Strange Gods

by Peter J. Daly

  “Of course the Lord forgives you,” said Mario, “but I’m not sure about our mothers.” They smiled.

  “Si, Mario. Remember when we stole the biscotti from my mother’s kitchen? Mama chased us all the way down the hill. We ran to the top of the cliff overlooking the Bay of Naples and ate the cookies there.”

  Mario began to cry. “They were the best cookies ever, weren’t they, Paolo?”

  The pope smiled and reached out to embrace his friend, causing the cup of tea to slip from Mario’s hands and fall to the floor. Mario reached out to return the embrace, as the old man slumped over into his arms. The Bishop of Rome was dead.

  Everyone dies the same way. In the end, it is not the offices held or the honors accumulated that matter. In the end, it is love that matters. It is the little intimate memories of personal moments that really matter.

  Holding his dead friend, Mario was filled with memories and yearning for days long gone. “Paolo, we should never have left the village.”

  The EMTs carefully lifted the pope’s body into his bed.

  Cardinal Crepi’s cell phone rang. As the camerlengo, the cardinal chamberlain, of the papal household, by tradition, Crepi had a central role in the ritual of a pope’s death. His first duty was to declare the pope dead. Crepi came running, as much as his girth and age allowed, arriving breathless at the papal bedroom door.

  Tradition took over.

  The camerlengo no longer tapped the pope on the head with a silver hammer three times, as they once did, to ascertain whether he was dead. But he did place a fazoletto, a handkerchief, over the pope’s face and called to him three times by his baptismal name. “Paolo, Paolo, Paolo.” There was no response.

  Other cardinals and high-ranking prelates began to arrive. Crepi then declared the pope dead and called the Vicar of Rome, the bishop who runs the daily activity of the diocese of Rome.

  A hammer was now brought. Crepi removed the Fisherman’s Ring from the pope’s finger and smashed the seal to symbolize the end of his reign.

  Once the pope’s body was removed to the Vatican morgue, Crepi ordered everyone out of the papal apartments. The rooms were locked, and Crepi affixed a seal to the door. He did this to secure the pope’s personal things. In the past, the looting of the papal apartments was a common practice.

  The pope’s death was an electric shock to the employees of the Vatican and around the world. The Holy See is a monarchy. In some ways it is a dictatorship. All the power is vested in one man. When the pope dies, it is like an earthquake in that tiny kingdom.

  By custom, mourning would last for nine days, the novem dies. Cardinals from around the world would assemble. The little hotel in the Vatican, the Casa Santa Marta, would be vacated so that the 120 cardinal electors could be housed together.

  By Church law, the conclave was to begin fifteen days after the death of the pope. Conclave means with key. Since the thirteenth century, the cardinals have been locked up for their deliberations, not so much for secrecy as to force them to make a decision on the successor.

  * * *

  Cardinal Crepi realized that he had only fifteen days to consolidate his position with the other cardinal electors. He had to maneuver to secure a sympathetic successor onto the Throne of Peter.

  Crepi’s plan was to protect himself by protecting the power of the Roman Curia and his own position in it. To do that, he needed to freeze out any outsider cardinals, not just the progressives, but all outsiders. Nothing must change, he thought. Nothing must change.

  The greatest danger to men like Crepi was not the political left or right, but the radical extremist groups, like the Soldados. They would mount a takeover of the Vatican Curia and put all their own people in every position of power and authority. Marcelino may have been in prison, but his éminence grise, Cardinal Mendoza, was free to move about. If the Soldados took over, they would be in charge, and Crepi and his crowd would be out.

  Eventually, Crepi wanted to retire with his wealth. But for now, he wanted to protect his position and himself. To accomplish all this, he needed allies, especially Salazar.

  Crepi called Salazar on is his cell phone. “Julio, il papa e morto. Dobiamo parlare.”

  18

  IT IS FINISHED

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, THE DAY AFTER THE POPE DIED, Nate boarded a tram to the church of San Lorenzo, “outside the walls” near Piazza Risorgimento. Rome still has a few decrepit, dark green, pre–World War II trams in service. They are slow and uncomfortable, but the city keeps them around for movie shoots. Tourists love them, but the Romans hate them.

  The winding ride out to San Lorenzo gave Nate some time to think. Ackerman had called Nate from a borrowed cell phone, asking for a meeting. The monsignor sounded desperate.

  Ackerman had told Nate that he feared going home to his rooms at the Villa Stritch, so he was staying in a friend’s apartment near the University of Rome, La Sapienzia. “He’s away on vacation,” said Ackerman. “I had to beg him for the key. I’m feeding his cat for a few days. He lives just down the Viale Regina Elena from San Lorenzo.

  “I need to meet with you right now,” Ackerman breathed into the phone to Nate. “It’s a matter of life and death. We can’t meet at my office, or anywhere near the Vatican. We will be seen. Meet me at 10:00 a.m. in the cloister near the sacristy of the Church of San Lorenzo. It’s near the big cemetery, Campo Verano. Take the tram.”

  San Lorenzo is one of the seven pilgrimage churches of Rome, but it is probably the least visited. When Romans say something is “fuori le mura,” they mean outside the old city walls built by Emperor Aurelian in the third century. Romans have a long frame of reference.

  In ancient Rome, cemeteries had to be located outside the city walls. The church of San Lorenzo is at the gate of the largest cemetery of Rome, Campo Verano. This “summer field” is a giant city of the dead, peppered with the elaborate tombs that the Italians love. Because of it, San Lorenzo has become the funeral church of Rome.

  The church itself is an odd hybrid. In fact, it is really two churches grafted onto each other. The first one, erected over the tomb of St. Lawrence the Martyr, was built by Emperor Constantine in 330. The second was built in the 400s. Sometime in the early 1200s they were joined, and a medieval bell tower and front porch were added. It makes for an odd-looking building.

  During World War II, San Lorenzo was the only church in Rome that sustained serious damage from Allied bombs. It was rebuilt after the war. Just outside the restored church stands a statue of Pope Pius XII, pleading to the heavens to stop the bombs.

  Nate hopped off the tram as it pulled into the piazza in front of San Lorenzo. Not very impressive, he observed as he looked at the church. He chuckled to himself at the thought of what an “expert” he had become on all things Italian, after only two weeks in Rome.

  Luigi Barzini, the famous Italian journalist, once observed that after only two weeks in Italy, Americans think they understand everything, but after two years they are sure that they understand nothing.

  Nate crossed the piazza to the front porch of the church. A funeral was just getting started. There was a hysterical scene around a Mercedes hearse. A black-clad widow threw herself on the coffin, sobbing. The mourners gathered around, beating their breasts and crying. As Nate slipped through the side door to the right, he thought of something he had read in a guidebook: “When you live in Rome, you don’t live in a city; you live on the stage of an opera.”

  Once inside the church, it took Nate a few seconds to get oriented. Light entered the building from the upper-story windows, but down below it was dim and cool.

  Ackerman had chosen well. Apart from the mourners at the door, there was nobody around.

  Nate walked down the side aisle to the sacristy. As an altar boy, he had learned the layout of churches. Sure enough, the sacristy, where priests vest for Mass, was in front by the altar. It was a large room with cabinets along one side and a huge vesting table. He found himself alone in the room.

&nb
sp; Nate paused for a minute. He thought, I wish I were wearing a wire. Then it occurred to him that his smartphone was also capable of recording. He slowed his steps as he entered the sacristy and set the phone to record. Then he continued toward the open door at the far end of the sacristy, which led out to the enclosed cloister of the Franciscan friars, who staffed the church.

  He found himself in a lovely, walled courtyard. On his right, as he entered the garden, were pieces of ancient Roman ruins plastered into the wall. The ruins had been found around the church buildings. The cloister was enclosed by the two-story convent. A barrel-vaulted colonnade surrounded a formal garden with roses and a little fountain.

  On the far side of the courtyard, away from the sacristy, Nate saw Matt Ackerman, partially hidden in the shadow of an arch. He was not dressed as a priest. Ackerman looked like any tourist in slacks and a polo shirt.

  “Hello, Monsignor,” said Nate. “You certainly picked a location with atmosphere.”

  “Yes,” said Ackerman. “Nothing like a necropolis to focus one’s mind on the shortness of life.”

  “Why are you thinking about the shortness of life?” asked Nate.

  “My life is in danger,” said Ackerman. “You have to call off this investigation. The pope is dead now. You don’t have a mandate anymore. If you keep on with this investigation, you may uncover things you don’t want to know about the Church. You will almost certainly get more people killed. And you will most certainly get me killed.” When people are scared, they talk. Ackerman was clearly scared.

  Nate saw an opening. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Why will I get you killed?”

  “Stop playing coy,” snapped Ackerman. “I know you were at the bar. You talked to Stefano, the bartender, and to Donato, the monsignor from the bank. Stefano told me.”

  Nate was a bit taken aback by Ackerman’s anger. “Sure, I was there,” he said to Ackerman. “It’s part of the investigation.”

  “Well, then, you should know what’s been going on,” continued Ackerman. “Cardinals Crepi and Salazar have been laundering money for the Mafia, and the Latin drug cartels have been laundering money through the Vatican Bank. Donato was the bag man. I know he’s talked to you.”

  “Will you testify to that at trial?” asked Nate.

  “If I do, I’m a dead man,” said Ackerman.

  “People have been killed for less. With Crepi in charge of the bank and Salazar going back and forth to Colombia all the time on a diplomatic passport, they could protect the mob from anyone, except maybe a new pope or a nosy reporter.

  “Crepi and Salazar knew this pope would not last long. If he died, the music might stop. So they began eliminating any cardinals who would not be well disposed to their ‘arrangements.’” Ackerman made little air quotations with his fingers around arrangements.

  “Murder seems a high price to pay for money laundering,” said Nate, prodding Ackerman to say more.

  “It was cheap,” said Ackerman. “Especially for Salazar and Crepi. The mob owned them.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Nate.

  “Scandal,” said Ackerman. “The Church is all about appearances. The mob knew something about Crepi and Salazar that they didn’t want public. It was not your everyday scandal. It was something far worse, I guess. I don’t know the details. You’re the investigator. You look into it.”

  Ackerman paused to let his revelation about the cardinals sink in, then he started up again. “The Camorra doesn’t care about the Church. They just liked having an in-house bank that is beyond investigation. It was easy for them to convert narco dollars to legitimate currency.”

  “So, how did the mob know who to kill?” asked Nate.

  Ackerman nervously lit a cigarette.

  “Crepi and Salazar, and maybe a few others, gave them the list. At first, it was just about protecting the bank. But then Crepi and Salazar saw an opportunity to settle a few scores within the College of Cardinals and the Church. They could eliminate their enemies. The mob didn’t mind doing a favor or two for their faithful cardinals.” Ackerman took another deep drag of his cigarette. “Those two, Crepi and Salazar, really don’t care about the Church either,” said Ackerman. “They just care about themselves. They’re old men. They just want to die in comfort. Then the whole thing can come crashing down for all they care. But with the pope dead, they may now be out in the cold. They want to be sure that the next occupant of the Chair of Peter is friendly to them.”

  A Franciscan friar walked by and looked at Nate and Ackerman, as if wondering why these two men were engaged in such a long conversation in his garden.

  “Let’s go for a walk in the cemetery,” suggested Ackerman. They went out a side door that led to the Via Verano and the cemetery. Ackerman walked fast. He clearly didn’t want to say any more until they reached an area where the tombs were close together and the shade trees provided cover.

  Once they reached the tombs, Nate asked, “So, where do you come in?”

  “I was the messenger. I didn’t even know it at first. I communicated with the Camorra by way of the bar. I took messages to Stefano. Sometimes, I met a journalist at the bar who wrote articles in Panoramio. Stefano set up the meetings for me. At first I thought I was just serving as a leak for articles that would go after the liberals in the Church. But eventually, I figured out Crepi and Salazar’s interest. In one article I talked to Panoramio about how I think that any cardinal that Crepi and Salazar told me to identify as papabile became a target. I guess I was fingering targets for those two scumbag cardinals.”

  “Why are you telling this to me now?” asked Nate. “You know that this information could be used against you.”

  “You’ve got to help me,” said Ackerman. “I’m a dead man if all this comes out. Call off the investigation, or at least get me some protection.”

  “I can’t let it go,” said Nate. “I have a mandate from the pope, even if he is dead. I also have an obligation to the truth. I’m an officer of the court in the States. This money laundering is mostly US currency. It’s a crime back home. I can’t just walk away from this evidence. You decided to be a part of this scheme. That’s not my fault. People are dead because of you, Monsignor.”

  Ackerman seemed tired. They walked over to a bench in a shadowed area of the cemetery and sat down. Ackerman lit another cigarette, chain-smoking his nerves away.

  Nate felt a surge of anger. Like most believers, he had never really examined his faith or questioned the Church. This past couple of weeks had challenged his most basic beliefs about the Church and its goodness. He felt betrayed by what he had learned.

  “Let me ask you something,” Nate said to Ackerman. “How did this happen? How did you get involved in all of this shit? You’re supposed to be a priest, a moral example. Look at yourself. You’re laundering money. You’re a messenger for the mob. You’re hanging out in gay bars, drinking yourself to death. What kind of priest are you?”

  “You don’t think I know what I’ve become?” said Ackerman. “That’s why I drink. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand myself.”

  “But why?” asked Nate more insistently. “Why do it in the first place?” Still feeling the fury. This was not just an investigation. This was personal. The investigator in him wanted the truth; the Catholic in him wanted an apology, an explanation, some justification for the betrayal of a lifetime of trust.

  “I don’t know,” said Ackerman. “Boredom, maybe. No, not boredom. Really, it was more like anger, maybe self-pity. I don’t know. But it all seemed better than nothing.”

  Nate snorted in disgust. But he knew he needed to keep Ackerman talking, to record as much as he could for the sake of the investigation. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice as he said, “Tell me more.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Ackerman continued. “I didn’t start out this way. I came here an innocent kid from the Midwest, full of idealism about the Church, about life. I wanted to be a great priest and a holy man. I wanted to be
somebody my mother would be proud of.”

  “You mean you couldn’t tell her you were gay?” asked Nate.

  “It’s not that simple,” said Ackerman. “She probably knew. Lots of priests are gay. The problem is not being gay. The problem is being celibate. Celibacy turns us all into liars. Gay or straight, we all have to pretend that we don’t need human love. The whole thing is built on mendacity.” He repeated the word again, as if contemplating it. “Mendacity.

  “Lies! Lies!” yelled the priest.

  Nate was startled by the priest’s shout.

  “When I applied to the seminary, the vocation director told me not to tell anyone I was gay. I had to rewrite my biography essay, so that I basically lied about myself. I said I had a normal dating life, which was nonsense. I have never even been on a normal date.

  “The vocation director wanted vocations. The truth was a small price to pay to keep the bishop happy. Get warm bodies into the seminary. That was the goal. They didn’t care if I lied.” He crushed out another cigarette. “Once I got to the seminary in Rome, I discovered that keeping up appearances was a way of life. We pretended we were celibate. We also pretended we were happy when, in fact, we were really lonely as hell.” Ackerman wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Then he continued. “Why do you think so many bishops had no problem covering up the pedophiles? It was easy for them. They were already experts in mendacity.”

  “Don’t you think you’re making too big a deal out of this?” asked Nate. “Lots of people are celibate.”

  “It’s not about sex,” Ackerman snapped back. “It’s about love. I missed love. That’s the whole point of life, and I missed it.”

  Now Ackerman was almost talking to himself.

  “The Church wants me to love a God I cannot see, but I was never supposed to love a person I could see. I never in my whole life said I love you to any living person, except my mother. And nobody, but my mother, ever said it back to me,” said Ackerman quietly. “I hardly ever even said it to her either.” He wasn’t angry, just reflective.