by Walter Ellis
The Pope, seeming to appreciate a sympathetic voice, told his guest that he still remembered the monograph O’Malley had written about the historical relationship between the Ottoman Empire and the Republic of Venice, which he said spoke rationally and compassionately about the problems faced by both sides.
‘I made inquiries and was told that you spent several years in Constantinople – I’m sorry, I mean of course, Istanbul – and were considered an authority on Muslim society.’
‘That,’ said O’Malley, ‘was before I was exiled to Milwaukee.’
The Pope nodded. ‘Ah yes. A retreat house, I believe. How was that?’
‘Actually, I enjoyed it very much.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Those of us who spend so much of our lives in the great metropolises dealing with institutional matters can learn much from pastoral work.’
O’Malley offered a half-smile. ‘But not, alas, the imperatives of inter-faith dialogue. The truth of the matter, Holiness, is that I’m out of touch these days. I try to keep abreast, naturally. I read what I can. But I’m afraid my global contribution has been, well … limited.’
‘I understand,’ the Pope said, blinking hard as he spoke. ‘What is important is that you know the history of Islam. You’ve studied what really happened, not simply imbibed the myths. That is rare. And you have an Islamic sensibility, I think, that guards against prejudice.’
O’Malley did not demur from this analysis. He was not without ego. He was also intrigued. ‘In what way may I be of assistance?’ he asked again.
The Pope clasped his hands in front of him. As he spoke, the vast bulk of St Peter’s Basilica, built over the tomb of the Apostle, loomed to his right through the open drawing-room window. ‘In the past,’ he began, ‘Islam always advanced in parallel with an empire. There were the Turks, of course – your friends, the Ottomans. But also, before them, the Seljuks, the Umayyads, the Abbasids and, in Persia, the Safavids. Things are different today. Conventional conquest is no longer realistically possible, so the caliphate, desired by many, must be established by other means.’ He turned his head sharply, so that he now faced O’Malley directly. ‘How do you assess the situation in Iran?’
‘I think the Shah is finished. And when the ayatollahs take over, anything is possible. I would expect an Islamic republic to be established, with strict application of sharia law. The next few years should prove critical.’
‘Exactly,’ the Pope said. ‘And when this happens, the tumult will quickly spread and Europe will once again find itself a battleground. I have no wish to be alarmist. Muslims worship the same God as we do and have the same rights and freedoms. But I am concerned that if we do not open our minds, and our hearts, soon, it may be too late to prevent the situation from getting out of hand.’
O’Malley was fascinated by what he was hearing. It was said by some that the Holy Father’s problem was that he was provincial and out of touch. Apparently this criticism was well wide of the mark.
The Pope twisted the fisherman’s ring on the fourth finger of his right hand, as if it did not quite fit. ‘Have you visited the site of Rome’s new mosque?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Holiness. Indeed I have, and I believe it will be the most beautiful, as well as the largest, in Europe.’
The pontiff’s eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘But why so large? Do you know that it can be seen from the terrace of the Castel Sant’Angelo? I looked for myself. It seems that they wish to challenge us. Is it possible that the next great global conflict, after the Millennium, will not be between belief and unbelief, as has been the case in the present century, but rather between what remains of Christian certainty and a resurgent, possibly militant Islam?’
‘I do not just think it possible,’ O’Malley replied. ‘I consider it almost inescapable. That is why it is so important that we here in Europe, especially, perhaps, here in the Holy See, demonstrate our repect for the faith of Mohammad. We should make it clear that while we cleave as ever to our belief in the Lord Jesus and His Holy Mother, we nevertheless acknowledge that we are all children of the one God, equally deserving of His mercy.’
The Pope’s face lit up at this, making him look particularly vulnerable. ‘That is it exactly,’ he said, clapping his hands together. There was a pause. ‘But there must be a quid pro quo from the Muslim world. Do you recall that at our last meeting, in the Gesù, I mentioned my regret that the patriarchate of Constantinople had been abolished?’
‘I remember it well.’
‘I intend to restore it.’
‘But that’s wonderful.’
‘I’m glad you approve. But whereas in the past, certainly since 1453, it was a vestigial archdiocese, almost an honorific, my proposal is that it should become a true bridge between East and West, between the Church and Islam. Of course, an archbishop – or in this case a patriarch – must have a flock. He must have churches. It has always seemed to me a tragedy that the parishes of Asia Minor, so closely identified with Paul and Barnabas, have for the last five hundred years been allowed to wither on the vine. I wish to promote some recovery in their position.’
‘That may not be easy, Holiness.’
‘No, but the Turks wish some day to join the European Community. This could be one means of smoothing their path.’
‘Even so …’
‘Even so, there are two sides to a street. There are things we can offer Islam and things they can offer to us. We need to learn to do more than co-exist. We need to recognize our common heritage.’
‘You should have been a politician, Holiness.’
The Pope looked away. ‘But I am, Father General – as are you.’ Again, he twisted at his ring. ‘You know, by the way, that I wanted to be a Jesuit when I was young?’
O’Malley was genuinely surprised. ‘No, I hadn’t heard that.’
‘It was in 1933. I was at the seminary in Belluno. My bishop, Monsignor Giosuè Cattarossi, who had confirmed me fourteen years before and knew me well, didn’t think I was suitable material.’
‘He must have had a premonition that your life would take a different course.’
‘No doubt. Now tell me, when does the next issue of La Civiltà Cattolica come out?’
The reference was to the Jesuits’ principle newspaper, edited each week in Rome. ‘Next Thursday, I believe,’ O’Malley replied.
‘Would there be time, do you think, to include an article by me on this subject?’
‘On the Patriarchate? Of course, Holiness. I have no influence myself. The Society has always considered the paper a prerogative of the Italian membership. But I cannot imagine that they …’
‘Excellent. Very good. Perhaps you could ask the editor to contact me.’
‘Of course.’
It seemed a natural end to the conversation and, after a short pause, O’Malley rose to leave. As he did so, the Pope spoke again, appearing, the Irishman thought, a little hesitant.
‘One more thing, before you go. Have you met Bishop Bosani?’
‘From the Secretariat for Non-Christians? No, Holiness, I have not yet had the pleasure.’
‘Ha! Yes. “Pleasure” is one way of putting it. He is very … energetic. Full of ideas. Not, though, the easiest man to get along with. He does not approve, I think, of restoring the Patriarchate. I get the feeling that he is pursuing his own agenda, which he prefers not to confide to me. So be it. What matters is that I am looking for a personal adviser on relations with the Muslim world – a cross between a representative and a confidant. And I should like to know, Father O’Malley, if would you be prepared to accept the role? The choice is between you and Bosani, who, it must be said, has his advocates within the Curia. He knows how the system works and which levers can be pulled with what results. But I have to say, at this stage, I favour you.’
O’Malley drew back, genuinely moved. ‘You do me great honour, Your Holiness, but I … I beg you to reconsider …’
This show of reluctance made the Pope giggle. It was a
musical, almost child-like sound. ‘No, no, my son. Diffidence did not work for me and it will not work for you either. Put simply, it would be a great weight off my mind if you were to stand next to me on what I am sure will become one of the great issues in the years ahead. You would have to be promoted, of course. A Monsignor at the very least.’
‘How is that possible? I am a Jesuit …’
‘… And thus bound by your oath of allegiance to me.’
To this there was no answer. The new Pope may have been straight as a die, but he was also slippery as an eel. As a courtesy, he told O’Malley, he would raise the issue of his appointment as a senior adviser with the cardinal secretary for Non-Christians. ‘I wish to restore the Patriarchate of Constantinople as quickly as possible. And I intend it to be residential, with proper diocesan authority. A true bridge into the Islamic world – just as the new mosque here in Rome connects Muslims to the Vatican. To achieve this, we have to deal with Turkish and Muslim sensitivities, and I believe that you are the perfect man for the job. Get back to me as quickly as you can. Do I make myself clear?’
O’Malley nodded. He said he would speak with the editor of La Civiltà Cattolica, as well as to the head of the Irish College and the Superior General of the Jesuits, and report back in person at the end of the week.
Three days later, it made no difference. The Pope was dead.
30*
Conclave minus 3
Father Visco was disturbed when he read the report from Monsignor Asproni, prefect of the Secret Archive, indicating a wider police inquiry into the missing papers than he had expected – or wanted. He was puzzled. Scajola and Drago, young and devout, from good Catholic families, were personally selected for their loyalty to the Camerlengo, as well as their discretion. He telephoned both men on their personal mobiles to find out what was going on and was assured that neither raised the issue of the theft with anyone else.
‘If I were you,’ Scajola said, ‘I would find out who Dempsey has been talking to – or maybe his uncle.’
‘Agreed. But I need you to discover what information concerning this matter has reached your superiors. Drago should do the same.’
‘Understood.’
Minutes afterwards, Visco knocked on the door of Bosani’s office and walked in, taking with him his internal Vatican post, a small pot of espresso and a Meissen cup and saucer – all on a silver tray.
‘I hope I am not interrupting, Eminence,’ he said.
The Camerlengo looked up. ‘Cesare! Not at all. Come in, come in. How are you? I must say, I feel confident today. Things are moving in our direction.’ He paused, eyeing the priest up and down. ‘But I know you and I recognize that hangdog expression. I hope you are not the bearer of bad tidings.’
‘Not at all, Eminence,’ the secretary replied briskly. There was no point in spoiling the cardinal’s mood. ‘Everything is in hand.’
The older man looked doubtful. ‘So what do you have for me – apart from that coffee, I mean?’
‘Oh … yes. My apologies.’ He stepped forward and placed the tray on the cardinal’s desk.
Bosani poured a half-cup of espresso and raised it to his lips, breathing in the rich aroma. ‘Do you know, Cesare, one day – probably long after we are gone – Italians will corner the market in coffee throughout the caliphate.’
‘It would make up for the decline in the wine market, I suppose.’
‘Indeed. Pope Clement VIII had the right idea. Did you know that he came under pressure to ban it as the “bitter invention of Satan” simply because of its popularity among Muslims? His Holiness – the man, we must not forget, who promoted my illustrious predecessor, Battista – was not to be cheated. Coffee was so good, he ruled, that he would cheat the Devil by baptizing it.’
‘I was unaware of that.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me, Cesare. For you are all business. That is your strength. So what do you have for me today? Have we heard from Delacroix and Salgado?’
‘Their letters are at the top of your pile. They were hand-delivered five minutes ago.’
‘Excellent. So there’s nothing further to report?’
‘Nothing that should concern you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But remember, if that young man Dempsey continues to give us trouble, you should not hesitate to call on Franco.’
‘I’m hoping it won’t come to that.’
‘So are we all. The Prophet – peace be upon Him – offered mercy to all, far and near, friend and enemy. But he also knew when to strike in defence of the faith. You understand me?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘That is good. Now leave me to read the letters from Their Eminences.’
As soon as his secretary left, clicking the door behind him, Bosani picked up a monogrammed paper knife from the paraphenalia arranged in front of him and slit open the letters from the French and Spanish cardinals. There were times, he had to confess, when he almost didn’t want the Church to fall. His life here in Rome was almost … perfect. But God’s will be done. He prised out the first letter – on scented paper, he noted – and began to read.
He had not been wrong about the two prelates. Though mindful of the strength of the Muslim lobby in their countries, they could see the benefits accruing from a policy that pitted the Catholic Church against the increasing arrogance of Islam. More to the point, perhaps, they were glad to note that, in the event of the arrival on the Throne of Peter of Bosani’s candidate, places would be found for them in the uppermost reaches of the Curia. All priests divided into those who could devote themselves to pastoral care and those who were, in essence, managers. In Bosani’s long experience, managers were increasingly in the majority. It was hard to care deeply, day after day, about a flock most of whom no longer even believed in the Christian story. Secularism now had such a grip across Europe that priests, instead of being central to their communities, were isolated and often lonely. The French and Spanish cardinals may have risen to the top of their national hierarchies, but they, too, had to face up to the reality of their irrelevance in the twenty-first century.
It would be different when the caliphate was restored. There would be respect for religion, which would once again be at the heart of society.
Bosani’s one regret – though he did not expect it to to affect him personally – was the lack in Islam of a recognized priesthood, with an upwardly mobile power. To that extent, he had to admit, he was a Vatican man through and through. But then again, who knew how things would evolve in the future. Perhaps when the Vatican, twenty years from now, became the centre of European Islam and St Peter’s was transformed into the new Hagia Sophia, the values of sound management and good organization would enter into the soul of Islam.
In the meantime, Delacroix and Salgado were content. He smiled and once more congratulated himself on his ability to see right into the hearts of his colleagues. Ten minutes later, he pressed the large button on his telephone console. Visco shimmered in like a ghost. This time he carried with him a small basin of hot water. A simple white towel hung from his left arm.
‘Good news,’ the Camerlengo announced. ‘Our friends Delacroix and Salgado are safely on board. They will vote for our man and, as the primates of France and Spain, will surely bring most, if not all, of their fellow countrymen with them.’
‘Allah be praised!’
‘Precisely.’ Bosani held his hands out in front of him, like a surgeon about to scrub up. Visco placed the basin of water on the desk and waited with the towel while the cardinal washed his face and hands. Next, he removed his shoes and socks and washed his feet. As soon as he was done, the prince of the Church rose from his chair. Visco, himself barefoot, had already fetched the prayer mats and rolled them out on the floor, facing Mecca.
‘Is the door locked?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then let us remember our God and seek His guidance.’
It was the middle of the afternoon when Visco heard back from Sergeant Drago
. In order to further his inquiries, he had, he said, managed to place a ‘bug’ in Dempsey’s telephone at the apartment on the Via della Penitenza.
‘Doesn’t he used a mobile?’
‘Local calls are free. It makes sense when he’s at home.’
‘And ..?’
‘And he left a message this afternoon on the voicemail of a young woman.’
‘Which young woman?’
‘Well, Father, that’s the strangest part. We traced the number and it turned out she was Maya Studer, the daughter of Colonel Otto Studer, commandant of the Swiss Guard.’
‘Merda!’
‘What was that, Father?’
‘Nothing. You are sure of this?’
‘Quite certain.’
‘And what was the message?’
‘It was to tell her to join him and his uncle – the Father General – tonight at the Caffè Giolitti.’
‘The Giolitti? What time?’
‘Eight o’clock.’
‘Was that all?’
‘I’m afraid so. Like you say, Father, most people these days use their mobiles. And listening in to those is … what is it the Americans say? … above my pay grade.’
‘Very well. But keep me informed.’
‘Of course, Father.’
Visco briefly debated with himself whether or not to tell Bosani about this latest melancholy discovery. He would have to, he decided. It was unavoidable. But not yet. Not until he had something to report. Instead, he called Franco on the cheap, pre-paid mobile he used for the purpose – a different one each time.
The assassin took the call in his exclusive downtown gym, where he had been working out for most of the afternoon. Later, after he had showered and changed, he planned to head out to a club in Trastevere where two of his younger associates and a group of well-brought-up young girls – one of them was the daughter of a cabinet minister – would be waiting.
‘Pronto!’
‘His Eminence begs a favour.’
‘I am at your service.’