by Ray Flynn
“Your Eminence, do you need medical services?” came the wary tone.
“I need for you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, Your Excellency,” Cippolini replied.
“We have found it necessary,” the cardinal continued, “to have one of our number leave the conclave to obtain important information necessary to proceed with this election. Discuss this with no one. Call the Vatican travel office for a round-trip ticket to Boston on the afternoon flight today for Cardinal Comiskey, and have Tony bring a car around to the emergency side door. Cardinal Comiskey will be coming out shortly. Everything must be kept completely confidential. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Your Excellency. Immediately.” Cardinal Patsy Monassari stood up and addressed Brian Comiskey. “Not to worry about the cost. I will see that all your expenses are taken care of by the Vatican Bank.”
Inwardly Brian grinned at the overt manner in which Patsy had reminded the college of cardinals of his ultimate financial power.
* * *
Within a short time of leaving the conclave, Comiskey had returned to his room in the Vatican hotel, at Piazza Santa Marta, changed to the black suit and Roman collar of a parish priest, then decided to call his friend, Ambassador Kirby. Brian was well aware of the unexpected problems that could arise along the way in the course of this mission. Also he had an uneasy feeling about Kelly, a resolute man known to follow his own judgment above that of any other man or, when he was a priest, any other cleric. Comiskey called Kirby’s private number at the residence, and Kathy Kirby told him that her husband was out jogging.
“Please, Kathy, I must speak to him.”
“The conclave?” Kathy began.
“I’ll call back in half an hour. Please try to get word to him out there on those paths.”
* * *
Tony, the deceased pope’s favorite personal driver, was standing at the back door when Brian, carrying an overnight satchel, emerged from the newly constructed St. Martha Hotel inside the Vatican, built at the close of the millennium especially to house the cardinals during conclaves. Tony shut the door, then took his seat behind the wheel and started the engine of the sleek black Mercedes.
“The airport in half an hour, Your Eminence. There’s the Santa Anna Gate ahead and we’re on our way out.”
Passing the Vatican City post office and shopping market on the left, they drove by two alert Swiss guards who recognized Tony and the car and waved them through. They took the turn at Via di Porta Angelica.
Loitering across the street from the Santa Anna Gate in front of the souvenir and pizza shop were two members of the regular Vatican press corps, Victor Simon of Associated Press and the Reuters correspondent, Mario Pullella. Also there, ever looking to make media contacts, was Father Farrell, giving the two veteran reporters the benefit of his informed opinions and hoping to get his name mentioned and even a plug for his latest novel on Catholic Church intrigue.
“The seventh day,” the AP man remarked. “Has it ever happened that a conclave was so stalled?”
“Oh, yes. The college has been known to be locked in for twelve days. Let’s see, that was in fifteen hundred and—”
“Hey!” the Reuters reporter exclaimed. “Isn’t that a Vatican car?”
Tony was waved through at this moment.
“It is,” Farrell responded. “Considering nothing is moving, it’s strange to see a motor pool Mercedes coming out.”
“There’s a guy wearing the collar in the backseat,” the AP writer observed.
Farrell stared into the backseat of the vehicle. “My God! It’s Comiskey. What’s he doing outside?”
“I don’t know,” the Reuters man replied. “But there’s a story here for sure!”
The AP man was already reaching for a roll of lire as he ran to a parked taxi. “Deloce, fifty thousand lire if you don’t lose that Vatican Mercedes,” Simon shouted, pulling open the door and climbing in. Before he could shut it, Pullella and Farrell had crowded in beside him.
“Hey! This is my cab!”
“Ours,” his Reuters colleague contradicted.
AP was already furiously dialing his cell phone. “Give me Elizabeth Redmond.”
The AP bureau chief came on the line immediately and her reporter breathlessly described what was happening. “Any idea where?” Redmond asked.
“We’re past Circo Massimo, l’ambasciata, and now on the Appian Way. He seems to be leading us onto the autostrada. Maybe the airport. Something’s up. We’ve got Farrell with us. I’ll put him on. Maybe you can get a quote.”
Farrell took the cell phone authoritatively in hand and barked into it, “A cardinal leaving the conclave is unheard of. There may be some kind of schism there.”
The AP man grabbed his phone back.
“Simon, how did you get onto this?” the bureau chief asked.
“Something had to be happening after seven days, so I waited at the Santa Anna Gate to see what.”
“Good show. I’ll put it over the wire.”
The Reuters reporter was already gathering quotes from Farrell to build up his story when it finally materialized.
“We’re definitely heading for Leonardo da Vinci, that’s right, Fiumicino airport,” the AP man called to his bureau chief.
“Cardinal Brian Comiskey of Ireland has left for the airport. Something big.”
“Stay with it all the way. Climb on the plane with him.”
“I don’t have much money, but I got a credit card and my passport.”
“Hang in there!” Elizabeth Redmond urged.
At the airport, Tony pulled the Mercedes up to the curb and the door was immediately opened by an official-looking man in a pin-striped suit. “Buongiorno. Come sta? Eminenza, I’m Umberto Alessi, Alitalia’s vice president in charge of business operations. Follow me, Eminence. I have your ticket.”
“Bene, grazie, Umberto. I’ve got to make a phone call.”
Before Brian could say another word, the two reporters had leaped from their cab and were chasing after him, calling out questions. Umberto Alessi spirited Brian away from this would-be curbside interrogation and led the way past security to Alitalia’s sala d’aspetto, a private briefing room that was only used for government officials from the Republic of Italy upon arrival back in Rome before being questioned by the press. AP and Reuters followed the cardinal’s every move while frantically trying to find out where he was going.
6
KIRBY’S CALL
It was later in the morning than usual for Ambassador Ed Kirby to start his daily seven-mile-plus jog. At ten A.M. in beat-up running shoes and exercise togs, he left his residence at the top of the Gianicolo Hill, the highest hill in the city and perhaps the most beautiful location in all Rome. Gianicolo was not one of the original seven hills. It was situated outside Rome when the seven were originally fortified. Across the street stood the American Academy, a residence founded by J. P. Morgan, where visiting scholars and writers could live gratis. Ernest Hemingway was one of the many American writers so graced. Close by was Villa Pamphilli, with its seven and a half miles of paths, water fountains, formal gardens, bocci courts, ponds, soccer fields, and Roman statuary. One roadway had been named for Martin Luther King, Jr.
The ambassador was always impressed by the magnificence of the park and how beautifully it was maintained by the city and respected by the amazingly large number of people who used it every day. It was a very different picture than was apt to be found in most American city parks.
While Kirby jogged ahead, a security car with three Italian secret service agents slid onto the road behind him, apparently to follow.
Along with most Catholics throughout the world, Kirby wondered what was going on at the conclave. He looked down the hill, taking in the Vatican on his right and its Sistine Chapel, where for days the cardinals had been trying to elect their new pope.
Rome was spread out below him. He could see St. Peter’
s Square, where hundreds of tourists were gathered in anticipation of sighting the column of white smoke. When at last it emerged from within the chapel, those in the square would be part of history. They could say they had been present when the new pope was at last elected.
Kirby had seen many dramatic ceremonies at the Vatican. The beatification of the first Gypsy saint had brought over a hundred thousand Gypsies from around the world and the magnificent Easter Sunday Mass, with nearly one million pilgrims on hand.
As he jogged the path running parallel to Via Aurelia, one of the longest streets in Italy beginning at St. Peter’s Square, his eyes searched for the Pacelli estate, home of the family of Pius XII. When Kirby had first arrived in Rome, the U.S. embassy was located there. Anytime he wanted to meet with top Vatican officials, diplomats, or world figures he could be sure they would show up because they so loved the atmosphere and the historic surroundings of the place. A staffer for the king of Spain had even called one day to ask if King Juan Carlos could stop by the embassy to see the home of Pope Pius XII after his meeting with Pope John Paul II was concluded.
The State Department, however, had little concept of how important the place was. In a shortsighted economic cutback, Foggy Bottom had let the lease lapse and moved the embassy to a smaller, less prestigious building farther away from the Vatican itself. It was an example of the State Department’s political insensitivity, which elicited amazement within Church circles and the rest of the diplomatic community. Now Ambassador Kirby did most of his official entertaining and much of his State Department business at the comfortable and more easily accessible Villa Richardson.
The ambassador was always susceptible to the constant innuendos aimed at him by career State Department employees who resented the politically appointed. The career types felt that appointees didn’t really understand the business or deserve their more prestigious positions. With the Congress in Washington cutting deeply into the State Department budget and fourteen new U.S. embassies opening in the wake of the Soviet Union split-up into independent republics, this placed further pressure on politically appointed ambassadors. The careerists resented political appointees taking jobs away from them—that was how they perceived it, at any rate.
Ed had run three or four miles when he noticed a reflection on the road in front of him from the flashing blue lights on the roof of the security car following behind. He turned and saw the driver, Fabio, waving to him. Stopping, he let the car come alongside him.
“Mrs. Kirby just notified us you had an urgent phone call,” Fabio announced. “Whoever it was will call back soon.”
The only other calls he had received like that were two from the president and one from the Holy Father. The ambassador flashed a glance at the Vatican, laid out below the hill. No smoke rising from the Sistine Chapel. His first thought had been that the conclave had elected a pope and he was being notified. It must be the president. He probably wants to know what’s going on, Ed surmised.
Kirby jumped into the backseat beside Giovanni, an Italian secret service agent, and in a few moments they passed through the front entrance of Villa Richardson. Kathy was waiting and gave him a glass of water and a reassuring smile in reply to his anxious look.
“Brian will be calling you in a few more minutes. He’s on his way to the airport!”
“What!” Ed exclaimed. “What’s going on? I didn’t see any white smoke coming from the chapel.”
Kathy shrugged. “He’ll call you when he gets to the airport.”
Ed walked down the hall, entered his office, and slumped, confused, into a chair. He glanced up at the only photograph on his office wall. Given to him by the homeless people at the Pine Street Inn in Chicago, it was called “Christ in the Breadline.” The homeless in the photograph were waiting in the breadline, and the image of Christ was in the throng. Mario Cuomo, former governor of New York, was one of the very few people who had looked at the picture (which had hung in his city hall office for years) and recognized Christ in the crowd of hungry homeless. It represented a political ideology that had been an important part of his personal and political life. Thoughts raced through his mind, mostly incoherent surmise at the absolute inconsistency of a call coming from Brian Comiskey while the conclave was still in session. And going to the airport!
Ed snatched the telephone before its first ring died out.
“Ed, I have to go to Boston. I’m leaving shortly.” Brian said urgently. “I need your help. I trust you, as someone with the best interests of the Church at heart and having the political savvy. But it has to be absolutely confidential. Not even the White House.”
“You called the right man, Brian. What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you much now. What goes on in the conclave is secret. I can say I need your help. I need you to take the first plane to Boston tomorrow and guide me through what might become a very delicate situation.”
“I understand, I think,” Ed replied.
Brian went on breathlessly, “A couple of media people have followed me to the airport and are asking questions.”
“What can I do, Brian?” Kirby asked.
“Be in Boston while I am on this mission. It will be helpful.”
Kirby glanced at his watch. “I can get out on Alitalia’s new morning flight and be there before noon tomorrow Boston time.”
“It may be nothing, but if things work out unexpectedly, as an uneasy hunch tells me is possible, I will need your help. You can reach me through Bishop Murray at the Archdiocese of Boston. Here is his telephone number. Don’t worry about personal expenses. The Vatican Bank will cover it.” There was a pause and Ed heard the cardinal’s muffled protests as an assertive reporter sought to question him.
“Brian, I’ll call the bishop when I get in and let him know how to reach me. I’ll be standing by for your call. I’m in enough trouble with State now, so another quick disappearance isn’t going to make it much worse. The president will support me. He’s not the problem.”
“Thanks, Ed. Now, let me shake these news hounds off my tail and get on the plane. I’ll be OK.”
Ed hung up and returned Catherine’s questioning gaze.
“What’s Brian up to? He’s going to the States,” she stated. “What does he want you to do?”
“Something very strange is going on.”
“What did I hear you say about going back tomorrow?” Kathy probed.
“Brian needs my help. That’s all I know. Make sure tonight when the governor of California comes to dinner that we don’t let it slip out that I’m flying to the States tomorrow.” He paused, remembering an important item. “By the way, make sure to call Bill Fugazy in New York, and let him know that we’re taking care of his friends. He wanted to get them into the Sistine Chapel for a tour. But tell him”—Ed smiled wryly—“somebody else is using it. Set them up with a tour of the catacombs.”
“Don’t you have to get State Department approval before leaving your post?” Catherine clucked her tongue. “Remember the fuss when you flew into New York for the Governor Al Smith Dinner? And how about the time you boycotted the reception for the queen of England and met with the leader of Sinn Féin?” She reproved him with a smile.
“Stop bringing up old stories.” He grinned ruefully. “But there’s no politics involved in this mission. Something is afoot in Boston, and Brian needs my help. Maybe they are going out of the conclave and a bishop in the U.S. is being considered.” Ed grinned at his wife. “Or maybe some ‘question’ on one of the cardinals likely to be chosen has turned up. I know what the media can and will do when they think they have something on a prominent person, whether it be in politics, business, or religion. Think what the media would do with something juicy on the future pope! A hatchet job!”
“Ed,” Catherine grumbled, “how can you even suggest such a blasphemous thing?”
“Patrick is on his way up to the residence,” Ed said. The young man from Chicago whom Kirby had handpicked as his confidential assistant st
rode into the room. Patrick O’Hearn had no State Department aspirations and Ed had needed presidential influence to have his bright, young, loyal, former city hall aide hired to work for him at the embassy. “You’ll have to cover for me for a couple, maybe three days while I make a quick confidential trip to Boston,” he said to Patrick.
Patrick groaned facetiously. “Your deputy chief of mission will have a field day when he discovers you’re off post again without permission. He’ll call Washington immediately. They love to make life difficult for you political appointees, and they hate to have extra work while they’re writing their book or looking for their next promotion or job.”
“Just do your best to take care of things while I’m away. You and the DCM will have to handle the cable traffic.”
Ed started out of his office. “I’ll spend the rest of the day down at the embassy and try to give them the impression that everything is normal. If any press calls come in, you can say that the ambassador and the U.S. government have no comment to make regarding the conclave and Holy See policy. I know damn well that State would prevent me from traveling home if they knew about this mission—no matter how crucial to the Church or anyone else.”
* * *
Cardinal Comiskey left the private waiting room at the airport whence he had called Kirby. His worst fears were coming true. Cameras were everywhere. How had they gotten there so fast?
“Your Eminence, please!” the shouts went up. “Where are you going?”
“Why did you leave the conclave?”
“What’s going on?”
Thank God he had considered a worst-case scenario and called Ambassador Kirby. He stopped and raised his hand. Amazingly the shouts of the reporters lapsed into silence almost immediately.
“I’m sorry,” the cardinal began. “Our conclave is still going on. I am just being sent to obtain some information needed by the college of cardinals. I am forbidden to discuss anything further. As you know, all our work in the conclave is secret. I realize you have your job to do, but I have mine too. And my work for the conclave has to remain secret. I’ll be back in Rome in a few days and fully expect the conclave will elect a new pope.”
