The ride was silent.There was nothing for any of them to say. The car eventually rolled up beside the high walls of the Vatican, past St. Peter’s Square, where even on a weekday afternoon there were crowds of tourists, photographers, and hawkers of souvenirs. At a giant iron gate in a back wall they drove onto the grounds and pulled up on a cobbled parking area. A small squad of Swiss guards, ridiculous in their ballooning uniforms, marched past.
The real security here was much more discreet. The driver and a man in a dark suit, who came out to the car, politely helped them through a checkpoint just inside some double oak doors. The entrance was dim and slightly damp. There was an airport-style metal detector, and an X-ray machine for the bags.
No Browning pistols to be discovered on this visit, so they were through and following their two escorts up wide ancient stairs to a first-floor landing that was covered in what looked to Delaney like Persian carpet. Tapestries lined the walls. Yet another man in a Vatican-issue dark-blue suit rose from behind a tiny table to greet them. They would find that Monsignor Fiorentino was the first of their hosts to be in clerical robes.
Fiorentino came down the wide hallway after a few minutes. He was in a very black, very priestly cassock, with purple sash and purple skullcap. He was also wearing what looked suspiciously like a pair of Gucci loafers, but the long robe allowed just glimpses. He appeared to be in his late fifties. He was of medium height, but was clearly vigorous, with broad shoulders, leathery skin, and a very pronounced hook in his nose. It could have been broken years ago, or maybe it was just an unfortunate family trait; Delaney wasn’t sure.
Fiorentino’s eyes and teeth, however, were his most striking features.The eyes were grey. Not bluegrey or blue, but pearl grey, and a little too reptilian for comfort. He had a row of tiny prehistoric teeth, quite yellow, which he bared occasionally, not so much in a smile but as a display to any other predators in the immediate area. Delaney could see that he was a survivor: of Catholic Church bureaucracies, of Vatican realpolitik, of God knows what intrigues that had made him Prefect of the Pontifical Household for a Polish Pope.
“Thank-you, thank-you. Welcome, thank-you for coming,” Fiorentino said. His English was Italian-accented but excellent. “Signora Janovski, Signore Delaney, welcome. Please. Come inside.”
He ushered them into a cramped but elegant office just off the hallway. His small desk was something antique dealers in any major city would kill for, as were the fixtures and bookshelves and assorted other Vatican trappings. The effect was spoiled by the three too-large Italian telephones on his desk, with wires trailing down into too-large wall plugs. An assistant materialized with a tray of coffee and some plates of hard sugary biscuits. Fiorentino was Italian enough to fail to ask them if they drank coffee.The door was closed.Their host watched intently as they fiddled briefly with tiny cups and spoons. An intricate gilded clock ticked steadily on a sideboard. But not much time was wasted after that.
“Your government tells us that you are involved in some matters that are of interest to us,” Fiorentino said. “A fascinating story, apparently, concerning the war and the country where His Holiness was born. You as a journalist, Signore Delaney. And you, Signora Janovski, because of a family connection.”
Fiorentino looked at Natalia and waited for her to reply. But she had the faraway look in her eyes that Delaney now knew came when she had been listening to two conversations at once — one outer, the other inner.
“That’s right,” Natalia said. She looked over at Delaney.
Fiorentino could not miss this conspirator’s glance. He now looked at Delaney and waited for a reply from him.
“I’m surprised, Monsignor Fiorentino,” Delaney said, “that my country is taking such a keen interest in our activities.”
He very much doubted Fiorentino’s version of who had first told what to whom.
“Your work is well known in Canada, Mr. Delaney,” Fiorentino said. “And elsewhere. Signora Janovski’s, I’m afraid, somewhat less so.”
“I’m also surprised that my government would go to the trouble of informing other governments what a Canadian journalist or another Canadian citizen are doing with their time,” Delaney said. “Some other governments might do that, perhaps. But not ours. Not usually.”
Fiorentino looked closely at Delaney, seeking signs.
“Oh, we all do little services for each other from time to time, as you know,” he said. “That is what governments are supposed to do. Little services for their people, and, from time to time, for other governments. I am sure you would be familiar with all of that. I have had a look at your list of publications, Mr. Delaney. You are no stranger to international diplomacy.”
International games-playing, Delaney thought. “I take it this matter is quite important to you, Monsignor Fiorentino,” Delaney said, “or you would not have flown us down here for this little conversation.”
“Quite important to some of us here, yes. To me personally, perhaps not. But then we have had to put our personal interests aside, many of us here, as you can imagine. Could you do that for us as well, Signore Delaney, do you think? Signora Janovski?” The reptilian teeth were bared briefly. “That depends,” Delaney said. “Why would we have to do that in this case?”
“You do not have to do anything, Mr. Delaney. We were simply wondering, many of us here, and people at the highest possible levels, if you understand my implication, if in the course of your investigation of what I am told is a fascinating story you may not have come across some information or some items that may be of interest to us here in the Vatican.”
“What story do you think I’m working on, Monsignor Fiorentino?” Delaney asked.
“You surprise me, a little, Mr. Delaney. I was led to expect I would not have to play such games with you in our discussions. That you are experienced enough and intelligent enough to spare us this toand-fro.”
The rows of teeth.
“Well, Monsignor Fiorentino, how would this be?” Delaney said. “Why don’t you ask me directly what you want to know and we will see, Ms. Janovski and I, if we can help you. How would that be?”
Delaney suspected Fiorentino was a man who was accustomed to posing very direct questions, but only among his own people. For outsiders, questions would usually be indirect.
Natalia sat quietly watching them both. She showed no sign of wanting to do anything other than observe the interaction at this point.
“In fact, Monsignor Fiorentino,” Delaney continued, “I may have some questions for you of my own.”
“This was not intended to be an interview, Mr.
Delaney.”
“Interviewing is to be from your side only, is that correct?”
“If you agree,” Fiorentino said.
“I don’t know what I’m willing to agree to yet,” Delaney said. “What would you like to know?”
Fiorentino was clearly not happy with this situation. He would not want to show his hand; Delaney had no doubt about that. He would not be accustomed to having people throw questions his way. Few senior Catholic clerics were, in Delaney’s experience. And certainly not in the Vatican Curia.
“Let me put this to you another way, Mr. Delaney,” Fiorentino said after a pause. “Would you consider, if you come across information or items that may be of interest to us here in the Vatican, letting us know what you have discovered and giving us the opportunity to help you decide how these things are to be used?”
“How would we know what is of interest to you and what is not?”
“I think, Mr. Delaney, that in this case it will be obvious.”
“I am not in the habit of having my activities as a journalist or what I make public approved by anyone,” Delaney said.
“Except your editors, of course,” Fiorentino said.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we should have a word with them on this.”
>
“If you like,” Delaney said.
Fiorentino was becoming less and less amused. “Do you have a clear idea, Mr. Delaney,” Fiorentino said, “how complex the European political situation is at the present moment?”
“I think I do,” Delaney said. “Yes.”
“The Catholic Church has always taken a keen interest in the political, how shall we say, proclivities of its people, as you no doubt already know. We continue to do this even as Europe and the world change daily before us. It seems to us that the article you are working on, if it is to be an article at all, could have ramifications for us here and for Catholics elsewhere. It could also have an effect on the outcomes of the political process in countries in which we take a very serious interest.”
“Like Poland,” Delaney said.
“Obviously. Like Poland.”
“You flatter me, Monsignor,” Delaney said, “if you are concerned that my work can affect politics in Poland.”
“It is not so much that we are concerned your work can have an effect, Mr. Delaney. We would simply like to be able to gauge what those effects might be before they are allowed to manifest themselves. It is an old technique in the Vatican, which has served us well over the centuries. Intelligencegathering, it is called these days. And, of course, we have always liked to be able retrieve any of our lost properties, if they have been scattered around the globe for one reason or another.”
“I am not in the habit of influencing European politics, Monsignor, or any other politics,” Delaney said. “Not intentionally, in any case.”
“Are you sure of that, Mr. Delaney? Have you never taken sides?”
“No.” Delaney was no longer sure that was true.
“Then you have been one of the lucky ones. Perhaps, though, Canada is one of the few places where people like yourself can say that and actually be telling the truth.”
“Why would you assume that even if I were the type of journalist to take sides it would be your side, Monsignor Fiorentino?” Delaney asked.
“I did not suggest that you take our side in particular, Mr. Delaney. I suggested that you simply help us to get to some information that would be of interest to us.”
“Is that not taking a side?”
“Not necessarily,” Fiorentino said. “It could possibly be as simple as giving no side any advantage whatsoever.”
“That would be assuming I might provide information, or, as you say, property, to some other side as well.”
“Providing it to another side, yes, possibly. Or risking having it taken from you.”
“By which side?”
“By any side, actually, Signore Delaney.” That was as much of a warning or a threat as a Vatican bureaucrat would ever be likely to make, Delaney knew. But Fiorentino was apparently tired of this conversational tack now. He abruptly turned his attention to Natalia.
“You are very silent, Signora Janovski,” he said.
“I sometimes learn a great deal about things just by listening,” she said.
“You may well learn things, but perhaps you do not share what you already know,” Fiorentino said.
Natalia simply looked at him steadily without replying.
She uses silences like a professional, Delaney thought. It was now his turn to watch.
“Are you a Catholic, Signora?” Fiorentino asked.
“When I was a child I was sent to Catholic Church and Catholic schools, Monsignor,” Natalia said. “Does that make me a Catholic?”
“I think you would know precisely what it means to be a Catholic, Signora Janovski. You are possibly being influenced by your journalist friend here. Did you always answer questions with questions?”
“In my work it’s sometimes useful,” she said.
“I wonder what your answer would be if I asked directly whether you would be willing to help us?” Fiorentino said.
“I’m afraid you haven’t made it clear to me either exactly what you want,” Natalia said.
“Do you consider yourself Polish, or Canadian, Signora Janovski?” Fiorentino asked. “A difficult question,” she said.
“Not so difficult. Do you care what happens in Poland now?”
“I suppose I do, yes.”
“You suppose. That is a luxury. Do you think your father and your uncle would have had such a luxury, Signora Janovski? Of merely supposing that they cared?” Fiorentino was showing his hand a little now. “Or other Poles of their generation who fought and died for what they thought was just?”
Delaney worried about this low blow, but Natalia was not as fragile as he expected.
“You seem to know a little about my family, Monsignor,” she said.
“What we need to know,” Fiorentino said. “What it may be useful to know. But is that how you are going to answer my question, Signora Janovski?”
“Shall I apologize for having been born in Canada, Monsignor Fiorentino, or for having been lucky enough to have escaped the horrors of war?” Natalia asked.
“Do you feel no duty at all to Poland or to your family?” Fiorentino asked. “Are we all just to be atoms floating around in a cold universe without duties or certainties?”
“That’s a question not many of us have been able to settle,” Natalia said.
“For some of us it is settled,” Fiorentino said.
“How lucky for you,” Natalia said.
Fiorentino paused for a moment, considering moves.
“I would like you both to give some serious thought to what I am asking of you,” he said finally. “You do not have to answer today. At the very least we would like you to keep these matters in mind as you proceed. Because you are treading on what one would have to call quite dangerous ground.”
Fiorentino let that sink in for a moment. He looked closely at Natalia, and then at Delaney. Apparently, the interview was coming to an end.
Fiorentino then asked Natalia suddenly: “Would you like to meet our Polish Pope, my dear?” Natalia looked dumbfounded.
“And possibly you, too, Signore Delaney?” Fiorentino asked.
Delaney looked incredulously over at Natalia, willing to follow her lead on this.
“I never thought I would get the opportunity,” she said, looking back over at Delaney.
“His Holiness as you know takes a keen interest in the events of his former country, his home country,” Fiorentino said.
“That would be understating it somewhat, would it not?” Delaney said.
He could not let this one go by. But he thought it might be unwise to raise the delicate matter of the Pope indulging his interest in Polish affairs to the extent of receiving regular briefings over the years from senior American officials on the situation in Poland. William Casey, for example, the former CIA director, who used to have cozy chats with His Holiness while they examined spy satellite photos of the home country. In exchange for the latest intelligence from the Pope’s army of East Bloc priests. It was an open secret, in some circles, that the Pope had received advance word of the Soviet troop build-up that led to the declaration of martial law in Poland in 1981.
Fiorentino decided, apparently, to ignore Delaney’s remark.
“We have informed His Holiness that you could possibly be of some assistance to us,” he said. “I think he would see you for a very short time.”
Fiorentino would probably never have had anyone ever refuse such an offer, so he picked up one of the telephone receivers and spoke for a moment in Italian. He put the receiver down again.
“His Holiness has been working in his private apartment on some papers this afternoon. He could see you in a few minutes’ time, but only very briefly. We told him that you would be here today at about this time and he expressed an interest in an audience with you. Would you come this way with me? Yes?”
Fiorentino brought them to a drawing room far down a
tapestried hallway. A Swiss guard stood outside the door. They sat on a couple of embroidered divans, drinking still more coffee that was brought in. They were suddenly like two schoolchildren on an unexpected excursion together. The high stakes were forgotten for the moment.
After about twenty minutes, Fiorentino returned with some assistants.
“His Holiness can see you for a very few minutes,” he said.
They walked together down another long hallway and into a dim anteroom. It appeared that the room fully enclosed another smaller room and that any one of the tall panelled doors on any side would let them into the inner one. Various assistants and retainers sat or stood near them as they waited.
Monsignor Fiorentino picked up a telephone and spoke briefly into it in Italian. He then knocked quietly on one of the panels and let himself in. Delaney caught a glimpse of high, glass-fronted bookcases and more exquisite carpet and furniture. Then Fiorentino returned, saying quietly: “Come in now, please. Women are to curtsy. Men bow.”
The Pope was standing beside his small desk. This one too had several telephones on it. He had apparently been writing letters. Paper and a fountain pen sat on a leather blotter. He was dressed in buffcoloured robes and a buff skullcap. He wore a pair of old-fashioned black buckle shoes and what looked to Delaney like linen leggings. His face was much redder than in the official photographs. Natalia curtsied. Delaney bowed.
“Welcome,” the Pope said in English. He passed his hands over both of them in the ancient symbol of Christian blessing and made the sign of the cross. “Welcome.”
He turned immediately to Natalia.
“You are a Catholic, I am told,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“And Polish.”
“My parents were.”
“Very good,” he said, turning to Delaney. “And you are a Catholic, as well?”
“No. I’m afraid not,” Delaney said.
“But you are both, I am told, going to be of some assistance to us on a matter of importance.”
The Mazovia Legacy Page 20