In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  His face was well known to the Swiss Guards. They saluted him respectfully.

  At the Apostolic Palace he was met by Cabrini, the Maestro di Camera. With barely a word they walked to the lift and were sped to the top floor. Rossi could practically feel the vibrations of curiosity emanating from Cabrini. A totally private Papal audience was a rarity. Especially one organised at such short notice; the Italian Secretary of State requesting it only that morning - a matter of State importance.

  They reached the dark, heavy door of the Pope’s study. Cabrini rapped on it sharply with bony knuckles, opened it, announced Rossi in his nasal voice and ushered him in.

  As the door closed behind him Rossi watched the Pope rise from behind the small paper-strewn table that looked like the work station of a middling business executive. By contrast the Pope resembled exactly what he was. He wore a pristine white silk cassock, a small white skull cap, a dark gold chain and cross, and a patrician but warm smile of welcome.

  He moved round the table. Deferentially Rossi knelt on one knee and kissed the proffered ring.

  The Pope leaned forward, put a hand under his arm and gently raised him to his feet.

  ‘It gives us pleasure to see you, General. You are looking well.’

  Rossi nodded his appreciation. ‘I am, Your Holiness. A week at Madonna di Campiglio works wonders.’

  The Pope raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Ah, how was the skiing?’

  ‘Excellent, Your Holiness.’

  With a twinkle in his eye, the Pope asked, ‘And the après ski?’

  ‘Also excellent, Your Holiness.’

  The Pope smiled wanly. ‘How we miss the slopes.’

  He took Rossi’s elbow and steered him to a grouping of low leather chairs around a walnut table. As they seated themselves, a nun appeared through a side door bearing a tray. She poured coffees together with a Sambucca for Rossi, and for the Pope a small glass of amber liquid from an old unlabelled bottle. As she withdrew Rossi drained his coffee, took a sip of Sambucca and said, ‘I wish to thank Your Holiness for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’

  The Pope nodded, and Rossi, knowing that he was a man impatient with small talk, plunged straight in.

  ‘Your Holiness, you will have heard about the defector Yevchenko.’

  Again a nod.

  ‘We have questioned him for the past ten days. Now he moves on to the Americans. The first thing of note is that although his Embassy ranking here was rather low, he was far more senior in the KGB than we ever suspected. In fact he was a General, and one of the most significant defectors in decades. He has been co-operative . . . most co-operative.’

  Rossi finished his Sambucca and laid the glass carefully on the table. ‘In our final debriefing session with him last night he talked about the lamented attempt on your life of May 19th, ‘81.’

  He glanced up. Until now the Pope had been listening with polite interest. Now the expression in his eyes had changed to intense interest.

  Rossi said, ‘He confirmed what is virtually self-evident: that the assassination attempt originated and was directed from Moscow through their Bulgarian puppets. Yevchenko also confirmed beyond doubt that the mastermind, the driving force behind it, was the then head of the KGB, Yuri P. Andropov.’

  The Pope nodded and murmured sombrely, ‘And since elected Secretary General of the Communist Party of the USSR . . . and subsequently that country’s President.’ He shrugged. ‘But General, this was assumed from all the analysis.’

  ‘Yes, Your Holiness,’ Rossi agreed. ‘But what was not assumed was that because Andropov failed once, he would try again.’

  A silence while the Pope digested that; then he asked quietly, ‘And Yevchenko indicated that he will try again?’

  Rossi nodded. ‘Positively. He does not know details, but he was consulted. It appears that Andropov is obsessed with this matter. He is convinced that Poland is the linchpin of Soviet control of Eastern Europe. Its position has always been vital and, in their eyes, always will be. He is also convinced that Your Holiness represents a dire threat to that linchpin . . .’ He paused for effect and then said, almost sternly, ‘And frankly, Your Holiness, your actions and your policy towards Poland and Communism in general, these past eighteen months, will have done nothing to dispel those fears.’

  The Pope waved a hand dismissively. ‘We have done everything with caution and in the light of Our Lord’s teachings and guidance.’

  Rossi couldn’t help thinking: ‘And a dash of patriotism for good measure,’ but he didn’t voice the thought. The Pope gestured at him.

  ‘Would he really consider such a risk? After all, if the Polish people knew positively that we had been murdered on the direct orders of the leader of the Soviet Union, that could cause an uprising to shake the foundations of the Soviet Empire.’

  ‘True,’ Rossi conceded. ‘Indeed, Yevchenko indicated that there is much opposition to this in the Soviet hierarchy, but Andropov’s position appears to be totally secure. Also we must assume that the KGB learned something from the last attempt. . . You must face the reality, Your Holiness. One of the most powerful, amoral and ruthless men in the world, with vast resources at his disposal, is determined to see you dead.’

  Another thoughtful silence while the Pope took a sip from his glass. Then he asked, ‘Are there more details, General?’

  Rossi grimaced. ‘Very little. Only that the attempt will take place outside of the Vatican City, and outside Italy. Your Holiness is committed to a series of pastoral visits overseas. The details of your itineraries are well known. They have to be. You are to leave for the Far East in about two months. The attempt could be there or on a future trip. I believe that it will be sooner rather than later. Andropov is known to be an impatient man and is also not in good health . . . Your Holiness, an ailing man with an obsession is likely to wish to have that obsession satisfied quickly.’

  The Pope sighed and slowly shook his head in sorrow. Rossi had the feeling that he would utter some words about God’s will and the forgiving of our enemies. It was not to be. There was a very long silence. The Pope’s eyes were half closed in thought. Rossi let his gaze wander round the room, taking in the blond wood panelling, the priceless paintings, the tall windows draped in gold damask. Windows up at which billions of pairs of eyes had stared in awe and reverence. His eyes came back to the Pope. He thought he saw a decision being taken. The Pope’s eyes opened. Thought was over. Those blue eyes that smiled so easily were now frosted.

  With a wince of pain the Pope stood up. With uncertainty Rossi did the same. The two men faced each other. Quite curtly the Pope said, ‘General, this news is not welcome, but thank you for giving it to me personally and so promptly.’

  Purposefully he moved towards the door. Rossi followed, saying with some bewilderment, ‘You will take every precaution, Your Holiness? You do realise the seriousness . . . perhaps you should cancel . . .’

  He got no further. The Pope had turned at the door and was shaking his head emphatically.

  ‘We shall cancel nothing, General. Our life, and the way we lead it, will not be governed by any other power than that of the will of God. That atheist criminal in Moscow will not be allowed to affect or impair our pastoral mission on earth.’ He opened the door. ‘Again, thank you, General. Cardinal Casaroli will impart our thanks to the Minister.’

  Slightly dazed, Rossi kissed the proffered ring, muttered a few words and was led away by Cabrini, who was looking even more curious. As they reached the lift, Rossi noticed the Pope’s personal secretary, Father Dziwisz, slip into the study.

  Stanislaw Dziwisz had followed his beloved Wojtyla from Cracow. It was always thus when a new Pope was elected. Luciani had brought his entourage and household from Venice and Paul had surrounded himself with Milanese.

  Father Dziwisz had been the Pope’s personal private secretary for fifteen years, and looked on him as a father. He also believed that he understood him as a father. Now he wasn’t sure.
The Pope’s voice contained a tone he had never heard before. His stance and bearing, as he stood in the centre of the room, was rigid and cold.

  ‘Ask Archbishop Versano to come here immediately . . . and cancel all our other appointments this afternoon.’

  Stunned, Dziwisz asked, ‘All of them, Your Holiness . . . ?’ He saw the impatience in the Pope’s eyes and said diffidently, ‘There’s the delegation from Lublin, Your Holiness.’

  The Pope sighed. ‘We know. They will be disappointed. Explain to them that something unexpected and urgent has arisen. Something that requires our time . . . and our duty.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Ask Cardinal Casaroli if he has a few minutes to spare for them. He will know the right words to soften their disappointment.’

  ‘Yes, Your Holiness . . .’ Dziwisz waited. He waited to hear what such an important development could be. The Pope always took him into his confidence.

  Not this time. He found himself staring into those cold blue eyes. They contained an expression: impatience. He turned away to summon Archbishop Versano.

  The Archbishop took his seat and gratefully accepted the coffee. He had been made Archbishop by this Pope; a promotion that had stunned most Vatican observers, particularly since the embarrassing difficulties of another American in the Vatican hierarchy, Archbishop Paul Marcinkus of Chicago. The name of Marcinkus had become linked in one way or another with the financial scandal of the Banco Ambrosiano. He was, to all intents and purposes, confined to the tiny state-within-a-state of the Vatican. If he stepped outside, he risked arrest. Many thought this would have the effect of hindering the progress and aspirations of other Americans in the Papal entourage. Yet the new Polish Pope had quickly come to rely on Versano, an American of Italian parentage who had rapidly worked his way up through the Vatican bureaucracy. Now, he supervised much of the Pope’s security arrangements and was also deeply involved in the urgent restructuring of the Vatican Bank, to get it fully functioning again in the world markets.

  Versano was not without his enemies. One of the youngest men ever to be made Archbishop, he was also tall and good-looking and -so some people said - appeared to enjoy to the full the high profile that his position brought him. He was charming and affable. Also, manipulative and ruthless. Still, he was getting the job done - both in terms of protecting the Pope and reviving the futures of the bank - and his star was very much in the ascendant. Since being elevated to Archbishop he had become part of the Pope’s inner circle. He knew just about everything that went on in the Vatican. He knew, for example, that only half an hour earlier His Holiness had given a private audience at short notice to Carabiniere General, Mario Rossi. He was mightily intrigued.

  His curiosity was fast satisfied. Even before he had finished his coffee the Pope had succinctly briefed him.

  His reaction was practised and immediate. With his resonant, controlled, logical voice, he soothed. He reminded the Pope that since his election there had been half a dozen documented attempts on his life. Only one had come close to succeeding. There may have been a dozen others unknown. There would be scores more in the future. But security now was honed almost to perfection. Even on overseas trips. He did acknowledge that this threat was particularly dangerous in view of the power of its source, but everything possible would be done to mitigate it. The Pope was prone to discuss details of the enhanced security on the forthcoming trip to the Far East, but again Versano soothed. Relax, was his message, there was still a long time to go. Much could happen in that time. Perhaps Andropov would succumb to his illness. In that case, in view of opposition in the Kremlin, the whole project might well be dropped.

  At the mention of Andropov the Pope rose and walked over to the windows and stood silently gazing down at St Peter’s Square. Then he turned and said quietly, ‘Mario, if it is the will of God then that evil man will die before he can perpetrate that atrocity. If not, then it is we who may die.’

  Versano also rose and walked slowly across the room. They stood facing each other. The Pope was a big man, but the American was a head taller, if not as thick-set. Versano drawled huskily, ‘It will be the will of God. Your Holiness is a beacon to mankind. A unique force for good. Such evil cannot and will not overcome that.’

  He went down on one knee, pulled the Pope’s hand towards him and fervently kissed the ring.

  Back in his office, Archbishop Mario Versano gave instructions that he was not to be interrupted. Then he sat behind his desk and for the next hour smoked a series of Marlboros and exercised his considerable intellect. In spite of his happy-go-lucky appearance, the desk was remarkably neat. A telephone console close to his right hand; filing trays on the left; neat stacks of paper to the front; a solid silver Dunhill table lighter exactly centred. On the walls were framed and signed photographs of leading personalities from the banking, diplomatic, ecclesiastical and even showbusiness worlds. Some - in the banking section - had been taken down in the light of continuing investigation by authorities outside the Vatican, but Versano did not feel touched by that. He had tilted his chair on to two legs and was resting his broad back against the wall. After an hour he tipped his chair forward, reached for the lighter, lit another cigarette and punched a button on his telephone console.

  There came the tinny voice of his very private personal secretary. The one who knew almost all the secrets.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace?’

  ‘Is the Bacon Priest still in town?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace, he is at the Collegio Russico. He leaves for Amsterdam in the morning.’

  ‘Good. Get him on the line for me.’

  A short pause, then Versano said heartily, ‘Pieter, Mario Versano. When did you last eat at L’Eau Vive?’

  ‘Too long ago, my young friend. I’m just a poor priest, you know.’

  Versano’s answering laugh was conspiratorial.

  ‘Nine o’clock tonight then, in the back room.’

  He hung up and summoned his secretary, a pale thin priest with spectacles thick enough for a telescope. Brusquely Versano ordered, ‘Book the back room at L’Eau Vive for tonight. And tell Ciban that I would deem it a favour if he would have the entire restaurant carefully “swept” this afternoon.’

  The secretary made a note and then said diffidently, ‘It’s very short notice, Your Grace. What if the room is already booked . . . by a Cardinal, say?’

  Versano smiled broadly. ‘Speak to Sister Maria personally. Tell her that no one, apart from His Holiness himself, will be more important than my guests.’

  The secretary nodded and left. Versano reached for a fresh Marlboro, lit it, dragged appreciatively and then made one more phone call and issued one more invitation. Then he tilted his chair, rested his back against the wall and sighed contentedly.

  Chapter 2

  It was raining lightly but Father Pieter Van Burgh left his taxi near the Pantheon and walked the last few hundred yards. Habits die hard, especially when they protect a life. He pulled his cloak around him and hurried down the narrow Via Monterone. It was a cold night and there were few people on the street. With a quick backward look he ducked into the recessed doorway.

  It was brightly lit; not at all plush. At first an ordinary looking restaurant. But his cloak was taken by a tall black girl dressed in a long batik gown; she wore a gold crucifix at her neck. The priest knew that she was a nun, as were all the serving girls. They came from a French missionary order that worked in West Africa.

  Another woman bustled up. She also wore a long dress but in a soft white cloth. She was older and white. Her face held a look of studied piety. The priest remembered her from a previous visit years before as Sister Maria, who ran the restaurant with fierce discipline. She did not remember him.

  ‘Do you have a reservation, Father?’

  ‘I am expected, Sister Maria. Father Van Burgh.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ She was immediately deferential. ‘Follow me, Father.’

  He followed her through an extraordinary restaurant. Although open to
the public, lay customers were rare. Almost one hundred per cent of the clientèle were from the clergy or from people close to the clergy. Van Burgh noticed that it was practically full. He recognised several diners: a Bishop from Nigeria, his ebony face glistening in the warm atmosphere, dining with the editor of L’Osservatore Romano. A Curia Bishop deep in conversation with an official of Vatican Radio. In one corner stood a large plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Sister Maria drew aside a red velvet curtain, opened a varnished door and ushered him in. The contrast was immediate.

  The walls of the room were hung with rich tapestry. The deep carpet was ruby red. The single table covered by a cream damask tablecloth. Candlelight glistened on silver and crystal and the faces of the two seated men. Versano wore the simple cassock of a parish priest. The other guest was resplendent in purple Cardinal’s robes of a quality that Van Burgh knew could only come from the House of Gammarelli - Papal tailors for two centuries. He recognised the pinched ascetic face: the newly elected Cardinal Angelo Mennini. The Cardinal was known as one of the shrewdest and most intelligent men in Rome. His Order, which had missionaries and influence all over the world, made him one of the most powerful and well-informed as well. Van Burgh had only met him once briefly many years before, but he well knew his reputation.

  Both men rose. Van Burgh deferentially kissed the Cardinal’s proffered ring and then heartily shook Versano’s hand. He had heard all the rumours and believed some of them, but he instinctively liked the giant American.

  Versano pulled out a chair for him and they all sat. Close to the Archbishop’s right hand was a drinks trolley.

  ‘Apéritif?’ he asked.