Martin continued, “Moore will be the second cone of protection. He’ll be off to one side of the Basilica in a position to observe the people in the first twenty or so pews.”
Gunnison looked dazed as he wondered whether the “cones of protection” made him feel more secure or more nervous.
“The third cone,” Martin said in a tone meant to ease Gunnison’s anxiety, “will consist of four uniformed Baltimore police inside the Basilica, two at the side entrances, one in the vestibule, and one in the choir loft. We’ll simply tell them that we want a little extra security for your jubilee, Wilfred.”
Aidan Kempe sat steaming. He should have been part of this security plan; he should have been its architect, not Martin.
“We’ll have another three officers outside stationed at each of the entrances,” Martin added.
“Isn’t this is a bit over the top, Bryn?” Kempe asked edgily.
“Not really,” Martin shot back. “This is just a few more off-duty police than we usually hire for events like this.”
“Your plan, Bryn, at least for the present, seems prudent and appropriate,” Cullen said definitively. “What about the events at the hotel, the cocktail hour, and the dinner?”
Martin was ready for the question. “The Mass should be over by 6:30 and it’s less than a ten-minute drive to the Sheraton.
“Cocktails are from 7:00 to 8:00,” Martin said, looking at his notes. “Then we move the guests into the grand ballroom for the dinner. Salads will be on the tables by 8:15. You’ll welcome the guests, Charles, introduce the dignitaries, and offer the invocation.”
Cullen nodded and said, “I’ll be brief.”
“The hotel has reserved one of its presidential suites for you, Wilfred,” Martin added. “It’s quite comfortable—two floors with an imposing spiral staircase and a great view of the harbor. You’ll have about thirty minutes to relax before coming down for the last fifteen minutes or so of the reception…unless you want to stay in the suite until the dinner starts at quarter after eight.”
“Thank you, Bryn. This seems fine,” a tired Wilfred Gunnison whispered.
But Martin wasn’t finished. “Havel and Moore will have a car at the Mulberry Street door of the Basilica. I recommend they drive you to the hotel. If you decide to do some mixing during the social, both men will be as close to you as possible without looking like body guards. Otherwise, I suggest you call them when you’re ready to come down to the ballroom. I’m hoping the guests will think Havel and Moore are major donors or out-of-town friends. They should be pretty much out of sight during the dinner. They’ve already contacted the hotel security officer on duty that evening.”
“I suppose this is all necessary,” Gunnison said, looking at Kempe imploringly.
“After the tributes,” Martin continued, “and a pitch from Florence Merriman, the Catholic Charities Board chair—we think around 9:15 or 9:30—you’ll speak, Wilfred. The nuncio will offer the benediction. As you proposed, we hope the dinner will be over around ten. Let me know if you plan to have the visiting bishops and your special guests up to your suite. I’ll arrange for a bartender and one or two servers with cheese and fruit. You can stay the night at the hotel, of course, but if you return to your residence, I think you should let Havel or Moore drive you home and stake the place out for the evening.”
Cullen glanced at his watch. “That’s the plan for now. Let’s hope the media doesn’t pick up on this second incident. I really don’t think there’s anything else we can do, at least right now.” Cullen studied the face of his predecessor. Beneath the stoic expression he saw a man rigid with fear. “Remember, Wilfred, there have been no notes, no phone messages, no threats. Maybe our man with the laser will just go away.”
Gunnison and Kempe both knew otherwise.
15
Monsignor Aidan Kempe read for the third time the fax he was about to send to M, the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple’s Vatican protector. Kempe was among a handful of the worldwide Brotherhood who knew that M was Bishop Pietro Gonzaga Montaldo. Montaldo’s mother had claimed to be a descendant of the noble ruling family of Mantua that had produced the Jesuit Saint Aloysius Gonzaga. Kempe was more impressed with the other notable sixteenth-century member of the family, Cardinal Ercole Gonzaga, a confidant of popes and kings.
Whatever the bloodlines connecting the two Gonzagas to Montaldo, M was Kempe’s link to power. The low-profile Montaldo held the number three spot in the Pontifical Office of Protocol, a visible but minor department in the Vatican’s Secretariat of State. Usually the cleric in this post held the rank of monsignor, but Vatican insiders were sure Montaldo held some kind of chip that he had bargained into being named a bishop. His previous assignment was to a modest staff position in the Vatican archives—an appointment that held little status in the eyes of Vatican bureaucrats but paid its holder bonuses in a special kind of currency: information. From that perspective, most members of the pope’s Curia considered Bishop Pietro Montaldo a very wealthy man. Kempe was among a handful of American church leaders who understood that M, in spite of his modest status in the eyes of many of his Roman colleagues, was one of the most powerful prelates in Rome.
Kempe smiled. Not even Gunnison knew the identity of M. But Aidan Kempe knew. He read the fax a fourth time. Though it went directly to M’s private office, it made no mention of the bishop’s name or anyone else’s name. Kempe’s fax number was the only identification Montaldo would need.
The fax, Kempe thought, conveyed the urgency of the situation concisely. This was another talent of his—saying just what needed to be communicated without compromising the Brotherhood’s sacred mission:
Your Excellency,
A situation has developed in my archdiocese that has implications for the well-being of Holy Mother Church and our special interest in preserving her authority and integrity. It is necessary for me to request a meeting with you as soon as possible. The matter in question is both delicate and urgent.
I will arrive in Rome this Friday morning, February 10th, and I trust you will grant me the favor of a private consultation on Friday afternoon or evening. I plan to return to my archdiocese the following day.
Devotedly in Christ and Kissing the Sacred Purple,
A.K.
Two hours later, Kempe’s fax machine hummed into action: Saturday afternoon, 4:30, Villa Borghese, at the Fountain of the Seahorses.
A Friday meeting would have been more convenient for the chancellor. His short absence from the archdiocese might have gone unnoticed. Kempe swallowed his irritation with M. He would, after all, get his private meeting. And the meeting would give him another opportunity to prove his loyalty and competence—his readiness to do whatever was required to protect the supreme center.
By the time Kempe left his office for the day, Margaret Comiskey had booked his flight to Newark’s airport and the connecting flight to Rome. Business class, as instructed.
“When the invoice arrives,” he had instructed his secretary, “just put it on my desk. All right?”
So, thought Comiskey, another personal, hush-hush trip to Rome. And the expenses—business class air fare, luxury class hotel, meals—would be covered by the chancellor’s private fund. She wondered if anyone at the Catholic Center knew about this off-the-books account; an account she had overheard Kempe refer to as the “purple purse.” Comiskey made a note in her calendar that the chancellor of the Archdiocese of Baltimore would be out of the office from Thursday evening until Sunday afternoon.
Less than an hour later she was on the phone to Bishop Bryn Martin’s office.
Thursday afternoon, when Aidan Kempe was on his way to the BWI Airport for his flight to Newark and the connecting flight to Rome’s Fiumicino, Margaret Comiskey walked briskly into Martin’s outer office and smiled at his secretary. Cradled in Margaret’s left arm were the folders holding the plans for Archbishop Gunnison’s Jubilee Mass. These included the scripture readings, the music, the designated homilist, the name
s of the lectors, the Prayer of the Faithful—a half dozen or so intercessory prayers offered by a lay person—and a few other items necessary for a smooth, devout, and liturgically-correct celebration. Without stopping, she remarked casually, “Hi, Kathy. Bishop Martin asked to see the plans for Archbishop Gunnison’s anniversary Mass.” Martin waited until Comiskey was seated across from him. “I see you have the plans for the archbishop’s jubilee. We should take a peek at them before you leave.”
The folders were never opened.
There weren’t many real friendships between the clergy and lay staff of the archdiocese’s Catholic Center, but Bryn Martin and Margaret Comiskey were just that—real friends. They instinctively liked each other, and within months of Bryn’s arrival at the Catholic Center, they came to trust each other too. Of all the “black suits” Comiskey had worked for, Martin was the least clerical, the least aloof. Among the dozens of secretaries and lay staffers at the archdiocesan headquarters, Martin had come to see Comiskey as bright, competent, and not at all naïve. Nor was she in awe of the archbishops, bishops, and priests she worked for over the years. Both Martin and Comiskey were savvy enough to respect the social formality that controlled the Catholic Center’s interactions between the clerical bosses and the lay staff, but that public formality dissolved when they were alone.
“I need to talk to you about something,” she said, “something that…doesn’t seem right to me.”
She took a deep breath and held Bryn’s gaze for a moment, as if to say, Here goes. “Something’s going on in the chancellor’s office.” She hesitated, but only for a second. “Ian Landers said something at Ella’s dinner party the other night that made me think I should talk to you. It had to do with those papers of the Jesuit chaplain to the Carmelites. Didn’t Ian say, if I heard him correctly, that the chaplain had come upon priests and bishops who belonged to a group called the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple?”
“Yes, that’s what he seemed most interested in from the Combier papers, as he called them—this Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple.”
Margaret steadied her nerves and plunged ahead. “Monsignor Kempe has a file drawer in his desk that he guards with his life. I’ve seen it open a number of times when he’s been working on personnel papers—papers, as far as I can tell, that belong in the clergy personnel files. But I’ve never been asked to file any of them. There’s also a financial account, apparently off the books, that I’ve heard him call the ‘purple purse.’ There is no mention of it when he prepares the budget for our office. And I’m sure the auditors know nothing about it. Didn’t Kempe himself, as financial vicar, establish a diocesan policy that there were to be no secret or off-the-books accounts anywhere in the Catholic Center?”
Martin didn’t respond to her rhetorical question.
“Bryn, the guy’s obsessed with purple, with the color purple. Most of his cuff links are purple. The prints in his office are purple or a purplish blue. He’ll mention that he loves Rembrandt’s The Apostle Paul and Winslow Hunter’s Hound and Hunter because of their deep purple hues. The next time you’re in his office say something about the prints. You’ll see.” Her lips widened in a half-cynical smile. “Sometimes he wears purple socks, for crying out loud.”
Martin raised his eyebrows, a patient, attendant expression on his face. “I’ve noticed Aidan’s preference for purple.” He had felt strangely uncomfortable with Margaret’s visit from the moment she sat down. This kind of office maneuvering could be dangerous. Still, his colleague and friend deserved to be heard.
“And,” she continued, “something’s going on between Kempe and Archbishop Gunnison. The archbishop came to see Kempe last week. Whatever it was about, it was serious.” Margaret paused. “I don’t mean to put you into an awkward position, Bryn, but I’m sure there are some folders missing from the clergy personnel files.” Another pause. “And then there’s that account.”
Martin sat thinking for a bit. The silence made Comiskey think she had made a mistake in laying her suspicions on her friend’s desk.
Then, to her relief, Bryn said, “There could well be something here, Margaret. But I don’t think this is the time to confront Monsignor Kempe or to take this to Archbishop Cullen. The account or purse could turn out to be monetary gifts from Aidan’s wealthy friends for Gunnison’s jubilee.” Martin knew that was a long shot. “And the folders, well, he might ask you to file them on Monday, or whenever he returns.”
Comiskey stiffened. She knew what she knew.
“Make a note in your calendar, Margaret, that you met with me today to bring to my attention certain concerns you have about the chancellor’s office. I’ll make the same kind of note in my calendar. You’ve been at the Catholic Center long enough to know that if someone on the archbishop’s staff isn’t playing by the rules, especially if they’re clergy, that it’s like moving a mountain to do anything about it. An accusation against someone on the archbishop’s staff is looked upon by many as an accusation against the archbishop himself. I don’t have to tell you about the Catholic Center’s culture of silence. This isn’t to say we should walk away from what you’ve seen…what you know. But honestly, Margaret, I’m not sure it’s enough to go head to head with Aidan Kempe.”
Martin let this settle in. He could see the disappointment in Margaret’s expression. “Let’s talk again after Gunnison’s jubilee extravaganza.”
“I know what you’re saying, Bryn. And you’re probably right about waiting until after the jubilee.” Comiskey picked up the plans for Gunnison’s jubilee from the corner of Martin’s desk.
Glancing at the manila folders, Martin looked up into Comiskey’s eyes. “By the way, I’m glad you’ve agreed to represent the Catholic Center staff and read the Prayer of the Faithful.”
“Yes, I was a little surprised that I was asked to offer the intercessory prayers at the archbishop’s Mass. After all these years here, I was never sure the archbishop even knew my name.” Comiskey suspected it was Martin who had suggested to Gunnison that she offer the petitions. “Thanks for listening, Bryn. And for your advice,” she said with a weak smile.
Bishop Bryn Martin looked at the papers on his desk and the correspondence that required responses, but he didn’t move. He leaned back into his chair, thinking about his conversation with Margaret. It unnerved him to realize that she understood the culture of silence at the Catholic Center better than he did. Or the culture of discretion, as he often thought of it, that influenced almost everything that went on here. In spite of the good people who worked here, there was something not quite real, maybe even toxic, about life at the headquarters of the oldest archdiocese in the U.S.
And her mention of Gunnison was all it took to take him back to the night when the archbishop had groped him. A place he didn’t want to go…but couldn’t help, from time to time, going to nonetheless.
Before he became chancellor, while still a parish priest, Martin had served as Gunnison’s master of ceremonies. After a Confirmation Mass, they had stopped for a late, light supper. They each had a scotch before ordering and then sipped Chianti over their split order of spaghetti Bolognese. Gunnison had flattered him, asking his advice on clergy personnel decisions that were none of his business. There were hints, reinforced with warm, approving smiles from the archbishop, that Father Bryn Martin had a bright future in the church.
A half hour later, Martin had turned into the driveway of the archbishop’s residence and eased his car to a stop at the side entrance. Leaving the engine running, he had put the car into park position and reached for the door, ready to get out and move to the passenger side of his car to open the door for Gunnison. But Gunnison had put his left hand on his right arm, holding him in place.
“Let’s just sit here for a moment, Bryn,” he had said softly. “Let’s just sit here for a while in the dark and peace of the moment.”
Martin remembered his stomach tightening. It was more than a suggestion, more like a directive—a command—from the man he had solem
nly and publicly promised to obey and respect. He had looked straight ahead for as long as he could, then he had turned slightly to his right and saw that the archbishop was gazing into his eyes. Gunnison’s eyes had been watery but intense, the eyes of a lonely man hungry for some kind of affection. In spite of his anxiety, Martin remembered feeling sorry for him.
He had fumbled for the handle of the car door, but Gunnison reached over with his left hand, took Martin’s hand from the wheel and placed it on his crotch. He remembered feeling the swelling curve of the archbishop’s erection. Then, like in a slow-motion film clip, he saw Gunnison placing his right hand over his own right hand, keeping it firmly between his legs. With his free left hand, Gunnison reached across and cupped Martin’s genitals. Then neither of them moved. Holding his breath, Martin looked straight ahead, though he felt the archbishop’s eyes on him. He remembered being unable to move, unable to utter any word of protest. Then, without a word, Archbishop Gunnison opened the passenger door and got out. Only then had Martin been able to catch his breath. His face, he was sure, had been hot and flushed, yet he found himself shivering. With a conspiratorial smile, Gunnison nodded a silent good night and walked with episcopal dignity to the side entrance of his house.
“Oh God, Oh my God,” Martin remembered saying out loud as he put the car in reverse and backed slowly out of the driveway. What in God’s name just happened? The archbishop of Baltimore had just groped him!
Over the years, Bryn Martin, perhaps guilty of a small treason, had just let the incident go. He had, again and again, tried to bury it.
Neither Gunnison nor Martin ever referred to the incident again. Nor was it ever repeated. But Father Martin remained the archbishop’s favorite master of ceremonies, and two years later he was named chancellor of the archdiocese, the youngest priest ever to hold that important position. And when Archbishop Gunnison retired, he had encouraged his successor, Archbishop Charles Cullen, to retain Martin as his chancellor.
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