Stuart laughed.
"Ok,” Harold said. “Maybe it wasn't my greatest plan of all time. Mark my words, though, Stuart. Someday I'm going to bust your balls out here."
"I eagerly await the day, Harold."
"When did you ever find the time to get so damn good at this game, Stuart, what with managing all those millions, chairing a committee, and raising six bajillion kids?"
"I guess I just always had a knack for the game."
Harold climbed into the cart and waited for Stuart to get in on the other side before starting it in motion toward the jungle, which had swallowed his ball.
"Stuart, you missed your calling. You'd have made one hell of a pro."
He smiled at the compliment. Flattery was not something Harold generally indulged in. Whatever it was his old friend wanted to discuss with him, he must really need his assistance.
Harold guided the electric cart toward his ball's position silently. Stuart could see something weighed on him and he wished Harold would just come out and talk to him; he was never one to beat around the bush.
He decided to broach the subject himself.
"So, Harold ... I know you didn't drag me out here just to show me your weed whacking skills ... although I must say you have cleared out quite a few acres nonetheless. What's on your mind?"
Harold stopped the cart and sat silently for a moment.
Stuart knew Harold would rather have picked the moment himself, but having broached the subject, Harold would have little choice but to talk about it.
"Stuart, I've got a political situation that puts me in a somewhat embarrassing situation and I need your help,” he said, with a directness only a close friendship would allow.
"This has to do with that prick Mathias, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does. He's got his underwear all in a bundle over genetic engineering. He wants me to push the Frampton-Archer bill."
"Are you kidding me?"
"I wish I were."
"Why the fuck does that little weasel give a shit about cloning anyway? I would think the sonofabitch would be in favor of it so he could run off a dozen copies of his egomaniacal self."
"I'm not sure, but it seems to be a religious issue for him. Principle."
"Hah! Principle? The only principle Mathias ever cared about is earning interest in his Swiss bank accounts."
"Listen, Stuart. I don't care for the man much more than you do, but he's in my state and he's prepared to go balls to the walls on this one, whatever his motives might be. I can't afford to go up against him publicly. He has too much influence at the moment. The people in Georgia love the man."
"They love you, too, Harold,” Stuart reminded him.
"Yeah, maybe. But let's not forget, when the bottom line is drawn, I'm still a politician and you know how people feel about that. If I were to take him on over this, the press would paint me as the evil pawn of corporate power versus the publicly minded man of God. It doesn't matter that Mathias is as sleazy as they come, this is a fight I can't win. Even if I could win it, it wouldn't be without a big political hit.
Stuart knew Harold was referring to his unspoken worst-kept secret in Washington ... that he would run for President in two years.
"How can I help you, Harold?"
"You're not going to like this,” Harold said with a deep sigh. “I want you to argue the bill for Mathias."
"What?” Stuart's shock was genuine. “You can't be serious. I can't stand the sonofabitch and you want me to ally myself with him and his right-wing religious fruitcakes?"
Harold laughed out loud. “See? I knew you'd catch on quickly."
"That's not funny, Harold. You can't be serious."
"Stuart, I need you to do this for me. There are politically sensitive matters going on in my state right now, and I cannot take a stand either way on this issue. If I stand against him I lose the support of the Christian wing ... and in Georgia you know how large that is. If I stand with him, I lose the national support of the entire scientific and academic community. That would not be helpful to the person chairing the Science and Technology Committee."
"Not to mention the next Republican presidential candidate,” Stuart added, not without some humor.
"Yes, there is that too,” Harold admitted. There was no point in denying it. Both men had discussed his presidential aspirations many times over the years and both had agreed if he didn't do it now, there would be no more chances in the future. Harold was approaching sixty-five, and he knew the odds of election if he were too much older were slim.
"I can help you behind the scenes, Stuart. I can arrange it so the fix is in. You will be on the winning side of this. I just can't get be out in front on it. Since we're in opposite parties, we'll be able to pull this off without too much difficulty. I've got all sorts of pressure to bury this bill in committee from some very heavy potential contributors. My public statements have all been against the bill. No one will ever suspect that I've maneuvered its passage."
Stuart felt Harold studying his face. He knew Harold would be trying desperately to read its expression.
"Harold ... I don't know...."
"Stuart. I've never asked you this, but just where do you stand on cloning?"
"Hell, I don't know. I guess I've never really given it much thought."
"Well, give it some thought now. You'll need to know your stuff."
"Now wait just a goddamned minute, Harold. I haven't said I would do this."
Harold smiled that famous Bennett smile. “But we both know you will, don't we?"
"Don't pull that shit on me. I'm not some simpering intern perched on your every word. This is me you're talking to and I know all your snake-charming skills. Hell, I taught you most of them."
"Stuart. I wouldn't ask if this wasn't important, you know that. Besides, you're retiring at the end of your term anyway. It's not like you'll be risking your political future."
"Yeah, I know, but that's not really the point."
"Then what is?"
"Mathias...” he could hardly spit out the name, “anybody but Armand Mathias. Why don't you just ask me to support the Saddam Hussein Widow's Relief Foundation, for Christ's sake?"
Harold laughed, partly at the joke, and partly in relief he had gotten past the asking. How he had dreaded that.
"I don't think I can do this, Harold. I want to help you, you know I do ... but this is just ... too much."
Harold stared down at the ground for a moment and sighed deeply, then raised his eyes to meet his old friend's.
"Stuart, we've known each other for a long time. We've never seen eye to eye politically, but I've never questioned your integrity, and I hope you have never questioned mine.” He raised his hand to cut off Stuart's attempted response. “We have become friends and there isn't a man in all of Washington that I trust as I trust you."
Stuart knew his friend well, and this wasn't just empty flattery to garner support. His sincerity was real.
"This wouldn't be the first time you've allied yourself with someone you didn't personally like. We both have to do that all the time. I need this, my friend. Please help me."
How can I refuse?
"Goddamn you, you sonofabitch,” he said in surrender.
"Thank you, Stuart. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."
After a short, somewhat awkward silence, Stuart jumped out of the cart and said, “Hey, you've got some more weeds to whack here. Let's get to it."
* * * *
"RAY, YOU'VE GOT to get me the fuck out of here! This place is hell,” Susan Morgan almost shouted into the telephone. Ray Cutler chuckled on the other end.
"I have to say, Susan, that's the first time I've heard the Vatican referred to as ‘Hell'. You got a story for us, hon?"
"Kiss my ass, Ray. I'm serious as a heart attack. What does Pete have against me? Why have I been assigned here? Shit ... I'm Jewish, for Christ's sake. What do I know about the Pope?” She gulped down the bourbon she had poured herself and
refilled the glass as she propped the phone under her chin.
"Susan, you know why you're there. Pete doesn't like staged stories."
Susan breathed heavily into the phone. She lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke angrily. “Yeah, I know. But, Jesus, Ray, how long do I have to pay for that? I'm a goddamn good reporter. You know it, and he knows it, too. My story was accurate. I just helped it along a bit with some good video."
"Yes, you're a hell of a reporter ... best I've seen in twenty-five years. But what you did was wrong. It cost the network a hell of a lot of credibility. Pete doesn't like being the laughing stock of the industry. Besides, covering the Pope isn't exactly like covering Milli Vanilli.
"Oh, c'mon, Ray. Unless the Pope takes a trip to China, or wags his finger at the abortion crowd, nobody gives a shit what he says. How many stories have you run of mine? Did you even bother putting the Shroud story on the air?"
"Yeah, we ran it. Good story."
"Yeah, right,” she sneered, taking another deep drink from her glass.
"Take it easy. You are too good to keep off the map for very long. Hang in there. You know anyone else would have fired you and seen to it that you couldn't even get a job erasing cartridges at a 500-watt station in Ottumwa. Just do your time. Make the best of it. Whatever you may think of the Pope, he's historic. Enjoy the gig. You'll be back before you know it."
Susan calmed down a bit. “Yeah, yeah. You're right, I know."
"Yes. I am right. You can be one of the greats if you want to be."
"Okay, Ray. Get off it."
Ray steered the conversation back to business. “What do you have for me today? Anything new on the Shroud story."
"No. Nothing. But something is up. I can smell it. The Curia is meeting yet again later today. Third time this week. That, in itself, is unusual. It usually only meets a few times a year. Nobody will let me close to anyone who knows anything, though. I've got an idea how to get around that. Give me a day or two."
"What are you up to?” Ray asked warily.
"Ray, I'm shocked you would ask such a question,” she said with mock indignation. Her good humor was returning as she once again immersed herself in the story, such as it was. She held up her bottle of bourbon and frowned. Almost empty. She would have to run out and get some more. She hated being here, but she was a pro, and she knew copping an attitude would never get her back to where she wanted to be. “Don't worry, Ray. I've learned my lesson."
"That's nice to know,” he said. Susan could sense he was not entirely convinced. “Just be careful, okay?"
"Aye, aye, chief."
"Ok, Susan. I've gotta run. Keep me posted."
"I will. Say ‘hi’ to everyone for me. Bye."
The idea germinating just moments ago in her mind was starting to come together. There was a chance it could lead to some trouble, but she couldn't just sit around and wait for the story to come to her. She was a reporter and that meant she had to flush out the story herself. She didn't know what the story was yet, or how big it was, but she was beginning to sense there was one. Had she known at that moment just how big this story was going to be, she would have gotten down on her knees and thanked the powers that be for putting her at the door of destiny.
Her phone rang and she picked it up. “Susan Morgan here."
No response.
"Hello? Who's there?"
Again, no response.
She was about to hang up when she heard an elderly male voice on the other end.
"Ms. Morgan?"
"Yes. This is Susan Morgan. Can I help you?"
"Perhaps you can, Ms. Morgan. My name is Anthony Angelino Sabbatini."
"Yes, Mr. Sabbatini. How can I help you?"
"You do not recognize the name, do you?"
"No, I'm sorry, I don't."
"Most people know me as simply Angelino."
That name she recognized. Angelino, the renegade Catholic Priest who had been a thorn in the side of his old schoolmate, Pope Timothy I, was widely known among dissident elements of the Roman Catholic Church. She did not know much about him beyond the fact that he was despised by the Church hierarchy. But suddenly her instincts kicked in. Why would he be calling her?
"Angelino, what can I do for you?"
"You are covering the Vatican for the news, is that correct?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Ah. Very good. I have something to discuss with you. Will you meet with me?"
Her instincts were in full gear now. “Does this have anything to do with the Shroud?"
"It does."
"Do you have some information about the theft of the Shroud, Angelino?"
"I have even more than that. I have the Shroud itself."
"What?” Morgan had not expected such a direct admission. How...? Why...?"
"That is not important at the moment. Will you meet with me?"
"Why should I?” She realized the stupidity of the comment as soon as it escaped her lips.
"Come now, Ms. Morgan. I hear your breathing, the excitement in your voice. Your curiosity is so thick one could cut it with a knife, am I right?"
There was no point in being coy about it. Her inability to keep her cool had already betrayed her. The bourbon had made her careless. To deny it would have merely insulted the man on the phone.
"Yes. It's true,” she admitted. “You have aroused my interest."
"So you will meet with me?"
"Of course. How about tomorrow afternoon?” She hung the cigarette from the corner of her mouth and reached for her calendar out of habit, fully knowing that there were no conflicts scheduled for the next day. “Say, around two?"
"No, Ms. Morgan. Now."
"Now?"
"Yes. What I have to share with you is urgent and I do not have much time. I assure you, Susan,” he slipped into a more informal tone now, “you will want to know what I have to tell you."
"Alright. Where?"
"I will send someone for you."
She bit her lower lip as she contemplated this. “Ok. I agree.” But I'll be damned if I'm going to trust you.
"My man will knock on your door and say, ‘Your meal awaits you.’ You will respond, ‘Good, I am hungry’ and he will say, ‘Let us feast.’ Only then are you to open the door."
Morgan laughed, “That's silly. Why all the cloak and dagger?"
Angelino's voice became stern, “Do not take this lightly, Ms. Morgan. I assure you this is a matter of the utmost seriousness. I do not make these precautions for mere sport. They are for your protection.” Then after a slight pause, he added quietly, “...and my own."
"Ok, Angelino, whatever you say.” She tried to keep the smile out of her voice. Surely he was making too much of the danger. This was the Vatican, not some court of intrigue in the middle ages. Then she remembered, during the Middle Ages the Vatican itself had often been a seat of deep intrigue. More than one Pope had died under suspicious circumstances.
"Ms. Morgan, I ask you indulge an old priest,” he said, as if sensing her doubts.
"Ok, Angelino, I will do as you ask,” she finally said.
"Thank you, Susan. You have a video camera, yes?"
"Yes, I have one."
"Bring it with you, please. I must go now. My man will be there for you in a half hour."
"I'll be ready."
"Remember, Ms. Morgan. Do not answer the door until you are sure he is the man I sent for you."
With a click, Angelino was gone.
Susan sat on the bed and let her mind mull over the conversation. Angelino was not totally unknown, but his fame was generally confined to a very few within the religious community. He was thought of as more of a curiosity than any real threat to the Church, although it was known the Pope, and Cardinal MacArthur in particular, had run out of patience with his irritating challenges to the doctrine of the Catholic Church. By and large, this was merely thought to be an internal disagreement, not unlike the kinds that had cropped up throughout the history of th
e papacy.
Then, with a jolt, she realized ... the Pope knew! He knew Angelino had stolen the Shroud. That explained the frequent meetings of the Curia. Yet, he had not made that knowledge public, nor had he requested the assistance of the law enforcement community to find Angelino and the Shroud. Why? Why would the Vatican, which abhorred the movement Angelino led, remain silent, when to reveal him as the thief could be used as an effective weapon to discredit him? Scruples? She doubted it. Timothy could be a hard man. She did not think it to be beneath him to use such a weapon. She was even more certain the emotional Cardinal MacArthur would be beseeching Timothy to do just that. No. There was something forcing Timothy's silence. How frustrating things in the Vatican must be, she thought.
Susan felt her pulse quicken and the adrenaline flowed through her system. She grabbed her camera gear, her notebook, and her purse. Then she slid open the door of the nightstand to reveal a small pearl-handled derringer. She picked it up, checked to see it was loaded, assured herself the safety lock was engaged, and placed it in her purse. She smiled to herself. This is starting to be fun. She lit another cigarette, emptied the remaining bourbon into her glass and waited for Angelino's man to arrive.
* * * *
"YOUR HOLINESS, WHY do you allow this to continue?” The plea came from Bishop Mancini, the member of the Curia who acted as the Pope's liaison with the press. “Why do you not have this ... this ... infidel, arrested?"
Several others seated around the table joined in with murmurs of agreement.
"Gentlemen,” Timothy raised his hand to silence the others. “Gentlemen, I understand how you feel, and I must ask you to trust me on this. There are things beyond your understanding that I must keep from you all until the time is right.” He glanced toward Cardinal MacArthur, who was seated opposite him at the far end of the table. He saw the large vein on his temple throb and saw the hard-set tension of his mouth as he contained his own frustration, which he shared with the others seated around the table ... Ah, my friend. I must keep even from you the things I know, for now.
The next to speak was Bishop O'Reilly, who was MacArthur's administrative assistant. “Forgive me, Holy Father, but by what right do you act for all of us?
Timothy eyes grew as hard as steel and he said in a low, even voice, “By the authority that has belonged to every Pope from the time of Peter ... the authority of God, Himself, through His Son, Jesus Christ.” He allowed that to hang over the room for a moment before he continued.
Shrouded Destiny Page 4
