Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “You don’t know him. I thought for years that he was in love with me, and that I controlled the situation with my barriers. How fatuous of me! I think he read me like a book all along. I thought I was using him, but all the while he was really using me.”

  “How was he using you?”

  “If my suspicions are correct, I think it gave him a sort of perverse pleasure to have the widow of the man he had murdered as a devoted member of his following.”

  “Could he be that depraved?”

  “If you had seen Stefano’s body. . . what they did to him. Whoever was responsible for that was depraved.”

  “But why would he desire your company? What purpose would it serve?”

  “I’m a constant reminder to him that he is utterly clever and utterly safe.”

  “Does he know that you and I have been communicating?”

  “He knows about it. But he doesn’t know the substance of our conversations. Nor does he suspect anything about my new awareness. He thinks I’m a loyal camp-follower, of course a high-class one. You must understand that eventually every loyal subject of his is rewarded. He threw me a great prize. It was he who arranged that I move from the Italian Supreme Court to the World Court.”

  “Has he asked anything in return?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “It concerns you.”

  “Me?”

  “On the night before I first met you, he told me about a priest who would be attending the party, a man who had recently arrived from Israel, whom the Vatican was using as an envoy. He said that the priest was a person who many years ago had been—how did he put it—groomed as a key player in the reshaping of the West.”

  “That is untrue.”

  “He said you had backed out and disappeared from public life. He didn’t explain why. He said that he wished to make certain overtures to you, to invite you back into our sphere of activity. He thought, however, that because of your simplistic religious tendencies, it wouldn’t be easy to win you to our side. Our side, he called it. He suggested that if I were to get close to you, I would be able to make you understand the greatness of his vision. I asked him how he thought I should do that. He suggested in the most tactful language imaginable, that you were a man with an unresolved doubt, a weakness that lingered in your personality due to the horrible experiences you had suffered during the War. He told me that some human contact would reassure you of the benevolence of our vision of human destiny. You would gradually come to see that we are not a threat to the Church, that we are people of good will, and that we have the ultimate welfare of mankind at heart. It was all very high-minded.”

  “He directed you to win my heart.”

  “Yes, to win your heart for the cause.”

  “And to do it by winning my heart to you personally?”

  “I’m afraid that’s so.”

  “I see. That’s why the uncanny seating arrangements at the dinners.”

  “Correct.”

  “Didn’t you feel insulted by such a suggestion?”

  “It was a mission undertaken with the highest motives.”

  “Yet his message was clear.”

  “Absolutely. He knows I’m not stupid. Beneath the subtle language, he was asking me to make you fall in love with me.”

  “And what did you think of that?”

  “I thought it was despicable and absurd, but I didn’t let on to him what I felt. I led him to believe that I would do as he wished because I believed in the cause.”

  “Do you believe in the cause?”

  “You know very well that I have reservations about their agenda.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “He knows it now, because of my second talk at Warsaw. But many of his supporters have doubts about this or that detail of the Plan—that’s what they call it among themselves. It’s not uncommon for them to have disagreements about strategies and minor points in their philosophy. He likes to create the impression of open dialogue. But he always wins. He can convince anyone of anything. My little rebellion didn’t worry him in the least. I expect it reassured him that I think I’m a free agent. That’s what he wants me to believe, you see.”

  “It sounds very convoluted.”

  “It’s not as convoluted as it seems. If I were a perfect robot, he would be suspicious. So you see, my minor ideological disloyalty isn’t a major problem.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  “He doesn’t realize that I now hold a map to the structure of the maze. It no longer deludes me; I no longer wander aimlessly in it.”

  “But tell me, why did you go along with what he wanted?”

  “I thought it would be a way of moving farther in toward the core of his activities, and thereby entering many doors that were closed to me. Behind one of those many doors I might eventually find out who had killed Stefano.”

  “That is a dangerous game, Anna.”

  “What do I have to lose?”

  Elijah did not tell her what she had to lose. Her life? Gianna? Marco?

  “So, now that I’ve told you, do you despise me?”

  “No.”

  “I have tried to be candid. If you’re offended, please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “I went through the motions. I was at the right place at the right time. But you know I did nothing to encourage. . .”

  “You did nothing to encourage a romance.”

  “Even so. . .”

  “Even so. You have read my heart.”

  “That’s the one thing I didn’t expect. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to happen.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “And when all is said and done, nothing has happened.”

  He nodded and looked down into his hands.

  She got up and went over to the cupboard and got out two glasses.

  “Do you want wine?”

  “No.”

  “Is the conversation over? I would understand if you never want to see me again. I will ask Marco to drive you back to Rome tonight if you wish.”

  He looked up and smiled at her. “No. It’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry you’re lonely. I’m sorry you lost your Ruth.”

  “I’m sorry you lost Stefano.”

  They sat in silence for a time, listening to the wood crackle in the stove.

  “What was she like?”

  “You would have liked her. You would have been friends.”

  He told her some of the best things about Ruth.

  “She sounds a very fine person. I know I would have liked her.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “There isn’t much more to say, is there?”

  “Nothing, and everything.”

  “I’m glad you have your faith.”

  “I wish you understood it better. It’s not a crutch. It’s the greatest adventure of all.”

  “It’s a hard time for Catholics.”

  “A time for courage.”

  “You’re going to need a lot of that. There’s more trouble coming. I hope you’ll let me remain your friend. I can keep my eyes and ears open. I could let you know about things.”

  “I don’t think you should. If what you have told me is correct, you are in dangerous company.”

  “That doesn’t matter to me. I’m not afraid.”

  “I’m afraid for you. I think you should get out. Leave them, Anna. Now.”

  “I can’t. I can’t for Stefano’s sake, and for my own sake. I’m going in as far as I can. I’m going to find out.”

  “Leave it be. God may have other designs on this man. We hope to call him out of darkness. In the end, he may open the doors of his own volition.”

  She looked at him with pity.

  “Elijah, you don’t understand them.”

  “It’s my hope to speak to his heart and call him out, as once I was led out.”

  “You are naïve. They know all about your plans.”
<
br />   “Our plans are simple and direct. What is there to know?”

  “They know, for example, that you and someone in the Vatican have been communicating all year about people they have planted in the Curia.”

  “They do? What people?”

  “I don’t know names. I don’t know what it means, but I think I learned something that could be useful. I was present at a party a few weeks ago during which the President and a few of his close advisers were chatting nearby. I was busy talking with the organizers of an art show in Venice. When I heard someone whisper the name Schäfer, I listened with one ear. Then someone mentioned the Dead Sea. They were laughing over it. They didn’t suspect I had overheard that pun in Warsaw about the Dead See of Rome. They thought they could discuss the Church in code words, and anyone overhearing them would be none the wiser. The room was full of people. There were all kinds of conversations going on at once, and they made the mistake of thinking no one would have the slightest idea what they were discussing.

  “Because of your talk at Warsaw, they now realize you are an orthodox priest and that it would be virtually impossible to change you. They have dismissed our hypothetical romance as a tactic that came to nothing. They were discussing other strategies. They talked as if you and certain people at the Vatican were little boys playing at spies. They talked about how you and someone else—someone they called the gardener—were plotting a big counter-intelligence operation and how it would fail. The President thought you should be left to run on with your scheme for a time, because he found it amusing to watch it. There were allusions to so many things, I can’t remember it all now. Something about an Englishman. China. Vietnam. Roses. Most of it made no sense to me.”

  “They used the word gardener?”

  “Yes. Who is he?”

  He stared at her, and his heart beat faster.

  “Anna, will you take a walk with me? I need some fresh air.”

  “All right.”

  They went down the lane under the stars.

  His night vision was not good and he stumbled. She took his arm, and they went on like that until they reached the paved road. They turned and proceeded along it toward the north.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “We must keep walking.”

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “You have just given me a devastating piece of information. They know our plans. They know everything. Our efforts to evade their surveillance have failed.”

  “Surveillance? Maybe someone told them about your plans.”

  “As far as I know, only a handful of people have any knowledge about my mission.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The Pope, the Secretary of State, the prefect for Doctrine, Don Matteo, and myself.”

  “Then how would they. . .?”

  “Anna, how safe is the farmhouse?”

  “Safe?”

  “Is it possible they could have planted electronic devices here, in order to listen to your conversations?”

  “Very unlikely.”

  “Are you sure, because if you are not sure, you are in extreme danger. They may have heard everything we discussed this weekend.”

  “You needn’t fear that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because someone has already bugged my offices. It’s been going on for the past two years. I know all about it.”

  “Who is doing it?”

  “At first I thought it was Italian politics. Marxists perhaps, or fascists. Organized crime. Or some other radical on the playing field. I left the bugs in place.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “When it struck me that the source could be closer than I had previously suspected, I realized that it would be better for them to think they know my every move.”

  “But what about the farm?”

  “It’s the one place I keep sacrosanct. I’m seldom here, and they know it’s a place I would never use for business or for matters that would be of interest to them. I’m sure they could only listen to so much of Gianna’s musings and Marco’s accounts of his athletic prowess. Besides, I’ve taken precautions.”

  “What sort of precautions?”

  “One of Stefano’s brothers owns a security company in Milan. He has no love for the President. He won’t say why, he says only that Stefano didn’t trust him so why should he. He has often urged me to leave that circle, so I think there is no danger he would ever be compromised. Every year, just before I arrive for my holidays, he goes through the house, inch by inch, literally. The floors, the attic, the rafters, the underside of cupboards, pin holes in the walls, the flower beds, the cracks in the stucco outside. He has special equipment. It takes about two days to cover it all. He times it so that I arrive just as he’s finishing up. He’s very good at his job. He’s never found anything here.”

  “Has he checked your automobile?”

  “Yes. He found a bug last year. We didn’t touch it. We just parked the car in Milan, and his son loaned me his old wreck for the week. Usually I fly into Rome, and I have made a habit of renting a car at the airport. I select one at random from the lot.”

  “I hope for your sake he hasn’t missed anything.”

  “I’m sure we’re safe for the time being.”

  They turned around and went back to the house.

  She stoked the kitchen fire again. They made futile attempts at light conversation. They could not shake their uneasiness.

  “Paranoia is a deadly virus”, Elijah said looking around at the walls.

  Anna caught his eye.

  “Sometimes even paranoiacs get persecuted”, she said, smiling drolly.

  They laughed.

  He told her that he was very tired from the previous night and from his hike up the mountain.

  “I am an old man. I need rest.”

  She made him lie down on the parlor sofa and draped a crocheted cover over him. There was an ancient victrola in the corner of the room. She cranked its handle several revolutions, set the volume at low, and put the needle on a disc. Opera music filled the room. Although it was scratched and thin, it was a voice from a vanished era, quaint, antique, and reassuring. He fell asleep. Later, when he awoke, he saw her reading in an easy chair by lamplight. It seemed to him that if life had gone differently this scene of tranquillity might have come about by other means. They might have been here together as man and wife. He shook off the thought. He silently prayed for her. Not long after, a car roared up, and Gianna and Marco crashed into the house bubbling happily. They all went to their respective rooms and slept.

  In the morning they took him to the railway station. The two children were driving to Milan, and Anna would accompany them. She would go on from there to Geneva. She had offered to hire a car to take him back to Rome, but he insisted that the train trip would be a pleasure for him.

  Anna took his hands in hers when they said good-bye. She told him that his visit had meant more to her than he could imagine. He said that he would not cease to pray for her. She nodded.

  “Buona fortuna”, she said.

  Gianna kissed both his cheeks, and Marco wrung his hand. They showered him with repeated adieus. He climbed aboard and was gone.

  XVII

  Rome

  “I have been trying to reach you for days”, said the cardinal.

  Elijah held the phone away from his ear.

  “Didn’t you receive my message, Your Eminence?”

  “Messages! Messages! They just keep going astray and nobody can say where they went! Where have you been?”

  “A short trip. I have learned something of importance. Can we meet to discuss it?”

  “Tonight at the usual place. Eight?”

  “I will be there.”

  When Stato arrived at the chapel of the catacombs, Elijah requested that they not go down to the tombs.

  “I fear that no place is safe any longer”, he explained. “Let’s go farther out into the countryside.”

  T
he cardinal drove in silence, clearly possessed by an irritable mood. A half-hour later he pulled off the road onto a lane that disappeared into an olive grove. A hundred yards in, he braked his car and sat staring at the windscreen.

  “So! Tell me the news. No doubt it will be bad.”

  “We must walk.”

  “Bene! We walk!”

  He groaned as he maneuvered his ample frame out of the Volkswagen. He carried a flashlight. Elijah asked for the flashlight, dismantled it by the parking lights, examined it minutely, then reassembled it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Eminence, it’s a long story.”

  “So, begin!”

  “First, may I ask if you are carrying anything on your person that might conceal an electronic device?”

  “A bug? Impossible!”

  “Please, can we check?”

  Sighing, the cardinal turned out his pockets. They disgorged a small prayer book, a rosary, some coins, a set of keys, a bottle of medicinal tablets—“For my heart”, he explained—a wallet containing cards and a few lire. In his breastpocket, he carried a heap ballpoint pen and a solid gold pyx.

  Elijah dismantled the pen and reassembled it.

  “What is in this?” he asked pointing to the pyx.

  “It’s a relic of Saint Charles Borromeo. He’s my patron, a cardinal-saint, a wise man. If only he were with us now!”

  “He is here,” said Elijah, “but there may be more than him here. May I open it?”

  “Of course, but there’s nothing to see. Just a lock of hair. I carry it next to my heart all the time.”

  The pyx contained a circular glass reliquary resting on a bed of purple velvet.

  Elijah handed the reliquary back to the cardinal and pried the cloth off the bottom of the pyx. Embedded on the underside he found a miniature electronic component wired to a battery of the sort that powers wrist watches.

  “What is that?”

  “That is a wound through which the blood of the Church is pouring.”

  They stared at it.

  “My God!” breathed the cardinal.

  He looked down at his coat and pants. He put one foot forward and looked at his shoe suspiciously. He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shook them as if they contained fleas. “But this is outrageous!”