by Peter Watson
He held up eight fingers, knowing it would make a good picture for the next day’s editions. ‘So far the Holy Father’s schemes have succeeded—or appear to have succeeded—in eight places. In Sicily, in Foligno, in the Marquesas Isles, in South America and in Nicaragua, in Beirut and Northern Ireland and, for all we know, behind the Iron Curtain.’ He took away one hand entirely. ‘But there have been three hitches also. Unintended effects. So far, I suppose, that’s OK. But if anything else were to go wrong … well, we’re all watching. You simply cannot inject money of the kind now at the Pope’s disposal into the world and not cause ripples. That’s the way the world is. Elected politicians know that.
‘Now, we are going to have to pay, you and I, for those Sicilians captured on Sunday. We shall have to pay while they are being held in custody. We shall have to pay for the trial and, if they are convicted, we shall have to pay to keep them in prison until they can be deported. Can we even risk deporting them? If what we hear is true they wouldn’t spend long in Italy. They immigrated here illegally once—so what’s to stop them doing it again?’ He looked around the room. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve gone on too long. But I wanted you all to know the way I feel. Because I guess a lot of people in this city will be feeling the same’
By itself the Silver speech would have been bad enough. But the executions in Cuba, which Silver had referred to, complicated the Pope’s situation still further. That evening Bess was summoned to the papal apartments for an emergency dinner with Thomas. It was a quiet, intimate meal: the only other guests were Thomas’s two secretaries and Cardinal Rich.
Bess found Thomas perplexed by Silver’s attack. He played with his soup, a chicken consommé. ‘Surely a politician like Silver, an experienced man, knows that we have to take risks in whatever we do?’
‘Yes,’ said Rich. ‘He said as much. But Silver isn’t in the business of making well-considered, diplomatic moves. He’s an American, a New Yorker. They pride themselves on saying what they are feeling, even if what they are feeling will change in ten minutes. You should know that, Sir, being American.’
Thomas looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe I’ve been in Europe too long.’ He turned back to Rich. ‘The Fund? You are still happy with the way it’s going?’
Rich was firm. ‘Oh yes. This is not the time to lose our nerve. Silver was right when he said that you cannot administer the sort of money we now have without encountering problems. Charity work of any size is bound to look political. David Colwyn told me at his investiture that the British government is far from happy with their Queen, who as you know is following your example. They see her action as implicitly critical of their achievements. So there will always be that kind of risk. More serious, I think, is the danger that where so much money is concerned you will always tend to get corruption. That’s not a political issue, it’s a moral one and, in my view, far more damaging. The corruption behind the Cuban raid, for instance, did us much more damage than the raid itself.’
Thomas had been listening intently. Now he turned to Bess. ‘Elizabeth, what do you think? Should we reply to Silver?’
The wine was sparse at papal meals and Bess was making hers last. ‘I think we should reply—but discreetly and intelligently. I think we should take account of what Silver says without making a song and dance about it. I’m not sure I agree wholeheartedly with his Eminence here. I think the executions in Cuba have done us a great deal of harm, especially coming so close in time to the arrests of those Sicilians in New York. We couldn’t know that this particular coincidence would happen but I suspect that, in politics, they happen all the time.’
A couple of nuns arrived to take away the soup plates. A bowl of spaghetti was placed at the centre of the table and the water and wine glasses were refilled.
‘Go on, my dear. How should we respond discreetly and intelligently?’ Thomas always seemed so much taller sitting down. He had a very long body.
‘I’m coming to that but first let me make one other comment. The American presidential election is coming up in November. Roskill, a Roman Catholic, is going for a second term, and his Democratic opponent, the black senator from Louisiana, Oliver Fairbrother, is a baptist. So the first thing to bear in mind is that Catholicism is already an issue in the campaign. That’s why I think we should respond to Silver—because the difficulties won’t go away and we mustn’t be seen to avoid them. Our response, though, is something else again.’
She had their complete attention. The spaghetti grew cold on the table between them. ‘First, we should use the fact that the Vatican and the United States have certain things in common, the most powerful of which is a hatred of communism. The Holy See has taken the view for many years that the Church in the Eastern Bloc is staffed by KGB agents masquerading as priests. We have evidence of that and in consequence for almost as long we have funded private religious observation. With the St Patrick’s money we have been able to step up our support, which is now substantial, especially in Czechoslovakia, Hungary and Rumania. Yet so far we have published very little about our achievements. Can’t we bring them on to the front burner? Some successes would go down very well in the United States.’
Thomas was nodding approvingly. He turned to Rich. ‘Well, Eminence? What do you think?’
‘Next to a plate of pasta, I think Miss Lisle’s is the most nourishing suggestion of the entire evening.’
They all smiled and the spaghetti was at last served.
Rich spoke as they helped themselves. ‘Our researches are nearly complete, Holiness. We are nearly ready in Hungary and in Rumania to appoint two “in petto”—secret—cardinals. As a first measure you might announce that fact, that we have two men in place, even though we cannot name them. That would show we are making progress and would stress how difficult it is to work in communist countries.’
‘Well, that’s a start,’ said Thomas. ‘Perhaps we could discuss the matter of the cardinals tomorrow. We need to be certain that admitting their presence doesn’t endanger their work, of course.’
Rich nodded.
Thomas turned back to Bess. ‘An excellent suggestion, my dear. Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh yes. I haven’t mentioned it before because I was waiting for the timing to be right. But now I think it is. I think you should visit America.’
10
Michael Molyneux stared at his boss. Kirkhill had sought him out on a building site in the Dundonald suburb of Belfast where they were just finishing a cinema renovation. Kirkhill had taken off his tie and held it in his hand. His waistcoat, under his jacket, was unbuttoned. His shirt neck was open revealing a few wisps of red-grey hair.
Molyneux frowned. ‘Tell me again, Douglas. I don’t believe it.’
Kirkhill waved his tie in an exhausted fashion. ‘We were beaten. By Foley’s, yet again. I cut where I could. I even cheated on a few things—I was determined to win this one. But it’s the cheap money they’re getting! Being Catholics they can do it, with this new fund of the Pope’s. On a four million pound contract they undercut us by one hundred and ten thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money.’
‘Did you try to buy anyone a drink?’
Kirkhill stuffed the tie in his jacket pocket. ‘Of course! I’m one of the bribe barons of Belfast, Michael, you know that. But Foley’s did too—and they had a hundred thousand more to play with.’
The two men stood staring at the ground between them.
‘Douglas?’
‘Michael.’
‘I remember what you said last time.’
‘Hmm.’
‘You said that if we didn’t get this one we’d have to start laying men off.’
‘Yes,’ Kirkhill breathed. ‘That’s what I said.’
‘Is it still true?’
A long pause. ‘It is still true, Michael. I’m sorry.’
Another pause, even longer this time. Then Molyneux said: ‘How many?’
Douglas looked his old friend in the eye. His blue eyes were sad. �
�Fifty, Michael. Fifty men. Maybe more.’
Molyneux rocked on his feet. Fifty men meant fifty families affected, maybe as many as a hundred children. Jobs weren’t easy to get in Ulster. Moving wasn’t easy either, no one wanted to live here so you couldn’t sell your house, even if you owned it. The union man was suddenly very angry. He knocked the boss’s chest with the knuckle of his forefinger. ‘I’m not having this, Douglas. I’m not having it, I tell you. You leave this to me.’
Thomas’s American tour, when it was announced, was an immediate hit. The simultaneous announcement of two Iron Curtain cardinals in petto, which is the Vatican’s terminology for ‘secret’, went down very well in the west. Also, Bess had a stroke of luck. Unexpectedly, the Chinese government finally recognized Thomas’s choice as Bishop of Peking. China’s three million Catholics had often had their own leaders, hitherto approved by the government but not by the Vatican. Thomas, thus, had succeeded where no one else had before. In fact, this was the result of a classic piece of realpolitik behind the scenes, for the Jesuits had offered to expand their teaching in the country without including religious instruction, at least until pupils were sixteen and old enough to decide for themselves. The offer was a simple quid pro quo which Thomas thought worth it. The money for these new schools was to come from the next year’s St Patrick’s Fund which would be administered locally through the Cardinal Archbishop in Hong Kong. Not even Jack Silver could possibly argue with the merit of providing education in poor rural areas.
A further reason why Thomas’s visit caught the imagination of the American people was Bess’s idea that Thomas should visit his small home town of Fort Wingate, Nebraska, before he went to Washington or any of the big cities. It put politicians where they belonged, at the back of the queue. Not that politics would be at the back for long. Thomas was scheduled to meet both presidential candidates, Roskill and Fairbrother and Mayor Silver too, come to that.
Bess was therefore gearing up for one of her particularly busy times and David’s life was getting hectic again, too. The Dead Sea Scrolls sale was close and, in fact, they found they would both be in New York at the same time.
But they would probably be too busy to see much of each other. They therefore sneaked as many weekends as they could together, either in Rome or in London. It was on one of Bess’s rare trips to England that she brought David the best news of all. The Holy Office had received his petition from the Archbishop of Westminster. They were over two hurdles; two more to go.
The car pulled out of Llandovery and they had their first glimpse of the River Towy. This part of Wales, due north of Swansea, began to get very heathery. For the umpteenth time, Ned squirmed in his seat. ‘Can’t you tell me yet where we’re going?’
‘No,’ said David. ‘I want it to be a surprise.’
It was a couple of weekends after Bess’s visit to London, which had gone very well, so far as David’s domestic arrangements were concerned. Bess and Ned now enjoyed each other enormously. But David was in a quandary so far as his Leonardo research was concerned. He had drawn a blank in the Vatican Archives: the letters of Elisabetta Gonzaga contained no further reference to Leonardo, either as a painter, engineer or inventor. Still, Ned’s wellbeing was much more important than solving the Leonardo mystery and that was why they were in Wales now.
At Llanwarda they turned right, climbing steadily past Talley. They could see a village ahead, grey slate roofs with white chimneys. ‘I think we’ve arrived,’ said David.
Ned sat up but looked mystified. ‘Where are we?’
‘Two minutes and all will be revealed.’ David had with him a small card with directions on it. He studied it again now. Before they entered the village they turned right, towards Cilycwm then, after a few hundred yards, left, then right again almost immediately on a road that headed into some hills. After a quarter of a mile the road stopped at a gate with a brand new green-and-white sign which read: ‘PUMPSAINT GOLD MINE’.
Ned stared at the sign, then at his father.
David smiled. ‘Dr Wilde said you were interested in this sort of thing. This is the only commercial gold mine operating in Britain. It reopened this year, for the first time since the 1930s. The head of Hamilton’s gold and silver department arranged this visit. We are expected.’
Ned’s eyes were as wide as the Towy. But all he said was ‘Fantastic!’
The next three hours were a dream for Ned. David found them fascinating, too. They were shown the full workings of the mine—the drilling, the purification of the ore, the security arrangements, the finished product, smooth, shiny and bright yellow. Afterwards however, both knew that on the drive home there was some serious talking to do.
David waited until they were back on the Brecon and Abergavenny road out of Llandovery. Then he said, ‘What made you so interested in gold in the first place?’
‘You did, Dad.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. You probably don’t remember but about eighteen months ago you took me to the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, in London.’
David did remember.
‘You took me because they have there a collection of faked and forged hall-marks—forged punches, forged casts, remember?’
His father did indeed.
‘You were right, it was very interesting. You know I’ve always liked fakes. But I found gold even more interesting.’
‘Why?’ It wasn’t an aggressive question. David just wanted to know.
‘Forgeries, I suppose, are interesting because of their imperfections. It’s the little things that give the game away. On the other hand, gold is so perfect. You can see why all the ancients worshipped it. And it looks so marvellous. I’m not interested in gold as bullion, Dad, but in what you can do with it, in making beautiful things out of it. I know you want me to go to some egg-head university but, honestly, I’d much rather become an apprentice to a goldsmith.’
‘But are you sure you want to start so early?’
‘Yes. You’ve got to put in years and years of work before you can ever be any good. I read in a book that Benvenuto Cellini produced his famous salt cellar when he was forty-three but he’d been working in gold since he was nineteen.’
David was impressed. Ned had done his homework.
‘You seem to know a lot already.’
‘A bit. But there are a lot more books I want to get, exhibitions I want to see—gold coins, South American gold objects made by the Incas, Sienese painting, French eighteenth-century furniture.’
‘Where does one go to learn to become a goldsmith?’
Ned looked hopefully at his father. ‘There are colleges in London, then you work at one of the jewellers in London, Amsterdam, Paris or New York. A good goldsmith has to master dozens of techniques. But you can’t be a great one without some flair for design too.’
His father looked across. ‘And?’
‘Who knows, Dad? I’ve done some designs at school but—well, I’ve never shown anybody.’
‘Hmm. I’d better have a look, when we get back to Hamble.’
It was left at that, for the moment. They drove on and crossed the Severn Bridge on to the M4. As they achieved the smooth expanses of the motorway, Ned went to sleep. David kept turning the matter over in his head. And as time went on and the miles passed, and he began to get used to the idea of Ned as a craftsman, another thought from earlier in the day crept back into his mind.
The manager of the gold mine had described, in passing, the way gold and certain other colours had been singled out in the contracts of old masters as very large items of expense when pictures were commissioned. David knew that painters in Renaissance times bought their pigments already made up from druggists known, in Italy, as speziali. They had their own guild. The guilds had their written records, minutes etc. It was just possible that, since he had drawn a blank with Elisabetta Gonzaga’s correspondence, the records of the Urbino Guild of Speziali might contain some mention of Leonardo, when he had ordered gold or some other
precious pigment. It was a long shot but, so far as he knew, virgin territory and therefore worth a try.
The helicopter flew at about four-hundred feet. Cardinal Mario Pimental could see its shadow streaking across the Yuscaran scrub below. He looked down at the toy trees and occasional cows and tried to work out once again whether he found Honduras beautiful, barren or both. Tegucigalpa, not the easiest capital city in the world to pronounce, was a dump, hardly a city in the European sense at all and Pimental was a good Portuguese, educated at the Lateran University in Rome. Give him a Mediterranean city—Barcelona, Naples, Genoa—any day. Still, as a cardinal appointed to the sacred college by Thomas, he had not been able to refuse the assignment as the man in charge of the St Patrick’s Fund in this area. He had first met Thomas in Argentina and shared his idealism. They had had many adventures together in the Far East when they were younger and the Holy Father probably thought he still retained his appetite for the remote, just as he himself did. And Pimental was good at the job, too, though he would rather have been in Europe. After the Cuban fiasco, Thomas had tightened up the whole operation, and all expenditures had to be personally sanctioned by the relevant cardinal. Further projects could only proceed one stage at a time with a visit from the cardinal in between.
That was why Pimental was in Honduras now. A small township was being built near the border with Nicaragua, to house exiles from that troubled country. Thomas was aware that these people occasionally mounted raids into Nicaragua and he was adamant that Vatican funds were only to be used for peaceful purposes: it was Pimental’s job to ensure that what was built matched in cost exactly the funds provided. Nicaragua was a Marxist state, godless despite the presence of one or two renegade priests in the government, and the Vatican could therefore support the exiles with a clear conscience, so long as its resistance did not extend to the provision of arms.
