The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  The flight to Nice was a connector to Monte Carlo. While it would have been unlikely that Kirby could have taken a flight to the States without his being listed on the passenger manifest, which he was not, a flight to Nice could easily be booked under an assumed name. Aer Lingus would not give the embassy any information on who was aboard the nine-forty-five flight to Dublin.

  Was Kirby visiting someone in Monte Carlo at a time when he would not be missed? Or maybe a gambling casino? Was he traveling to Ireland to catch up with old drinking buddies who were scheduled to attend the All Ireland football championship?

  When it was nine A.M. in Washington, Seedworth called his boss at State’s Vatican interest section. This was another career officer who deplored the plethora of political appointments at ambassadorial posts around the world. The DCM reported the latest information on Kirby, a prime target in the department’s effort to embarrass the present administration and in particular its choices for high diplomatic appointments.

  “Good show, Seedworth,” the DCM heard himself complimented from afar. “Keep developing a complete report on Kirby. Meantime I’ll turn on the ‘confidential source’ heat here in Washington. Be ready for calls that come through to you as a result of, let’s say, an ‘unfortunate leak.’ Make certain that all calls from the media go directly to you. And see if you can pin our friend down to the Nice or Dublin flights. Good show!”

  The next call made by the DCM was to Villa Richardson, where, once again, he reached Kirby’s assistant. “Patrick, Cal Seedworth here. Anything new from the ambassador?”

  “All I know is that he is on an important United States mission. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. But I really don’t know anything beyond that.”

  “I understand. Probably something so confidential he can’t let us in on it just yet.” The DCM’s voice fairly bubbled with understanding and faith in whatever it was the ambassador was undertaking for the embassy and his country. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” he continued. “It’s just that I am getting cables from the desk asking about Cardinal Comiskey’s surprise visit to Boston. And State does know that Ambassador Kirby is close to this cardinal. So naturally I’m taking some heat, but it’s all part of my job.” He sighed. “Don’t worry, Patrick. I’ll answer the cables as best I can. We must protect the ambassador. But please ask him to contact me at his earliest convenience.”

  “Sure will, Cal. I appreciate your concern. I’ll keep in touch.”

  * * *

  Hanging up, Patrick thought he was going to throw up at that line of bull. He was, however, deeply concerned about just how J. Calstrom Seedworth was going to use this unexplained absence against his boss. Patrick had no idea exactly what Kirby was doing, but he knew it was very much in the line of duty. He knew that the DCM, wrapped in a mantle of resentment, would use this particular absence to the detriment of any political appointee to any top embassy post. It also meant that if the ambassador were to be recalled, the DCM had access to all the ambassador’s perks, plus the money and car.

  * * *

  Back in Washington, the State Department specialist in leaks to embarrass political appointees was hard at work, in this instance on the phone to the Washington Post. “Hello, Jerry. You know who this is. Deep Throat Two. Listen, I have a tip. We’ve lost Ambassador Kirby again. Yeah. And this time when all hell is breaking loose. Cardinal Comiskey of Ireland has left the conclave at the Vatican for Boston, and—”

  He paused after Jerry Taylor said, “We know all about that one. Stew Peadman is covering it from Boston.”

  “Yeah, but do you know that with a Vatican crisis brewing we can’t find Kirby? We think he might even be in Monte Carlo or Ireland. At any rate, he’s AWOL once more when we need him. This may be the time when another reprimand isn’t enough. The word is coming down from the top that he may be recalled. Maybe fired.”

  “Sounds interesting. Exclusive to us?”

  “As far as we’re concerned, yes. Just keep that recall statement coming from a high-ranking, reliable source at the State Department who prefers to remain unidentified. You know the drill, Jerry.”

  “I’ll have to call Rome, of course,” Taylor said.

  “Of course. Do you want the number of the embassy and the ambassador’s residence?”

  “Sure. And what’s the name of the local DCM?”

  Five minutes later the Post’s Taylor was on the phone to the U.S. Vatican embassy. Then, after calling the residence and speaking with Patrick O’Hearn, reaching the U.S. Information Agency in Rome, and checking with the White House press secretary, he wrote a breaking story from Washington regarding Kirby’s absence from post. He was writing his exclusive story.

  Seedworth smiled. “He won’t survive this one.”

  * * *

  In the White House, meanwhile, a concerned assistant press secretary, Art Jones, was in the chief of staff’s office with the news that the Washington Post was running a story indicating that U.S. Ambassador Edward Kirby was on the verge of being recalled from the Vatican. This at a time when at any moment a new pope was about to be elected. Jones was concerned because he was a close friend of Kirby’s. He knew the damage the story could do to Kirby personally, as well as the collateral embarrassment it would bring to the president.

  The chief of staff, sizing up the political ramifications of such a story, particularly if the State Department did something foolish like confirming a recall, went directly to the president in the Oval Office. Surrounded by his top policy staff, including the national security adviser, the president listened carefully to the assistant press secretary. Then, after a pause, he passed judgment on the situation.

  “You know as well as I do that the State regulars have no loyalty or much political sense at all. Ed Kirby has had to defend us here to his friend, the pope, against what the curia deem our liberal and anti-Catholic ideas. I don’t have to repeat to you that the conservative Republicans over there on the Hill are one hundred percent against abortion and gays in the military.” The president nodded at his personal assessment so far.

  “Our conservative enemies on the other side of the aisle hold many other views in common with the Church leadership in the United States. They seem to share a strong sense of Catholic values with the pope. Now here comes one Democrat, Ed Kirby, advocating what is important to the pope and the Church, which is human rights, religious freedom, health care for the poor and needy, plus he’s strongly pro-life. We can’t afford to lose the Catholic vote; it’s too important to the Democratic Party’s success.”

  The president fixed his advisers, one by one, with a watery stare. “Who kept the Catholic vote from swinging Republican? Ed Kirby, that’s who. State has no more idea of political reality than my dog. In fact, Buddy has more sense than those hired cow-handlers. And yet they wonder why the executive has to have political appointees to hold his foreign policy together—politically and financially,” the president added with a wise nod. “Over at Foggy Bottom they’ve all married each other’s first cousins. It’s no wonder they all look like the inbred dry sticks they are.”

  The president paused, taking the measure of his advisers. “I don’t know where Ed Kirby is now, but I do know that he has more damn political savvy than any of those birdbrains at the department. What a cesspool of media leaks those hypocrites are!” He grinned broadly and winked at his Peace Corps director, Mike Gearson. “Probably while those small-minded idiots are tearing him down, Ed is with the next pope right this minute.”

  Since such a speculation was, on the face of it, preposterous, nobody in the Oval Office bothered to challenge the president’s latest whimsical conjecture. But it closed their case that the president still retained full confidence in Ambassador Kirby and his political value.

  The Washington Post, by now well primed by DCM Seedworth, who had agreed to inform them only as an unnamed source, had by day’s end wrapped up its story about Ambassador Kirby’s alleged disappearance from the Vatican scene. Cardinal Comisk
ey was televised at Cardinal Cushman’s residence on Lake Street in Boston holding a morning press conference, and then had eluded the press until joining the Franciscan bishop of Fall River just prior to catching his plane back to Rome. All this time Kirby had been clearly out of the loop.

  At the hour Kirby and Bill Kelly were boarding their night flight to Rome, there was a top-level meeting at the undersecretary of State’s office with certain officials sharing a deep interest in the Kirby situation. A special assistant to the national security adviser had been called to the meeting and had delivered the White House stand. The president remained fully confident in his ambassador. When advised of the ambassador’s absence from his post he had remarked that if he knew Kirby, the ambassador was “probably at that very moment with the next pope.”

  “The president won’t be able to ignore the Washington Post article,” the Vatican officer snapped at the absurdity of the statement. “I’m sorry, but whatever it was Comiskey was doing in Boston, Ed Kirby was unable to give the department a clue. Tomorrow, we’ll tighten the noose,” said the desk officer in a low voice.

  13

  THE NANCY REAGAN SUN ROOM

  All night on the plane, Bill Kelly rehearsed what he would say if, indeed, he were called before the assemblage of cardinals. He reviewed what Kirby had told him and recalled a statement about actors: “The next performance is the most important one of your life.” It all seemed so unlikely that he felt he was dreaming aboard his trawler, the Mary One, and that this particular day, from the moment he had docked yesterday morning, had never really dawned.

  He fell asleep, to be awakened by the first call for breakfast as the fierce morning sunlight pierced through the airplane window. He looked across the sleeping Kirby, then out the window, and saw, for the first time in his life, the spectacular white-topped Italian Alps spread out below. He held to the breathtaking sight for some moments and then began saying the Rosary with the beads Brian had traded him just a few hours ago, hoping for strength and guidance.

  Ed Kirby had also awakened. He gratefully sipped the orange juice in front of him. Then he turned to Bill in the aisle seat and smiled. “Well, we’ve done everything Brian asked of us and for whatever higher power is working through him. I guess it’s His call what happens next. Not Brian’s. Not ours.”

  “Amen, Ed,” Bill replied.

  When the plane landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome, Ed Kirby had arranged that he and Bill would be the first passengers escorted to the debarking ramp. They were immediately led through customs and immigration, carrying their overnight bags. They were led out to the sidewalk, where the U.S. embassy car and Claudio, the ambassador’s driver, were waiting.

  Claudio’s first words, in broken English, were, “The DCM wanted to know where you were. I tell him that I am sure ambassador knows what’s best for America. This makes him mad at me.” Claudio grinned broadly.

  The car was well on the way out and heading toward Villa Richardson before the last TWA passengers had left the plane. The drive to the residence took less than half an hour, and by ten A.M. Kirby was showing Bill to the front door. Kathy Kirby and daughter Maureen were at the door to greet them. The women knew only that Bill Kelly was a close friend of Cardinal Comiskey’s and a deep-sea fisherman from Massachusetts.

  Kathy and Maureen welcomed their guest with a kiss on each cheek, an Italian custom Bill had never experienced before. Kathy told him that a box from Brian had been delivered just half an hour earlier and was to be given to him. She pointed to the neat box resting on the hall table with a Roman tailor’s label on it. Ed excused himself, leaving Maureen, Kathy, and Bill to chat in the Nancy Reagan Sun Room. In his office he dialed the number that Brian had given him and found himself talking to Monsignor Cippolini at an office in the Sistine Chapel. “Please tell Cardinal Comiskey that Ambassador Kirby called to let him know that the package he has been expecting from the United States has been delivered,” Ed said succinctly.

  “His Eminence left word that when you called, Mr. Ambassador, to please send the gentleman to my office here at the Sistine Chapel. And, Mr. Ambassador, please be certain he immediately opens the box delivered to your residence this morning.”

  “I will send him down to you with my driver shortly, Monsignor,” Kirby replied. He picked up the package left for Bill. In the sun room, Ed Kirby found him talking animatedly with Maureen and Kathy. Already they’d discovered that Maureen and Bill’s daughter Colleen were the same age. Maureen was telling Bill about the excellent school she was attending, Marymount International School, and mentioned that Sister Ann Marie, the principal, was from the same Irish county that her grandparents were from.

  “There are many good schools here,” Maureen declared.

  “Bill,” Ambassador Kirby interrupted, “the cardinal wants you to open this now before we deliver you over to him. Let me take you up to a guest room so you can refresh yourself.” Bill followed Ed upstairs and into a guest room with a scenic view of St. Peter’s resplendent in the midday Italian sunlight.

  “Come on down whenever you’re ready, Bill.”

  In the sun room the ambassador held up a hand against the flood of questions launched by Kathy and Maureen. “We’ll all see soon enough why Mr. Kelly has come to Rome. As soon as he is ready, I must have Claudio drive him down to Monsignor Cippolini.”

  “I wonder what Cardinal Comiskey sent over to him,” Maureen mused.

  “I expect you’ll find out. And don’t be surprised.”

  Ida, the Filipina housemaid, brought in a pot of tea with four cups. “Ed, I’m glad you’re home,” Kathy said as she poured. The ambassador began to relax.

  “I’d like to drive down with Mr. Kelly,” Maureen said. “It is my turn to keep Marymount’s vigil in St. Peter’s Square for the election. I want to see history in the making.”

  Meanwhile Bill Kelly, upstairs in the guest bedroom, was having his own concerns about a new pope. He sat on the edge of the bed and slowly opened the box that Brian had sent. He gave a half smile, which quickly faded as the cassock seemed to stared back at him. “God, what am I doing here? I must be crazy.” He reached out and touched the cassock. It had been so many years, often full of guilt, since he had worn a cassock. It sent shivers down his spine. He slowly withdrew the cassock from the box. A tear began to form in one eye. Reaching to wipe it away, he looked at the dampness on his finger, then opened his large hand to view the roughness. “These are the hands of a fisherman … not a pope.” He stood up and let the cassock fall to the floor. He was totally lost. His mind went blank: even prayer could not come. Then a picture caught his eye. He slowly moved toward it. A man standing on the shoreline pulling in a full net of fish while Jesus looked on. The caption read: PETER THE FISHERMAN. It was settled at last. God was still talking to him. He reached down for the cassock.

  * * *

  “You may very well be part of that history, Maureen,” Ed said in a low tone. The two women followed his eyes, and both let out gasps. Bill Kelly slowly walked into the room wearing a black cassock adorned with the red trim of a monsignor. He was carrying a neatly tied file folder under his right arm, which he set down on the hall table.

  “It fits you well,” Ed managed. “I wonder where Brian … It’s your size, all right. There is hardly a cardinal, monsignor, or even a priest in Rome as tall as you.”

  To a startled Maureen and Kathy, Bill said, “Sorry if I shocked you. I was a priest for six years before I married Mary. I guess Brian wants to remind someone, as the saying goes, ‘Once a priest, always a priest.’”

  “Claudio will take you to your next stop. By the way, do you mind if Maureen goes down with you? She somehow thinks a new pope will be on the balcony before sunset today.”

  “I would be most appreciative of her company,” Bill replied. “In fact, I need it.”

  Kathy stared openmouthed at the imposing figure Bill Kelly presented, standing in their sun room doorway wearing the long black cassock and Roman colla
r. Bill, aware of the startling effect of his sartorial transformation, strove for a moment of levity. His fingers tracing the red cord outlining his vestment, he quipped, “This is the fastest promotion to monsignor any ex-priest was ever given!”

  “With more to come, I vow.” The awe in Ed’s tone was almost palpable. He raised his voice and called for Patrick in his cubbyhole office down the hall.

  Bill took a cup of tea from Kathy and sipped silently for some moments, then set it down as Patrick came in. “Patrick O’Hearn, this is Bill Kelly,” Ed said. “We just flew back from New York together.”

  Patrick reached for Bill’s hand and shook it. “Monsignor, a pleasure.”

  “Good to meet you, Pat,” Bill boomed heartily. “And to tell you the truth I don’t quite know what or who I am at this moment.”

  “Patrick, get your camera and take a roll of pictures of Bill here with the rest of us.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll go find it. I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Imposing house,” Bill commented. “What a view of Rome!”

  “This is the Nancy Reagan Sun Room,” Kathy explained. “Our first ambassador to the Vatican was a great friend of President Reagan’s and was appointed by the president. When Mrs. Reagan decided to visit, the ambassador’s wife had this room completely built onto the residence for her at considerable expense. Those new picture windows were put in, and this southern California style furniture. Light, airy upholstering replaced the original, old-fashioned, heavy stuff.”

  “I trust the First Lady enjoyed it as much as I do,” Bill remarked, taking in the authentic beauty of the room and the view through the windows.

  Kathy laughed deprecatingly. “As it turned out, Nancy had two cups of tea, stayed for three hours, and that was the last she ever saw of her room.”

  “Then the State Department found an excuse to replace the ambassador, a political appointee,” Kirby added. “He went to Libya on a confidential mission at the president’s request, and when the State desk found out about it, they leaked it to the press and the ambassador was summarily removed. He fell on his sword to protect the president.”