At the visitors’ office, near the guardhouse, Ackerman stopped to use a Vatican phone reserved for visitors. He dialed the number for the receptionist in the Pontifical Commission for Vatican City State, Cardinal Luciano Crepi’s office. He wanted to see if the Cardinal was in his office before he made the long walk from the gate.
“Yes, Monsignor, His Eminence is here,” said Crepi’s secretary cheerfully.
“I would like to see him,” said Ackerman.
“His Eminence could see you next week,” said the secretary.
“No,” said Ackerman. “Ora! Now! It’s urgent. Tell him it concerns Donato.” Ackerman surprised himself by almost shouting at the receptionist. He knew that Crepi would see him if it involved Donato, Crepi’s right-hand man at the Vatican Bank.
After a few seconds, she came back on the line. “The cardinal can see you now.”
While the pope is officially the monarch of Vatican City, Crepi was the real governor of the mechanics of the 108.7 acres that form the smallest sovereign state on earth.
Cardinal Luciano Crepi was a cigar-smoking manager who would have been at home in the Chicago mob. He enjoyed his job. He took special relish in chewing out subordinates. He was the classic “kiss up” and “kick down” petty tyrant. It was fair to say that he did not carry a spiritual aura about him.
His office was as spectacular as a museum. In fact, it was a sort of annex of the Vatican Museums. As the governor of Vatican City, he had access to all its storehouses, workshops, and exhibits. Behind Crepi’s desk hung Raphael’s Transfiguration of Christ, depicting Jesus rising up into the clouds with Moses and Elijah. Crepi could get anything he wanted, including art from the Vatican Museums. He chose carefully, conscious that the right art would both impress and intimidate a visitor.
Crepi’s portfolio included all the departments of any country, albeit in miniature. The Swiss Guard is a tiny one hundred-man army. There is a post office, a police department, a court system, and a printing office. There is also a supermarket and a gas station. These are very popular with Romans, because purchases made there are exempt from Italian sales taxes. Crepi’s jurisdiction also included a health office and a small fire department with complete EMT service.
The Vatican has some things that even some large countries do not have, like world-class museums, a famous library, and a laboratory of archaeological research. Despite the Church’s persecution of Galileo, there are even two working astronomical observatories, one in the suburbs of Rome and the other, oddly enough, in the mountains of Arizona.
But the real prize in Crepi’s Vatican collection was the Vatican Bank. Although there was a lay board of experts and a group of cardinal directors, Crepi was its day-to-day lord, and Donato was his vassal.
Ackerman hustled up the stairs to Crepi’s office in the Governatorato. He opened the giant door of the outer office and walked right past the receptionist and into Crepi’s high-ceilinged, frescoed office. The cardinal was on the phone.
Ackerman did not wait for him to finish. “Eminenza,” said Ackerman, “abbiamo un problema.”
Crepi looked up, annoyed. He broke off his conversation with a hurried arrivederci and hung up the phone.
They spoke excitedly in Italian.
“Matteo, what do you mean by coming in here like this?”
“We are in deep shit,” said Ackerman. “I had a visit this morning from the Camorra. They threatened me. They said I could end up like Roberto Calvi if I don’t get this investigation of the deaths of the cardinals called off. There is an American lawyer here, Nate Condon, who is investigating …”
The cardinal held up his hand to stop Ackerman. “I know,” said Crepi. “I had to approve his expense account. Nothing much goes on around here without my department.” He was, as always, full of himself.
“Well, then,” said Ackerman, “you may already know that the American lawyer was out at the Angelo Azzuro last night asking questions about me and Donato. He also wanted to know who was talking to Panoramio. I think he knows that I was the anonymous monsignor who talked to Tochi. I only talked to Tochi because the Camorra set it up. I did what they asked.”
Ackerman was really agitated now. “Stefano, the bartender at the Angelo, tells me that the list I gave them in the article was a hit list! We said those cardinals were curial outsiders. That’s all! You were the one who gave me that list. I had no idea the Camorra was reading the article to know who to kill.”
He continued, practically hysterical. “Stefano also told me that I wouldn’t be the only one to end up like Calvi. His capi want Nate on a plane to the United States tomorrow, or you and Cardinal Salazar might also be swinging from a bridge.”
That got Crepi’s attention. He stood up. Crumbs from his morning snack of coffee and cornetto pastry fell to the floor with his napkin.
“He threatened us?” Crepi asked, using the royal “we.”
“Yes,” said Ackerman despondently. “I am a dead man. You, too. This is the Camorra we are playing with. They have killed children.”
Crepi took charge of the conversation. “Matteo, go home and stay there. Tell the bishop’s office that you are sick. Maybe we can get you on a plane out of the country tomorrow. I will call Salazar.” Crepi paused, his barked orders ceasing.
Ackerman started to leave.
“And Matteo, one more thing. For God’s sake, shut up! No more talking to this American!”
Ackerman left the office, badly shaken. There was no offer of protection from the cardinal, nothing but a plane ticket. What good would that do? The Mafia had contacts in St. Louis and everywhere else in the States. They could find him wherever he went.
The gravity of the situation had settled in. Ackerman went into a private bathroom in the hallway and vomited his guts out.
* * *
Crepi called Cardinal Salazar on his cell phone. Salazar was at his office in the Apostolic Penitentiary. “Julio, meet me at your apartment now! We have to talk.”
Salazar was stunned. “Perche?”
“Don’t ask questions,” said Crepi. “Just meet me. Ten minutes.”
He hung up.
Crepi was nervous, but not panicked. He had known this day would eventually come, when his kingdom might come down around him. He thought, I hope that weakling Julio can hold it together.
Crepi did not start out as a cynic. He started out as a romantic in life, but cynics are often disappointed romantics.
As he hurried out of his office, Crepi thought about his situation. The problem is, he thought, I made myself into God. St. Thomas Aquinas said the foundational sin was pride. That’s exactly what I did.
He surprised himself at how much theology he could remember from his seminary days.
Salazar’s apartment was on the top floor of a Vatican-owned building that faced St. Peter’s. It had a spectacular view of St. Peter’s Square. CNN regularly rented out its balcony, at an exorbitant price, to supply the background for standups from Rome, whenever there was a big event at the Vatican.
The terrace was big enough to roller-skate on. The floor of the large reception room was covered with oriental rugs, the walls with damask silk. The hallways and parlors were decorated with priceless works of art and precious antiquities from the Vatican storehouses and museums.
It took half an hour for Crepi to reach Salazar’s apartment. He was an old man, after all, and a heavy smoker.
Once he settled in Salazar’s living room, Crepi got to the point. “That Monsignor Ackerman came to see me. The Camorra has made a threat against him and against us. They want this investigation of the deaths of the cardinals by the American lawyer called off.”
Salazar knew about Nate’s investigation. There were few real secrets in the Vatican. Everybody was gossiping about the deaths of the cardinals. It was in all the papers. Nate and his investigation were hardly a secret.
“It’s all coming apart,” said Salazar. “We never intended for it to come to this. We were only doing some financial
favors for friends and trying to help our own families. I never thought they would kill our brother cardinals. Why?” Salazar started to moan and cry.
“Oh, stop it,” said Crepi coldly. Salazar continued to moan.
Crepi was not sympathetic. “You knew the risks. You wanted the money. Your house on the cliff at Positano, your BMW, your first-class air tickets, they all came from the money we ran through the Vatican Bank. Of course they are going to kill over this. The bank is too valuable to them.”
“But we never asked them to kill anybody!” protested Salazar. “I never thought it could get us killed!” Tears were running down his cheeks.
Crepi pressed on. “We asked them to eliminate our rivals, so we could stay in charge of the Church. Who did you think we were dealing with? Your friends are the Cali Cartel, for God’s sake. They kill for sport. We were doing business with the Camorra. They kill judges in their own courtrooms. We knew the risks, and we wanted the benefits. Don’t start crying like a woman.”
They went silent for a moment.
Then Crepi started up again. “We still have one more card to play. We control the Vatican Bank as long as Pope Thomas is alive, and we can control who is chosen in the conclave after he dies. The Mafia wants to keep us around until then, so they can be sure nothing changes at the bank.”
“Do they know about the priest in Belgium?” asked Salazar.
“Oh, goddamn it, Julio—they paid for the priest in Belgium. We wanted to make the liberals look bad, so they would have no support in the Church. So that’s what we did.”
“But,” said Salazar, “we wanted to make it look like they were responsible for the cardinals’ deaths. We could still use that.”
“Julio,” answered Crepi, “the Mafia knows who is responsible. They did the killings. I am not worried about the stupid press or liberal Catholics. I am worried about the Mafia. They don’t care who runs the Church. They only care who runs the bank.”
That was the most honest part of Crepi’s statement. Despite the prohibition in tradition and canon law, Crepi and Salazar had already been politicking votes for the next conclave. They planned to elect a man who would do their bidding. O’Toole was on their list.
The two men might have been believers at one point, but they had long since stopped doing any real religious work. They just used the institution to feather their own nests, just like in the days of the Borgias and the Barbarinis.
Considering the importance of the favors Salazar and Crepi had done for the Mafia and the Cali Cartel, the cardinals were actually working cheap. They got a house here and a car there. A few hundred thousand euros were chicken feed to organized crime.
“Oh, Luciano, what have we done?” said Salazar, starting to cry again.
“Oh, just shut up!” said Crepi. “We have to be strong. We have to be sure that Ackerman doesn’t do any more talking, or perhaps the Camorra will take care of that for us.”
Salazar stood up. “I need air,” he said.
He went out on his terrace overlooking St. Peter’s Square, whining.
“O Dio, O Dio,” he kept saying. It was the most praying that Salazar had done in years. Crepi followed him onto the terrace.
“We have to think about the next conclave,” said Crepi. “We still have a little time, as long as the pope’s health holds up. The Mafia wants us around to guide the hand of the Church in the selection of the next pope. We might be able to bargain our way out of this and then retire in peace.”
Salazar calmed down. “Giusto. You’re right, we might have a chance.” At seventy-five, Salazar was just weeks away from retirement. He hoped his Cali Cartel friends would leave him alone and let him die in peace. He had amassed enough money.
Just then Crepi’s mobile phone rang. It was his secretary. The EMTs from the Vatican Fire Department had been dispatched to the pope’s apartment in the Belvedere Palace. “The pope is having another heart incident,” said the secretary urgently.
“Va bene. Vengo subito,” said Crepi.
It didn’t look like Salazar and Crepi would have to wait long for the next conclave. It was the third incident in a month. Time was no longer on their side.
17
DEATH OF A POPE
POPE THOMAS WAS UP AT 6:00 A.M. TO DRESS FOR MASS. Every day it got harder and harder. Just two days before, the pope had fainted and EMTs had been summoned. Today he was moving slowly.
Living in the papal apartments is very much assisted living. Every octogenarian should be so fortunate. The papal butler, Antonio, awakened him gently with the line “Laudatur Jesus Christus.” Praised be Jesus Christ. The pope replied, “Semper Deo gratias et Maria.” Thanks to God and Mary always.
Antonio helped the aged pope to the toilet, then sat him on the plastic and aluminum shower chair for a sponge bath. The old man’s skin hung loosely, and his thin haunches gave him the look of a cadaver.
Then the butler wheeled the shower chair into the pope’s changing room, basically a large walk-in closet. He handed the pope each item of clothing. The old man needed extensive cuing. “Now put on your shirt. Lift your foot, Holiness, so I can put on your sock.”
At that point, the pope always reminded the butler, “Pull the toe.” The pope hated tight socks.
After he was dressed, it was time for medication. There was a raft of pills: blood pressure, a diuretic, cholesterol, and all the other ailments of old age. Every day the pope asked, “What are all these pills for?” And every day the butler replied the same way: “Doctor’s orders, Holiness.” Even the Vicar of Christ, the Patriarch of the West, and the successor of St. Peter has to obey his doctor.
Then the pope was wheeled out of his apartment on the top floor of the Apostolic Palace and down the hall to his private chapel. It was absolutely silent in the apartments, but the sound of Roman traffic drifted through the open windows.
In the chapel was his personal secretary and friend Monsignor Mario Ranieri, already seated in one of two chairs behind matching kneelers positioned to face the tabernacle in the alcove at one side of the chapel. He rose to his feet as the pope entered.
They said their morning prayer together in Italian.
“O Dio, vieni a salvarmi.” Oh, God, come to my assistance.
“Signore vieni presto in mio aiuto.” Lord, make haste to help me.
Despite their being staunch conservatives, who advocated an almost complete return to Latin at every opportunity, when it came to their own prayer, they prayed in their own language.
It was a Friday, the day Christ died, according to tradition. Friday is the penitential day in the Church. Like priests and nuns around the world, the pope and his secretary said Psalm 51, David’s lament for his sin.
Have mercy on me, O God, in your kindness,
In your compassion blot out my offense.
O wash me more and more from my guilt
And cleanse me from all my sin.
It is a moving psalm, which ends with a call to personal conversion and a put-down of temple worship.
For in sacrifice you take no delight,
Burnt offering from me you would refuse,
My sacrifice a contrite spirit,
A humble and contrite heart you will not spurn.
After fifty years of saying it, they no longer had to look at the page.
Monsignor Mario then wheeled the pope into the little sacristy nearby to vest him for Mass. An antiquarian, Pope Thomas loved the splendor of the brocade vestments, lined with watered silk. The hierarchy might talk a lot about solidarity with the poor, but there was precious little evidence of it in their daily lives. The cost of the pope’s Mass vestments could have built an old folks’ home for the poor in Nicaragua.
The Mass began as usual with the sign of the cross. The pope was seated in his wheelchair. These days, when there was no one looking, he was always in his wheelchair. Now, he labored through the opening prayers and penitential rite: “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”
At the readings, he began to slump. He signaled to his secretary to read the gospel, a story of Jesus’ challenge to the Pharisees, the religious leaders of His time. The pope closed his eyes during the reading.
At the consecration of the Mass, the pope began slurring his words, and his face had become an expressionless mask. He struggled to lift the host after the words of consecration. “This is my body.” His hands trembled.
He couldn’t lift the ornate chalice after the consecration of the wine—“This is my blood”—so Monsignor Mario lifted it for him.
Then the pope slumped over in his wheelchair. His secretary pulled an emergency signal cord on the wall. EMTs from the Vatican Fire Department came running from their office near the Vatican gate.
* * *
Pope Thomas was wheeled back to his bedroom. Antonio, his butler, gently lifted the vestments over his head and wrapped him in a wool shawl.
About that time, the EMTs came through the door and made a move to lift him into bed. But the pope signaled that he wanted to be seated in his favorite chair, near the window. They complied, but not before starting an IV of Heparin, to combat blood clots. They tried to start him on oxygen, but he waved the mask away.
The pope was clearly dying.
In his home village of Sant’Agata sui due Golfi, people always drank the same medicinal tea for any health crisis. Mario arrived now with a mug of that same hot tea, just like their mothers would have done.
“Paolo,” he said, “un puo di te,” a little tea. He offered the cup to the pope, but he could not hold it. He was too weak. Mario lifted the cup to the pope’s lips, so he could take a sip.
Sitting there in a collarless shirt, a baggy pair of black slacks, and a woolen shawl, Pope Thomas did not look like the Vicar of Christ and Patriarch of Rome. He looked like a little old man in a nursing home.
“I am dying, Mario,” said the pope. “I hope the Lord forgives me.”
Strange Gods Page 20