Vatican Vendetta

by Peter Watson

  So far the money provided had been spent on a dirt road, which the helicopter was overflying now, on electric power, a massive pump for water, some trucks and telephone lines. The exiles were still living in tents but if, as a result of Pimental’s visit today, it turned out that all their figures added up, then the go-ahead would be given for prefabricated houses to be built. This was, therefore, an important visit by the cardinal.

  ‘How much further?’ he shouted to the pilot, above the rattle.

  The pilot looked at his watch. ‘Thirteen minutes. We follow this road as far as the river, then hop across some mountains which the road has to skirt, rejoin the road and we’re there.’

  Pimental looked ahead. The yellow strip of road unravelled before them like a long thin shoelace. Up ahead he could see the river. There was no real expanse of water, just a dry, stony bed waiting for the occasional flash flood. As he stared, however, he saw something glint. It didn’t look like water.

  ‘What’s that?’ he shouted, pointing.

  The pilot leaned forward, then lifted his binoculars. ‘Looks like an accident at the river.’

  ‘Can we help?’

  The pilot looked at his watch doubtfully. ‘We’ll be late.’

  Pimental tapped the pilot’s arm. ‘Let’s have a closer look. If we’re half an hour late it’s not the end of the world.’

  As they descended and drew close they could see that a truck was overturned, half in and half out of the river bed. A car, an enormous, battered American model from the era of black and white films had smashed into it and, amazingly, the truck had come off worse. The sun glinted off the metalwork and the windscreens. There had been a fire, the blackened smudge on the bonnet of the car was clearly visible from the air. Two men were kneeling over a third, laid out on the ground. A fourth man was waving a yellow shirt wildly, trying to attract the helicopter’s attention.

  The river bed itself was the flattest terrain, so the pilot put the helicopter down there. Pimental got out and motioned for him to follow. ‘You know some first aid?’

  The pilot nodded, retrieved a box from the back of the cockpit, and followed the cardinal.

  The man who had been waving came towards them, pointing to a dry way across the mud of the river bed. When he saw the red cardinal’s piping on Pimental’s soutane, he dropped to one knee. Pimental automatically held his ring out to be kissed but he looked at the same time to where the man was lying near the overturned truck. ‘Is he still alive?’ he asked.

  ‘Alive, Eminence,’ said the man. Then, instead of kissing the ring, he suddenly grabbed Pimental’s hand and, rising swiftly to his feet, pulled the cardinal’s arm behind his back. ‘Alive, Eminence,’ he repeated, jabbing a pistol into his back. ‘And if you want to stay that way you will do exactly what I tell you!’

  Pimental, his arm twisted agonizingly up between his shoulders, watched as the apparently injured man now leaped to his feet and the other two with him seized small machine guns from the car and trained them on the pilot.

  For a moment the whole scene froze. Then the man behind Pimental yelled: ‘Cesare! The helicopter!’

  The third man ran to the machine. He stopped, reached into his shirt and took out a green-black grenade about the size of an avocado. He slipped out the pin and rolled the grenade under the helicopter, behind the cockpit, where the fuel tanks were. He ran and was well into safety as, seconds later, the helicopter was blown to pieces, first in a hard shattering of glass and metal and then a softer billowing as a red and yellow ball of flame and a sooty black feather of smoke followed it into the sky.

  Pimental felt himself shoved forward. ‘To the jeep!’ yelled the voice behind his back.

  He was pushed past the ‘accident’ and back along the road. After about a hundred yards they turned off the road on to a track. The pilot was being shoved in much the same way behind him. The two other men followed at a distance, covering everybody with the machine guns, just in case.

  A quarter of a mile down the track, they came to a couple of jeeps cunningly concealed in the scrub and guarded by a fifth man. Pimental was roped to the front seat of one jeep, the pilot to the other. Both had sub-machine guns at their necks.

  The jeeps started back down the track to the road, and turned along it towards the river. They saw no one. The inactivity wouldn’t last, however. The cardinal would soon be overdue at his destination and the feather of black smoke rising from what was left of the helicopter now reached a hundred feet or more into the heavens.

  When the jeeps reached the river they turned upstream, transferred to the sand, and picked up speed. No one spoke for about fifteen minutes. Then, with the river bed becoming narrower and rockier, the jeeps turned back to the bank where a track came down to meet it. This led uphill through some dense trees. There was some argument as to which route to take when they came to a fork but the man who had twisted Pimental’s arm was clearly the leader, and prevailed. They took the more southerly route and eventually began to descend a long slope into a forest. The driver switched off the engine and coasted. In the silence they could hear if they were being followed. Behind them all was still. The descent, Pimental thought, was like sinking in a submarine in a leaf green sea.

  Then they came to a ridge where the trees thinned and, two hundred feet below them, the cardinal could see a green fertile valley with the white and brown buildings of a small town.

  The leader addressed Pimental directly. ‘Jalapa,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Nicaragua, Eminence.’

  Bess sat at her desk and prayed that the phone wouldn’t ring for at least five minutes. It hadn’t stopped all day and she was badly in need of a break. The time was already eleven-thirty and there was no hope of bed yet.

  She wasn’t in her own office but in the special operations room set up in the apostolic palace to handle Pimental’s kidnap. The room was on the second floor, in the secretariat of state. Since Massoni’s resignation, Thomas had acted as his own Secretary of State. The room was small but had a high ceiling, tall windows with lace curtains, and was hung with ancient maps. Someone had once collected cartographical curiosities—maps of places like Friesland and the island of California, which never existed.

  One of Bess’s assistants was with her, plus Rich’s secretary, since the Fund was obviously involved, and Ramon Lucientes, the Holy Father’s Mexican secretary, who was in charge of this emergency. From time to time Thomas himself had looked in. Bess had instructions to inform him the minute there was any development. They were waiting now for the latest demands of the Nicaraguans.

  The Sandinistas had been clever. For a day after the helicopter’s charred remains had been found, they had allowed everyone to think that the cardinal and pilot had been killed in an accidental plane crash. The Vatican had received a lot of sympathy and His Holiness, through Bess, had announced a memorial mass to be held in St Peter’s. Pimental had been a close friend and Thomas was deeply upset.

  Then, in a dramatic move in Managua, the Nicaraguan capital, the Sandinistas summoned foreign reporters to a press conference at the Camino Real hotel. There, to everyone’s astonishment, they produced Pimental, alive, apparently well, but under armed guard.

  The cardinal made a short speech, saying he was well looked after, though naturally somewhat tired. No one in the Nicaraguan government had spoken with him and, so far as he was concerned, no kidnap demands had been made. He seemed genuinely perplexed. Then the Nicaraguan Foreign Secretary marched in.

  Miguel Almirante was a small man with pale skin, dark hair and sharp, jerky eyes. Speaking rapidly, he announced that forty-three people had been killed in and around Jalapa in recent weeks by snipers and night raiders. Most of these raiders, he said, came from the settlement known locally as Nueve Managua—his soldiers laughed grimly—which was being supported by Vatican funds and had been about to receive a visit by Cardinal Pimental. The settlement was anathema to the Nicaraguan government, said Almirante. It was not on Nicaraguan soil but was being used as a sa
fe base from which guerrillas could attack across the border. Almirante said he hoped the cardinal would contact the Pope while he was in Nicaragua and discuss what might be done to prevent the funding of such attacks.

  These tactics were designed, of course, to get the world’s attention. And indeed, the Nicaraguan gambit paid off dramatically: world press coverage was phenomenal.

  Thomas, his instincts still sound, responded promptly and forthrightly. He condemned the Sandinistas, praised the courage of Pimental and the pilot and refused to negotiate with Managua while hostages were being held. He delivered the speech himself, and his firm stance had won him many admirers.

  The Sandinistas’ response, carefully calculated, was brutal. The Vatican had until midnight (Nicaraguan time) to agree to disperse the Nueve Managua settlement. If Thomas failed Pimental would be executed as a quid pro quo for the forty-three Nicaraguans killed around Jalapa by snipers and raiders. Thomas had promised no deal. Managua was eight hours behind Rome: there were eight and a half hours still to go.

  Bess was exhausted but she had at least the strength to call David. Today has been bloody, darling, and there’s worse to come, I’m sure. I sometimes wish I’d let you stop that tanker in Venice—and we could have sailed away on it.’

  ‘You’d soon have got bored.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I couldn’t give all this up really. How’s Ned?’

  ‘Better than ever. Making friends at last. The shrink gets more optimistic by the week. He always asks after you—Ned, I mean.’

  ‘Well, when we all settle down, we must have a holiday together. What do you say?’

  ‘Can’t come soon enough, so far as I am concerned.’

  They hung up, each feeling wretchedly distant from the other, and aware of the tragic backdrop to their conversation.

  In Rome the night wore on. Midnight, one, two, three, three thirty. Seven thirty in Central America. A nun in white brought soup, sandwiches, coffee, wine. Rich’s secretary stood up and stretched. ‘Why don’t they call?’ he muttered.

  As if to answer his question, the phone rang. Lucientes took the call. But it was Thomas himself, on his internal line, calling down from his private apartment upstairs, to check that they had all been fed and were in reasonable spirits. He said he was going to try to sleep for an hour. Everybody settled down again.

  Four o’clock. Four thirty, four forty-five. The sandwiches were finished, the coffee flask empty. No one wanted the wine that was left. It was nearly nine in Central America.

  Finally, a few minutes after five, the phone did ring. But only once before Lucientes lifted the receiver. There was a hissing down the line: it was an international call.

  ‘Managua here,’ said a voice in Spanish.

  ‘I hear you well.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  Lucientes gave his name.

  ‘Is the Holy Father with you?’

  ‘No, he is upstairs sleeping. Give me your message. I will pass it to him immediately.’

  ‘The price is ten million dollars.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ten million dollars. You have a fund—yes—a special fund. You send some of it to Honduras—ten million—for houses. You say. We want the same for Nicaragua. To build houses also, equipment for factories, for farms. Tell the Holy Father that we shall not harm his friend the cardinal if he agrees to give us this money within one week. I will call in an hour. You must give me your answer then.’

  Thomas was woken and was in the operations room in less than fifteen minutes. He wore a white shirt, black trousers, slippers, no skull cap. But he was as impressive as ever, thought Bess, though his limp, at this moment of crisis, was especially pronounced. He was smoking. Nuns, typically calm and immaculate, brought fresh coffee and hot rolls.

  ‘I suppose it’s good news that they’ve changed their demands,’ said Rich’s secretary. ‘Maybe it shows they never intended to kill—’

  Thomas cut him off. ‘We’ve been had.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Bess was puzzled too.

  Thomas gulped some coffee. ‘I’ve a shrewd idea our Sandinista friends intended this all along. They must have guessed we would not negotiate while they were holding a hostage. They also knew that if they started by asking us for money, they would look very bad. This way they’ve been much cleverer.’ He limped to the window and looked out on a deserted St Peter’s Square. ‘Having made a set of ideological demands, which we haven’t met, they now reduce them to merely financial ones. People take ideologies more seriously than money and so, if we continue to hold out, it is we who are made to look bad.… You know, I have to admire their thinking. The way they set their demand at exactly the amount we put into Honduras has a symmetry about it, an internal fairness that makes it very difficult for us.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of paying them are you?’ It was Rich’s secretary. He stared at the Pope.

  ‘Yes. We have to. These aren’t ordinary kidnappers. They think of themselves as soldiers, idealists, trying to raise money for their country. They mean what they say. We may not like their politics but there it is. They won’t haggle over cash: they want the same as we put into Honduras.’

  He looked at his watch, then at Lucientes ‘They will be calling in … twenty-four minutes. I’m going to get some more sleep. When they come through, tell them we accept.’

  The Vatican’s deal with the Sandinistas produced a mixed reaction around the world. Hardliners disapproved of any move which gave comfort to kidnappers, whoever they were. On the other hand, though Nicaragua was now officially Marxist, many people there were in fact still deeply religious Catholics. The Nicaraguan government’s handling of the whole business was extremely distasteful to such people and there were demonstrations in Managua and a mass was held in Pimental’s honour.

  Once the cardinal was safe in Rome, Thomas announced that the new town project on the Honduras-Nicaraguan border would continue to be built as planned, but that the town now had a name. It was to be called Pimental.

  Somewhere a clock chimed the hour. It was too dark for Michael Molyneux to read his watch. He counted the strokes: three o’clock. The others should be arriving any minute. He was craving for a cigarette but it was too dangerous. He couldn’t risk being seen. A light breeze swept his hair, the only sound save for his breathing. As leader he had to be here first but he was very nervous and, now that it came to it, more than a little frightened.

  He heard footsteps approaching on the pavement and moved back behind the wall. But the footsteps were of only one person and they went on past, up the road. No, when they came they would come in pairs.

  It was a pity the operation had to be so large—three sets of two men, plus himself, making seven in all. But they mustn’t get caught and it was safer this way. There were council houses nearby: any sound they made might carry that far. God, he so badly wanted a cigarette. But he didn’t dare risk it. Instead he reached into his pocket for some chocolate and slid a square of it into his mouth. Amazing how it warmed his insides.

  More steps. Surely this was the first two men. There couldn’t be that many people around in Belfast at three in the morning. He strained his ears against the wind: were there two pairs of feet?

  Yes.

  On cue the sound of the steps stopped and, after a few moments, squelching could be heard as they stepped off the pavement and onto the grass. He still didn’t move; they would know where to go. They were guards. He caught glimpses of faces as, close now, they separated and moved in different directions.

  Another three minutes then more steps, two more figures separating in the dark.

  Only two more to come—but they had the equipment. He bit into the last of the chocolate. The wind hissed about his ears—what was that? Yes, two sets of steps. Slower, more deliberate than the others. As they should be. More uneven. Again the steps stopped. Again there was a pause. This time he stepped out from behind the wall and whispered, ‘Over here!’

  They fo
llowed him. Ten yards. Twenty. He found the door. Still no one spoke as the two who had been last to arrive put down the drums they were carrying and made a back for him. For a big man Molyneux was surprisingly light on his feet. He stepped on to a knee, then climbed to a shoulder. He stood so that his head was above the edge of the wall. It was breezier here, perfect conditions. And there was more light; he could detect the glow of the city to the east. Swiftly, he hauled himself on to the top of the wall and sat. This was the tricky part—dropping down the other side without making a sound. He jumped.

  Jeesus! There was a deep puddle, and a distinctive sucking sound broke the silence as he landed. He stood in the mud, listening.

  Nothing.

  He let another minute go by and then eased back the bolts of the gate and pulled the door inwards. The two men outside manoeuvred the drums through. A fourth man slipped out of the dark and came in with them. He was to guard the gate. A fifth man would be watching the gate on the outside. The two others watched from further away, in case the police should choose tonight to pay one of their visits. There was no nightwatchman at this yard and the police, Molyneux knew, prowled around every few days.

  Inside, the floor of the timber yard was mostly concreted over, so to maintain silence they now pulled large woollen socks over their shoes. Sounds travelled on the wind. Molyneux reminded his men the housing estate wasn’t far away.

  Taking one of the drums, he whispered: ‘I’ll deal with the offices as planned; you do the timber.’

  The yard was conveniently arranged for what they had in mind. The offices and warehouse, containing the most valuable materials, were in the middle, entirely ringed by stores of raw timber, half-made-up doors, staircases, kitchen units, window frames and so on. Even the offices themselves were made largely of wood.

  But it wasn’t easy to slop petrol over walls and timber stacks without making a noise and the job took longer than they had anticipated. Molyneux’s two helpers went right around the edge of the yard, dousing most heavily the section near the gate where the fire would start. Molyneux himself doused the wooden office walls. It took fifteen minutes, though it felt much, much longer. Then the three of them returned to the gate, where the guard joined them. They slid back the bolts and all except Molyneux and one other man melted quietly away into the darkness of the city.