Strange Gods
Page 6
Their Lincoln headed down leafy Foxhall Road, toward the Kennedy Center, for a performance of Rigoletto. It was Bill Tracy’s favorite opera, full of intrigue and sudden death. It was just the sort of thing to entertain the former head of the CIA.
5
THE NUNCIATURE ENCOUNTER
NATE AND BRIGID CLIMBED INTO A CAB UNDER THE CANOPY at the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown. It was only a ten-minute ride to the Vatican Embassy, where they would meet up with the Tracys.
Superficially, the Condons and the Tracys were identical couples. Both were Irish Catholic. Both were educated in the Catholic Ivies—Boston College, Holy Cross, Georgetown, and Fordham. Both had money. Both were confident and attractive.
The men were both secretive and clannish. For them, religion was part of being in “the club.” They played by the rules and enjoyed the perks. They had never challenged the Church much, and it returned the favor by not challenging them.
The women, however, were different. The generation that separated them also defined them.
Peggy Tracy was raised on St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, “Wives be subordinate to your husbands.” She saw herself playing a supporting role to Bill. Advancing his career was her work, too.
Brigid Condon, on the other hand, was her own woman. She was attractive, like Peggy, exuding a tennis-club sort of athleticism. Her natural beauty was complemented by an easy, charming smile.
But unlike Peggy, she was not content to be the second sex. Brigid had read The Feminine Mystique in Women’s Studies in college. Her favorite women authors were more contemporary, Nora Ephron and Anne Tyler. Like Hillary and Bill Clinton, Brigid and Nate Condon had gone to law school together. Again like Hillary, Brigid was the better student. She was the note editor on the law review at Georgetown. She outranked Nate and edited his articles for the review. In professional life and achievement, Brigid was not the sidecar on Nate’s motorcycle.
The Catholic Church was a comfort to Peggy Tracy. To Brigid it was more of a challenge, or perhaps an obstacle. Brigid admired the few nuns who had taught her and the few female saints she knew about, but she chafed against the medieval patriarchy of the Church. For women like Brigid, the Church was irrelevant and insulting.
Nowhere else in Brigid’s world were women so completely excluded from any significant discussion or decision-making. Nowhere else were they treated as unworthy. To her generation, the Catholic Church seemed like an old boys’ club, with emphasis on the old. Independent nuns were censured. Women theologians were silenced. Women’s experience—especially with regard to the pelvic issues like birth control, sex, and abortion—was completely discounted.
Brigid and her friends had no desire to be ordained priests, but they resented that women could not be. Evidently the Church thought menstrual blood had rendered them ritually impure, like some Old Testament taboo.
So, while Peggy Tracy was thrilled to be going to the Nunciature, Brigid Condon wasn’t.
* * *
The ten-minute ride from Georgetown to the Nunciature gave Nate a chance to fill Brigid in on the reason for their attendance at the reception. Since they had come down to Washington on separate trains, they had not had a chance to discuss the evening.
“Officially, it is a fund-raiser for the Papal Foundation,” said Nate. “It raises money for the pope’s charities. The Vatican has a party every year in the States to prime the money pump.”
“Like the pope needs money!” said Brigid.
“Don’t start,” said Nate. “The Church is one of the largest private charities in the world. They need money.”
“Of course they are,” said Brigid. “But they need to do a little charity to make themselves look good.”
“That’s pretty cynical,” said Nate.
“Maybe,” said Brigid, “but it seems like the sale of a few museum artifacts would raise more money than a cocktail party.”
The lawyer in Brigid was warming to the debate. “I don’t see the cardinals and bishops in Port au Prince feeding the poor. They leave that for the nuns.”
Nate could see that rebuttal would do no good. He glanced at the rearview mirror to see if the driver was paying attention to their conversation. He looked bored, so Nate figured he could tell Brigid a little more about the real reason for their trip.
“Actually, we are here tonight to meet Cardinal O’Toole. He is the top American in the Vatican. That’s the guy Tracy told me about on the phone.” Nate lowered his voice and added, “He wants to talk to me about investigating Cardinal Manning’s death.”
Nate looked at the driver again nervously. “Everybody is tense after what happened this week.” His voice trailed off.
“Are the CIA and the Vatican working together?” Brigid whispered, half-serious and half-sarcastic.
The cab pulled into the circular drive in front of the Vatican Embassy. Paying the driver allowed Nate to suspend the conversation before it got testy. They climbed out of the air-conditioned car into a muggy Washington evening.
Brigid looked up at the gold and white Vatican flag flying over the entrance with its three-tiered tiara of the popes and the crossed keys of the See of Peter, symbols of the power to bind and loose sins in the name of Christ.
“Nice place they have here,” said Brigid.
It was nice. The Vatican’s embassy is gray stone in the Palladian style. It is part of a line of vaguely similar gray stone embassies along one side of Massachusetts Avenue, Washington’s Embassy Row.
Directly across the street is the park-like campus of the Naval Observatory, with two huge old anchors at the entrance. On its grounds is the official residence of the vice president of the United States. Uniformed Secret Service police cars are always parked near the vice president’s gate. Following the Manning assassination, there was heightened security on Massachusetts Avenue. Police were everywhere.
Officially, the Vatican Embassy is called the Apostolic Nunciature, a corruption of the Old Italian word nuntius, or messenger. The Palladian mansion in front of Brigid and Nate was part of a grand illusion, sort of like a Hollywood set. The Vatican’s pretensions to being a country are all a façade. Nation-state status is the last echo of the Papal States that ruled most of Italy for more than 1,000 years.
The tiny fortress of the Vatican, about the size of a golf course, would not exist as a country at all if not for Benito Mussolini. In 1929, the Italian fascist dictator needed to make peace with the Catholic Church in order to consolidate his grip on Italy. The Lateran Concordat was signed in the Lateran Palace, the onetime home of popes and Roman emperors. Mussolini recognized the postage-stamp sovereign country. In exchange, the Church dropped its territorial claims to Italy.
The hierarchy loves their little Potemkin village. It makes them princes and lords. It allows bishops to pose as ambassadors among the great nations. They not only render unto Caesar, they have become Caesar, or at least a little Caesar.
Brigid and Nate knew little of this history as they walked up the three steps to the front door of the Nunciature. Most American Catholics don’t realize that the United States and the Vatican have had a rocky relationship over the years.
For most of its history, the United States had no official relations with the Holy See. The nineteenth-century Know-Nothing Party raged and rioted against papist immigrants. To them, the United States was a Protestant country.
It was only in 1984 that Ronald Reagan established diplomatic relations with the Vatican. Reagan wanted the Church’s help in fighting communism. He also wanted the Church to rein in liberal bishops. John Paul II wanted the same things.
As Nate and Brigid stood on the steps, waiting for the door to open, they saw an elderly man on the sidewalk in front of the embassy. He was wearing a sandwich board sign and was part of a little knot of demonstrators.
One side of his sandwich board said, “The Church lies! Stop child abuse.” On the other side was a picture of a young boy with the caption “I was abused by a priest.”
“That man has been out there forever,” said Brigid. “I remember him from when we were in law school.”
“I think he is a fixture here,” said Nate.
“Let’s go over and talk to him,” said Brigid.
Nate looked at her quizzically. “Dear, I make it my policy not to talk to lunatics in sandwich boards when I’m in black tie,” said Nate rather condescendingly. “I find it only leads to trouble.”
“Oh, the Church of hard hearts,” said Brigid. “That’s why people have to wear sandwich boards. Nobody will talk to them.”
The main door of the embassy opened to reveal the smiling face of an Italian American monsignor, Dominic Petrini. He had the fleshy look of a man who regularly went to embassy parties. His black clerical cassock was stretched tight over him. Around his belly was a sash called a fascia. The red piping around the edges of his cassock may have looked like a bishop’s, but the knowledgeable knew he was not so important. He was only a minor lordship, a monsignor.
Petrini was the kind of priest that Brigid knew from her childhood in a big Italian American parish on Long Island. He was a politician in a collar. His hands were smooth—made for “chalices, not callouses.” He had a nice smile.
He claimed to be a follower of Jesus, but his real religion was epicureanism. He loved the sensual pleasures, especially food. He knew every fine restaurant in Washington. If he hadn’t been a priest, he might have been a chef on a celebrity cooking show.
Brigid took an instant dislike to him. Nate was indifferent.
“Good evening,” said Petrini, beaming at the attractive couple in evening dress. “Welcome to the Nunciature. The reception is at the top of the staircase, in the grand aula.” He used the Italian word for a large room, an insider’s pretension.
“I am Nathaniel Condon. This is my wife, Brigid. Have you seen Director Tracy and his wife? We are supposed to meet them and Cardinal O’Toole here.”
Petrini clapped his hand to his chest dramatically, five lily-white fingers touching his breastbone. “Oh, His Eminence,” he said gushingly, his shoulders rising. “Are you meeting him here? Let me escort you.”
Brigid sensed that Petrini was curious about this attractive couple. He wanted to know what business they might have with Cardinal O’Toole. She also suspected that the monsignor made it his habit to attach himself to beautiful and powerful people, the better to advance his ecclesiastical career.
The three of them headed up the red-carpeted circular staircase. Along the wall to their left were portraits of the past nuncios, or apostolic delegates.
At the top of the stairs, Brigid stopped to look at a portrait of a strikingly handsome cleric.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“Oh,” said Petrini, “that is Monsignor Francisco Satolli, our first apostolic delegate. He was from my hometown of Lucca in Tuscany.”
Petrini did not mention that Satolli bore an uncanny resemblance to Pope Leo XIII. Rumor had it that he was the pope’s son. In any case, he certainly was a favorite of Leo XIII, and that was enough to make him the first Apostolic Delegate to the United States, in 1892. Nate and Brigid passed the portrait and turned toward the reception room. The Tracys were waiting for them near the door.
“Brigid,” said Tracy, “you look ravishing. The Latin ambassadors’ wives will be envious.” That sort of flattery was required at these receptions, and Tracy was good at it.
“Director Tracy,” said Nate, “nice to see you again. Mrs. Tracy, you look lovely.” Peggy nodded appreciatively. Lovely was the sort of word reserved for older women. No longer ravishing, they had to content themselves with lovely.
The two couples entered the reception room. In the receiving line near the windows, they saw four men who were dressed more dramatically than any of the women in the room, no matter how lovely or ravishing. Four cardinals in red watered silk were greeting the guests. It’s hard to outdress a cardinal.
“Which one is O’Toole?” asked Nate.
“The last one,” said Tracy, leading the way to the receiving line.
Brigid, still escorted by Monsignor Petrini, was the last in line of their foursome. It gave her the opportunity to ask Petrini questions.
“Who is the first one?” Brigid whispered to Petrini.
“Cardinal William Kelly, Archbishop of Washington,” Petrini answered.
“How did he get to be archbishop?” asked Brigid.
“He was secretary to the cardinal in Philadelphia,” said Petrini.
“Who is the next one in line?” Brigid whispered.
“That’s Cardinal Lawrence Williams of Baltimore. He was secretary to the former Archbishop of Washington.”
Brigid raised her eyebrows.
“Who’s the next one?” she asked. “And who was he secretary to?”
“That’s Cardinal Baumgartner. He’s retired. He was secretary to the Bishop of Dallas. Then they made him a cardinal.”
Brigid smirked.
“What about the last one?” she asked, nodding her head toward O’Toole.
“That’s Cardinal O’Toole, the Prefect of the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples.”
“How did he get to be a cardinal?” Brigid was enjoying the litany.
“Again, a secretary to a cardinal,” said Petrini. “He worked for the cardinal who was Secretary of State.”
“There is one guy who is not in red. Who is that one?” asked Brigid.
“The Nuncio, Archbishop Lorenzo Cappelletti,” breathed Petrini. Then, without waiting for her to ask, he added, “He was secretary to several archbishops before they made him nuncio to the United States. He will no doubt be a cardinal one day.”
“Are all bishops and cardinals secretaries to bishops first?” asked Brigid innocently.
“Well, yes,” said Monsignor Petrini. “That is pretty much how it works. First a secretary, then a bishop.”
“Not a parish priest?” asked Brigid.
“Oh, no,” said Petrini with mock horror. “We don’t want our bishops contaminated by too much contact with the sheep.” Brigid studied the monsignor’s expression, but she could not tell if he was serious or not.
The Tracys and the Condons made their way down the receiving line. When Tracy came to O’Toole, he said, “Your Eminence, this is the man I told you about, Nate Condon. I’m sure you remember his dad, Brendan, from the Boston Fire Department. Their family lived in St. Catherine’s in Charlestown. This is Nate’s wife, Brigid. And you remember my wife, Peggy.”
“Eminence,” said Nate, with a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. The last time I saw you was years ago. I was an altar boy at the funeral of Tommy Fitzpatrick.”
“Oh, yes,” said O’Toole, “I remember. That young man’s death was a terrible tragedy. He committed suicide, as I remember.”
“He was the son of my father’s best friend,” said Nate. Nothing bonds two Irishmen like a shared memory of death.
O’Toole shook hands and exchanged the obligatory pleasantries with the wives, then he leaned in close and said to Bill and Nate, “We’ll meet in the visiting parlor over there, as soon as I’m done here with the grip-and-grin.” He nodded his head toward a set of double doors at the end of the reception room.
“OK,” said Tracy. The foursome moved on, passing through the doors to a small sitting room. It was decorated with the formality of a funeral parlor, with four leather chairs arranged around a large coffee table of inlaid wood.
Monsignor Petrini stayed with them. The priest hailed a passing waiter, and they each accepted a wine glass filled with pinot grigio. They took their seats. Petrini stood nearby, like a valet in waiting.
After a few minutes, O’Toole entered the room
in a rustle of silk. They all stood. It was immediately apparent that there were not enough chairs for the two couples and the cardinal.
Still standing, O’Toole said to the wives, “Would you ladies please excuse us?”
“Yes, of course,” said Peggy Tracy immediately. She was used to being excluded. But Brigid looked a little stunned and said with a touch of sarcasm, “We probably won’t understand anyway.”
Nate glared at her. The ladies went back to the reception room, followed by Petrini, who closed the doors.
When they were in the next room, Brigid said, “Isn’t it just like the Church? When there is something serious to discuss, the women are excused.”
“Oh, well,” said Peggy, “I’d rather talk to Father Murphy from the Soldados. He has such a charming Irish brogue. He’s over there by the buffet table. Come on, I’ll introduce you. I went on a retreat with him last year. He was brilliant.”
Peggy took Brigid by the arm and led her off across the reception room to speak to a dark-haired young Irish priest in a Roman collar so stiff it looked like it would choke him.
* * *
Back in the sitting room, O’Toole wasted no time with small talk. He pulled the three men into a seated huddle around the coffee table.
“Mr. Condon,” said the cardinal, “the Church is in crisis and needs a favor. Someone appears to be killing cardinals. We have six dead all around the globe, counting Cardinal Manning earlier this week. We are not sure they have all been murdered, but they certainly all died under surprising circumstances. I have a special interest in this, since I could be next.” He chuckled nervously at his macabre admission.
“Perhaps someone is trying to narrow the choices for the next pope. Or, perhaps, some group has a vendetta against the Church. We just don’t know. But we need to.”
O’Toole paused and took a deep breath. “By custom, Vatican officials are not supposed to speak of the Holy Father’s death, but the laws of nature tell us that it won’t be long until a new man is chosen. Maybe someone is trying to position themselves for the next conclave.