Vatican Vendetta: A thrilling battle of power and politics

by Peter Watson

  ‘Bess, I need you –’

  ‘Don’t say anything – not yet. I want you to talk to Thomas. He’s just coming. Hold on!’

  David heard the receiver being put down. There were voices far off. Then the receiver was picked up again.

  ‘Mr Colwyn? David?’

  ‘Holiness.’

  ‘I heard Elizabeth’s joke yesterday, about the anti-Papal honour. Good idea, when I can get round to it.’ He laughed.

  ‘I don’t need any honours, sir.’

  ‘Maybe not honours, David. But a reward. I think I have one, of sorts.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I need someone to run the St Patrick’s Fund.’

  David said nothing. It was like his first meeting with Thomas, in the Vatican picture gallery. His mind refused to function.

  ‘I’m taking Elizabeth away from you. You could come, too.’

  ‘But that’s crazy! I’m an auctioneer. Art is my life.’

  ‘My life was Rome, David. Not any more. If it weren’t for such upheavals the world would never change. Not everyone wants their life to be a crusade but sometimes you just have to follow where events lead. It’s not comfortable but it’s strange how addictive discomfort can be.’

  ‘You mean come to Rio?’

  ‘Yes. Elizabeth will be there. You’d spend a lot of time in Europe and America, looking after the fund investments. You’d have time for some art scholarship. Look at it this way: there’ll never be another auction like the Vatican sale. You’ve had the best. It might be time to change.’

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Of course. We need you in Rome for a few days anyhow. To make sure Massoni doesn’t try to wriggle off the hook. Keep in touch through Elizabeth.’

  David continued to stand there, behind Gina’s bar, holding the phone. A blank still occupied the centre of his mind. Then Bess came on the line again. ‘I wish I was there to see your face now.’

  ‘No you don’t. You wouldn’t recognize me. Was all this your idea – or Thomas’s?’

  ‘Thomas’s, I swear. But I sort of helped him along.’

  ‘I honestly have no idea what to do. What would happen to Ned?’

  ‘Nothing. He’ll have lovely holidays in Brazil and get on with becoming a goldsmith without his father always looking over his shoulder.’

  ‘But it’s all so uncertain.’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. There was no hope of talking that fact away. ‘Only one thing is certain.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Come and we’ll have us. Stay and we won’t.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I want you –’

  ‘– then come!’

  It was fantastic. Bess had already accepted, had accepted long ago that her place was on one side of a divide. She needed her work and she needed it to be important. Important to mankind. David knew that his work, art dealing, wasn’t important in that way. In the past that had never worried him. As Thomas himself had said, not everybody wanted their life to be a crusade. So, what now? Could he, David, ever go back to his old uncomplicated ways?

  ‘When are you leaving, Bess?’

  ‘Straight after the ceremony to crown Ligorio. Around ten.’

  ‘I need time to think. It’s crowded in here. Can I call you before you go? I’ll give you my answer then. And Thomas too.’

  ‘It won’t get any easier, you know, David. That’s what I learned from Thomas. The really tough decisions take courage because even after you have taken them, you still can’t be certain you’ve done the right thing. We’re leaving here at ten. I’ll call you at the apartment half an hour before. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  David replaced the receiver and walked back round the bar. Gina looked across but he wouldn’t catch her eye; he just picked up his coat and went out into the rain. This time he aimed for the Piazza Navona. It was getting dark and over there was a maze of narrow streets he could lose himself in. The rain had emptied the streets. Before long he found himself on the Via della Scrota. He turned right, where there was a bar opposite a church. He was a long way now from Gina’s and the apartment: there would be no one he knew. He entered, sat down and ordered another whisky.

  He turned over in his mind Thomas’s offer. Was it silly to be rushed into a decision? Did he simply want to appear good in Bess’s eyes? Could Thomas really make a go of things in Brazil? Would Roskill continue his vendetta? David’s job was under pressure at Hamilton’s but was it right to throw in the towel, give up something he knew he was good at? Tomorrow he would learn the truth about the Leonardo – perhaps that would reinforce his faith in himself. At the next meeting of the Renaissance Society he would reveal his discovery about the ‘Virgin of the Rocks’. He liked the art world life. It was something he knew, enjoyed, and was valued in. Lord Afton, and Sally, would think him crazy if he threw it up.

  A fresh thought struck him and he shivered. He should have thought of it sooner. He wondered whether Bess had thought about it, or Thomas. He went cold as its implications took hold of him. It suddenly mattered to him whether Bess had thought of it and had disregarded it or whether she hadn’t. Once he mentioned it to her, she might change.

  He looked at his watch – eight-fifty. It was time to be getting back. The rain was still as bad but it was, in its way, comforting. By the time he had reached the apartment, dried his hair, poured a drink and switched on the television, it was nearly nine-thirty. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was Michael Stone, just in from Milan. David was thrown. What if Bess couldn’t get through? If she was short of time she would leave for Rio without speaking to him! He forced himself to be polite with Stone but cut short the conversation as quickly as he decently could, arranging to meet the American the next day at his hotel. They could proceed to the Palazzo Montaforno together.

  He replaced the receiver. The TV set showed people leaving the cathedral at Palermo: the coronation was over. The phone rang again. This time it was Bess.

  ‘Darling, before I give you my answer, I have a question. It won’t take long.’

  He reminded her of how disastrously he’d failed to identify Dorzhiev in time to stop Massoni’s coup. Then he put the question he had to ask, ‘Has that already occurred to you?’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Then, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Thomas? Did it occur to him? Have you discussed it with him?’

  ‘Yes. Twice.’

  ‘Before or after he offered me a job?’

  ‘Before.’

  ‘And he still thinks I’m up to it? Isn’t he angry with me? Aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s over, David. Things could have been different, but they are the way they are. You performed brilliantly today, that’s all that matters – I’m coming!’ She shouted across the room. ‘We’re moving out, David. There’s not much time.’

  But all David could think of was that he had had it in his power to stop this tragedy from ever happening. He had even overheard Massoni and Giunta discussing the ‘secret letter’ in the archive, the very letter which had provided the pretext to topple Thomas. But his mind had been busy elsewhere and he simply hadn’t noticed. That was the awful truth. The only consolation was that his decision had been made for him. His duty was clear. He couldn’t live in London, and leave Thomas and Bess to struggle without him in Rio. He had been responsible for sending them there.

  ‘Bess?’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘The offer still stands . . .?’

  ‘I’m coming! . . . I have to go David.’ Then more softly, ‘Of course the offer still stands.’

  ‘Then I accept.’

  ‘He accepts!’ Bess relayed the news to Thomas. ‘Then I won’t say goodbye.’

  ‘No. How about ciao?’

  ‘How about getting off the line, so I can leave? How about booking your flight to Rio? There’s a carnival in Rio, David. Like Fat Tuesday. Or are you going to come by tanker? How about kissing Gina for me? How abou
t –’

  ‘– if I agree to kiss Gina what’ll you do for me in return?’

  A pause.

  ‘I’ll wear Ned’s brooch at our wedding.’

  ‘You mean –’

  ‘Yes! After all this, I at least need a stable home life. Don’t forget what you unhooked in me, darling. All those memories, all those sensual flashbacks. I want them . . . you . . . again.’ There was a silence along the line. A peace as powerful and as permanent as the Mississippi. ‘Now I must go! If you watch us leave on television, you might just recognize what I’m wearing.’

  ‘I’ll watch it all on television. In between clinches with Gina. Tell Thomas I promise not to run off with the money.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  And she was gone.

  David went across to Gina’s. It was still raining. The lights of the bar sparkled in the wet dark, welcoming him. Gina was in her normal place, behind the cash register. David went up to her and kissed her. ‘That’s from Elizabeth.’ He kissed her again. ‘That’s from me.’

  ‘You’re going, too, eh?’

  ‘There’s no reason to stay.’

  Gina looked sad. ‘I wonder how much a bar would cost in Rio?’

  ‘But your two men – wouldn’t they miss you?’

  ‘They both support Massoni.’

  David sat at the bar where he could chat with Gina, and from where he had a better view of the television. He bought a whisky, and a second. He would eat later, after the broadcast had finished. Thomas was still dominating all other news. The coronation of Ligorio as patriarch of Europe, Gina said, had been a glorious affair. The cathedral had been flooded with flowers, the organ had been supplemented by the Palermo Opera Orchestra, and the singing had been led by Renata Capalbio, the prima donna whose voice had led the singing in the square the day before. Because of the speed with which everything had to be arranged, Ligorio was crowned with Sicilian laurel. This was the way Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor of the twelfth century, who had made his court in Palermo, was depicted on ancient coins, with a crown of laurel. And Frederick had campaigned ardently against the power of the Popes in Rome. The Sicilians loved that.

  By now the television companies had cameras positioned at strategic points between the centre of Palermo and the airport at Punta Raisi. The whole way was illuminated, sometimes by TV arc lights, sometimes, as is the Sicilian fashion, by hundreds and hundreds of candles. Sicily, usually the dour heel of Italy, was for once coming into its own, producing a pageantry at the same time original and matched to the emotion of the occasion. All along the route the crowds were six or seven deep, everybody determined to say a personal farewell to Thomas. The car, which he shared with Ligorio, moved forward at times barely faster than walking pace and it was nearly midnight when the entourage reached the airport. David, growing hungry, was eating a simple plate of pasta. The bar was full but subdued. Not until Thomas had actually left the ground could the schism be truly said to have begun. Everyone waited, therefore, for this symbolic moment. The picture on the screen occasionally flashed from Sicily to Rome, to the Vatican which was marked by darkness and silence, with the sinister, half-hidden army guards on its perimeter.

  The airport at Punta Raisi was a blaze of lights and crowded with people. A band was playing. As Thomas walked through the airport building, struggling to find a way past a throng of mothers and babies, nuns and police, farmers and engaged couples who hoped for his blessing, the chorus broke out again.

  ‘Papa vero! Papa vero! Papa vero!’

  Massoni had kept his word: a privately chartered Tristar, bearing no colours, was drawn up by the main terminal building. Thomas led the way towards it.

  By the steps was a small platform with an array of microphones. The Sicilians would not let him go without a final message. Thomas mounted the platform. He stood alone: this time even Ligorio remained out of the light. Every camera was on Thomas.

  ‘Goodbye Sicily. Thank you. Pray for me; pray for your patriarch; pray for Cardinal Massoni. This is not an ending, my friends, but a beginning. Ours is not an exodus, it is a genesis. Be proud of what we have achieved this day: always remember – Sicily did not fail its Pope.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘This is not night, it is morning.’

  He got down from the platform and embraced Ligorio. At the foot of the steps to the Tristar, he turned, fell to his knees and prayed. The television commentators fell silent. The world watched as Thomas leaned forward and kissed the ground. The lump grew in David’s throat.

  Thomas stood. He waved and shouted, in most un-Pope-like gusto: ‘Arrivederci!’

  The crowd at the airport yelled back ten thousand times: ‘Arrivederci Papa!’

  By then Thomas was halfway up the steps, his limp more pronounced. Others followed him, among them Bess who was wearing the green silk shirt. David could see her speaking animatedly into an intercom of sorts. The latest gadget of its kind, no doubt. He turned and smiled contentedly across at Gina.

  At the top of the steps Thomas turned, for a moment, and waved. Then he moved inside and was gone.

  The steps were wheeled away, the engines to the Tristar began to turn. Their note rose, fell, rose again and, as it fell a second time, the aircraft moved off, wheeling to its right. Sleepily, it moved across the apron under the last of the television arc lights and out into the dark. The cameras followed the pencil-thin line of cabin lights as the Tristar taxied to the runway. The commentators were already discussing Thomas’s arrival in Rio. Juliana Caratinga, the blind girl who could now see again, would be there. John Rich’s mother would be there. Every president, every bishop, every cardinal from South America, save for the Argentinians and the Paraguayans, would be there. The mayor of Rio had said his city would rival Palermo in the welcome it extended to Thomas.

  The aircraft reached the start of the runway, a quarter of a mile off. The television cameras could barely pick out the line of cabin lights. Still everyone watched for the symbolic moment of take off.

  The aircraft remained stationary. The pilot made his checks, air traffic control double-checked its plans, and gave permission for take off. Then a throaty roar was heard as the pilot opened up his engines. The Tristar was seen to lumber forward. It gathered speed. Aboard the aircraft the pilot could feel the slap-slap-slap of the front wheel hitting the reflectors which marked the middle of the runway.

  The Tristar approached 100 knots, 120, 130. It could fly at 161. It reached 140. 150. At 155 the co-pilot screamed: ‘No!’

  Ahead, just in vision as the Tristar’s headlights picked them out, were two rows of black, metal spikes drawn tight across the runway.

  ‘Let’s go!’ the pilot yelled, lunging at the throttle. The Tristar’s engines had something left – the aircraft wasn’t full – and they responded. The plane surged forward, lifting its blunt nose.

  Even as it did so, the tires rode over the spikes and the rubber was shredded. The plane slewed – and settled, running on the metal hubs of its wheels. Showers of sparks shot back under the Tristar’s wings. By now the aircraft had left the runway and was ploughing into the grass at its edge. As the starboard wing dipped towards the grass a spark ignited Number Two engine.

  A yellow-red ball of flame erupted from under the starboard wing of the Tristar. The rest of the aircraft rolled into it. The fire fed on itself and surged into the black sky. The aircraft, still moving at 140 knots, cartwheeled back over the runway, a turning, blazing, upside-down cross of angry flame and deadly kerosene. Once, twice, it wheeled and then it fell, still burning, to the ground. There was a pause – in Gina’s they could hear the rain outside – and then the Tristar exploded, the central fuselage first, the flightdeck next. For many long moments the TV screens were filled with crimson and scarlet and orange pillows of flame, folding in on each other. The rumble of the explosions went on.

  At Gina’s someone reached up to the television set and turned the volume down. Like many others he was weeping silently. The rain outside made the only sound
, mocking the clear night air in Palermo, where the Mafia had, at last, claimed their revenge.

  Instinctively, Gina looked across to David sitting at the bar. But he had gone.

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