by Doug Walker
The question stirred Justin from his lethargy. He had been handling the job for some long time now and had dodged many pitfalls and gained many friends, plus the usual enemies.
“If I might ask a question, Mr. Greene, how would you like being banned from the Vatican?”
Greene started. “You can’t do that.”
“I am the Pope, Mr. Greene. Tread lightly or you will find that ban in place. You might even be hounded out of Rome.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Justin raised his voice. “Get out of this room. The interview is over.”
“Just a minute.”
“Just nothing.” Justin rose from his chair, pointed to the door and shouted, “Out.”
Compared to Greene, Justin was in top physical shape and presented a daunting figure. He was tempted to tell Green to join his drunken cronies, but resisted, as the reporter fled the room.
Justin summoned his secretary from the next room and asked him to get Father Poulis on the phone.
When Poulis responded he told him to strip Greene of his tour press credentials.
“Why in the world?” Poulis questioned.
“He asked an insolent question. Nothing to do with the tour or the church. You might want to wait until he’s in his room, take a guard or two with you, get the credentials, then tell him to make no attempt to rejoin the tour here or anywhere.”
“What if he won’t cooperate?”
“Then go to the French police. There are plenty around. Tell them this Greene person may have developed a form of mental instability and should remain in his hotel room until after the Pope’s party is in the air.”
“Won’t this cause quite a flap?”
“No, I don’t think so. These press people drink too much, live on the edge. A mental breakdown isn’t that uncommon. I’m sure others have noticed signs of instability.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“I also told him any more high jinks and he would be banned from the Vatican.”
Poulis rolled his eyes in disbelief. The New York Times reporter, banned from the Vatican. But he had reckoned the Pope’s easy access for the press might lead to damage control.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The following morning the Pope, in what passed for his official garments, greeted a crowd of well-wishers at the airport, spending more time than his handlers cared for, then was surrounded by the press corps at planeside.
“We heard there was friction with Victor Greene,” someone shouted.
“I’m afraid Mr. Greene is what you might call overwrought. The excitement and the hustle bustle may have gotten the better of him. Occasionally a mental flaw will show up under pressure, just as an engine part might break under extreme stress.”
“But what triggered the blowup?” another asked.
“Search me. Any questions on another topic?”
It was the pretty girl from Bavaria who came to his rescue. “Holy Father, what did you think of Versailles?”
“Stunning,” Justin replied, smiling in her direction. “The Palace of Fountains, the grand vistas, the Hall of Mirrors, positively enchanting. And to think of the history embodied in that uniquely French estate. Ancient history, of course. But in June 1982 the G7 summit hosted by President Mitterrand, all the pomp and ceremony of the Fifth Republic. The French are a robust and wonderful people with a wizard touch for food, wine, hospitality and conversation. Why would anyone bother to live anywhere else?”
He paused for a moment, eyeing the crowd, then with precise timing before another question could be asked said, “Let’s get on board, it’s off to Ottawa, Canada’s capital.” Climbing up the stairs he thought of himself as Pope and tour guide. Fortunately, he and his band of clerics were well separated from the press on the giant plane.
Hours later, the plane greased to a smooth landing in Ottawa. The Pope’s group exited first and was whisked off by waiting buses to the magnificent Parliament Hill situated on Crown Land on the southern banks of the Ottawa River. The name in French was the original Colline du Parlement.
The legislature was not in session, but an assembly of government officials, clerics and well wishers filled to overflowing the large chamber. The Pope used his studied French for his initial speech, then switched to English and gave his blessing in Latin.
By this time, the day was dwindling and a splendid dinner was planned, preceded by a cocktail party for the select few. Justin showed up during the final minutes of cocktails, shook hands all around, permitted those admirers who wished to kiss his ring, had a glass of red wine, then off to the dinner.
Afterwards a tired, but sated party headed for the airport and the flight to the U.S., touching down in eastern Indiana just before midnight. The drill was to give everyone a free morning after the wearing flight from France, the brisk stopover in Ontario and the late-night flight to the States. The first event was an outdoor appearance in central Indianapolis at one p.m.
Cardinal Margeot had made arrangements for Justin to meet with Penny at ten a.m. in her suburban office. She had given her secretary the day off, and it would be just the two of them, with the cardinal and two security men waiting outside. Oddly enough, she headed a small Catholic Charities office.
Justin was up by eight enjoying a pot of coffee and an "everything" bagel with creamed cheese. The TV was on and the morning news told him Highway 40 was closed by a tanker overturn, with the possibility of toxic leakage, a late-night bar stabbing, wind storms in Oklahoma, three dead in a Seattle drug shooting and gridlock in Washington over the debt ceiling.
He was thinking that it seemed like old times when his press secretary came in from an adjacent room and said, “The managing editor of the New York Times is on the line.”
“Really what does he want?”
“You might ask what does he demand. He demands you return Greene’s press credentials and let him rejoin the tour and that you apologize for suggesting Greene is mentally unstable.”
Justin took a sip of coffee, then a bite of bagel. Finally he said, “Tell him no to the first request and inform him that this is not a perfect world and mental aberrations do exist. Perhaps a certificate from a psychiatrist would be in order.”
Father Poulis hesitated. “Will you talk with him?”
“Certainly not. Give him my message.”
Poulis was gone several minutes. He returned to say the editor seemed in bad temper. He was sputtering, but seemed to be making veiled threats.
“Is he still on the line?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him if he wants to go to war with the Vatican, that’s his choice. New York and the nation include many loyal Catholics, some of whom might influence advertising, others who are simply newspaper readers. Word has a way of getting around.”
“Should I state that as a threat, Holy Father?”
“Of course not. Who am I to make a threat? Just a simple cleric who happens to head the Catholic Church.”
Poulis smiled. “Perhaps we have a teaching moment.”
“Perhaps.” Justin finished his bagel and nervously thought of the meeting with Penny. Speaking of mental aberrations, he might have one himself when that appointment became real, less than two hours away.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Justin always kept a pair of trousers and a pullover handy. He was dressed in that attire when he, Cardinal Margeot and a guard who doubled as a driver pulled into the parking lot of Penny’s building.
“You two might want to get coffee,” he suggested.
“I have no money,” Margeot said.
The plainclothesman grimaced, but replied, “I have a few bucks.” Justin peeled off twenty from his wallet and handed it to the cardinal.
Penny was seated behind her desk when Justin entered. It was more of a table to accommodate her wheelchair. She beamed and said simply, “Justin.”
He tried to look properly humble when he said. “I’ve been dreading this meeting, Penny. But you look wonderful.”
“I feel wonderful, more so since you’re here. I can hardly believe it. Should I call you Your Holiness, or Holy Father?”
“Please, Justin will do. I fled like a coward after the accident. I stopped to see you. I don’t know if you remember. You were partially sedated.”
“I remember. It wasn’t the happiest time. I understand your feelings totally. But you haven’t grasped the whole story. Good things can come from bad. I’ve prayed for you every day, Justin. Long before I knew you had become Pope.”
“You knew about that?”
Penny laughed, she was totally happy. “Of course. I’m somewhat crippled, but I’m not blind. I saw your picture, heard about the act of God. Wow, what a come on.”
Justin was feeling better. He asked if he might kiss her.
“Certainly not. But I’d like to kiss your ring. Where is it, anyway?”
“In my pocket.”
“Well, put it on.”
He did so and extended his hand. Penny held his hand in hers for the longest time, emotional, near tears. Then she kissed his ring. He took it off and handed it to her. “The ring of the Fisherman. You might want a closer look. You can have it if you like.”
“Me,” she said, recovering her good humor. “Me, have the Pope’s ring. No thank you.” She turned the heavy gold piece over in her hand, then handed it back. “Sit down, Justin.” He pulled a chair near her desk. “You hadn’t seen us for some time before that night. Phil had been drinking too much and I had been drifting, an aimless sort of life. I’m not saying Phil’s death was a good thing, but it ended a very troubled existence. I hope he’s in a better place. He was not a bad person.”
It was Justin’s turn to become emotional. He almost sobbed out the words, “He was my best friend. You were second best.”
“Give me your hand, Justin.” They held hands for a moment, then she let his go. “For me the accident was not a tragedy. It opened my eyes to life. The three of us, all Catholics. You and Phil were altar boys together.
“I could see that trust fund wrecking your life. So I got this job with Catholic charities and it transformed me from a, I don’t know what, but not a society asset, to what you see now. A happy, fulfilled woman. And you went out and became Pope. My God, Justin. Think of it! That accident caused you to become Pope. And what a Pope, an American Pope. A young Pope with progressive ideas. If you died today you would have accomplished more than the last five popes. It’s a dream come true.”
“But not the American dream, Penny. The American dream involves a wife, a home, children, pets, summer vacations, back-yard barbecues. Need I go on?”
“What rot you talk. Honestly, Justin. Someone hands you the world and you want the universe. You’ve become a severely damaged greedy person.”
“I know I should count my blessings and I do, Penny. But just give it some thought. There might be a time when I want to say goodbye to the Vatican. Then again, that time may never come.”
“Dream on, altar boy. I know you’ll have to get back to your group. Big doings today in downtown Naptown. I want to stay in touch. Someday I want to visit you in the Vatican. Can my dream come true, Justin?”
“Of course it can, Penny.” He bent and kissed her cheek.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The tour had been to France, Canada and now in the U.S. Ottawa is the Canadian capital, but it is the second largest city in Ontario and the fourth largest in that nation. And the French visit was some miles from Paris. Indianapolis is known mostly for auto racing, and is inhabited, as is the rest of the state, by good folks known as Hoosiers for no rational reason.
So they weren’t hitting the major cities, but the tour was going as planned. With the help of the print and electronic press the people were going wild over the new Pope. Next on the agenda was Mexico with a stop in the border city of El Paso, mostly for a day’s rest. The pace was designed to be slow and thoughtful. Overnighting in Indianapolis, they flew to El Paso, leaving at mid-morning the following day. Justin stopped to chat and pose for photos at every opportunity. He was reinforcing his image and, in fact, his reality as the people’s Pope.
At the El Paso airport the Pope greeted well wishers, and a motor caravan took the party to the nearby Wyndham Hotel and Water Park. The weather was warm and the water park appealed to Justin, but it was a definite no-no for a sitting Pope.
Once again they were not in a major U.S. city. El Paso’s population was no more than 600,000, but just across the river, Ciudad Juarez boasts 1.7 million souls, making the metropolitan area the largest bi-national megalopolis in North America. In the past Juarez had been wracked by bloody drug wars that included the horror of beheadings.
Justin was well rested and immediately got down to the papal business that dogged him on a daily basis. Signing documents and letters, making minor decisions, usually following recommendations from cardinals, archbishops and bishops. Never a dull moment.
Sister Sylvia, staying in another section of the hotel, managed to send him a note via Father Poulis. Included was a paper sack that contained a baseball cap, which puzzled Justin until he read the note.
She said the two of them could get away to a restaurant she had read about just across the border. One Mexican-American guard would accompany them to insure no border crossing problems. They would wear street clothes and Justin would don the baseball cap. Justin considered the risk, which was considerable, but finally decided to take the chance. Perhaps he could also be known as the madcap Pope.
He slipped out of the hotel just after dark. The cap was a perfect disguise, totally unexpected. Many members of the press corps, plus tourists and assorted locals, after a drink or two, were frolicking in the Water Park. The three conspirators met in the parking lot and the guard transported them across the river to the Ciudad Juarez hotel district.
The restaurant that Sylvia had read about didn’t look like much from the outside, but once inside, the marble, teak and artwork might be termed dazzling. They were seated with alacrity and offered outsized wine lists, prices ranging from just over twenty to two hundred U.S. dollars.
“They seem to have the tourist crowd in mind,” Justin said. “But I’m glad to spend a few bucks of my own for a change. That trust fund money simply piles up.”
Sylvia smiled broadly. “Maybe you could give some to the church.”
“Or better yet, Catholic charities.”
When the wine arrived they ordered Aztec soup, a traditional tortilla soup with avocado, cheese, cream and dried chiles. The innovation was that the tomato-and-red-chile base was poured by the waiter over the dry ingredients. At first taste it was like they had died and gone to heaven.
Next came the acclaimed Chichilo Negro, a beef tenderloin topped with Oaxacan mole sauce. The flavor was dark and the heat mild. For desert, Sylvia insisted on Delicia de Chocolate Oaxaqueño, a smart little chocolate cake under a small scoop of ice cream with a side of boiled papaya.
They lingered over a second bottle of wine until Justin suggested they had better go, adding, the drunker we sit here, the longer we get. He looked around for their security who had been sitting at the bar. He guessed he was waiting outside.
The bill paid, they strolled outside, only to be surrounded by four men who hustled them around the corner. “What’s this?” Justin asked in surprise, guessing they were added security.
The man who seemed to be in charge said in perfect English, “You are being kidnapped, Señor. Cause no trouble and the two of you will be released unharmed.”
“This is a surprise,” Sylvia observed. “I thought lawlessness had been tamped down.”
“We must make a living in a fragile economy.” Again, this from the leader.
By this time they were well around the corner where two cars were waiting. ”I assume you’re cartel members,” Justin said. “The cartels bring in billions each year. Why bother with what would seem petty crimes?” Neither he nor Sylvia had become frightened. They would work their way through this.
“If you know something of the cartels,” the leader said, “then you might know the total membership approximates that of the Mexican army. The trickle down of funds can be just that, a trickle. Why aren’t you two more frightened?”
“Why should we be?” Sylvia replied. “We’re both good Catholics. God will protect us.”
“We are all of us Catholics here, some more needy than others.”
“Come on, Cisco, we have to get out of here,” another gang member said.
“Very well.” He directed the two captives into the backseat of the lead car. “Don’t, try to escape. A second car will follow.” Then he hopped into the front seat and they were off.
“Are you with the Juarez cartel or the Sinaloa?” Justin inquired as they moved along.
“Do not ask such questions. But I am surprised, Señor, that you seem to know much about cartels.”
“I read and my memory is good,” Justin said. “I’ve even heard of La Linea, possibly your organization.”
“All things are possible, Señor. But for now, let us proceed in silence and you can begin thinking who among your family and friends can come up with a million dollars on short notice.”
Sylvia made a gasping noise at the large figure. Justin laughed. “Surely you jest.”
“You may not think it such a joke when you are faced with beheading, a quick, but unpleasant way to die.”
“If we die, then the ballgame’s over, Cisco.”
“Yes, the ballgame would be over.”
In a whisper he asked Sylvia who recommended the security man. She said it was the hotel concierge.
“Did he know you were with the Pope’s party?”
“No. How could he?”
“He must have set us up.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Cisco demanded.
“We were just discussing the possibility that you are in league with the hotel concierge and our so-called security person.”