by Peter Watson
‘Don’t they want to support relief work?’
‘Yes. But they want the Israeli government to find some other way. They say this sale risks the scrolls passing out of Jewish hands, which would be scandalous.’
‘What now?’
‘The scrolls actually arrive tomorrow. Obviously we can’t put them on display. So we’ve had to contact all potential buyers individually and arrange for them to come here one by one. Security has also been a problem, but I think we’ve licked that.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I hope this phone’s not bugged … what I’ve done is call in a favour that Cardinal Rich owed me. Although he’s not here in New York any more he still carries some weight. We’re going to store the scrolls in St Patrick’s Cathedral.’
‘Is that a good idea? Doesn’t strike me as very secure.’
‘Not normally. But I don’t think ultra-orthodox Jews would raid a church, do you? And there’s a vault that’s pretty easy to keep guarded.’
‘When shall I see you?’
‘The way things are at the moment, any day of the week, so long as it’s between one a.m. in the morning, when I finish work, and one fifteen, when I fall into bed.’
They hung up. David loosened his tie. It had been good to talk to Bess. Even her phone calls made him feel relaxed. This Dead Sea Scrolls sale was a real pain. They would have been better off selling the damned things in London.
The Oval Office was smaller than Bess had expected. It was the first time she had been in the famous room and now, as the press photographers finished their work, taking pictures of the Pope and President together before they got down to a session of private talks, she looked about her. The garden beyond the window was superb: that lush April green reminded her of what she always forgot—Washington was part of the south.
It was the day after Thomas’s triumphal entry into Washington. The dinner, the night before, had been a muted affair but enjoyable enough. None of the President’s many showbusiness friends had been invited to entertain the guests: the White House chief of protocol had decided that wasn’t suitable for a religious leader. Instead a small orchestra had played Vivaldi and Mozart. Bess knew that Thomas’s real preference was for jazz.
But today the work proper started. The last of the pressmen were being ushered away by two young men in military uniforms and Roskill turned to the Pope and motioned him to a seat at one side of the table. As Thomas moved around, Roskill added: ‘Your tour sure seems to be going well. You must be pleased.’
‘Oh, but I am!’ cried Thomas. ‘Very pleased. And it’s mostly due to Elizabeth Lisle here. She’s a great organizer.’
They sat down. There were four people on either side of the table. With Thomas and Bess there were Annibale Sarni, the apostolic delegate to Washington, and John Rich. Roskill had Erwin Friedlander, his Secretary of State, Lowell Wade, the American ambassador in Rome, and Cranham Hope, a political advisor and speech writer. So far as Bess remembered he was also a specialist on Pacific affairs. She wondered why his presence was necessary.
She soon found out. As soon as the Oval Office was cleared of all but these eight most trusted advisors, the President’s manner changed. He had made his political capital out of welcoming the Pope; he had aligned himself with a successful tour and that was enough. Now politics proper began.
‘Holiness, we have not always seen eye to eye in the past, you and I, and I hope that our talks today will ensure that such misunderstandings do not happen again.’
The tone was so abrupt that Thomas’s head jerked upwards warily. Roskill didn’t notice or, if he did, it didn’t make any difference. ‘You see Cranham Hope here besides me. Cran has just returned from a fact-finding mission on my behalf to the Philippine Islands in southeast Asia.’
Bess stiffened in her seat. What was coming next?
The President poured himself some water. ‘Now the Philippines are going to pose us a few problems in the next months. They, like us, have an election. My problem is this: at the moment the islands are run by this man Sebbio—not to everyone’s taste but he has been on our side since Cory Aquino was voted out and he lets the United States keep its naval and air-force bases in his country, bases that we consider vital. At the same time, his opponent in the elections is a guy so left-wing that were he to win he would pursue policies almost certainly against the interests of the US. Probably within a few months, the Philippines would be asking us to remove our bases. I cannot allow that to happen.’
Thomas seemed about to interrupt but Roskill steamrollered on.
‘Now Cran tells me that the local vote is very evenly divided. At present our guesstimate is that a swing of only three per cent either way will make all the difference. As you will be aware, Holiness, the Philippines are overwhelmingly Catholic. Your cardinals and bishops hold a lot of power. Both sides in the election badly need their support, their endorsement. Cran tells me the bishops are already meeting, sounding out opinion among themselves and will make a joint pronouncement about three weeks before the election. And Cran’s best advice is that the Church will side with the left-wing opposition.’
Roskill slapped the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Damn them! Don’t they realize that the remoter islands are crawling with lefty guerrillas? People just waiting for encouragement! If we let in a regime that is bound to be anti-American, it could be a disaster. I want you to stop it!’
There was silence in the room. Bess could see what was happening. This approach had been planned by Roskill all along. After the warmth and the glitter of the previous day this tough, sharp-shock tactic was calculated to throw Thomas off balance.
Thomas let the silence swell, till it filled the room. Only then did he address the President. ‘Mr Roskill, the Holy See does not have much by way of land or raw materials. We are not a large state in the conventional sense. In fact, land-wise we are the smallest there is. You, on the other hand, are one of the biggest, in some senses the biggest. No one, therefore, least of all me, can stop you flexing your muscles if that’s what you want. Your presidency has been no different from your predecessors’ on that score.’
Now it was Roskill’s turn to bridle. The meeting was hotting up.
‘But a Pope—any Pope—’ Thomas continued, ‘has two advantages you do not. Firstly, and obviously, he has roughly two thousand years of history to look back on. Two thousand years of successful government. And so a Pope is not always impressed by the day-to-day problems that other leaders seem bothered by. Seen in the sweep of history they often don’t amount to a row of beans. Secondly, and perhaps less obviously, Popes in the modern world are the only leaders whose authority goes across frontiers. The Philippines are an excellent example of what I mean. I could, as you say, give instructions that the bishops support President Sebbio. There is no guarantee that they would obey me completely or that the people would vote the way their bishops tell them. But in this case probably enough would take notice to win the day for Sebbio. The question is: is it a worthy use of the Church’s power? Mr President, aren’t you falling into the same trap as all the European powers—the British, the Dutch, the French—have fallen into in recent years? In Egypt, in Nigeria, in Uganda, in Zimbabwe, in Mozambique even. In each case the communist spectre was raised when what actually happened was that those countries became, not communist but nationalist, non-aligned. Angola, Nicaragua and Aden were different again. They did become Marxist but, as in Vietnam, they became more virulently so because the western powers fought so hard to prevent them. Most countries just want to be left alone, Mr President. The Philippines might be one of them.’
This time it was Roskill who tried to interrupt but Thomas waved him down. ‘If I were the leader of a big state, Mr President, an economic rival or a military ally, you would not have spoken to me as you have just done. Oh, you would make plain your views. But you would never ask something of me without offering me something in return.’
Thomas paused but no one else seemed d
isposed to speak now. Bess marvelled at the Holy Father’s performance. His talk of the two thousand year sweep of history had put in his place a President who had been in power somewhat over three years and might not have more than a few weeks to go.
But Thomas hadn’t finished. He was American enough to know when to press an advantage. ‘I will do as you ask, Mr President. It has been in my mind now for several weeks to bring what influence I have to bear on the bishops in the Philippines. I will not ask you for anything in return—for the moment. But I shall, I shall … As sure as elections are lost, not won, there will come a time when you can perform a similar service for me. Now, what is the next thing on our agenda?’
But nothing else in the morning’s talks came close to that encounter in terms of excitement for the aides around the table. Roskill may have got what he wanted but no one was in any doubt that the President had been bested by the Pontiff.
All was smiles again as the meeting broke up, an hour and a half later. But the President’s expression, to those who knew him, was forced. Having been shown up by Thomas in front of his aides, he was seething inside. And, like many a successful politician, Roskill knew how to harbour a grudge. Someday, as sure as elections were lost, not won, the Pope would be made to pay for what he had done that morning.
David’s car turned off Park Avenue into 71st Street—and stopped. There was no way the car could reach Hamilton’s offices. A blue police barrier closed the road. Further down the block he could see a mass of people, mainly dressed in black, and all carrying placards or banners. He left the car, walked around the barrier and made his way towards the crowd. As he had guessed, the black coats belonged to Orthodox Jews. No one seemed to recognize him as he threaded his way through all the people but as he turned into the building several voices called out anti-Hamilton slogans.
The commissionaire saluted. ‘Good morning, sir!’ A policeman stood next to him.
‘Any problems?’ David asked.
‘Not so far, sir,’ said the commissionaire. ‘They’ve made no attempt to enter the building. But there’s four security guys standing by, just in case. This officer is here more as a witness than anything else.’
David nodded to the policeman and smiled. ‘Let me know straight away if there’s any change.’
‘Yessir,’ said the commissionaire smartly, clearly enjoying all the drama.
As soon as he reached his office, David told Betsy, ‘Get me Eldon. I want him down here as soon as possible.’ Eldon Fitzpatrick ran the antiquities department of Hamilton’s in New York. When he arrived, David came straight to the point. ‘This demonstration against the scrolls might fizzle out. And even if it gets worse and the press picks it up—and I’m sure they will—the publicity could still work either way. It could help the sale, but it could just as well harm it. Now how many people do you think are in the market to buy the scrolls?’
‘I thought you’d ask that,’ said Fitzpatrick, taking a file from under his arm. ‘By my reckoning, not more than twenty-two worldwide. That includes institutions like Harvard, who want one for their Semitic Museum; it includes the British Museum, Texas University, Tokyo Museum and the six private collectors whose names you know. And then, of course, there’s the Vatican. It could well be their turn to buy through us.’
David nodded. ‘Are all twenty-two coming to the sale?’
‘Five aren’t. Shrive and Kappler have retained dealers to bid. I’m not sure who but my guess would be Fine and Loewe. Johnson and Tribe are going to bid over the phone. Cressey I don’t know about—you know how secretive he is. Also, I hear he’s not very well.’
‘So, we’re fairly well-covered.’
Fitzpatrick nodded. ‘Yes, and I don’t think they’ll be put off by the publicity. There’s a lot of talk about the preservation of national heritages all over the world now. These people are used to the arguments. Either they agree with them, in which case they don’t buy, or they disagree, in which case no amount of demonstrating will put them off. The sale itself is all-ticket of course so we shouldn’t have too many problems there.’
Mollified, but still a little apprehensive, David let Fitzpatrick get back to work. Most likely the sale would go well and the protesters would fade away after. But you could never be too careful. He noticed a light flashing on his phone: an incoming call.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Lord Afton from London,’ said Betsy.
David looked at his watch: 8.45 a.m. in New York meant it was 1.45 p.m. in London. The noble lord should have been at lunch.
‘It must be important, sir, to keep you from your club.’
‘I’m at my club, dammit! Bad news, I’m afraid. There’s not much you can do, David my boy, but I thought you ought to hear it from us, rather than anywhere else.’
‘Hear what? What’s happened now?’
‘It’s the buggers who want to stop the Queen’s sale. During the night they daubed huge slogans all over the walls of Buckingham Palace Garden in Constitution Hill. Enormous letters in orange paint, saying things like “Don’t flog the Fragonards” and “Cranachs not Corgies”. There’s even one which says “Dürer before Diana”. The police are doing what they can to scrub the paint off, but it’s too late really. I’m afraid it’ll be all over the evening papers. Not to mention the bloody television.’
So many people in New York wanted His Holiness to visit their school, open their hospital, top out some housing project, address this or that meeting, like the United Nations, that there was little time set aside for worship. To cope with the demands on him, the Holy Father hit on the idea of celebrating the first mass of the day in St Patrick’s, at 5.30 a.m. It was an arrangement Bess could not have improved upon.
In the first place there were no other appointments fixed for such an hour. Second, America was such a hardworking, puritanical country that early morning meetings of almost any kind were regarded as a virtue, and the very idea of such an early mass succeeded in attracting even greater interest in such a hardworking and devout Pope.
It was a marvellous morning when Thomas led the papal party on the short walk from the New York Cardinal’s residence, where he was staying, to St Patrick’s. Away from the cathedral, the streets were deserted, the air was cool and clear and the sun had the city almost to itself. It swept down the cross streets and spilled into the broad avenues with a sensual force that was blinding. Thomas could have used the corridor that linked the Cardinal’s residence with St Patrick’s but, on such a morning, he preferred the fresh air route.
Despite the hour, around St Patrick’s there was a crush of some two to three thousand people. It was, after all, the only chance Roman Catholic New Yorkers would have to worship with His Holiness. There were cheers and shouts as Thomas approached the steps of the cathedral. John Rich was in the papal entourage but his successor as Archibishop of New York, Cardinal Naughton, now waited at the great bronze doors to welcome everybody. There were banks of television cameras and rows of press photographers, all impressed with the Holy Father, and themselves, for getting up so early. Thomas waved and slowly mounted the steps. The cameras followed: another advantage of the early mass was that it would be the lead story on all the breakfast TV shows across America.
Inside the packed cathedral Thomas paused while Cardinal Naughton pointed out various features, the dimensions of the building, its grandeur and majesty. Then together the two men made their slow way to the altar.
For the devout, the high point of the service was the chance it offered a few of the faithful to receive the sacraments from His Holiness himself. With such a large congregation, it needed several priests to administer the eucharist. But Thomas took his part, in the centre of the cathedral, and the lucky ones were to remember it all their lives.
Yet that wasn’t what made the headlines later; it was Thomas’s sermon. St Patrick’s has a magnificent pulpit in carved white stone. It was the perfect setting for the announcement.
‘Friends,’ Thomas began after he had
climbed the short spiral staircase and gazed out over the faces turned to him. ‘We are today in a magnificent cathedral. We can be grateful, and give thanks to God that St Patrick’s Cathedral is without doubt the most beautiful building on what is, equally certainly, the most striking thoroughfare in the world. I mean, of course, Fifth Avenue. We can give thanks for the marvellous rose window behind you. We can give thanks for the outstandingly fine organ which provides us with timeless music of the ages, making this spot a refuge from the noise and the chaos that threaten us all. But these attractions, wonderful as they are, are still not the features which set this great House of God apart from others in the United States.’ Thomas pointed to his left and raised his voice. ‘Here in St Patrick’s are found the blessed shrines of two saints. On your left the shrine of St John Neumann.’ Thomas now swept his outstretched arm in a wide arc to the other side of the nave. ‘And here is the shrine of St Elizabeth Ann Seton, the very first American-born saint.’
He paused and beamed down at the faces of the congregation.
‘Friends, I have some glad news for you this morning. A piece of Christian news that will cause great rejoicing.’ The congregation stirred, not knowing what to expect.
‘In Rome, though it will soon move to Rio, there is part of the Vatican known as the Congregation for the Causes of Saints, the job of the Congregation is to examine the evidence in these cases where individuals are to be considered for canonization, whether or not they should be regarded as saints. It is a serious task, and can take much time—years, in a few cases, centuries.’ He paused again, enjoying himself. ‘But, from time to time, the Congregation reaches a conclusion. And I can reveal to you today that the Congregation recently did reach a conclusion. I have considered the Congregation’s recommendation and approved it. So you who have come to celebrate mass here this morning shall be the first to know that we have a new saint, that he is American and that he is—’ Another pause for effect. Overhead was heard the faint roar of an early jet from La Guardia ‘—Peter Knaths who, as some of you will recall, was a missionary in the old west, the wild west. He rescued a number of outlaws, converted native Indians to Christianity and performed two acknowledged miracles. In one he caused the Holy Virgin to appear before a murderer who at that moment was free, with another man wrongly convicted. The murderer subsequently gave himself up, saving the life of the other man. In the second miracle a sheriff who was mortally wounded was held from death by a similar visitation. St Peter Knaths thus today becomes America’s third saint. His relics are in New Mexico and that is where his shrine shall be.’
