Master of Ceremonies

by Donald B. Cozzens

  In the chancellor’s inner office, fewer than thirty feet from Margaret’s desk, Aidan Kempe’s cell phone rang.

  “Is this Monsignor Aidan Kempe?” He recognized the accented voice immediately.

  “Yes,” Kempe said softly.

  “You are, I remind you, to arrange for me to meet privately with Archbishop Gunnison after his anniversary dinner. Early next week, Monday morning to be precise, I will meet with the archbishop at ten o’clock at his residence, his humble little house next to your humble little Basilica.”

  Kempe imagined Foscari’s smirk at the implied comparison of Baltimore’s Basilica of the Assumption to the grand basilicas of Rome. His dislike of Foscari, of Giorgio, was echoed by his mounting fear of him.

  “As I informed you earlier, Monsignor, I will be in the back of the Basilica for the Mass and in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel during the reception and dinner. Do not approach me under any circumstances. You have my mobile number in case of an emergency. I repeat, Monsignor, no one save Archbishop Gunnison is to know of my presence.”

  Kempe’s face reddened at the arrogance in Foscari’s voice.

  Then, in an ominous, unctuous tone, Foscari added, “His Excellency would be most disappointed if these instructions were not followed, as you say in your country, ‘to the letter.’” Foscari abruptly ended the call.

  26

  Bishop Bryn Martin walked quickly through the lobby of the Catholic Center, raising the collar of his lined, black raincoat while pushing open the main door with his left hip. He headed across Cathedral Street then waited impatiently, his hands stuck deep in the pockets of his coat, for the light to change. A minute later the tiny white pedestrian icon started flashing and he crossed Mulberry. It was a windless but cold Wednesday in February, and the archbishop’s jubilee celebration was set to begin with the 5:00 p.m. vigil Mass on Saturday. The clock was ticking. Diagonally across from the archdiocese’s Catholic Center, the Basilica of Our Lady of the Assumption stood fortress-like in the late afternoon’s unflattering gray light. The renovation completed the year before had left the neoclassic landmark cathedral with an impressive facelift. Still, Martin had mixed feelings about the old building. It had the dignity of a Greek temple, he conceded, but also communicated the abstract, passionless rationality of a Greek temple.

  Martin jogged up the steps to the Basilica’s portico, guarded by eight Corinthian columns, and moved directly to the main entrance. Duane Moore and George Havel were waiting inside.

  Martin managed a brief business-like smile as he shook their hands. “Thanks for coming down. I’m sorry about the timing. You’ll probably get caught in rush hour traffic going home.”

  “No problem, Bishop,” Moore said quickly. “We need this on-site meeting.”

  Havel took in the renovated Basilica. “It’s been quite a few years since I’ve been here. It really has a nice new look. My family and I were here for Pope John Paul’s visit.” Havel nodded a thank you to Martin, who had provided the tickets.

  Martin wasted no time. “In addition to a handful of auxiliary police handling the traffic, we’ve hired five uniformed police, three more than usual for an event like this. Three will be outside, one at each of the doors, and two will be inside, but at the back of the Basilica,” Martin said. “What do you think?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Moore responded. Havel nodded in agreement.

  The three stood with their coats on at the foot of the center aisle scanning the back pews and the side aisles looking for likely places someone might claim who was intent on disrupting the Mass with a laser—or worse.

  “We won’t have to worry about the choir loft,” Martin said glancing upward. “It will be closed off to all but the musicians and choir members. I’ll have one of the uniforms stationed at the staircase leading to the loft. Any trouble would likely come from the floor of the Basilica.”

  “Bishop,” Moore proposed, “I’ll take a position in the vestibule until the Mass begins and then stay in the back area of the Basilica. I’ll be looking for a match to the profile I got at Immaculate Conception.”

  They turned and walked slowly up the center aisle, each looking for locations that would provide good angles for a shooter.

  “George,” Martin said looking at Havel, “I’d like you to vest in an alb and take a position in the sanctuary—like you were one of the chaplains to Archbishop Tardisconi, the papal nuncio. You won’t have to do anything except to try and look like a priest.”

  Moore couldn’t resist, “That’s asking a lot, Bishop.”

  Havel grimaced at the crack. But keeping one of them in close proximity to Archbishop Gunnison was a good idea.

  They stood on the first step of the sanctuary looking like building inspectors. “I’ll have a chair for you in a position that’ll give you a good view of the entire assembly. In addition to Archbishop Tardisconi, there will be four or five other bishops in the sanctuary and at least the same number of seminarians who will be serving, so you won’t stick out.”

  “Will the sacristy be secured?” Havel asked.

  Martin hadn’t thought of that. “I’ll make sure it is, George.”

  Martin led them out of the sanctuary towards the first two rows of the north side aisle pews. Havel and Moore slipped into the second pew and Martin sat sideways in the first pew so he could speak quietly to his two friends. The Basilica was empty except for a matronly docent and a gray-haired male volunteer wearing a tie and a blue blazer he had grown out of years ago. They spoke softly to each other, as if wondering what Bishop Martin and the two middle-aged men were up to.

  “It seems to me,” Martin said with his right arm over the back of his pew, “if our laser-man is going to be here and if he follows the pattern he set at St. Bernardine’s and at Immaculate Conception, the recessional will be the time for us to be most alert. But you two are the professionals.”

  Havel took the cue, “We’re operating under the assumption that someone might want to embarrass or scare or harm Archbishop Gunnison. And we don’t know why.”

  Both he and Moore held Bishop Martin’s eyes for a moment. Their looks said what neither man could say: You haven’t told us of any motive, but we’re damn sure there’s something unspoken behind all this. At the same time, Havel and Moore understood that Bishop Martin might not be able to disclose anything more than he had already.

  “Let’s go over what we do know,” Havel said, breaking the awkward silence. “We know our man with the laser, thanks to the glimpse Duane got of him, is on the tall side, maybe six foot. He moves quickly, like a man in shape. We believe he operates alone. There haven’t been any threatening calls or messages to the archbishop. If that’s the case, if the laser hits are meant to shake him up, then we’re taking all reasonable precautions.”

  “But,” Moore added, “if someone really wants to hurt Archbishop Gunnison and the laser hits were designed to be tormenting signals that something really harmful was to follow, then it’s a different game altogether.” Duane looked at the bishop and then at George, then back at Martin. “If that’s the case, Bishop, you need more than two retired, past-their-prime federal agents.”

  Martin nodded, hesitating for a moment to let Moore’s warning sink in. He had avoided giving serious thought to that possibility. If there is a remnant of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple embedded in the archdiocese, then, as unthinkable as it was, Bryn Martin needed to consider a much darker scenario. Coming back to the moment, he said abruptly, “Let’s go over the cocktail hour and dinner.”

  This was former Secret Service Agent George Havel’s turf. “In fluid situations like the drinks before dinner,” he began, “one of us should be as close to the archbishop as possible without causing too much of a distraction.”

  Both Martin and Moore understood that would be Havel’s role.

  “Duane,” Havel continued, “you need to find a vantage point that allows you to scan the crowd. We also need to have the hotel’s security people check out t
he kitchen and serving areas.”

  “Actually,” Martin added, “the archbishop will spend as little time schmoozing his guests during the cocktail period as possible. The Mass will have taken a good deal out of him. He’ll make a brief appearance and slip out to go up to his suite to rest a bit and freshen up. He’ll return when the guests move into the banquet hall.”

  “During the dinner,” Havel proposed, “Duane and I should be seated up front on opposite sides of the dais.” He looked to Martin and Moore for approval. Both men nodded their agreement.

  “I’ll arrange to have name tags for you, so that you’ll blend in with the guests,” Martin said.

  “What about the hotel’s security people?” Moore asked.

  “The only thing we’ve told the hotel people,” Martin answered, “is that they should be alert to anyone who might try to disrupt the reception or banquet. They need to be alerted about the kitchen area, though.”

  “Well, this is your ballgame, Bishop,” Havel said, signaling his concern.

  “George, it’s the archbishop’s ballgame. So, we’re doing what we can,” Martin said revealing his own unease. He looked at Moore, “Duane, what do you think?”

  “George is right. There are holes in our game-plan, but there always are,” Moore replied.

  The three sat thinking for a moment. Then Duane asked, “How will Archbishop Gunnison get from the Basilica to the hotel?”

  “I’d like you two to drive the archbishop and Monsignor Kempe—he’s the chancellor and a good friend of the archbishop—to the Sheraton. I’ll take Archbishop Cullen and the nuncio in my car. Is there anything else you can think of?”

  Havel and Moore shook their heads and started to rise from the pew when Martin waved them back down. Reaching into the inside breast pocket of his suit coat, he removed two envelopes. Each held a thank you note from Martin and a check for five hundred dollars.

  “You two have been great. You’re helping us deal with a delicate matter and you’re giving us a big chunk of your time. Archbishop Gunnison and Archbishop Cullen are very grateful. And so am I.”

  George and Duane shook their heads to indicate, This isn’t necessary or expected.

  “Please, please,” is all Martin could say.

  27

  Wilfred Gunnison, his nerves ready to crack since the laser incidents and Mark Anderlee’s wild allegation, had decided to make a one-day retreat—a fitting and hopefully comforting prelude to his Jubilee Mass and dinner. His decision to make the easy drive north on Route 140 to Mount Saint Mary Seminary in Emmitsburg had already brought a shallow peace, a slight semblance of inner calm. Even a one-day break from the immediate preparations for his jubilee would settle him, he had reasoned. Again and again, Gunnison squashed his doubts about his decision to go forward with the celebration. No weirdo with a laser was going to keep him from marking fifty years as a priest. And this Anderlee character should get on with his life, grateful for the extremely generous check he had placed in his greedy hands. But he still shivered when he thought of Anderlee’s threat to attack him. He thought with no small comfort of Kempe’s track record of making people like Anderlee go away.

  Gunnison was approaching Westminster, Maryland, the halfway point in the two-hour drive to the seminary. Getting out of the city was definitely a good idea. Gunnison leaned back into his seat and relaxed his grip on the wheel. Both as a priest and bishop, he had been faithful in the things that really mattered, he told himself. He possessed a certain vanity perhaps, but the archbishop of the oldest diocese in the country had to think of his appearance. He was not, he admitted, a particularly gifted preacher. But he thought himself a very good administrator who had left his successor a well-organized, education-focused, and financially-sound church to govern and shepherd.

  Gunnison reached to turn on the car radio but then resisted the impulse. Instead, he decided that a little time reviewing his fifty years as a priest and bishop was more appropriate. He wasn’t an Archbishop John Carroll or a Cardinal James Gibbons. But he knew he had played a bigger role in protecting the American Catholic Church from liberal secularists than history would ever recognize. Kempe might be the leader of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple, but it was Gunnison’s influence that brought it back to life in Baltimore, and the Brotherhood was playing a critical role in keeping the church faithful and strong. Without the efforts of bishops like him, the U.S. Catholic hierarchy would be weak and accommodating. It would be, in a word he detested, liberal. Yes, the church needed bishops like Wilfred Gunnison. God needed bishops like Wilfred Gunnison.

  For the most part, he believed himself chaste—especially over the last twenty years or so. And he had little compassion for priests who got entangled with women. Didn’t they know how controlling women were, how much attention they demanded, how seductive they were? A married priesthood would be a disaster. He, on the other hand, had aligned himself with the classical poets and philosophers of Greece and Rome. Men like himself understood what most people of pious bent could not—that these giants of Western civilization found inspiration and emotional fulfillment in the company of young men. And these same young men needed tutoring in the art of male friendship.

  He, Wilfred Gunnison, by the grace of God, retired archbishop of Baltimore, was a part of this noble tradition of men of letters and refinement. Moreover, their physical expressions of affection with young men of intellect and breeding could hardly be thought of as harmful.

  Yes, there had been times long ago when he, too, needed the urgent, erotic delight found only in the company of young men. And yes, there had been a few mistakes when he was a priest. Yet he had always been gentle, never rough or crude. And he had never crossed the line—he had never sodomized anyone.

  Gunnison’s mind wandered for a bit and then, out of nowhere, he thought of his one awkward moment with his master of ceremonies, young Father Bryn Martin. It was at the end of a long day, he told himself, and he had been quite tired. It was just too insignificant to be concerned about. In fact, he hadn’t thought about it in years. And he shouldn’t be thinking about it now.

  He lowered the heat in the car and scanned the long stretches of barren farm land that reached to the horizon. There was something pristine and pure about the country, even in the gray of February. Yes, a day and night at the seminary would be good for him—body and soul. He would be back home on Thursday in time for lunch and have the whole day Friday off to make sure all was ready for his jubilee. Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison would give thanks to God for his fifty years of ordained ministry with the unmatched ritual and majesty of the full Roman Catholic liturgy. He could hardly wait.

  Later that day, now settled in the guest room reserved for visiting bishops and cardinals, Gunnison told himself to relax. He stood in the center of the room, however, not sure what to do with himself now that he was here. On the small writing desk, under a clear plastic protector, lay an alphabetical listing of seminary faculty and their phone numbers. Third on the list was Father Joseph Donlon, the seminary’s retired spiritual director, a priest with a reputation for being an exceptionally wise and caring confessor. Two years earlier, Joe Donlon had celebrated his own fiftieth ordination anniversary. Gunnison prided himself in being uncompromisingly loyal to the teachings and disciplines of the church—a staunch conservative. Donlon, on the other hand, was theologically progressive. Gunnison liked him too much to think of him as a liberal. But both men shared the easy cordiality of priests who had more or less weathered the same rigorous seminary formation program of the pre-Vatican II years. To Gunnison, those were the good old days when priests knew who they were—God’s chosen and anointed pastors charged with governing their parishes, and the laity knew who they were—the docile flock obedient to God’s own bishops and priests.

  There was yet another difference between the two churchmen that Gunnison would not allow himself to consider. Joe Donlon’s only ambition had been to be a good priest and a kind pastor. Wilfred Gunnison’s ambition, almost
from the beginning, had been to one day vest himself in the sacred purple.

  Seeing Donlon’s name on the faculty list triggered an old, deeply embedded association. Gunnison thought he would go to confession. For priests of his era, retreats and confession went hand in hand. Not even his rationalizing of the pederasty of the poets and philosophers of antiquity could smother his Catholic moral conscience. Wilfred reached for the phone.

  “Hello. Is this Joe Donlon?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Joe, this is Wilfred Gunnison.”

  “Well, this is a surprise, Wilfred. How are you?”

  Gunnison ignored the priest’s light banter. “I’m here for a retreat day before a little celebration I’ve planned for my golden jubilee. Can we meet in the chapel? I’d like to go to confession.”

  A few minutes later, the two met in the seminary’s reconciliation room just outside the entrance to the chapel. A stained glass window of the Good Shepherd, vivid in the late afternoon sunlight, dominated the small room. Earth-tones had been chosen for the walls and carpeting—a much more inviting space than the dark, stale-aired, box-like confessionals still pressed against the walls of many Catholic churches. The room itself, uncluttered and airy, elicited a sense of peace and order. The furniture was Spartan but tasteful: two comfortable upholstered armchairs and a table with a lamp, a Bible, and a box of tissues on it. An over-sized crucifix hung on one wall and a reproduction of Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son was mounted behind the confessor’s chair in easy sight of the penitent.