Vatican Vendetta: A thrilling battle of power and politics

by Peter Watson

  ‘Now, like you friends, I am suspicious of statistics. We all know that you can prove anything with figures. These figures I have given you are probably no more illuminating than any others. But –’ he paused for effect – ‘but, if they prove anything, they prove what you and I have always known. That Detroit is a damned fine town, a city as wonderful as any in America – and a damned sight better than a good many others. We may not have been around as long as Rome . . . but this city of Detroit is just as fine a place to live as anywhere now!’

  Roskill paused as the applause rose around him. Then, after a few seconds, he leant forward on the lectern. Utterly relaxed, he was totally in command of the crowd. The sight of his shoulders, hunched now above the lectern, showed he was about to become more confidential in his tone. Silence fell. Everyone knew that Roskill was always at his most biting when he got confidential.

  ‘We live in unusual times,’ he half-whispered. ‘We have unusual problems, terrible problems – nuclear war, terrorism, communism . . . We have the old problems, too, of starvation, military aggression, ignorance and – yes – poverty. And we also have the mass media to make sure we none of us forget these problems.

  ‘Mercifully, as a result of all that, with God’s help we have created sophisticated governments whose job is to try to solve these problems. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they fail, but they keep on trying.’

  He removed his spectacles and started to polish them with his handkerchief. ‘In addition to all this we now have an unusual Pope. Pope Thomas is, as Popes go, unusual. I think we can all agree on that.’ He smiled and the expectant hush in the stadium deepened. His audience knew that when Roskill smiled the worst was yet to come. ‘Thomas is American, friends, so perhaps we should expect him to be unusual. We Americans like to think that there is something special about us, with our open system of government, which means that anyone, even I, can become President.’

  The sound of one hundred thousand people chuckling to themselves rose above the stadium. But now the President stood up straight and suddenly became very serious.

  ‘Pope Thomas has tried some very unusual techniques in world diplomacy in the last months. I was an early supporter. If any one man can be said to have tried to change the world, it is he. When he announced that he was going to sell off the Vatican treasures and devote the proceeds to good causes, that, I thought, was a damned good American idea. But then, when the projects he wished to support became clear, I, along with several other world leaders, was obliged to question his judgement. You will recall the fiasco of the Cuban invasion. Then there was the expensive farce of the Nicaraguan kidnap which gave the Marxist government there the pretext to raid the new town of Pimental, with the result that many died. As a result of Pope Thomas’s policies we have seen the wife of the British minister for Northern Ireland murdered. We have seen interference, and more deaths, in the Middle East.’

  Roskill had been gradually raising his voice as he paraded his grievances. Now he shouted: ‘But Thomas’s most telling failure, and, in my view, his most ill-considered intervention, was the aid he sent to Vietnam. I deplored it at the time – as I’m sure you did, friends. Now, with the latest revelations that those funds have been skimmed off by cheapskate Vietnamese bureaucrats, I can only say, as much in sorrow as in anger, “I told you so!”’ Roskill’s face now took on a fiercer look. ‘This latest plan by the Holy Father, however, is the last straw. I know you will forgive me, folks, if I speak plainly. As an American and a Catholic, I say: “Enough is enough, Thomas!” By all means let us have an unusual and compassionate Pope. Let him involve himself in charity – yes! But not – never – in politics. Today’s world is too complicated, too dangerous, too interdependent for gestures that catch the eye but have not been properly thought through.

  ‘Friends, I bring you some fresh news tonight, news which unfortunately bears out what I say. You’ll have noticed that I haven’t yet made any reference to the Holy Father’s activities in the Soviet Bloc. Since I think I may claim to be as anti-communist as anyone, you might well expect me to welcome what the Pope has been doing . . . And yet, what is the end result of this scheme? Well now, you all know that Cardinal Kharkov has been brutally murdered, and you may say that that is the price the Church has to be willing to pay for taking risks . . . But friends, I have been talking to our ambassador in Beijing and he tells me that the Holy Father, who had been hoping to visit the People’s Republic of China in November, will not now be going. The invitation to him has been withdrawn. And the invitation has been withdrawn, friends, because the Chinese do not wish the Holy Father to begin the kind of activities in China which he has set up in Hungary and Rumania. They are, or were, prepared to make agreements with the Vatican in which benefits went to both sides. But they are not prepared to entertain a Pope who may, to judge from his behaviour elsewhere, actively undermine their authority over their own people. Accordingly, our ambassador was informed that the invitation to the Holy Father has been revoked!’

  There was absolute silence in the stadium. Roskill was winding up now. It had been a good meeting. Now was the time to finish with a bang. ‘Friends . . . when I came here tonight, like you, I was burning with anger at the humiliation Detroit has been made to suffer in the past few days. I was therefore determined to set the record straight, and I hope I have done just that. But I haven’t quite finished. I want to say two more things. I say first that the Holy Father, for all his virtues, has in truth become like a medieval alchemist in reverse. Far from taking base metal and turning it into gold, he has taken a number of beautiful, sublime art treasures and he has turned them, or the money raised by their sale, into the basest of metals – international corruption, insecurity, deceit, and danger. And I say second that I am a Catholic and I make no bones about that fact. But the truth, as I see it, is more important. As a political leader I have always stayed out of religious matters and so I now say this to the Holy Father, to Pope Thomas. There’s no place in the modern world for a political Pope. Either he should stay out of politics – or he should resign!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  David learned of Roskill’s speech early the next morning, when he saw the lead headline in The Times. Immediately, he dialled Bess’s number in Rome.

  ‘I’ve never seen Thomas so angry!’ Bess’s voice was shaking. ‘One minute Roskill’s sucking up to the Holy Father, actually asking for his help in the Philippines – and the next minute this. He’s looking for votes, of course. All the same, I could shoot the snake.’

  ‘What will Thomas do?’

  ‘Do? Nothing. Popes don’t resign. At least, not since the middle ages. Can you imagine, La Repubblica here actually ran a story today on Popes who have resigned, plus a sidebar on the replacement candidates who might be elected if there was a conclave tomorrow? Needless to say, Massoni came top.’

  ‘What’s happening to the China trip?’

  ‘Wasn’t that nice? Well, we’re still going to Hong Kong, Taiwan – and we’ve had an invite this morning from the Philippines. So it’s business more or less as usual. Thomas will carry on as before. This will all blow over, and David, with any luck Roskill will lose the election. And it’s not all black for Thomas – don’t forget there are some extraordinary things happening in Rio.’

  It was true, David had to concede. Juliana Caratinga could now see again perfectly well, a fact which was revered throughout the entire country as a miracle. The spot in her school playground where she had first regained her sight was now a shrine. A local sculptor had made a likeness of the girl leaving, in the manner of Buddhist sculptures, a local priest to add the eyes. The shrine was visited by hundreds every day and the number was growing, as was the number of reported miracles performed on the spot. Juliana herself travelled Brazil, attending services and speaking of Thomas’s powers.

  ‘I’ll see you on Friday, then.’ David was due in Rome for a fund meeting.

  ‘Of course, darling. Gina’s as usual. And don’t worry a
bout us. The unexpected is bound to happen.’

  *

  Cardinal John Rich craned sideways in the back seat of his taxi to look at the New York skyline rising high like an enormous, up-turned old-fashioned key above the FDR Drive and the glittering East River. Despite his years as cardinal in Manhattan, the rawness of New York was still as attractive as ever, as natural a force there as were the Atlantic gales off his native Galway. Whenever his work in the Secretariat of State brought him here he loved it.

  He had arrived the day before, from Rome, and was leaving now for Detroit to begin negotiations for the St Patrick’s Fund cash to be brought to the city. He had been able to break the journey and spend one night in New York. He had an interesting meeting with some acquaintances in Wall Street, at the Securities and Exchange Commission. They had agreed to carry out an inquiry on his behalf. Discreetly. Using their contacts in Switzerland. The rest of the time he had spent with friends. They had taken him to a reception at the Metropolitan Museum where he had been able to see Giotto’s ‘Stefaneschi Triptych’ in its new home, then they had gone downtown, to the Colonna, for dinner. A marvellous evening.

  The cab mounted the Triboro bridge and slowed for the toll barrier. He looked at his watch: five past seven. He was in perfect shape for the eight am La Guardia flight to Detroit. The taxi joined the line at the toll. The driver at the front did not have the correct change so the line moved slowly. Rich picked up his New York Times and followed the election campaign news. Since Roskill’s attack on the Holy Father, the Cardinal was hardly a fan. He searched the paper in vain for a rebuttal from the black Democrat, Oliver Fairbrother. But he was steering clear of the fight between the President and the Pope.

  Roskill’s speech had complicated the Cardinal’s Detroit visit and Rich was by no means certain how to handle it. The local archbishop had seemed curt when Rich called to arrange a meeting. Obviously the archbishop was under his own local pressures, and for him to accept the money on behalf of the city of Detroit put him in what was, at the moment, a very unpopular camp. Still, it would all blow over. Rich was invigorated. He had never known church work be so invigorating.

  The cab inched forward. He looked up. There were two cars in front. Suddenly the window darkened and he saw figures surround his vehicle. All four doors were snatched open, and on either side of the cardinal, a stocky, armed figure forced his way in. In front another man leapt into the passenger seat and pointed a gun into the driver’s kidneys.

  ‘Get out!’ he hissed. ‘Or you’ll die in your own shit!’

  As fast as he could the driver scrambled out. A fourth man got in behind the wheel. By now the cars in front had cleared the toll. With perfect timing the taxi screeched off through the barrier without stopping or paying, and on to the turnpike beyond. Already the cardinal’s wrists had been handcuffed together behind his back, his skull cap had been ripped from his head, and a wide strip of sticking plaster drawn over his lips. He kept very still. He could feel the hard barrel of a gun against his ribs.

  The cab sped along the elevated section of the freeway. At the first exit it left the highway, made a right turn, travelled three blocks into Queen’s, made another right turn into a dead-end road where a white van was parked. Nobody spoke. The driver pulled up behind the van. The man sitting next to him got out, opened the vehicle’s rear doors and the cardinal was manhandled out of the cab and into the van. Two men got in with him, the doors were closed, and then he felt the van move off. He couldn’t see out. Very quickly he became disorientated and had no idea where they were heading. For about forty-five minutes they twisted and turned, stopped and started. Eventually, Rich felt the van head down a steep incline, which presumably led into the basement of a building. The engine was switched off and doors opened. Sure enough, he was in an underground car park. He was led through one, two, three doors, all of them rusted grey in colour, ending up in a small room with a steel bed, a bucket and a square of tiny, bottle-glass windows high in one wall, showing that the room was for the most part underground. And still, impressively and alarmingly, no one had spoken.

  But now a fifth man appeared. Like the others he was small but thickset. A gold cross hung on a chain around his neck. When he spoke it was with an accent, either Spanish or Italian. ‘Know what the biggest ransom ever paid is?’ He stood close to John Rich. There were gold teeth at the side of his mouth.

  The cardinal shook his head.

  ‘Twelve million dollars. Think you’re worth it?’

  Again, the cardinal shook his head.

  ‘You better be. Or you’re dead.’

  *

  For once David heard the news before the press did. Bess called from Rome. ‘Twelve million dollars! Can you imagine it? Slap in the middle of New York, in broad daylight, too. I don’t know whether Thomas can stand the strain. Coming on top of everything else . . .’

  ‘Hang on, Bess. I’ll be in Rome tomorrow.’

  ‘Bless you, darling. This is one of those times when I wish we’d jumped aboard that ship in Venice. I feel – well, I feel wrong about this one. The kidnapper who made the demand was apparently very coarse and insulting. It’s not at all like the Nicaraguan situation. Incidentally, we are sending Cardinal Pimental since he’s been through it all himself. We’ve told the kidnappers, whoever they are, to contact him at the archbishop’s residence in New York. I just pray Roskill will leave us alone while we try to sort it out.’

  It was a forlorn hope.

  While Pimental was actually in the air aboard an Alitalia flight from Rome to New York, the US President issued a statement in which he said that the kidnapping, though it was of a priest travelling on a Vatican passport, was an internal American matter and would therefore be handled by the FBI. Since, however, the kidnappers had made contact via the archbishop’s residence on the corner of 50th street and Madison Avenue, the director of the FBI in New York, Frederick Brodie, whom Roskill had put in charge, had to station his men there. By the time Pimental landed at JFK airport Brodie already had his men in position.

  The 747 pulled into gate fifty-six at the International Arrivals Terminal and the captain shut down the engines. The door swung open and the immigration officials came on board. Two of them conferred with the chief steward who, after a moment, pointed forward, to row B in the first-class compartment. The immigration officials stepped across.

  ‘Cardinal Pimental?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I am sorry, Father, but I have orders to deny you entry into the United States. You are going to have to leave, on the first available –’

  ‘What? Why? But I am here to help with the kidnap –’

  ‘I am sorry, Father. I know why you are here. But here is my legal authority . . .’ and the man took a document from inside his jacket. ‘It is signed by the Secretary of State in the Justice Department. I’m telling you, Your Eminence, you can’t come into this country.’

  Pimental swayed, as if from a body blow. He fought for time to think. ‘At least let me call the archbishop’s residence. You owe me that courtesy.’

  ‘My orders are to escort you to the VIP lounge and have someone wait with you until this aircraft is ready to return to Italy, when you will be put back on it. Now come with me, please.’ The man smiled and said more gently. ‘There are phones in the VIP lounge, sir.’

  The passengers in the first-class compartment stared mutely at this confrontation. In the back of the aircraft, the other passengers – ignorant of the reason – grew impatient at the delay. But now Pimental took a small bag from under the seat and said, ‘How shall I reclaim my other luggage?’

  ‘Give me your baggage tag, Eminence. I shall arrange it.’

  The three men, the immigration officials and the cardinal left the aircraft. As they walked, Pimental addressed the man who seemed the more senior of the officials, ‘You say the Justice Minister himself authorized this. What are his grounds? Does he realize what he’s doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eminence. My orders a
re not to discuss anything with you. Just to put you back on the plane you came on. I’m sorry.’

  They walked on in silence to the VIP lounge. From there Pimental called the residence and was put straight through to Naughton, the archbishop.

  When the archbishop found out what had happened he was shocked. Roskill was really playing rough.

  ‘You will tell His Holiness?’

  ‘Of course, Eminence,’ said the archbishop. ‘Right away. No doubt he will have to consider retaliatory diplomatic action. If there is any comfort I can give . . .’

  ‘Thank you, but no. After my experiences in Nicaragua I should have learned to expect the – the unusual. See you in Rome, Eminence. At L’Eau Vive perhaps.’

  After two and a half hours the senior immigration man returned, carrying the cardinal’s single piece of luggage and escorted him back on to the aircraft. By then press and TV cameras were in position.

  And so, later that day, before Pimental was very far out back across the Atlantic, pictures of him being escorted on to the Alitalia flight, having been barred entry into the USA, led all the news bulletins.

  What the media didn’t yet know was how badly the treatment of Pimental was affecting the relations between Archbishop Naughton in New York and Brodie of the FBI. Both men were aware of the ill feeling between their respective superiors. But Brodie, despite his name, was not a religious man and he had arrived at the residence determined to stamp his own authority on the situation. All the phones were tapped, even the archbishop’s private line. Brodie established himself in the archbishop’s office, where a direct line was set up to the White House. It was Brodie who decided when and where to brief the press. No one, not even the archbishop, was allowed to leave the residence without an FBI escort. The kidnappers had said they would deal only with the Pope’s representative and that was the single thing that prevented Brodie from taking over completely.