The buzz of the intercom and his receptionist’s announcement made him a liar—the Jesuit brigante pushed open the door and entered.
“We must talk,” said the wolfishly thin priest.
“I know,” said Paolo, gesturing toward the chair by his desk. “Sit down. Cigarette?”
“Did you start smoking again?” Giovanni looked at him with surprise.
Paolo shrugged. “I should—what do I have to lose at this point, eh?—but no. I had some sent up for you from the commissary.”
Francesco opened the box, took a dark-wrapped cigarette, lighted it with his Zippo. “Grazie. Now, let us, as the Americans are so fond of saying, ‘cut the bullshit,’ yes?”
Paolo smiled. “I love your way with words. It is, no doubt, the company you keep. You know, you really are a thug!”
Giovanni puffed, shrugged. He looked haggard, worn, and ready to collapse. “Targeno wasn’t pulling any punches. You’ve seen the satellite news?”
“Oh yes.” Paolo folded his hands over his stomach, leaned back, away from the acrid, blue smoke.
“What does it mean?” The Jesuit studied his fingernails, trying to contain his pent-up frustration.
“I don’t know! Is he capable of such monumental failures? Did he do it on purpose? I don’t know, ’Vanni. I have been pondering the implications.
“The reports claim he is very upset by the disaster.”
Paolo shook his head, half-closed his eyes. “More than ten thousand dead. Incredible.”
“The tip of the iceberg perhaps,” said Francesco.
Paolo raised his eyebrows, puckered his lips, nodded. There was no need to respond, he knew to what his colleague referred: in the twenty-four hours following the disaster at Mountain Rock, the globe had been wracked by sympathetic catastrophes—a hurricane in Bermuda, an earthquake in Mongolia, terrorist bombings in Soweto, a plane crash in Buenos Aires. Paolo sensed a cloud of doom gathering over the earth.
“Death and destruction everywhere,” said the Jesuit, shaking his head.
“Well…not yet everywhere,” said Lareggia. “You well know that anything can, and often does, happen in South Africa. And plane crashes are a part of modern life.”
“But the timing! There has to be a reason for it!” Francesco pounded the corner of the desktop. “How? Why? How could he let it happen?”
“He obviously had no control over it.” Paolo waved at the blue cloud drifting toward him.
“Don’t you find that strange? I mean—he had enough control to ‘summon’ the river in the first place. What happened?”
“Marion Windsor’s exclusive mentioned that his ‘communion’ with the crowd was broken by the water’s appearance. She said—”
“That is ridiculous!” shouted Giovanni. He stood up, began his predatory pacing.
“Maybe not. Perhaps, even after all these months, he is still learning to use and control his powers on a large scale. Maybe this was too much to attempt. We don’t really know.” Paolo shook his head. “It is a shame he is not here with us. Krieger could examine him. Test him.”
“He is supposed to be the Christ!” shouted the Jesuit. “We’re not talking about some comic book superhero. He shouldn’t have to learn how to wield the power of God—if he is who we say he is!”
The Cardinal ignored his colleague’s doubts. “Ah, but perhaps he does. He is also a man, you know. And was nothing but a man for thirty years.”
Francesco waved him off in a gesture of disgust. “Maybe that is the biggest problem—he was, and is, a man. Targeno warned me of such problems.”
“Just exactly how much does Targeno know?” Paolo wondered if their secret would remain much of a secret after all.
“Targeno is very intelligent, my fat prelate,” said Francesco. “It is his station in life to figure things out, remember?”
“I wish Krieger could work with Father Carenza. I wish he could be here,” Paolo said again.
“Peter will be in Rome soon enough. The prophecies call for that. That is why we agreed not to try to coerce him to return, remember?” Francesco crushed out his cigarette, immediately lighted another. “If I have faith, I must have it totally!”
“Ah, yes, but I am wondering: did the prophecies call for this disaster?”
For an answer Francesco only glared at him.
Paolo exhaled slowly, waved away an advancing bank of smoke. “Marion Windsor says he is still loved by his millions of followers. In her official story, she said the incident has somehow strengthened people’s belief in Peter. They do not blame him for what happened—especially the ones who were present at the concert. Does that make sense to you?”
The Jesuit nodded. “Yes. He is a very charismatic figure. I am not surprised to find no decrease in his flock’s devotion.”
Neither man spoke for several minutes. Paolo reflected upon their conversation. In the final analysis, they were powerless to do anything more than be armchair philosophers. What had they wrought upon the world? Finally, the Cardinal shifted in his chair, looked at his colleague and said: “What about Targeno?”
“Hmmmpph! What about him?” Cigarette smoke fairly exploded from Giovanni Francesco. He had always been protective of his star killer-agent. Even though a part of him despised Targeno, the Jesuit regarded him as the son he’d never had.
“Has he told you anything about the flood—anything we didn’t already know?”
“No.”
Paolo twiddled his thumbs as they rested atop the sloping mound of his belly. “Well, then, I was wondering how long you want him to keep shadowing Peter. We are getting plenty of information from the news services.”
“Targeno gets me information the media doesn’t.”
“What? You’ve said nothing!” Paolo lurched forward, leaned his elbows on the desk blotter.
Francesco shrugged. “It is not pretty.”
“Please. Tell me.” The Cardinal fairly growled as he spoke.
“Very well. Peter Carenza has been having a sexual relationship with Marion Windsor.”
The words stung Paolo as no weapon ever could, jolting the very core of his being. What blasphemy…!
“No. I do not believe it. I cannot believe such a thing.”
“Oh, yes. It is definitely true. Targeno has no reason to lie to me.”
“But why? How?”
Francesco shrugged again. “Who knows? He is, in addition to his divine nature, also a man. The dogma has been made flesh again, and we must deal with the biological realities.”
Paolo remained flush and a bit faint. How could the Jesuit have such a cavalier attitude? “I just can’t—It is so difficult to grasp.”
“Besides,” Francesco continued lightly, “we have no way of knowing what Christ’s relationships with women might have been before he began preaching. It is not exactly trail-blazing theology to suggest he was not a virgin, you know.”
Paolo felt a sudden craving for something sweet. A sweet bun. A trattare. “You and your radical Jesuit blasphemies! What good does such talk do?”
Francesco chuckled. “There is more…”
“What? What could be worse?”
“Father Daniel Ellington is dead. A heart attack.”
“He was so young…hard to believe,” said Lareggia.
“Targeno has some opinions on the incident. He feels Peter may have killed him.”
“What!” Lareggia stumbled to his feet, lurched about the room, waving his arms. “Why?”
“Targeno thinks Ellington may also have been sleeping with the Windsor woman.”
“Saints in heaven! What kind of sciattona is she?! And Ellington—another Jesuit. Oh, ’Vanni, this is so terrible! I cannot believe what we have wrought!”
“Boccaccio said all things are done for love.”
“Love!” Paolo mouthed the word with disgust. It was like a mealy worm upon his tongue. “What is love?”
Francesco shrugged. “It is what Christ preached, I am told.”
“Most amusing, ’Vanni. See how much I am laughing.”
“It is better than crying.” He paused, sighed. “How did we ever think we would be able to manipulate the boy?”
It was true, Paolo thought. They had been so naïve, so innocent. Father Francesco had gained an early reputation as a maverick theologian, and his ideas had seduced the young Paolo and Victorianna.
All they wanted to do was make the world a better place—a world with Christ truly back in its midst. Paolo smiled ironically. Such a simple notion! To bring about the Second Coming!
How could they have been so full of pride? So bold and presumptuous as to assume the Hand of God? Who could have foreseen what had happened already? Only God knew what still lay ahead.
“There is something else,” said Francesco.
“What? More blasphemy?” Lareggia sagged into his seat.
“No, it concerns Freemason Cooper’s ‘International Convocation of Prayer.’”
Paolo nodded with resignation. The Convocation, Cooper’s personal brainchild, called together all the religious leaders of the world to share a dais and an altar for an entire day and night of celebration and international prayer. It was to be held at the new Sports Palladium in Los Angeles on Christmas Day of 1999. A quarter-million people in the seats, and a worldwide satellite television audience of more than two billion, was predicted for what Cooper and the media had billed as the “capstone to the Twentieth Century, the keystone to the new millennium.”
“Yes, the Convocation—what about it?”
“Has the Pope accepted the invitation yet?”
Paolo shook his head. “He is still weighing the alternatives. There is plenty of time. I think he is waiting to see what some of the non-Christian leaders plan to do. He has his reputation as a moderate to uphold.”
“What is the College of Cardinals’ position on the invitation?” Francesco began pacing the office once again, this time more slowly.
“Opinion is mixed. You know how many of the older, more conservative cardinals feel about the ‘left-footers’—the Protestants…”
Francesco smiled, nodded.
“And, there is no real precedent for the Holy Father’s participation in a ‘prayer meeting,’” said Paolo, unable to hide his disfavor with such a Protestant-sounding term.
“So what is the verdict.”
Paolo shrugged. “Politically, it is seen as a good thing. Imagine how bad it would look to the rest of the world if the Christian religion with the largest number of followers is not represented.”
“How does he feel about Peter being there?”
“Isn’t it a bit early to worry about that?” asked Lareggia. “Has he been invited?”
“No, but Targeno feels that Cooper will have no choice but to include ‘Father Peter.’” Francesco paused to exhale. “Targeno feels that Cooper is very much threatened by Peter’s popularity.”
Paolo shrugged. “I don’t blame him.”
“Your sense of the Pope’s feelings?”
“Before this latest incident, I doubt the Holy Father was very interested. His infrequent public recognitions of Peter’s good works have always been positive. It looks as if we were right to counsel the Pope not to align the Holy Mother Church too closely with anything Carenza did. I haven’t spoken to him since hearing the news about the river in Colorado, but I am certain the Holy Father is glad the Church is not being seen in any way responsible for the tragedy…”
Francesco waved his hand in the air in a gesture of nonchalance. “No matter—His Holiness will attend.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Francesco smiled. “Because I do not think the Pope can afford to risk Peter Carenza stealing the show.”
Paolo was shocked. “How can you even suggest such a thing? They would be working in concert for the good of the people!”
“Certainly, but the people might not see it that way…if the Pope did not appear.” The Jesuit ran a long-fingered hand through his thinning hair.
Paolo nodded. Giovanni Francesco always had possessed a keen sense of politics and psychology. Once again, his analysis was probably very accurate, but…
“Yes, ’Vanni, unless the people are not, as this Windsor bitch contends, still in support of Peter.”
“She doesn’t lie,” said the priest. “But I think the real test of his abilities is yet to come.”
Paolo shook his head. “What do you mean?”
Francesco shrugged. “Just a feeling I have. Etienne’s had more prophetic visions, you know, and it has occurred to me that perhaps God is trying to reach us through the nun. She still wants to see the Pope.”
“Impossible!” said Paolo. “The Holy Father cannot know of our project until Peter is truly prepared. There can be no hint of division in the Holy Mother Church and there is no telling how the Pope would react!”
Francesco nodded. “I know, I know.” The Jesuit walked to the window, his back to his colleague. “Did I ever tell you, Paolo, that I never really believed in what we were doing?”
“What?” Paolo was dumbfounded. How many shocks must he endure in one day? “How can you say that? Krieger’s work was impeccable!”
Francesco waved him off. “Oh, I believed he was cloning someone—but I never believed, in my heart of hearts, that it was the Nazarene.”
“Then why go through with all of it?”
Francesco smiled. “Because I decided it didn’t matter whether or not Peter was actually Christ.”
“What do you mean?”
“It didn’t matter as long as the world came to believe it. As long as the world came together in harmony as the Second Coming promised.”
“What about now, ’Vanni? Do you believe now?”
Francesco sighed. “In all my life, I do not feel I’ve ever feared anything. But examining my beliefs has become like staring into a dark pit. Every time I attempt it, I am terrified.”
FORTY-THREE
St. Louis, Missouri—Bevins
* * *
October 30, 1999
Freddie leaned back in his office chair, punched in a call to a phone in a rented room in East St. Louis, which was set up on call forwarding to the Reverend’s private number. This slightly costly subterfuge kept Cooper’s number from being recorded on any of the Carenza Foundation’s phone bills. If Carenza or that stuck-up Windsor bitch decided to snoop around, they wouldn’t find a damn thing connecting the Reverend to Bevins.
Pretty slick, thought Freddie as he listened to the ring of Cooper’s phone.
“Yeah?” said a voice full of timbre and voice training. “Speak to me.”
“Good morning, Reverend. It’s Bevins.”
“Ah yes! Right on time. I like that, Freddie. You’re back from the Old West, I take it?”
“We checked in last night. The whole entourage. Everybody was pretty exhausted, includin’ me, or I woulda called you last night.”
“Our regularly scheduled time is just fine,” said the Reverend. The delicate tinkle of silverware on china filled in the background. “I trust you have news?”
“A little.” Freddie shook his head, lighted a cigarette. Talking to Cooper was kinda crazy. He always made everything seem like a little game or a freakin’ lesson. Always the silly questions, the lilting sarcasm lurking beneath all his words.
The Reverend chuckled lightly. “After his ‘multiple baptism,’ I can’t imagine what else would be news!”
Freddie laughed, out of obligation, then waited for his cue. “But tell me, Freddie, are the reports true?”
“Which ones, Reverend?”
“That the people still love him? That the accident hasn’t tarnished his image among the masses?”
“Reverend, no disrespect, but I think you’ve seen the same reports I have…”
“Don’t get smart with me, Freddie!” The Reverend’s mood had changed instantly. “You’re right in the middle of that pit of vipers! If you can’t tell me more than I can get on the evening news, what th
e hell am I paying you for?!”
“Reverend, listen, I just meant that I can only be in one place at a time. I can only tell you what I seen firsthand. I talked to a buncha people from the audience. People who were out there in that river. Nobody blamed him for what happened! That’s the facts, Reverend.”
“But why, damn it!? That’s what I want to know. And that’s what I’m payin’ you for—to get me answers!”
“Reverend, I realize why you’re payin’ me—and mighty handsomely, I might add—but we’ve known each other a lotta years, and I done cases for you before. You know I’m not tryin’ to be a wiseguy.”
Cooper sighed audibly, paused to sip something. Freddie hoped he was remembering that Bevins was one of the few people who’d been around since the beginning, and that all that haughty bullshit wasn’t gonna cut no cheese with an old raccoon like Freddie Bevins.
“All right,” said Cooper. “I think we certainly do understand each other—but I need answers, Freddie. Now what’s going on—why don’t they string him up for what he did?”
“Well, I tried to talk to some of the people,” he said, pausing to take a drag from his cigarette. “And they all said pretty much the same thing.”
“Which was?”
“That it wasn’t just Father Peter who made the river come. They all said they could feel somethin’ passin’ through them—like a trance or a communion or somethin’. They weren’t sure what it was, but they knew it was a power comin’ from all of them. It wasn’t just Father Peter—they all told me that.”
“Incredible…” murmured Cooper.
“They also said the accident just proved that Father Peter was human just like the rest of them. They seemed to like that.” Bevins mashed out his cigarette.
“Did you ask any of them about this ‘trance’ business? What it felt like? How it worked?” The Reverend sipped from a cup, its edge tapping against the phone’s mouthpiece.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 32