The Concordat

by Sean Heary

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Ugly judging syndrome,” Cathy quipped.

  Rossi turned to Brodzinski and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, ‘What’s with her?’

  Brodzinski tossed Cathy a white coat and a stethoscope. “You’re the nurse.”

  “Nurse?” Cathy protested. “Why not a doctor?”

  45

  Brodzinski stopped the ambulance at the address Cathy had provided. He had no idea it was a full kilometre past the safe house. After Rudoi’s murder, Cathy was taking no chances. Only Lawrence knew Rossi’s address, and that’s the way it would stay.

  “Mayo Clinic,” Brodzinski announced in an official tone of voice. He jumped out and opened the back.

  Cathy removed the white coat and tossed it on the trolley. “I’d invite you up for coffee, but we have none.”

  “No problem,” Brodzinski said, throwing her a casual salute. “Besides, I’ve got to get this rig back before they realise it’s missing.”

  Cathy and Rossi waited on the pavement until the ambulance disappeared over the rise. They then turned and headed back in the direction they had just come from.

  “Cavolo!” Rossi said, patting his pockets. “I’ve dropped my gloves somewhere.”

  “That’s silly. It’s a long walk.”

  Rossi cringed as he buried his hands deep into the sticky pockets of his pre-owned coat. “What’s this?” he said, pulling out a blue memory stick.

  “The coat’s last owner was a corpse.”

  “Krotsky?” Rossi said excitedly.

  Cathy shook her head. “My money’s on the corpse.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Cathy sat in the wing chair, booting up her laptop.

  Rossi stood at her shoulder as she inserted the memory stick into the USB port. “I’ll wet myself if you don’t hurry.”

  She tutted and said, “You wouldn’t notice.”

  “I knew it – I smell, don’t I?”

  “You blend in,” Cathy said, not looking up. “Now let’s see what we’ve got.”

  A long pause.

  “Well I’ll be damned. Krotsky’s written you a love letter.”

  “Stupendo!” Rossi said, his eyes darting between the screen and Cathy’s face as she read the Cyrillic file.

  “You got to him.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I’m still reading.”

  Rossi sat down on the sofa opposite. “You’re going slowly on purpose.”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Sì,” Rossi said emphatically.

  Cathy sat up. “Good news… plus some not so good news.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “There’s a major flaw in the Concordat.”

  “I knew it,” Rossi said. His face seemed younger.

  “But we need the original to prove it.”

  A dismissive shrug. “That’s only to be expected.”

  During their absence, the apartment had become unbearably hot. Rossi went over and opened the window. “So what’s Krotsky’s dirty little secret? Is it black and white provable?”

  Cathy smiled. “He used a relatively modern type of paper containing an additive not used in manufacturing until the early 1970s. Easily proved by conducting an elemental dispersive spectroscopy analysis – whatever that is.”

  “Perfetto!” Rossi said with a clap of his hands.

  “Not so fast, Enzo.”

  Rossi placed a dead pot plant on the sill to hold open the casement window. “Coffee?” he said, heading for the kitchen.

  Cathy followed. “Enzo, you are listening? Volkov will never agree. In fact, he’ll never let you anywhere near the Concordat.”

  The kitchen was clean, but asserted an air of abandonment. The cabinets were hand-painted blue; some doors slipped on their hinges. A compact two-door fridge stood on its own opposite the cooker. There was cutlery in a ceramic jug on the breakfast table in the corner by the window. And the patterned yellow linoleum flooring was tattered along the full length of the join that ran down the middle of the room. For a safe house it was adequate. Neither Cathy nor Rossi complained.

  Rossi switched on the electric kettle. “You’re right. But at least we can now both agree that the only way to resolve this iniquity is to steal back the Concordat.”

  Cathy threw up her arms in feigned despair. “You’re infuriating.”

  “You sound like my mother,” Rossi said, lapsing into a pensive silence as he rinsed two mugs in the sink. He suddenly spoke. “Tell me. You’re the expert. What is it that makes Russians so bloody pig-headed?”

  “Where to start?” Cathy passed Rossi the ground coffee. “Everyone has a theory. And there’s no one right answer. I like to think it’s deep-rooted. A Carl Jung collective unconscious. An inherent tribalism.”

  Rossi nodded. “And to survive, tribes need strong leaders.”

  “Exactly,” Cathy said, watching Rossi make the coffee. “And Volkov plays off this tribal loyalty. He feeds the common people a regular diet of anti-Western rhetoric. This, in turn, reinforces their mindless nationalism that demands a strong ruthless leader. An endless loop.”

  They took their coffee into the living room and sat down on the sofa. There was a long, unnatural hush before Cathy spoke. “We can’t put it off for ever. We need to clear the air.”

  “Look, Cathy, I’m sorry,” Rossi blurted out. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I am so clumsy at times.”

  “Style is not the issue, Enzo. This is all about content and perception – is that how you see me?”

  “I was only trying to say…” Rossi found himself lost for words.

  “That I’m a bike,” Cathy said, gazing at him with mild disgust.

  “Come on Cathy. ‘Experienced’ and ‘bike’ are two completely different beasts.”

  “And pray tell, how did you come up with such a flattering assessment of me?”

  “Well, the way you dress…”

  “Careful now,” Cathy interrupted.

  “I can’t win, no matter what I say.”

  “Because you’re damned wrong – and a male chauvinist pig to boot.”

  “Can I…”

  “And who’s to say the quality of my love is inferior to yours? Because you consider yourself more righteous. Well you’re wrong, you stupid man.”

  “Cathy, I only thought…”

  “That’s the problem. You didn’t think.”

  “The way you dress…”

  “We’re back on that one, are we? Let me tell you something about the way I dress. Firstly, I dress like this because I choose to. Comments?”

  “No, no, no,” Rossi stuttered, holding up his hands.

  “Secondly, if I didn’t I couldn’t do my job. I have an IQ you could only dream of and the face and body to match.”

  “I can vouch for the body,” Rossi said.

  “Idiot.”

  “Stupido.”

  “The trouble is that most guys fantasise about marrying an attractive, intelligent girl, while in reality they are intimidated by them. Being shown-up by a woman frightens the hell out of them. And their reaction is always the same – avoid at all costs. Before my mother passed away, she told me that if I wanted a boyfriend, stop being so smart. Practical advice – but why the hell should I? Men must change.”

  Rossi shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “At Colombia it was manageable. Full of open minded people. The real problem started during intelligence training at Sherman Kent. What I was forced to endure inside the vault shocked me. Half my fellow recruits wanted me naked, the other half wanted me gone. I was a threat to their pathetic male egos.”

  Rossi’s sympathetic eyes rested on Cathy for a moment, unsure whether to reach out and hold her. He didn’t move.

  “I was having
none of it. It might sound farcical, but I discovered the best way to counter this type of discrimination was to flutter my eyelids and show a bit of leg. Dress and behave like the women they dated. My mother was right. Enzo, this is all show,” Cathy said, holding up her breasts. “This is not who I am.”

  “Cathy, I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry won’t cut it. I was falling in love with you and you went and ruined everything. Why? Because I’m not the vestal virgin you dream of marrying. It’s all screwed up. What was it that Voltaire said about Catholics? ‘God created sex. Priests created marriage’.”

  “I’m not sure he was only talking about Catholics,” Rossi mumbled to himself.

  “I don’t get you. You’re clearly attracted to me. Is it a question of faith?”

  “Partly. But I’m not a prude. I’d describe myself as a practical Catholic.”

  “A PC – nice. Well I’m an RC.”

  Rossi looked surprised. “Roman Catholic?”

  “A Retired Catholic,” Cathy said, smirking. “I was raised a Catholic, but I lost my faith along the way. Science presents a rather compelling case. Once NASA proves we’re not alone, I’m shorting the Church.”

  “Interesting!” Rossi said, surprised at Cathy’s oversimplification.

  “Are you being condescending again, Inspector General,” Cathy said, playfully poking him in the ribs.

  “No. Not at all. It’s just that I put the decline in traditional religions down to the pace of modern life. No one seems to have time any more for spiritual contemplation. I don’t see science coming into it. If people just sat down now and then and reflected upon why we exist – they couldn’t help but subscribe to something more than the Big Bang theory.”

  “The old ‘meaning of life’ argument. I thought that was already settled?”

  “42?”

  Cathy nodded.

  “Again a rabbit hole,” Rossi said, taking her hand. “Cathy, I’m so, so sorry for last night. Please forgive me. It was totally unfair and wrong – what I said and assumed.”

  “You’re forgiven,” Cathy said with a smile.

  Rossi moved closer. “So let’s pick up from where we left off before I put my foot in it.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr Rossi. It doesn’t work like that. You broke the spell. What I saw in you before is no longer there.” Cathy abruptly stood up. “Shall I make lunch?”

  46

  The moment Father Dominic Sullivan, the sixty-three-year-old director of the Vatican Press Office, was briefed by Commandant Waldmann on the newly discovered Concordat, he realised his usual calm, pastoral approach would not suffice. Against the current generation of journalists and editors, he knew it was an all-out war.

  Father Sullivan glanced about as he entered the Vatican press hall. The room was overflowing with journalists, all eager to hear the Church’s response to Volkov’s most recent provocation. He sat down alone behind the long presenter’s table under the large crossed keys fixed to the wall. “Thank you for coming,” he said, in thick Irish. The crowd fell silent. “This evening I will read a brief statement and then take a few questions,” he said, adjusting his reading glasses on the end of his nose.

  “His Holiness this morning received with great sadness a letter from the President of the Russian Federation, demanding the immediate cessation of the Church’s mission in Russia. The reasons for the President’s actions are false and fabricated and do not merit comment.

  “To the Church, the most disturbing aspect of this unholy scandal is the role being played by Patriarch Pyotr.

  “The Vatican implores the Patriarch to abandon his false crusade and return to his vocation of spreading God’s word in Russia.

  “The Patriarch, by collaborating with President Volkov, has put the credibility of the Russian Orthodox Church at risk. How can the Russian Church provide a convincing witness to Christ if its own leader is seen to be supporting a totalitarian regime that tramples over the rights of its own citizens and commits atrocities in foreign lands?

  “In these troubled times, people from all faiths should come together to fight against the evils of the modern world. We should not be jealous of one another’s achievements. Instead, let us rejoice if someone does something good in the Lord’s name.

  “Our political leaders should not be allowed to discriminate on the basis of culture or religion. These are the seeds of nationalism and fundamentalism that have been so destructive throughout history.

  “Christians must rediscover their faith and fight against the tyrants of the world that act out of self-interest and greed.”

  Father Sullivan removed his glasses and tucked them in his pocket.

  “That’s the end of the formal statement. Now, if you’re up to it, I’ll take a few questions,” he said, glancing about the room for a friendly face. “Clifton.”

  “Clifton Hill from The Tablet. The Russian Orthodox Church has long accused the Catholics of proselytising in Russia. Is this what lies behind the Patriarch’s support for Volkov?”

  “The Russian Patriarch has refused the Vatican’s calls,” Father Sullivan shrugged. “So we can only speculate. But if it is as you suggest, the Vatican considers this view misguided.”

  “Why does the Catholic Church feel it necessary to expand its mission in countries traditionally considered Orthodox?” a hostile voice yelled out from the back of the hall. “Is it because the Vatican considers its version of Christianity superior?”

  Father Sullivan could not ignore the uninvited question from Angyalka Callas, The Radical correspondent. “The Pope has articulated on a number of occasions that he does not wish to grow the Church in Orthodox regions. You are acutely aware of this, Mrs Callas. Now, Dr Andretti.”

  “Yes, thank you, Father. What do you think the Russian Patriarch expects in return for supporting Volkov?”

  “To me, it’s obvious. But I’d prefer not to be accused of second-guessing the Patriarch.”

  A journalist from The Sun cried out from the side, “In today’s secular society, where even the Catholic Church emphasises the respect of other religions and cultures, the Vatican continues to enforce existing concordats. When will this practice cease?”

  “The Church is not a political organisation,” Father Sullivan said with a sincere, but stern expression. “She exists to do God’s work on Earth. When she negotiates a concordat with a sovereign state, she does so to set out the Church’s rights…”

  Father Sullivan stopped. In the rear of the press room, bedlam had broken out. Five Ukrainian feminists had removed their tops, revealing anti-Church slogans painted across their bare breasts. Fists high in the air, they chanted, ‘Christmas is cancelled’, and ‘Abortion is a woman’s right’.

  Photojournalists, who had been expecting a dull evening, snapped wildly as security dragged the women away.

  The din died down. Father Sullivan cleared his throat, signalling his readiness to continue. “A little something for those amongst you who prefer scandal to real news,” Father Sullivan said with a wink. Polite laughter rippled through the room. “Now where were we – the lady from CNN.”

  “Russian news sources claim Inspector General Rossi is currently in Moscow. Can you please comment?”

  “The Inspector General is on leave,” Father Sullivan said, looking away. “Hugo, you had a question?”

  47

  Revealing Light – the words repeated in Archbishop Esposito’s head as he sat outside Cardinal Capelli’s office waiting for His Eminence to finish his phone call with Senator Carrick Maloney.

  What did he say? the archbishop thought, fiddling with his ecclesiastical ring. We will clear the way, expose the endemic corruption and profligacy that runs through the upper echelons of the Russian Church, sacrifice the charlatan who wears the white koukoulion.

  Last night, in the narthex of Moscow’s Cathedral of the Immacu
late Conception, Archbishop Esposito was confronted by a young bearded man wearing the black cassock of an Orthodox priest.

  The man identified himself as a loyal servant of the real Russian Church. “I’m here to ask for your patience and cooperation in the name of Christianity,” he said, lowering his gaze as a gesture of reverence.

  Although the wrought iron gate to the cathedral grounds had been locked for some time, the archbishop felt no fear. He beckoned his mysterious visitor to follow as he descended a narrow stone staircase to a small chapel in the crypt.

  “We won’t be interrupted in here,” he said, lighting a candle as he entered and placing it on the altar.

  The priest sat next to the archbishop in the front pew. The warm glow from the candle illuminated his handsome face. Seemingly in no hurry, he turned towards the archbishop and motioned his readiness.

  “My son, you ask for the Church’s patience. Whom do you represent?”

  “Revealing Light.”

  “Daniel 2:22 – now how does that go?” the archbishop said, casting a slow traversing eye over his visitor, looking for any sign of deceit. “Ah, yes. He revealeth deep and hidden things and knoweth what is in darkness: and light is with him.”

  “The Revealing Light I serve is a little more earthly,” the priest said with a hint of a smile. “It’s a secret society whose primary purpose is to free the Russian Church from state control, although today we spend most of our time exposing the endemic corruption and profligacy that runs through the Church’s upper echelon. The Patriarch and his accomplices are vaguely aware of our existence, but they do not know our strength or the identities of our members.”

  The archbishop nodded as he listened. He had heard rumours of such a society since arriving in Russia, but had paid little attention to what seemed to be a myth or a folktale. “Assuming the society does exist and you represent it, what do you want?”

  “In the past, the power of Christ’s message and the strength of our clergy sufficed to ensure the spiritual integrity of the Russian Church. But today in modern Russia it’s different. Seventy years of communism has weakened her. There was a time when the KGB infiltrated our ranks and influenced the appointments of the Church’s leaders. Now we are vulnerable. We are walking blindfolded to the edge of the precipice, while the Patriarch stands shoulder to shoulder with Volkov’s coterie of crooks and thieves.”