It was noon. On the other side of the road is a bar. He got a table near the door. He ordered a beer. He unfolded his map, opened his guide book, and watched the gate.
It is the business entrance to Vatican City. Ornate pillars, in high brown walls, crested iron-work. The map told him that immediately beyond were the barracks of the Swiss guards. Beyond that, the papal palace, where both the Pope and Cardinal Gunter had their private apartments. Beyond that, a miscellany of impressive buildings, joined to each other, containing a confusing array of art galleries, museums, chapels, lesser palaces, and Vatican government departments. Beyond that, over a hundred acres of sculptured gardens and more official buildings. All neatly numbered on his map, and indexed. But, infuriatingly, the Secretariat of State was not identified on the map. Where Father Ryan, the arch-bureaucrat, festered.
Cars and people were coming and going through the gate all the time. Two Swiss guards in medieval uniforms stopped them, and examined permits.
Or, stopped most of them. Morgan watched. A number of people were not stopped by the guards. Mostly they were priests, who strode through with busy authority, or they were women in civilian clothes. Some were smartly dressed, looking like senior secretaries, but the others looked like housemaids.
All cars were stopped
But that wasn’t true either.
Morgan saw an elongated limousine swing into the gates and go through without stopping, with a wave from the Swiss guard. Morgan presumed it was an official Vatican vehicle. He noted the number plate. But the next limousine was not stopped either, and it had different plates. Neither car had anything on it indicating that it belonged to one of the embassies. The next car was the same.
Morgan ordered spaghetti and a bottle of wine, and watched the gate.
Where did these limousines come from? Could he hire one?
Dress as a priest. Hire a limousine with chauffeur. Drive through the gates unchallenged. Tell the chauffeur to take him to the Secretariat of State. Enter with all the authority of a priest who knows where he’s going.
Then what? Reverend Anderson from Zambia, come to plead his cause in person with Father Ryan? And say what?
Urgent, urgent, urgent, got to catch a plane back to Zambia. Terrible problems. Just five minutes with His Eminence please. In the name of pity and all that’s holy …
And if that failed, leave a copy of the cardinal’s book for his autograph, with the passwords written on the fly-leaf?
Morgan rubbed his chin.
It could work. But the snags were serious. The cardinal might not even be there when he arrived. If he was turned away, he would have drawn attention to himself. His face remembered. And he would have alerted Cardinal Gunter. And he might be in trouble for breaking Vatican security.
Morgan sat, watching the gate, thinking it through.
Finally he got up. He went to look for a public telephone. To call the Tourist Bureau again, to ask where he could rent a limousine.
A taxi dropped him outside the premises of Alberto Andreotti, tailor. Morgan walked in.
A priest was being fitted by a tailor at one end. A grey-haired clerk with a tape measure around his neck looked up. Morgan said: ‘I telephoned this morning about buying a clerical suit?’
‘Ah, yes.’ He glanced at Morgan’s clothes. ‘This is for you?’
‘Yes, I’m visiting Rome on holiday.’
The priest at the other end of the shop called, in an American accent, ‘Lucky for some.’
Morgan smiled: ‘No rest for the wicked, huh?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, don’t let the lesson be wasted on you, brother.’
The clerk said, ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I must ask you for some identification.’
Morgan frowned at him. ‘What on earth for?’
‘You see, Father, only priests are allowed to buy such suits. Your passport must say what you are.’
Morgan closed his eyes in exasperation. Then he remembered the blank passports he had bought from Danziger. ‘I haven’t got it on me. Can I bring it in later?’
‘What the heck, Alberto,’ the American called, ‘I’ll guarantee the man, he looks overworked enough to be a priest.’
Ten minutes later Morgan was looking at himself in the mirror. White clerical collar, black bib, black suit, black shoes. The Reverend Michael Anderson, from Zambia.
He stuffed his other clothes into the hold-all along with the tracksuit and golf gear. He paid and left the shop, with a brotherly wave to the American.
He took a taxi to the Grand Hotel. He checked in, and paid. He said to the clerk:
‘I’m going out soon. I’m expecting an important message to be left for me. If I telephone you, will you be sure to read it to me?’
‘Certainly, Father, please.’
He took the elevator up to the room. The bell-boy refused a tip. ‘Only a pleasure, Father.’
Morgan rang room service. He ordered a double scotch.
It came immediately. He sat on the bed, drinking the whisky tastelessly, rethinking it through for the last time. Were the chances of success worth the risks?
But it was now or never. Tomorrow was Friday and the Secretary of State left Rome on Monday. If he didn’t try the trick today it would be a long time before he could try it again. Fuck it – yes. He swallowed back the whisky in one go. He went to his bag, and pulled out a copy of Letters to the Mighty by Cardinal Pieter Gunter.
He opened the book at the title page. He presumed that was where authors autographed their books. He took out his pen. His hand was shaky again.
He scrawled casually over the title: The elk is not only a Siberian creature.
Well, the cardinal could hardly miss that.
Then he tore a page out of his notebook. He wrote neatly:
Reverend M. Anderson,
Room 212, Grand Hotel, Rome.
He put the note in the title page, and closed the book.
He sighed tensely. And picked up the telephone again. He dialled one of the firms that rented limousines.
He ordered a car, with chauffeur, to fetch the Reverend Anderson from the Grand Hotel immediately.
43
The driver spoke French. Morgan said:
‘The Swiss guards know me at Saint Anne’s Gate, so don’t stop, just drive through, because I’m already late for my appointment.’
‘Yes, Father.’
The limousine sped across Rome.
Morgan sat in the back, desperately trying to get calm. Telling himself that compared to going into the Union Bank of Switzerland, this was a piece of cake … But, oh God, he could not make it. This was what all the effort had been for, and it could all blow up in his face now, everything undone. And then anything could happen. And God, he wanted this whole business over.
The limousine was whisking up the Via della Conciliazione now, and Morgan felt his stomach contract. Up towards the crescent arms of Saint Peter’s. The limousine swung right, and there, beyond the colonnades, was the Saint Anne’s Gate. Morgan took a deep breath, and crossed himself.
‘Please help me, now, God …’
The limousine slowed as it approached the gate.
There were people coming and going. Another car was ahead of them, stopped. The limousine’s speed dropped more. The car ahead moved through the gate.
Morgan rolled down his window. The limousine drove towards the Swiss guards. The Swiss guard watched, expecting the car to stop. ‘Just go,’ Morgan snapped. He leant towards the window to show his clerical collar and he held up a slip of paper. ‘I’m terribly late.’ And the limousine drove past, into Vatican City.
Morgan sat back, his heart pounding. He looked back through the tinted window. The guard was staring after them. Morgan closed his eyes. He whispered ardently: ‘Thank you, God …’
The limousine pulled to a stop in the parking bay. There were hundreds of other parked cars.
Morgan got out of the car. Without looking left or right he set off across t
he compound hurriedly, towards the doorway the driver had indicated.
There were people going busily in all directions, mostly priests. Morgan strode through them, trying to look like a man of God who knew exactly what he was doing. He strode into the big, yellow-stucco building clutching Letters to the Mighty.
He glanced about him, his heart knocking. There were signs in Italian. A priest was striding down the corridor. Morgan smiled shakily at him: ‘The Secretariat of State, please, brother? …’
He mounted the wide stone stairs. Passing people on the way. He came to the landing.
There were big, ornate, double doors. He walked in.
Into an office, consisting of a short counter with two desks behind it. A young priest was studiously typing. He looked up with a busy smile.
‘Father Ryan?’ Morgan said.
The young man said, with an Italian accent: ‘Nobody as exalted as that. Who must I say is calling?’
‘Reverend Anderson, Church of England, Zambia, please.’
The young man made a brisk note, and picked up the telephone. He pressed a button and waited. He began to speak rapidly in Italian. He paused, and listened. Morgan turned away, and prayed feverishly: Please God, we’ve done so well …
The clerk hung up the telephone. ‘He is coming, Father.’
Thank you.’
Morgan waited the longest minute. Trying to calm himself. For God’s sake, this is a piece of cake compared to the Union Bank of Switzerland …
The door opened, and in walked Father Ryan, in a bustle of black cassock.
The man was annoyed. ‘Reverend Anderson, what are you doing here?’
Charm was the tactic. ‘Father Ryan, thank you for seeing me –’
‘How did you get here, Reverend?’
‘By plane –’
‘I mean how did you get into Vatican City? Did you get a pass?’
Morgan looked nonplussed. ‘Pass? I had no idea I needed one, I just drove in. I’m awfully sorry.’
‘It’s highly irregular. The guards didn’t stop you?’
Morgan looked mystified. ‘I didn’t even look at them. I was in the back seat.’
Father Ryan shook his head. ‘Very lax of them. Now, then, Reverend, I’m very sorry that you’ve come all this way, but as I said on the telephone –’
‘Father,’ Morgan pleaded with all his charm, ‘it is desperately, desperately urgent that I see Cardinal Gunter for just one minute, to give him some information of vital importance –’
Father Ryan interrupted. ‘I’m afraid he’s not even here now, he’s left his office for the day. And tomorrow and Saturday he’s absolutely fully committed. But if you tell me what this is about, I’ll mention it to him when he’s got a moment to listen.’
Morgan shook his head. ‘It’s too sensitive, it’s for his ears only.’
‘Well, then, if you write a letter –’
‘But will he be the only one to read it?’
‘I’m afraid not. You can imagine how much mail passes through this office.’
‘Father,’ Morgan pleaded ‘– just two minutes of his time, tomorrow, or Saturday, or Sunday, anywhere you like –’
Father Ryan said, ‘Impossible. So I suggest you take it up with the British authorities. I may be able to short-circuit that by phoning the British ambassador for you.’
Morgan sighed. ‘No. Thank you, I’ll do it.’ He looked at the book, Letters to the Mighty, then made a snap decision. No, it was too risky to leave the passwords lying around. And the man might not even see it until he came back from his trip. Morgan had to say the words to his face. He said stiffly:
‘Well, at least I’ve tried to do my duty. As a man of God …’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye.’
Father Ryan said earnestly, ‘Reverend, if you tell me what this is about I give you my word it will be treated with confidentiality.’
‘Thank you, but no.’ Morgan shook his head, a man depressed by the folly of the world. ‘Goodbye. I have to get back to Zambia.’ He turned away.
Father Ryan hesitated. ‘Reverend?’
Morgan stopped. The priest sighed. ‘Look, where are you staying? I’ll mention this to Cardinal Gunter when I see him later tonight. Maybe he’ll squeeze you in, as you’ve come all the way from Zambia.’
Morgan beamed. ‘Oh, thank you!’ He pulled the slip of paper out of the book. ‘God bless you, Father! I’ll wait in the hotel for your call!’
‘Dominus tecum,’ Father Ryan smiled.
He ordered two bottles of beer sent up to his room in the Grand Hotel.
He paced about, excited. He had done it! He had done it. He had played that so well! Exactly right – made the man feel a shit for turning him away. You’re a genius, Morgan! …
It was seven o’clock when the telephone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Hullo!’
‘Reverend?’ Father Ryan said. ‘I have good news for you …’
Oh yes! ‘Oh, excellent!’
Father Ryan said, ‘Because you’ve come all the way from Zambia, Cardinal Gunter has arranged that you see Archbishop Lorenzo at noon tomorrow.’
Morgan’s heart sank. ‘Who?’
‘Archbishop Lorenzo is Cardinal Gunter’s deputy. But I’m afraid the appointment must be brief – ten, fifteen minutes maximum.’
Morgan stared across the room. ‘Can’t I possibly see the cardinal?’
‘Definitely not. Seeing Archbishop Lorenzo in these circumstances is extraordinary enough, Reverend. And this time I will arrange a pass to be waiting for you at the Prefecture.’
Morgan held his head. So near and yet so far!
‘Thank you, Father Ryan. And please convey my compliments to Cardinal Gunter. I will be there at noon tomorrow.’
They said their goodbyes.
Morgan collapsed back on the bed. He wanted to bellow his frustration to the sky.
‘SHIT … ’
44
He pulled off his priest’s suit angrily, and had a shower. He got dressed in his civilian clothes. He put on his shoulder holster and packed everything into the hold-all. He left the hotel. He went back to the Excelsior, where he had stayed the previous night. Maybe this move was an unnecessary precaution, but there was no point in taking the risk of staying at the address he had given Father Ryan.
He ordered dinner and wine sent up to his room. He hardly tasted any of it, and got into bed.
Before switching out his light, he telephoned the Grand Hotel, and asked if there were any messages for Reverend Anderson. There were none.
He lay in the dark, thinking of Anna.
At nine o’clock the next morning he telephoned the Grand Hotel and asked for messages for Reverend Anderson. Again there were none. He telephoned Il Figaro newspaper: again Mike Milano was not available. He then telephoned the Vatican and left a polite message: Reverend Anderson regretted he was unable to keep his noon appointment with Archbishop Lorenzo as he had to fly back to Zambia very urgently. He would be in touch again.
He then telephoned the Maltese consulate. He said to the girl who answered:
‘I’m trying to trace a shipment of goods I ordered flown from Malta to Panama last year by a company called Meteor Air. Have you got a Malta telephone directory?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘May I come and look at it?’
‘I’ll look it up for you, sir. How do you spell it?’
He told her. He heard her leafing through the book.
‘I’m sorry, sir, no Meteors here.’
‘Can you give me the numbers of some Maltese freight agents, so I can ask about this airline?’
A few minutes later he had the numbers of three freight agents in Malta.
The first two had never heard of Meteor Air. The third man said: ‘Yes, small outfit, sometimes comes this way.’
‘Have you a telephone number or address for them, please?’
‘No. But they used to operate out of Marseilles, I think. You can telephone our agents there. Ask for Lou
is, say George referred you, here’s the number …’
Three minutes later he was speaking to Louis Laval in Marseilles.
‘Ah, yes,’ Louis said in French, ‘Alex Wallen, Meteor Air. I have a number. How is George?’
‘Sends you his best wishes.’
‘Tell him to send me some business. Here is the number …’ Morgan thanked him and hung up. He sat on the bed, feeling very lucky.
He rehearsed it. Then he dialled the number in France.
‘Yes,’ a gruff voice said, ‘I am Monsieur Wallen.’
Morgan spoke in French. ‘Monsieur Wallen, I’m calling on behalf of Bellatrix SA, Panama.’
Silence. Then: ‘Indeed?’
‘Monsieur Wallen, we had a contract last year for you to deliver some goods to us from Malta, you remember?’
Silence. ‘No, I don’t. But continue.’
‘I have the waybill here, I can give you the number. It was for sixteen crates of bulldozer equipment.’
‘Indeed?’
‘And we would like to do the same again. Fifteen crates this time. Can you do it? But it must be prompt.’
Silence. ‘Who are you?’
Morgan said, ‘Jacques Viljoen.’
‘You don’t sound French, Monsieur Viljoen.’
‘I’m not. Only my ancestors.’
‘And where are you?’
‘In Genoa. Monsieur Wallen, all we want to know –’
‘And what I want to know is, is this consignment all arranged this time, Monsieur Viljoen, or are there going to be … disappointments?’
So he was right!
‘No, we think it is all arranged this time.’
‘You think? Have the experts seen it yet?’
Morgan hesitated. ‘Which experts?’
‘The quality-control experts. I don’t want that going on in my warehouse. I run a legitimate airline.’
A Woman Involved Page 31