Written on the paper before him, in the hand of Bishop Montaldo, was a name, Mother Francesca, and a phone number followed by the word privato. Below the number M had scrawled, Convent of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Bogotá, Colombia. He touched in the international code and then the number. It was picked up after five rings.
“Mother Francesca?” he asked in English.
“Yes, this is Mother Francesca.”
“Let me say that I am calling on behalf of Murex.” Giorgio waited for the correct response.
“May you be clothed in purple,” Mother Francesca said softly.
Satisfied he was speaking with the right Mater Francesca, he said deliberately and slowly, “M believes it best that I do not tell you my name. I trust you understand.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“M asks if you and your sisters might be so kind as to provide lodging and care for a retired American archbishop.” Then he added, “I am unable to say how long his Excellency will be your guest.”
Mother Francesca remained silent. Then she said evenly, “I believe we can find a suite here in our convent for the archbishop. He will be most welcome.”
“M will be most grateful,” Giorgio responded, sounding to himself more like a diplomat than a former policeman. “His name is Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison. Once your guest is settled, a monthly stipend will be wired to your convent’s bank in Bogotá from the Banca D’Italia in Rome.”
“That would be most appreciated,” she said as if she had expected nothing less.
“Archbishop Gunnison will be arriving soon. Perhaps in a week or two,” Giorgio said. “Once his travel plans are confirmed, I will call you at this number with the date and time of his arrival. It would be most kind of you to arrange for a car to meet the archbishop at the airport.”
“Of course,” she responded. “And perhaps you might assure Murex that the archbishop is welcome to stay with us as long as his Excellency wishes.”
“I will, Mother. Ciao.” Then Giorgio added a more formal, “Good-bye, Mother Francesca.”
Giorgio placed his mobile phone in his pocket and thought about his conversation with the nun. She had asked no questions. And she made a point of saying the archbishop could stay as long as he wanted to stay. M must be quite generous with the monthly stipends. Yes, of course. Hadn’t his boss been generous with him, very generous? Giorgio looked thoughtfully at the soaring masts of the dock-bound Constellation. Then, with a slight turn of his head, to the Torsk’s iron-gray shell. Both in their time had been proud ships of war. M had taught him to see that the church was at war with the forces of darkness—with heretics and radicals and liberals. And worse, much of the swirling darkness spewed up from within the church herself, from arrogant reformers and dissidents. Defending the church from its internal and external enemies, his confessor had told him, required, from time to time, drastic action that many of the faithful would not be able to understand. And he, Giorgio, aka Monsignor Giancarlo Foscari, was M’s secret agent, like an unseen submarine commander trolling enemy waters. Even better, he was now a secret agent with a mission. He had been so naïve to think as a boy that he wanted to be a priest. Giorgio was no priest. He was no policeman. He was a sacred warrior with a license to do whatever was necessary for the good of the church.
Giorgio’s thoughts returned to the nun. His thin lips tightened in a smirk. This was not the first time Mater Francesca had been of assistance to the Brotherhood. Giorgio never imagined that going to work for Bishop Montaldo would prove so interesting, so fulfilling.
30
Bishop Martin, there’s a call for you on line one. It’s an Ella Landers and she said it was important.”
“Yes, put her through.” Martin said to his secretary.
“Bishop Martin?” she began. “This is Ella Landers, Ian’s mother.”
“Of course, Ella. And it’s ‘Bryn,’ if you don’t mind.”
Landers didn’t respond.
“Thank you again for the wonderful dinner party,” Martin said trying to strike a familiar tone. “I had the feeling that Ian and my sister, Nora, are perhaps more than just colleagues.”
Landers also let this remark pass. “I’m calling about Margaret Comiskey.” Ella hesitated but a few seconds, but the pause and the tightness in her voice were enough to tell Martin the call was awkward for her. He waited for her to go on.
“I’m worried about her. And why I’m worried about her must remain between you and me. I’m walking a fine line here in talking with you, but I’m going to tell you what I believe I can tell you without betraying her trust.”
Bryn wanted to say something assuring, but was at a loss.
“Margaret,” Landers said gravely, “has good reason to believe that Archbishop Gunnison once sexually abused her nephew and godson.”
Bryn was quiet while he absorbed what Landers was telling him. Did Margaret know this when she had come to his office last week? Did Kempe know this? Of course he does, you idiot.
Landers stammered, “And she’s very fond of him. Loves him like a son. Margaret has a picture of him in her office. She’s crazy about him. She had the Catholic Center staff praying for him for years when he was in Iraq and Afghanistan. You probably know he was in the army for twenty years.”
Bryn shook his head, reprimanding himself. Ella Landers knew more about Mark Anderlee than he did.
“Bishop,” Ella said in a measured tone, “Margaret hasn’t been herself since she discovered Mark’s abuse, by a man she felt honored to work for most of her life.” She paused, but Martin could still discern the concern in her silence.
“I’m worried about her, too,” Bryn said. “She seems at the edge, so to speak.”
“I’m very worried about her, Bishop. And I’m afraid for her.” Ella knew she could say no more. She had to leave Kempe out of this, even though his protection of Gunnison had deepened Margaret’s already dark mood. Nor could she tell Martin about the other allegations against Gunnison, or the secret funds that Kempe controlled, or his journal entries, including those about Martin himself.
“Margaret’s a life-long, dear friend, Bishop, and I know she’s a friend of yours. I’m afraid something has hardened inside of her and she won’t talk to me about it. And believe me, we can talk about anything. I’m afraid she’s going to do something she’ll regret.”
“I’ve seen a difference in her, too, Ella.” Martin thought he finally understood the weight Margaret was working under. “I’m worried too.”
Neither said a word. Finally, Ella broke the silence. “I’m not sure there is anything either of us can do, but I thought I should speak to you in confidence. I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t think our friend really needed help.”
Martin half rose from his chair, only to ease back down. He had to think. How did Margaret learn about her nephew? He must have told her he was abused by Gunnison—and must have told her rather recently. Why had he waited so long? Maybe Gunnison’s jubilee prompted him to tell his aunt? And what if the man with the laser was Mark Anderlee? What if Margaret suspected—or knew—that her nephew was going to take some kind of revenge? He remembered Margaret mentioning that Mark was an army sharp-shooter and head of an elite sniper unit. He swore a decidedly unpriestly oath.
Martin looked at his calendar: lunch with John Krajik. He reached for his phone to cancel and it rang in his hand. Damn, it was Kempe.
“Do you mind if I come over for a minute?
“Sure. Fine.”
“Good. I’ll be right there.”
Kempe walked into Martin’s office without knocking. Bryn pointed to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Kempe remained standing.
“I just wanted see how security was shaping up. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Martin didn’t answer his question. “George Havel and Duane Moore will be with us at the Mass and at the Sheraton for the reception and dinner. We’ll have a few extra off-duty police at the Basilica and the hotel security has bee
n alerted. I didn’t want to overplay this with the hotel staff”
“You’re probably right,” Kempe agreed.
“How’s Wilfred doing now that his big day is here?” Martin asked.
“His big day won’t be what he hoped for. The laser incidents really dampened his spirits. But he’s determined to make the most of it. Earlier this week he drove up to Emmitsburg for a retreat.”
“Might calm him down a bit,” Martin said.
“He did seem more relaxed when we spoke this morning. I tried to assure him that the man with the laser would hardly try anything at the Basilica. Most people know there are police around at archdiocesan events like this. But he’s uneasy.”
“I’ve heard he’s hosting a little dinner tonight for some of his out-of-town guests,” Martin said. “That might take his mind off the confirmation incidents.”
“I hope so,” Kempe replied. “The nuncio is driving up early tomorrow afternoon. His secretary said they would leave right after lunch. Wilfred is honored that he’s coming, of course, but it’s adding to his nerves. If there is another laser incident it would be all the more embarrassing with Tardisconi here.”
There was an awkward pause. Then Kempe continued, “By the way, I’m a little concerned about Margaret Comiskey. She’s not quite herself. Hasn’t been for a week or so. Have you noticed anything?”
“Not really,” Martin lied. “She’s been working rather hard on the jubilee. We’re all a little overwrought.”
“Yes,” Kempe said moving toward the door. “It could be the strain of Wilfred’s anniversary.”
Martin caught a hint of disappointment in his voice. Kempe had gotten nothing out of his visit.
“Thank you,” he muttered as he turned and walked out of Martin’s office.
Martin remained motionless in his chair, staring at the door Kempe had just closed. It was unusual for Kempe to come to his office. When the two needed to communicate, it was almost always by phone or email. And while he outranked Kempe in the church’s hierarchy, the chancellor, as the de facto chief operating officer of the archdiocese, had a broader sphere of executive power. And Kempe knew it. His brief visit was an attempt to display this power. He had staged and scripted his little visit—a mini-drama in clerical theater and clerical power. He had raised the curtain by refusing to take a chair, by remaining standing. On the surface, it could have been interpreted as a signal that Kempe didn’t want to take any more of Martin’s time than was necessary, but Martin knew better. It was a subtle discourtesy aimed at gaining control of the meeting.
The visit had nothing to do with the security preparations for the jubilee.
Aidan Kempe had come to his office to find out what he might know about Margaret Comiskey. And he wanted to read Martin’s expression and body language when he brought it up—casually, almost as an afterthought.
So Kempe had noticed a change in Margaret too.
Now it was Martin’s turn to visit Kempe’s office, actually to Kempe’s outer office, the office of Margaret Comiskey. He walked slowly down the third-floor hall, past the portraits of the last three archbishops of Baltimore, past the bust of John Carroll, Baltimore’s first archbishop and the first Catholic bishop of the newly established United States of America. Martin knew he had to be careful here. He stopped just outside Margaret’s open door. As he had anticipated, the door to Kempe’s inner office was closed. Margaret sat facing her computer screen but glanced over her right shoulder as she sensed the presence of someone standing in her door.
“Margaret,” Martin said by way of a greeting.
“Hello, Bishop.” Her tone was flat and there was no hint of the smile that almost always accompanied her greetings.
“You look hard at work.” Martin said lightly, glancing at the door to Kempe’s office, a door the chancellor might open at any moment. “I know getting ready for the archbishop’s jubilee hasn’t been easy. How are you doing?”
“Most everything is ready,” she said deflecting his question. Comiskey barely glanced at him. “The Mass booklets were the last major concern. But the printer delivered them this morning. There’s a box of them on the chair. They look pretty good. The archbishop’s coat-of-arms came out particularly well. Take one if you like.”
Her office seemed sparser than Martin remembered it. And the picture of her nephew Mark had been removed.
“Can I speak directly, Margaret?”
Margaret didn’t respond but simply held his gaze.
“You haven’t been yourself since we had our little talk. I know we can’t talk here but would you mind stopping by my office before you leave?”
“All right. I’ll stop by when I close up here.” Still, not even a hint of a smile.
Precisely at five o’clock, Margaret stuck her head in Bryn Martin’s office. He waved her in and they both moved to the conversation chairs to the right of his desk.
“There’s still coffee on…”
“No, thank you.” The tension in the room was palpable.
“I feel something’s really bothering you, Margaret, and I don’t think it’s just the strange goings on we talked about or the extra work connected with tomorrow’s celebration. Is it anything I might be able to help with?”
Comiskey realized she looked at priests differently now that she knew what was in Kempe’s private file drawer and on his personal computer, now that she knew Gunnison had abused her nephew and a number of other boys. Was Bryn Martin guilty by association? Could she even trust him?
The thought made her look away. Gunnison and Kempe were only two of the dozens of priests she had come to know while working at the Catholic Center. Some had problems. You couldn’t work in the chancellor’s office for all the years she had without coming to see priests as human beings who struggled like everyone else. Of all the priests she had come to know, she realized she had liked most of them. But now she felt neither affection nor respect for priests and bishops. With Wilfred Gunnison it wasn’t a question of respect. Margaret Comiskey hated the man. And the force of the hatred had shocked her. She had never hated anyone before Gunnison—and hating, she had discovered, changed everything.
Margaret broke the silence. “Recently, my life has taken a turn. I’m afraid that’s putting it mildly.” Another pause. “I’m not ready to share what this turn is with anyone. Not Ella Landers, my best friend, and not with you. I’ve had to do some digging, and I’ve learned things that have made me sick.”
Martin listened without moving but felt the heat rising in his face.
“I really can’t talk about it now.” Then Margaret said, almost in a whisper, “Maybe in a few weeks when things are…are a little quieter.”
“That’s okay. That’s okay,” Bryn said softly. “We’ll talk when the time is right… But if you hold this in too long, it can really do you harm. And maybe cause you to do something you may wish you hadn’t.”
Martin fell silent. Comiskey lowered her eyes looking exhausted and every bit like a woman betrayed.
“Sometimes, Margaret, you can tell a counselor things you can’t tell a friend.”
Comiskey nodded, but the resolve in her eyes deepened.
“It’s really important you talk to a therapist…and soon. Please think about this.”
Margaret stood to leave. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll be all right, Bishop.”
Margaret Comiskey sat at her kitchen table with a manila folder squarely in front of her. It held her letter of resignation as secretary to the chancellor of the Archdiocese of Baltimore. It was late. She usually was in bed by this time. Tomorrow’s anniversary for Gunnison would change absolutely everything, and she had resisted going upstairs to bed knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Margaret had lied to Ella and Bryn when she said she couldn’t tell anyone what was going on inside her. She had told her nephew, Mark, sitting at this kitchen table just two nights ago.
Mark had listened in disbelief.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Aunt Margaret?
” he had asked. She remembered how he had then taken her hand and whispered, “I’ve made a decision, too.” Half an hour later they got up from the table with the resolve of co-conspirators.
Margaret strained to read the wall clock in the darkened kitchen. It was almost midnight. She opened the folder and stared at the letter, reviewing her plans for the next day.
Before going to the Basilica for tomorrow night’s Jubilee Mass she would stop at the Catholic Center. It would be deserted. She would place her letter on Kempe’s desk—where he would find it Monday morning. Then she would clear out her desk and put her remaining personal belongings in a banker’s box, carry it down the back stairs and place it in the back of Mark’s SUV, parked on Mulberry Street across from the side entrance to the Basilica. She would cross Mulberry and proceed to the sacristy for the final instructions from the master of ceremonies. Margaret read the short, curt letter one more time before going to bed.
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