Kempe raised his eyes, sure that his dismayed expression, even in the darkened car, betrayed him. He was searching for some word or gesture that said, This is not a serious matter. But M’s dark eyes said only that he knew too well the weaknesses of the flesh. Then Kempe caught the driver’s eyes fixed on him in the rearview mirror. They were ice cold and unblinking. “Yes, yes, of course, Excellency,” he said softly, unable to hide his humiliation.
“Good evening, Aidan,” M said abruptly.
“Good evening, Excellency,” Kempe whispered as he opened the door and stepped out of the car. The Audi moved slowly from the curb into the dark night of the Eternal City.
For a moment, Kempe lingered at the foot of the marble steps leading to the grand entrance to the d’Inghilterra. As he climbed the few steps he almost lost his balance, then forced himself to walk with dignity into the high-ceilinged lobby and, without the slightest hesitation, straight to the hotel’s bar. He ordered a double scotch at the bar and took his drink to a high-backed, brocaded chair where he sat in shock and silence. He winced at his afternoon indiscretion. M must have had him under surveillance since he arrived in Rome. But how could M possibly know about Chicago? And, a thought that made him almost sick to his stomach, who else knew? Kempe replayed as many of his Chicago weekends as he could, trying to remember the priests he had seen, especially those with Roman connections. He enjoyed more than a few assignations, but those men were now faces without names. His anxiety rose as it dawned on him that a few of his encounters had been with seminarians—seminarians home on vacation from studies in Rome. God, this was awful. He glanced around the softly lit bar distractedly, barely noticing the piped-in coronation anthem of Handel’s Zadok the Priest, one of his favorites. Now, he thought, I might never be named a bishop. Did this explain why Bryn Martin was elevated in his place?
What else did M know about him? Kempe replayed the conversation in the back seat of the Audi. He closed his eyes, straining for every nuance. The warning was paternal, without moralistic overtones, but that was the Roman way. That this Giorgio knew his hotel without him mentioning it was disturbing in itself, but that M had spoken to him of such delicate matters in the driver’s hearing was unforgivable. Giorgio, obviously, was more than Bishop Montaldo’s driver.
Kempe flagged a server and ordered another scotch. As he sipped it, his anxiety and confusion slowly morphed into a constricting anger. “Prudenza, Aidan, prudenza.” The hypocrite. Did M think he hadn’t heard about M’s own frolicking on the beaches of Mykonos with the island’s party girls? And all of this, Kempe was sure, was paid for with euros from the purple purse. With a little digging, he was sure he could find other examples of Montaldo’s own lack of prudence. He took a deep swallow of his scotch. He was prudent, he told himself. He was prudent and discreet.
Aidan Kempe sank exhausted into seat 3-A in the first class cabin of Continental Flight 15 to Newark. He would have a glass of red wine and then find, surely, blessed sleep. It would be at least another half hour before the passengers in coach were boarded and the doors of the 757 were closed. He hated this interminable period of pre-flight jostling and settling in, the repeated announcements from the crew about the proper stowing of luggage.
“Would you like something to drink, sir?” the flight attendant asked.
“Red wine, please,” he said without making eye contact. She returned with two bottles in hand, a Cabernet and a Pinot Noir. “The Pinot Noir,” Kempe said curtly. He sipped the wine when she poured it and tried to relax.
He instinctively opened his eyes at the shuffle of another first class passenger finding his seat. A tall, thick-set man in black placed a bag in the overhead compartment and settled into seat 2-A. Kempe was ready to close his eyes after this interruption when he suddenly found himself fully awake. The last-minute arrival had the same muscular neck and shape of head and shoulders as M’s driver. Kempe’s blood went cold as a blanket of fear slapped his face.
The man in the seat directly in front of him was Giorgio.
22
A pot of herbal tea rested innocently on the dining room table next to three neatly stacked piles of documents.
“I’ll never forget what you did for me, Ella,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe we did it. You did it.” The two women looked at each other the way underground operatives might after a successful mission—silently proud of their own audacity. “Ella,” Margaret said with teary eyes, “Thank you, thank you for the risk you took for me, thank you for having the copies made. Most of all, thank you for being such a dear friend over these many years.”
Ella smiled a wordless You’re welcome. “Once I got a look at all this, I felt much better about our little operation.” Landers’ “look” had taken three full hours.
Margaret blinked, then squeezed her eyes tight. She would not cry. And now Ella’s endorsement of the operation, light as it was, softened the guilt she felt about asking her friend to commit larceny.
“Your boss had good reason to keep his drawer under lock and key. From what I’ve seen, your Monsignor Kempe could well go to jail.”
“I knew it. I just knew it,” Margaret said, more self-righteously than she intended.
“Let’s begin with the finances, the ledgers and records relating to Kempe’s purple purse,” Ella suggested. “It provides context for the rest of the file. I found records relating to a group of priests Kempe referred to as the Brotherhood,” she said, gesturing towards a second pile, “and the third set of copies are his notes on allegations of sexual abuse. Kempe appears to have handled a number of those cases on his own, without taking them to the archbishop, much less the police.”
Ella wanted to begin their reading with the first two categories, knowing the last group of papers, the one’s Margaret would be most interested in, described how Kempe and Gunnison plotted their handling of Mark Anderlee’s charge that the archbishop had abused him. Once Margaret read those notes and records, her focus would be shattered and her judgment compromised.
“All right.” Margaret said. “I knew he had control of some off-the-books funds, but I never had any idea how much money was involved,” Margaret said.
“About half a million dollars,” Ella said. “Almost half of that comes from just two pastors in the Brotherhood. Didn’t Ian suggest some kind of group or society of priests like this when we had dinner last week? Apparently, the pastors of the Brotherhood make monthly cash payments of one thousand dollars each to the purse. Two of the pastors have been doing this for years. The rest of the money seems to be contributions or gifts from Kempe’s friends and from companies doing business with the archdiocese—contractors, builders, suppliers, accounting firms, PR firms, law firms, and the like. There was even a contribution from a private detective agency. Some of the contributions were clearly personal gifts to Kempe.”
“I bet,” Margaret said shrewdly, “the donors made sure they were able to claim them as tax-deductible contributions to the church.”
Ella nodded. “Most likely,” she said. “As financial vicar, Kempe was in a position to influence the awarding of contracts to firms doing business with the archdiocese. And he still has considerable influence in the awarding of contracts as chancellor.”
“And all of this was happening right under my nose,” Margaret said, as if kicking herself. She couldn’t wait to get this evidence to Bryn Martin and Archbishop Cullen. She sat still for a minute, finally wondering out loud, “Do you think all this might be technically legal?”
“I’m not sure. Probably much of it is, or maybe border-line. It seems to me that at least some of this falls into the category of kickbacks. If that’s the case, considering the sums of money Kempe was managing, it’s not only illegal, it’s probably a felony.”
Ella reached for the documents dealing with clergy abuse. Why wait? After all, this was the driving force behind Margaret’s passion to have Gunnison exposed. The pile on the Brotherhood could wait.
“You should
look at these, Margaret. Mark is mentioned. It’s the last entry Kempe made.”
Margaret took the copies from Ella. She read silently, her breathing now deep and slow.
Ella said evenly, dispassionately, “Kempe’s notes indicate several other priests were accused of abusing boys. And Gunnison, you will see, was accused by at least four other individuals or their families.” She went silent as she noticed Margaret’s hands shaking, then went on, “Mark wasn’t the only boy abused, and he probably wasn’t the last.”
The tea went cold in their cups.
“He’s going to pay for this,” Margaret muttered. “He’s going to pay for this.”
Ella turned to look at her old friend, alarmed at the transformation unfolding before her very eyes. “You’ll see,” Ella said, deciding not to respond to Margaret’s implied threat, “that the allegations against Gunnison go back to his days when he was in the Education Department of the archdiocese—before he was named a bishop.”
Margaret was familiar with the archdiocesan attorneys walking the halls of the Catholic Center, with their strategy meetings with the archbishop’s top advisors to counter the law suits mounting against the archdiocese. “You can imagine how the victims’ lawyers would love to get their hands on these papers,” she said more to herself than to Ella.
“Your boss was very shrewd. Somehow he managed to keep the allegations from getting to the police and to the media. In most cases he promised the victims’ parents that the priest would get professional help and the archbishop would make sure he didn’t abuse again. In every case, Kempe offered counseling to the victim and his family.”
“How compassionate,” Margaret said sarcastically.
“This certainly won’t surprise you, Margaret. Kempe also offered every one of the victims’ parents money to help them get on with their lives. According to his notes, there must be an archdiocesan fund, a discretionary fund, that he had access to as financial vicar and now as chancellor. Most of the payments came from this fund. But not all. Sometimes the money, especially in the cases involving Gunnison, came from something called ‘the purse.’ “
Margaret said knowingly, “That would be the purple purse.”
Ella pointed to a line entry and said, as gently as possible, “A hundred thousand went to Mark.”
“Oh God,” Margaret said, “I wondered how Mark was able to buy the condo at the harbor. He told me Gunnison had given him some money, but…” She sat back in her chair, silent and sad, more troubled, more confused than ever.
“Ella,” she said, the tone in her voice signaling a new resolve and strength, “you know that just two weeks ago Mark sat at my kitchen table and told me what Gunnison did to him. I saw tears in his eyes. And I had worked for this guy! I was his goddamn secretary for a few years.”
Ella placed her hand on Margaret’s and squeezed.
Margaret went back to her conversation with Mark in her kitchen. “He said he told two friends from high school who I don’t remember, Dan Barrett and Paul Kline. He said with pride, and with a determination that must have come from his years in the army, that he confronted Gunnison and told him he was going to pay, and pay dearly.”
For more than a dozen of her years at the Catholic Center, Comiskey had seen Gunnison almost daily. And for the last month and a half she had spent much of her time working on preparations for his Golden Jubilee Mass and dinner—supervising the invitation list, the mailings and response cards, the dinner, the hotel arrangements for the visiting bishops. Every courtesy was to be extended to the bishops. God damn them all now, she thought.
Ella now laid a hand on the arm of her old friend. “Are you okay, Margaret?”
“Yes, just a little cold.” She rose from the table. “Let me get a sweater.”
A few minutes later, a fresh pot of tea on the table, the two women sat back down to their task. Deliberately, carefully, they studied each and every entry, each and every page of documentation snatched from Aidan Kempe’s personal and private file drawer.
An hour later, their necks stiff and achy, they stood and stretched. Margaret looked at Ella. “Something snapped in me when Mark told me what Gunnison did to him. I’ve never thought of myself as a mean person. But now I know something about myself I never suspected. I’m capable of great meanness after all.” She looked into Ella’s eyes and held her glance. “I hate Gunnison, I hate this man.”
Ella put her arm around her friend, feeling the tightness in her shoulders and back. “Gunnison is all Cary Grant good looks and clerical charm, but he’s a snake,” Margaret said.
“One other thing you should know,” Ella said, stroking Margaret’s hair, “Kempe wrote in one of the journal entries we didn’t get to that he saw Bryn Martin leaving the Catholic Center late one evening dressed in jeans and a dark leather coat. He implied that Martin was on his way out cruising or something like that. The entry was underlined. It looked to me like your boss believed he had something on Bryn.”
“Was the entry date a Wednesday?” Margaret asked.
Ella paged through the stack of documents until she found the entry. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was a Wednesday.”
“Kempe is so sick, Ella. Bryn told me in confidence that on some Wednesday evenings he and Archbishop Cullen accompany Loyola College students taking food and clothing to inner city homeless. Of course he’s not going to be dressed as a priest.” Ella shook her head in simultaneous relief and disbelief. She stood and walked to the closet next to the front door for her coat. “I need to get home before it gets too late.”
“I know. You have an hour’s drive ahead of you, and in rush hour traffic. But there is something else I want you to think about,” Margaret said. “I want to get into Kempe’s personal computer. He’s extremely careful about guarding the password. Can you give me some help with that? There’s more to this. I can just feel it.”
Ella raised her eyebrows. “We’ve got to assume Kempe is too smart to use a password that someone might guess at. Birthday, address….” She thought for a moment. “I’d look at words related to his fixation with purple. Google the German, Italian, and Latin words for purple. See if that might work.”
“Good idea. I know Kempe’s mother was Irish. She was born in Cork. And she spoke Irish. I’ll Google the Gaelic for purple as well. And when I know it’s safe at the office, I’m going to make duplicates of the copies you made,” Margaret said, glancing at the papers spread over her dining room table.
Before her eyes, Ella saw her friend committing irretrievably to a mission. It unnerved her to realize that it was not admiration she felt for Margaret’s fierce and focused will. What she felt for her friend was fear.
23
The too-familiar fog of travel settled over Monsignor Aidan Kempe, now made thicker and more disorienting by Giorgio’s presence on his trans-Atlantic flight. On numb legs, Kempe moved with the herd from the arrival gate to the customs area of the Newark-Liberty Airport.
“Monsignor Kempe,” a voice said softly into his ear in accented English, “just keep walking and look straight ahead.”
Kempe didn’t turn his head, but his peripheral vision confirmed that Giorgio was at his side, walking in step with him.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Monsignor Giancarlo Foscari.” He handed Kempe a Vatican diplomatic passport with the picture of a man in a Roman collar. The passport bore the name, “Monsignor Giancarlo Foscari.” But Kempe was certain the man at his side was M’s driver, Giorgio. He permitted Kempe but a moment’s glance before abruptly taking the passport from him and placing it in an inside pocket of his overcoat.
The anxiety Kempe felt the moment Giorgio boarded the plane had only grown through the nine-hour flight. Now his stomach was queasy and his breathing came in shallow gulps. What was M up to? They stood stiffly at the baggage claim, having passed through customs without incident. The impostor, Foscari, had even won a respectful nod from the uniformed agent.
“We will not meet again until after the
archbishop’s celebration. I will contact you on your mobile phone for the information I need to meet privately with the archbishop. Your only task is to arrange for this private meeting and to do so with the greatest discretion. Is that clear?”
Kempe felt his blood rising. He was not accustomed to taking orders, especially from a chauffeur with a doctored passport. He nodded, spitting a “Yes” through his teeth.
“I will be in the back of the Basilica for the Jubilee Mass,” Foscari continued. “You are to ignore my presence. As you have been instructed, I am to be introduced to no one. Do you understand?”
Kempe’s face burned red. “I understand, Monsignor,” he said emphasizing Foscari’s phony title. Foscari, Giorgio, this chauffeur was treating him like some idiot acolyte.
“During the dinner for the archbishop, I will be in the lobby of the hotel.”
The two men stood shoulder to shoulder at the baggage carousel, speaking softly but emphatically avoiding eye contact.
“As his Excellency instructed,” Foscari said with his eyes scanning the bags now moving slowly on the carousel, “you are to mention my presence only to Archbishop Gunnison, telling him I am here to extend the personal greetings of his friend from the Vatican.” Foscari paused to underscore his next directive. “No one but the archbishop, Monsignor Kempe, is to know of my presence as his Excellency’s special envoy.” Yet again Kempe was asked, “Is that clear?”
Kempe nodded, straining to keep his composure.
“In case of necessity,” Foscari said handing Kempe a piece of cream-colored, stiff paper bordered in deep purple, “this is my international mobile number. Use it only if necessary. Please arrange for my private meeting with Archbishop Gunnison on the Monday morning following his jubilee dinner.”
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