardinal Ehrlich interrupted. “Yes, yes, I know what you’re about to say, O’Malley. Confessions obtained under interrogation are apt to be false. No one knows that better than I. That’s why we’re holding off until we’ve determined the identity of the spy.”

  “But how are you going to do that?” Glad as he was to learn that he was not going to be subjected immediately to any of the vast array of interrogation techniques, otherwise known as tortures, developed by the Congregation over the course of centuries, O’Malley was far from relieved. In fact, he felt as if he were already undergoing a form of torture.

  “A simple test,” Ehrlich said. “Each of the suspects was given specific information about our plans for Ethan’s upcoming appearance. Each of you received different information, all of it completely wrong. Then you were sent out into the crowd below, where we fully expect that the guilty party communicated his false information to a Conversatio contact. When we see what kind of preparations Osbourne has put in place for Ethan’s protection, we’ll know which bit of information he’s reacting to, and that will give us the identity of the spy.”

  O’Malley could hardly believe his ears. “But Your Eminence—you can’t be serious!”

  “Is there a problem, O’Malley?”

  “Osbourne isn’t a fool. He and his people will take any number of precautionary measures to protect Ethan. It’s just common sense that they’ll have plans in place to guard against bombs and assassins and the like. Such precautions are routine! They don’t require the warning of a spy to implement. If that’s what you’re going to judge us by, you might as well kill us now.”

  “Grand Inquisitor thinks otherwise.”

  “How? I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I. But just because I don’t understand Grand Inquisitor doesn’t mean I don’t have faith in it. After all, who among us does understand it? Do you?”

  “No, Your Eminence. I don’t think any human being can fully understand GI. It’s evolved patterns of thinking that are beyond our comprehension, patterns born in its sustained immersion in states of quantum superposition as opposed to the world of cause and effect that we perceive as reality.”

  The cardinal chuckled warmly. “I do like you, O’Malley, even if I often don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”


  O’Malley felt himself blush to the roots of his hair.

  “I sincerely hope you don’t have to be killed,” Ehrlich continued, glancing at his watch. “Ah. It’s time for the Ethan show. Shall we watch, Father?”

  Speechless, O’Malley could only nod weakly.

  “What’s he doing in there?” Papa Jim demanded for the fifth or sixth time, as he regarded the closed door of the viewing room in the Olathe Funeral Home.

  “What do you think?” replied Kate, who was sitting in an upholstered armchair behind him, her legs crossed at the ankles. She wore a black dress with black shoes. “He’s saying good-bye to his mother. Don’t you dare knock!”

  His hand raised to do just that, Papa Jim lowered it reluctantly and turned frowning from the door. “You’re his mother.”

  “I’m going to try to be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only that I haven’t earned it yet.”

  “Earned it?”

  “The right to be called his mother.”

  “Baby girl, you brought him into the world,” Papa Jim said.

  “It means more than just giving birth.”

  “Like what? Taking a bullet for him like she did?”

  “If necessary. But she did more than take a bullet for him, as you know very well.”

  “The woman was a Conversatio agent. She was doing her job.”

  “She raised him. Provided for him. Loved him.”

  Papa Jim had little patience for such talk. He had little patience left at all. Ethan had been in that room for more than an hour now. It was already ten minutes past the time he was scheduled to appear before the cameras and the crowd. When Papa Jim had knocked on the door five minutes ago, Ethan had called out that he would be just another minute. Then nothing. Papa Jim thought about knocking again despite Kate’s warning, but he didn’t want to upset the boy. Not now.

  Scowling, he walked past his granddaughter and peeked out through the curtained windows of the sitting room to the back of the funeral home, where guests were seated in rows of folding chairs under a pavilion erected especially for the occasion. He noted with satisfaction the presence of his munchies in their assigned positions, as well as a number of plainclothes agents led by Denny. The steady thump of the blades of two hovering helicopters gave him a warm feeling. There were not going to be any goddamn accidents today. This was going to be a scene of triumph, not tragedy.