by John Case
Account of Umbra Domini!
A week later, on August 11, Grimaldi withdrew all of the money in cash.
So what Lassiter had found in Chicago, the twenty to thirty grand hidden in the bottom of Grimaldi’s overnight bag, was almost certainly what remained of the money from Umbra Domini. He thought about this for a while. The only conclusion was that Grimaldi had been hired to do a job. But what job?
And what about the payments in 1992–93? Lassiter looked at the passport pages, and confirmed what he’d remembered: the monthly payments coincided with Grimaldi’s time in Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia. It was almost as if he’d been working for Salve Caelo, and perhaps he had – but doing what? Grimaldi’s background was hardly a humanitarian one, though now that Lassiter thought about it, Egloff’s view of the region wasn’t exactly sympathetic. What had he called it? A political melanoma.
Reaching for the phone, he dialed Bepi in Rome, his eyes on the soft lights that ringed the lake. The phone rang and rang, and he was about to hang up when he heard a distant crash, a fumbling noise and the word:
‘Pronto?’ A woman giggled in the background.
‘Bepi? Joe Lassiter.’
‘Joe!’ He cleared his throat. ‘How are you?’
Lassiter apologized for the hour, but said that he needed something right away. Could Bepi find out about a religious organization called Umbra Domini – and a charity, Salve Caelo?
‘No problem.’
‘But quietly, okay? I don’t want to make a lot of waves.’
‘Si, si – discreto,’ Bepi replied.
‘Great. Can you do it right away?’
‘Ah . . . you need a written report?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. We’ll fix a lunch with Gianni. He knows everything about religion! Everything. Whatever you want to know. No problem.’
‘Great. I’ll be in Rome tomorrow. We can meet for lunch.’
‘Solid.’
‘What!?’
‘Solid,’ Bepi said. ‘This is an American jazz expression.’ He hesitated a moment and asked, ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Yowzah.’
He met Bepi at an outdoor café on the Via Veneto, not far from the American embassy. The air was crisp and cold, but the tables were comfortable, warmed by heat lamps whose orange coils pulsed with BTUs. A journalist named Gianni Massina, who covered religion for the newsmagazine Attenzione, was sitting with Bepi when Lassiter arrived.
Shaking hands with the journalist, Lassiter was startled by Massina’s close resemblance to Johnny Carson. But instead of the talk-show host’s claustrophobic midwestern gestures, the Italian’s body language was expansive. He laughed robustly when Lassiter explained his surprise.
‘Ah, yes,’ Massina said, ‘the other “Gianni.” This I have been told many, many times. I only wish I had a fraction of the man’s fortune.’
‘Don’t we all.’
‘Although it is apparently diminished by his obsession with marriage.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘The problem with America,’ he sighed, ‘the whole problem is that you’ve never mastered the art of the love affair. Not you personally, of course. I have no idea – I mean, we’ve just met – but America! Well, it’s the Puritan heritage. You have laws and divorce. We have sins and affairs.’ Massina chuckled at his own observations, and then grew serious. ‘I’m sorry. Here I am, joking, and . . . well, it’s a serious business.’
A waiter came and they ordered espressos.
‘So,’ Massina said after they’d talked for a few minutes. ‘My friend says you’re interested in Umbra Domini.’
‘Very.’
Massina leaned toward him confidentially. ‘Then you should be careful.’ Massina frowned, collecting his thoughts. ‘They’re one of the renaissance religions. You have them in the States, I think.’
Lassiter looked puzzled, and seeing this, Massina turned to Bepi. The two men spoke briefly in Italian, and Bepi smiled. ‘He means “born again.”’
‘Exactly,’ Massina agreed. ‘They are born all over again. It’s similar to what you have in America. With Pat Robertson. They say the only faith that matters is the old faith. But, of course, in America these groups are mostly Protestant. And they almost always make new churches. Here, they stay inside the Church and form – what do you say? Associazioni.’ Then he found the word: ‘Lay orders.’
‘You mean, like the Dominicans.’
‘No. Not like the Dominicans. In groups like Umbra the priests are only a small part. These are more like – I don’t know . . .’ For the second time, Massina and Bepi spoke rapidly in Italian.
‘Like Hamas!’ Massina said, looking up. ‘This is precisely it! You should think of them as a rejectionist front – but Catholic! Very strict. Highly motivated. But, of course, we are talking of religion – not politics.’
‘So what do they believe in?’
‘The old ways. The Tridentine mass –’
‘The mass in Latin,’ Bepi explained.
‘Where the priest has his back to the congregation,’ Massina added. ‘Since Vatican Two, the priest faces the congregation and speaks the local language.’
‘This is important?’ Lassiter asked.
‘It’s a matter of life or death,’ Massina said.
‘Actually,’ Bepi interjected, ‘it’s a matter of life after death.’ Massina acknowledged the witticism with a scowl.
‘So if they’re a “rejectionist front” – what are they rejecting?’ Lassiter asked.
The Italians answered in unison: ‘Vatican Two.’
Lassiter knocked back his espresso and leaned forward. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘in the belief that there’s no such thing as a stupid question: What was Vatican Two, anyway? I mean, it’s like “general relativity.” Everybody’s heard of it, but no one –’
‘It was a turning point,’ Bepi said.
‘A bombshell,’ Massina corrected. ‘It almost tore the Church apart. But I’m being melodramatic. It was actually a council, a meeting of Catholic leaders from all around the world to modernize – some would say to liberalize – the Church. The traditionalists were against many of the reforms, and so they formed their own associations, groups like Umbra Domini and the Legion of Christ. In France there was Archbishop Lefebvre.’
Bepi looked at Lassiter. ‘You look confused.’
‘Maybe you have to be a Catholic to understand.’
‘Maybe,’ Massina said. ‘But perhaps not. Some of these people are . . . unstable. They say the Pope is the Antichrist. They say the devil sits on the Throne of St. Peter. They call the vernacular mass . . . a Black Mass.’
Lassiter smiled.
‘But they’re serious! And, thinking that way . . . anything is possible.’
‘And Umbra?’
‘Umbra is the worst. In the beginning, they are noisy, and we think there will be a schism. We think they will be excommunicated, but . . . no, they become quiet. Accommodations are made. There are compromises. Now they say the mass in Latin, the men and women worship separately, they have their own schools.’
‘The Vatican doesn’t want a schism,’ Bepi said.
‘And it is better for them to stay within the church. Even so, the press calls them “the Catholic Hezbollah.”’
Bepi laughed out loud. ‘“The press”?’
Massina made a moue, and grinned. ‘Okay! Me! What’s the difference? I am the press. And what are they? “Hezbollah” means “the party of God.” And what is Umbra Domini? The same thing: a radical religious group with political goals. So, I call them “the Catholic Hezbollah.” And look!’ Massina reached into his schoolboy’s briefcase and extracted a pamphlet. ‘Look at this! I brought it for you. Crociata Diecima!’
Lassiter glanced at the pamphlet. It Was the same one he’d seen in Grimaldi’s room on the Via Genova.
‘Umbra put these out by the thousands, four or five years ago,’ Massina said. ‘It’s a recruitment – for the Tenth Crusade.’
‘Which one is that?�
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‘The first crusade in five hundred years,’ Massina said, gesturing to the pamphlet. ‘Against Islam, of course. They say Bosnia is “an Islamic beachhead.” And so it’s a call to arms. Which is where your other group comes in. Salve Caelo. They’re run by Umbra.’
‘The charity,’ Lassiter said.
With a dismissive puff Massina waved away the description. ‘What they do isn’t very charitable. Near Bihac, they ran a “refugee camp.” Only this is a big joke, as if Auschwitz was a “refugee camp.” This camp was a concentration camp, and a staging area for commando raids – against the Muslims, of course. You see the irony? They created the refugees, and then they put them in refugee camps! And they did this, first for the Serbs, then for the Croats. Always against the Muslims.’
‘So now we know what Grimaldi was doing in Bosnia,’ Lassiter said. ‘Charity work.’ And now he knew the connection between Egloff and Grimaldi.
‘They call it “a more muscular Catholicism,”’ Bepi said.
‘This is significant,’ Massina went on, tapping the pamphlet, ‘because Vatican Two declared that all faiths “stand in the light of God.” You’re not a Catholic, so you can’t understand this, but . . . Before Vatican Two, to set foot in a church or temple – well, it was a mortal sin. So this idea – that Muslims, Protestants, whatever – can stand in the light of God – can share in His grace – well, this was a huge change for a religion that not so long ago was burning heretics at the stake.’
Lassiter nodded. ‘What else do they do?’
‘They publish. Books, pamphlets, videos, tapes. About birth control, the Masons, abortion, homosexuality – they say homosexuals should be branded.’
‘Tattooed,’ Bepi corrected.
Lassiter thought about it. ‘How many people are we talking about?’
Massina shrugged. ‘I think maybe they are fifty thousand now. Maybe more. There are many in Italy, Spain, Argentina – but some in the U.S. Even Japan, I think. Blues and Whites.’
Lassiter looked puzzled.
‘These are two groups in Umbra Domini,’ Massina explained. ‘The Whites are very strict. Each day begins with church. Each day, they give money. The women cover their hair, they hide their bodies. Strict. But the Blues! These are different. The Blues “leave the world.”’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They are like monks. Only men can be Blues. They take vows of poverty, chastity –’
‘Personally, I am not religious,’ Bepi said.
‘– and they scourge themselves.’
‘You mean with whips?’
Massina shrugged. ‘It’s an old tradition. He’s a traditionalist.’
‘Tell him about the walk,’ Bepi said.
‘What walk?’ Lassiter asked.
‘It’s the same kind of thing,’ Massina replied. ‘Another kind of penance. On Sunday the Blues go to communion on their knees. They must walk a certain distance in this way, Christ’s walk, carrying the cross to Calvary. And . . . it must be very painful. Because of the stones in the square, the granite steps –’
Lassiter looked away, and heard Riordan’s voice in his ear. ‘A tile setter,’ he said out loud.
‘What?’ Bepi asked.
‘One of the cops thought Grimaldi laid tile for a living – because nobody could figure out the calluses on his knees.’
‘Well, if he’s a Blue . . .’
‘Who runs this thing, anyway? A bishop, or what?’
Massina leaned toward Lassiter and smiled. ‘You’re not a religious man, are you?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. The head of the organization is what is always called –’ He made quotation marks in the air. ‘– “a simple priest.” A man named della Torre,’ Massina said.
‘“Simple priest,” my ass!’ Bepi laughed. ‘This is like calling –’
‘I was about to say, he’s quite charismatic.’
‘– like calling the Beatles “a garage band.”’
‘As I said,’ Massina continued, ‘he’s quite charismatic. And still young. In his thirties. Dominican, of course. Like the founder.’
‘Why “of course”?’
‘Well, the Dominicans – they’re the great champions of orthodoxy. The Black Friars. The Inquisition was theirs. Anyway, this della Torre – he’s a compelling speaker. His church is always packed. Overflow crowds in the streets. He walks through the people and they kiss the hem of his cassock. It’s something.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In Napoli. The Church of San Eufemio. It’s a tiny little place – very old. Seventh century, I think. It’s like a stage set. They’ve spent a fortune on lighting. I heard they called in a professional from London – who lights stage shows and rock concerts. Anyway, the result is . . . Gothic. When della Torre takes the pulpit, he emerges out of the darkness, and there’s a trick to the light, so that it almost seems as if he’s lit from within. And when he talks – quietly, passionately – you’re pulled forward. And you will want to be saved.’
‘So you’ve been there?’ Lassiter asked.
‘Once,’ Massina replied. ‘It scared me. I was this close –’ He pinched a little air between his fingers. ‘– to kissing his hand.’
‘Do you think he’d see me?’
Massina hesitated. ‘If you went as a journalist . . . yes. He’s there to spread the Word.’
‘So, if I were writing an article –’
Bepi held his hand up and spoke in a pompous voice:
‘“New Directions in Catholicism.”’
Massina shrugged. ‘Who knows? He might see you.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘He speaks everything. He’s studied in Heidelberg, Tokyo, and Boston. Very well educated for a simple priest.’
Bepi leaned forward. ‘Will this be dangerous for Joe?’
Massina laughed. ‘I don’t think so. He is a priest, after all. But watch out,’ he said, turning back to Lassiter. ‘He might try to convert you.’
Naples. Lassiter took a taxi to an address a few blocks from Umbra Domini’s headquarters, and walked the rest of the way. Slowly.
Now that he was there, the pretext didn’t seem like such a good idea. Though he’d had a set of business cards printed, identifying himself as John C. Delaney, a Washington-based producer for CNN, there was at least a remote possibility that della Torre would be expecting him. After all, he’d banged on Grimaldi’s doors in Rome, met with his sister, invaded his bank account, and more or less told all to Gunther Egloff. While it was possible that the Swiss man had forgotten about him the moment the door swung shut at the chalet, Lassiter didn’t think so. However idly the questions may have seemed to have been put, Egloff had asked for (and received) his business card, hotel, and destination, about which he’d lied. And then Egloff had watched him leave, standing behind the peephole in the door.
And for good reason. Because there was a chain. A chain of links. Grimaldi to Umbra Domini. Umbra Domini to Salve Caelo. Salve Caelo to Egloff. Grimaldi to Egloff.
This could be embarrassing, Lassiter told himself, and the other side of his brain replied, Or worse.
He was standing before a moldering, neoclassical villa whose towering wooden doors were flung open upon a small courtyard. In the center of the yard, a fountain burbled, its waters fed by a cluster-fuck of dribbling gargoyles.
The interior of the villa was as modern as its exterior was antique. The air pulsed with fluorescent light and buzzed with the slow rasp of fax machines, the warble of cellular phones, and the hum of computers. A bilingual woman in a long-sleeve dress looked at his card, without taking it, and directed him to the public affairs office, where press inquiries were handled.
There, he sat for ten minutes, surrounded by a lavish display of books and pamphlets imprinted with Umbra’s logo. The gold oval, and within it, against a purple background, a painterly line suggesting a hillside. A cross driven into the hill. And a long shadow with the words umbra domini
in bright gilt letters. The pamphlets were in several languages, including English, but before Lassiter could look at them more carefully, an urbane young man with a fashionable haircut emerged from an inner office.
‘Dante Villa,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘Jack Delaney. I’m with CNN.’
‘Do you have a card?’
‘Of course,’ Lassiter said, and taking one from his jacket, gave it to him.
‘And how can I help you, Mr. Delaney?’
‘Well . . . we’re thinking of doing a segment on new directions in Christianity.’
The young man lifted his eyebrows and tossed his glossy hair. ‘Yes?’
‘Absolutely. And from what we’re told, Umbra Domini is one of the fastest-growing lay orders in Catholicism. So, it could be an important part of the larger piece . . . depending.’
‘Oh? On what?’
‘Well, you know what television’s like. A lot depends on who we can put on camera. Which, I guess, is the main reason I’m here. I’m told Father della Torre would be good . . . outstanding, in fact. And so . . . I was hoping that I might be able to pre-interview him – just to get an idea what he might say, what he sounds like. It wouldn’t take long. And I could tell him a little about what we hope to do.’
The young man frowned.
‘I’m told he’s quite remarkable,’ Lassiter enthused.
The frown didn’t really budge, but the young man asked how long he would be in Naples.
Lassiter winced. ‘I know I should have made arrangements ahead of time, but it just wasn’t possible. We’ve been working on a totally unrelated piece and I thought, what the hell? Excuse me. I mean, I was in Rome. . . . I figured I might as well drive down. See if I got lucky.’
‘I see.’ The young man made a little sucking sound between his teeth. ‘Father della Torre is of course extremely busy. On the other hand, I am sure he would like to reach out. . . . He does see a great future for the order on’ – a smile – ‘the other side of the pond.’