by Ben Bova
“I should have brought a shotgun,” I said, trying to get serious.
“You wouldn’t do that,” he said, with that impish grin of his. Then he added a worried, “Would you?”
“Where did you get the bright idea of suing the Vatican?”
“Oh, that!” Sam visibly relaxed, eased back in his chair and swiveled around from side to side a little.
“Yes, that,” I snapped. “What kind of a brain-dead nincompoop idea is that?”
“Nincompoop?” He looked almost insulted. “Been a long time since I heard that one.”
“What’s going on, Sam? You know a private citizen can’t sue a sovereign state.”
“Sure I know that. I’m not suing the Vatican. The sovereign nation of Ecuador is suing. I’m merely acting as their representative, in my position as CEO of Ecuador National Space Systems.”
I sank back in my chair, thinking fast. “The Vatican isn’t a party to the International Court of Justice’s protocols. Your suit is null and void, no matter who the plaintiff may be.”
“Christ, Jill, you sound like a lawyer.”
“You can’t sue the Vatican.”
Sam sighed and reached out one hand toward the keyboard on his desk. He tapped at it with one finger, then pointed to the display screen on the wall.
The screen filled with print, all legalese of the densest kind. But I recognized it. The Treaty of Katmandu, the one that ended the three-way biowar between India, China and Pakistan. The treaty that established the International Peacekeeping Force and gave it global mandatory powers.
“‘All nations are required to submit grievances to the International Court of Justice,’“ Sam quoted from the treaty,” ‘whether they are signatories to this instrument or not.’“
I knew it as well as he did. “That clause is in there to prevent nations from using military force,” I said.
Sam gave a careless shrug. “Regardless of why it’s in there, it’s there. The World Court has jurisdiction over every nation in, the world. Even the Vatican.”
“The Vatican didn’t sign the treaty.”
“Doesn’t matter. The treaty went into effect when two-thirds of the membership of the UN signed it,” Sam said. “And any nation that doesn’t obey it gets the Peacekeepers in their face.”
“Sam, you can’t sue the Pope!”
He just gave me his salesman’s grin. “The nation of Ecuador has filed suit against the Vatican State. The World Court has to hear the case. It’s not just my idea, Jill—it’s the law.”
The little sonofabitch was right.
I EXPECTED SAM would invite me to dinner. He did, and then some. Sam wouldn’t hear of my staying at a hotel; he had already arranged for a guest suite for me in the presidential palace. Which gave the lie to his supposed surprise when I had arrived at his office, of course. He knew I was coming. It sort of surprised me, though. I wouldn’t have thought that he’d want me so close to him. He had always managed to slip away when I’d pursued him before. This time he ensconced me in presidential splendor in the same building where he was sleeping.
I should have been suspicious. I’ve got to admit that, instead, I sort of half thought that maybe Sam was getting tired of running away from me. Maybe he wanted me to be near him.
He did. But for his own reasons, of course.
When we ate dinner that evening it was with the President of Ecuador himself: Carlos Pablo Francisco Esperanza de Rivera. He was handsome, haughty and kind of pompous. Wore a military uniform with enough braid to buckle the knees of a Ukrainian weightlifter. Very elegant silver hair. A noble profile with a distinguished Castilian nose.
“It is an extremely serious matter,” he told me, in Harvard-accented English. “We do not sue the head of Holy Mother Church for trivial reasons.”
The fourth person at the table was a younger man, Gregory Molina. He was dark and intense, the smoldering Latino rebel type. Sam introduced him as the lawyer who was handling the case for him.
We sat at a sumptuous table in a small but elegant dining room. Crystal chandelier, heavy brocade napkins, damask tablecloth, gold-rimmed dishes and tableware of solid silver. Lavish Christmas trimmings on the windows; big holiday bows and red-leafed poinsettias decorating the dining table.
Ecuador was still considered a poor nation, although as the Earth-bound anchor of Sam’s space operations there was a lot of money flowing in. Most of it must be staying in the presidential palace, I thought.
Once the servants had discreetly taken away our fish course and deposited racks of roast lamb before us, I said, “The reason I came here is to see if this matter can be arbitrated without actually going to court.”
“Of course!” said El Presidente. “We would like nothing better.”
Sam cocked a brow. “If we can settle this out of court, fine. I don’t really want to sock the Pope if we can avoid it.”
Molina nodded, but his burning eyes told me he’d like nothing better than to get the Pope on the witness stand.
“I glanced through your petition papers on the flight down here,” I said. “I don’t see what your insurance claims have to do with the Vatican.”
Sam put his fork down. “Over the past year and a half, Ecuador National Space Systems has suffered three major accidents: a booster was struck by lightning during launch operations and forced to ditch in the ocean; we were lucky that none of the crew was killed.”
“Why were you launching into stormy weather?” I asked.
“We weren’t!” Sam placed a hand over his heart, like a little kid swearing he was telling the truth. “Launch pad weather was clear as a bell. The lightning strike came at altitude, over the Andes, out of an empty sky.”
“A rare phenomenon,” said Molina. “The scientists said it was a freak of nature.”
Sam resumed, “Then four months later one of our unmanned freight
carriers was hit by a micro-meteor and exploded while it was halfway to our lunar mining base. We lost the vehicle and its entire cargo.”
“Seventy million dollars, U.S.,” Molina said.
President de Rivera’s eyes filled with tears.
“And just six months ago a lunar quake collapsed our mine in the ring-wall of Aristarchus.”
I hadn’t known that. “Was anyone killed?”
“The operation was pretty much automated. A couple technicians were injured,” Sam said. “But we lost three mining robots.”
“At sixteen million dollars apiece,” Molina added.
The president dabbed at his eyes with his napkin.
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with the Vatican,” I said.
The corners of Sam’s mouth turned down. “Our mother-loving insurance carrier refused to cover any of those losses. Claimed they were all acts of God, not covered by our accident policy.”
I hadn’t drunk any of the wine in the crystal goblet before me, so there was no reason for me to be slow on the uptake. Yet I didn’t see the association with the Vatican.
“Insurance policies always have an Acts of God clause,” I said.
“Okay,” Sam said, dead serious. “So if our losses were God’s fault, how do we get Him to pay what He owes us?”
“Him?” I challenged.
“Her,” Sam snapped back. “It. Them. I don’t care.”
President de Rivera steepled his long, lean fingers before his lips and said, “For the purposes of our discussion, and in keeping with ancient tradition, let us agree to refer to God as Him.” And he smiled his handsome smile at me.
“Okay,” I said, wondering how much he meant by that smile. “We’ll call Her Him.”
Molina snickered and Sam grinned. El Presidente looked puzzled; either he didn’t appreciate my humor or he didn’t understand it.
Sam got back to his point. “If God’s responsible for our losses, then we want to get God to pay for them. That’s only fair.”
“It’s silly,” I said. “How are you—”
Sam’s sudden
grin cut me off. “The Pope is considered to be God’s personal representative on Earth, isn’t he?”
“Only by the Roman Catholics.”
“Of which there are more than one billion in the world,” Molina said.
“The largest religion on Earth,” said the president.
“It’s more than that,” Sam maintained. “Nobody else claims to be the personal representative of God. Only the Pope, among the major religious leaders. One of his titles is ‘the vicar of Christ,’ isn’t it?”
The two men nodded in unison.
“The Catholics believe that Christ is God, don’t they?” Sam asked.
They nodded again.
“And Christ—God Herself—personally made St. Peter His representative here on Earth.”
More nods.
“And the Pope is Peter’s descendent, with all the powers and responsibilities that Peter had. Right?”
“Exactly so,” murmured El Presidente.
“So if we want to sue God, we go to his personal representative, the Pope.” Sam gave a self-satisfied nod.
Only Sam Gunn would think of such a devious, convoluted scheme.
“We cannot sue the Pope personally,” Molina pointed out, as earnest as a missionary, “because he is technically and legally the head of a state: the Vatican. A sovereign cannot be sued except by his own consent; that is ancient legal tradition.”
“So you want to sue the state he heads,” I said.
“The Vatican. Yes.”
“And since an individual or corporation can’t sue a state, the nation of Ecuador is entering the suit.”
Sam smiled like a Jack-o’-lantern. “Now you’ve got it.”
I PICKED MY way through the rest of the dinner in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe that Sam would go through with something so ridiculous, yet there he was sitting next to the president of Ecuador and a fervent young lawyer who seemed totally intent on hauling the Pope before the World Court.
I wondered if the fact that the present Pope was an American—the first U.S. cardinal to be elected Pope—had anything to do with the plot hatching inside Sam’s shifty, twisted, Machiavellian brain.
After the servants had cleared off all the dishes and brought a tray of liqueur bottles, I finally gathered enough of my wits to say, “There’s got to be a way to settle this out of court.”
“Half a billion would do it,” Sam said.
He hadn’t touched any of the after-dinner drinks and had only sipped at his wine during dinner. So he wasn’t drunk.
“Half a billion?”
“A quarter billion in actual losses,” Molina interjected, “and a quarter billion in punitive damages.”
I almost laughed in his face. “You want to punish God?”
“Why not?” The look on his face made me wonder what God had ever done to him to make him so angry.
President de Rivera took a silver cigarette case from his heavily braided jacket.
“Please don’t smoke,” I said.
He looked utterly shocked.
“It’s bad for your lungs and ours,” I added.
Sighing, he slipped the case back into his pocket. “You sound like my daughter.”
“Thank you,” I said, and made a polite smile for him.
“Do you think we can settle out of court?” Sam asked.
“Where’s the Pope going to get half a billion?” I snapped.
Sam shrugged good-naturedly. “Sell some artwork, maybe?”
I pushed my chair from the table. Molina and the president shot to their feet. De Rivera was closer to me; he held my chair while I stood up.
“Allow me to escort you to your room,” he said.
“Thank you so much,” I replied.
Sam, still seated, gave me a suspicious look. But he didn’t move from his chair. The president gave me his arm and I placed my hand on it, just like we were Cinderella and the Prince at the ball. As we walked regally out of the dining room I glanced back at Sam. He was positively glowering at me.
We took an intimately small elevator up two flights. There was barely room enough in it for the two of us. De Rivera wasn’t much taller than I, but he kept bobbing up on his toes as the elevator inched its way up. I wondered if it was some sort of exercises for his legs, until I realized that he was peeking down the front of my blouse! I had dressed casually. Modestly. And there wasn’t much for him to see there anyway. But he kept peeking.
I took his proffered arm once again as he walked me to my door. The wide upstairs corridor was lined with portraits, all men, and furniture that looked antique and probably very valuable.
He opened the door to my suite, but before he could step inside I maneuvered myself into the doorway to block him.
“Thank you so much for the excellent dinner,” I said, smiling my kiss-off smile.
“I believe you will find an excellent champagne already chilled in your sitting room,” said the president.
I gave him the regretful head shake. “It’s much too late at night for me to start drinking champagne.”
“Ah, but the night is young, my lovely one.”
Lovely? Me? I was as plain as a pie pan and I knew it. But El Presidente was acting as if I was a ravishing beauty. Did he think he could win me over to his side by taking me to bed? I’ve heard of tampering with a judge but this was ridiculous.
“I’m really very tired, Mr. President.”
“Carlos,” he whispered.
“I’m really very tired, Carlos.”
“Then it would be best for you to go directly to bed, would it not?”
I was wondering if I’d have to knee him in the groin when Sam’s voice bounced cheerfully down the corridor. “Hey Jill, I just remembered that there was another so-called act of God that cost us ten-twenty mill or so.”
The president stiffened and stepped back from me. Sam came strolling down the corridor with that imp’s grin spread across his round face.
“Lemme tell you about it,” he said.
“I’m very tired and I’m going to sleep,” I said firmly. “Goodnight, Sam. And goodnight, Carlos.”
As I shut the door I saw Carlos glaring angrily at Sam. Maybe I’ve broken up their alliance, I thought.
Then I realized that Sam had come upstairs to rescue me from Carlos. He was jealous! And he cared enough about me to risk his scheme against the Pope.
Maybe he did love me after all. At least a little.
WE TRIED TO settle the mess out of court. And we might have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for the other side’s lawyer. And the assassins.
All parties concerned wanted to keep the suit as quiet as possible. Dignity. Good manners. We were talking about the Pope, for goodness’ sake. Maintain a decent self-control and don’t go blabbing to the media.
All the parties agreed to that approach. Except Sam. The instant the World Court put his suit on its arbitration calendar, Sam went roaring off to the news people. All of them, from BBC and CNN to the sleaziest tabloids and paparazzi.
Sam was on global television more than the hourly weather reports.
He pushed Santa Claus out of the headlines. You couldn’t punch up a news report on your screen without seeing Sam’s Jack-o’-lantern face grinning at you.
“I think that if God gets blamed for accidents and natural disasters, the people who claim to represent God ought to be willing to pay the damages,” Sam said gleefully, over and again. “It’s only fair.”
The media went into an orgy of excitement. Interviewers doggedly tracked down priests, ministers, nuns, lamas, imams, mullahs, gurus of every stripe and sect. Christmas was all but forgotten; seven “holiday specials” were unceremoniously bumped from the entertainment networks so they could put on panel discussions of Sam’s suit against the Pope instead.
Philosophers became as commonplace on the news as athletes. Professors of religion and ethics got to be regulars on talk shows all over the world. The Dalai Lama started his own TV series.
It
was a bonanza for lawyers. People everywhere started suing God— or the nearest religious establishment. An unemployed mechanic in Minnesota sued his local Lutheran Church after he slipped on the ice while fishing on a frozen lake. An English woman sued the Archbishop of Canterbury when her cat got itself run over by a delivery truck. Ford Motor Company sued the Southern Baptists because a ship carrying electronic parts from Korea sank in a typhoon and stopped Ford’s assembly operation in Alabama.
Courts either refused to hear the suits, on the grounds that they lacked jurisdiction over You-Know-Who, or held them up pending the World Court’s decision. One way or another, Sam was going to set a global precedent.
The Pope remained stonily silent. He virtually disappeared from the public eye, except for a few ceremonial masses at St. Peter’s and his regular Sunday blessing of the crowds that he gave from his usual balcony. There were even rumors that he wouldn’t say the traditional Christmas Eve mass at St. Peter’s.
He even stopped giving audiences to visitors—after the paparazzi and seventeen network reporters infiltrated an audience that was supposed to be for victims of a flood in the Philippines. Eleven photographers and seven Filipinos were arrested after the Swiss Guard broke up the scuffle that the news people started.
The Vatican spokesman was Cardinal Hagerty, a dour-faced Irishman with the gift of gab, a veteran of the Curia’s political infighting who stonewalled the media quite effectively by sticking to three points:
One: Sam’s suit was frivolous. He never mentioned Ecuador at all; he always pinpointed the notorious Sam Gunn as the culprit.
Two: This attempt to denigrate God was sacrilegious and doomed to failure. Cardinal Hagerty never said it in so many words, but he gave the clear impression that in the good old days the Church would have taken Sam by the scruff of his atheistic little neck and burned him at the stake.