The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  Patrick returned with his camera to shoot the pictures Ed had requested, wondering why the ambassador wanted pictures with a monsignor. In short order he snapped a dozen of Bill with Ed, Kathy, and Maureen and then several of Ed and Bill together. Then Ed snapped one of Bill and Patrick and the photo session was over.

  “With all we’ve been through these past twenty-four hours, it would be a crying shame to be any later in getting on with our mission,” Ed suggested.

  Bill turned to Maureen. “Shall we set forth, then?”

  “Sure thing.” She paused a moment, her eyes taking in the formidable figure, then said hesitantly, “Bill?”

  “Right. Please never forget to call me that—come what may. OK?” He picked up his overnight case and the manila folder.

  Kirby walked out to the car and instructed Claudio to take his passenger to the side emergency exit of the Sistine Chapel, there to introduce him to the Swiss guardsman, who knew where he should be escorted.

  Smiling, Ed turned to Bill. “You’ll like Monsignor Cippolini. He will be expecting those documents.” He tapped the file folder.

  On the street, Maureen stepped into the backseat and Ed gripped Bill’s hand. “I don’t know anything officially,” the ambassador said, “or unofficially either, for that matter, but I gather that it might not be entirely inappropriate for me to say to you, ‘Feed my sheep, Peter.’”

  Bill’s face was suddenly illuminated as a smile shone from his eyes and lips. “Ed, you just gave me an idea!”

  “What’s that, Bill?”

  “You’ll see!”

  Ed Kirby watched as the embassy car drove off. He smiled at the likelihood of his daughter being very much a part of the history of this day.

  Inside, Patrick answered a phone call in the ambassador’s office.

  Elizabeth Redmond, AP Rome-Vatican bureau chief, was calling. At first, Patrick said the ambassador was too busy at the moment to talk with the press.

  “Well,” the AP woman snapped, “I just thought he might like to have me read the opening paragraph of a story in the early edition of today’s Washington Post.”

  “Why don’t you read it to me,” Patrick suggested.

  “It starts out with a question. ‘Kirby to be recalled from the Vatican?’”

  “Hold it!” Patrick exclaimed. “I’ll get the ambassador.”

  “Yeah, he might want to hear what State’s saying about him over there.”

  Patrick quickly summoned Ed Kirby, who exchanged pleasantries with the AP bureau chief and then listened to the feature story. “AWOL?” Ed exclaimed. “Monte Carlo? Ireland? Where did they get that garbage?”

  “Unidentified reliable sources,” the reply shot back.

  “Look, Elizabeth, this is way off the mark. Why does the press believe these self-serving State Department bureaucrats? They spend their time talking to the press on background and they don’t know what the hell they are talking about. I’ll never understand it. I had a choice to make: play it safe and do nothing, or take a chance and help a friend and be loyal to my Church and country. And if something phenomenally extraordinary happens at the Vatican you can call me for an explanation.”

  “Sounds to me as though you have one hell of a story no matter what happens,” the bureau chief commented.

  “Well, there is such a thing as total secrecy within the conclave.”

  Smelling the most important story breaking within the Vatican in many years, Redmond tried to pry it out of the ambassador, but with no success. “Just call me if something breaks beyond this Post story business,” Kirby said.

  “Can you answer the allegations? Off post without permission? Did you drop in at Monte Carlo via Nice?” Redmond pursued.

  “Unequivocally, no. I’ll tell you as much as I can as soon as I can.” Kirby hung up and looked at his loyal young assistant. “If this situation doesn’t work out and I can’t explain where I’ve been the past couple of days, I’m in deep trouble. Any word from the conclave?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I can see the chapel down below us from upstairs, but no white smoke.”

  “I hate to think of the president greeted by this mess when he comes in from his morning jog. Conclave secret or not, I am going to have to explain to him what happened and leave it up to him what he wants to tell anyone else!”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t ordinarily read the newspapers before he goes out running,” Patrick said.

  14

  NO NEED FOR MORE VOTES

  Two hours before Ambassador Kirby and Bill Kelly arrived, Cardinal Comiskey was being driven from da Vinci Airport to Vatican City. Making all the preparations on the car telephone for Bill Kelly’s arrival, Brian directed the motor pool driver, Tony, to take him to the side entrance of the Sistine Chapel. Outside stood a Swiss guard, with whom Brian exchanged a few words as he stepped out of the Vatican Mercedes. Then he approached the chapel’s emergency door that would lead him back into the conclave. Monsignor Alonso Cippolini stood up from his desk to greet him. “So glad to have you back, Eminenza! I hope everything went well … whatever you had to do. You have been the most famous face on TV since you departed.”

  “Yes, Al, it’s a media circus. I have one more item for you. A certain Monsignor Kelly, an American from Massachusetts, is bringing some important information to us. Ambassador Kirby will confirm by phone when Monsignor Kelly is coming. A couple of hours, Al.”

  “Massachusetts. Now I am understanding—a little.” He smiled knowingly.

  “I left instructions with the captain of the Guard at the gate to bring him straight to this door when he arrives. In your own charming way please make him feel comfortable until I come out and get him.”

  “Certainly, Eminenza. Will he be staying? I mean, do you want me to prepare a room for him at the new Vatican hotel?”

  “No, Al. He may already have arrangements made.”

  Smoothly Cippolini unbolted the door, bowed graciously, and smiled. “Have a fruitful day, Eminenza. I hope the information you are expecting will get us a pope soon so we can put this long conclave behind us.”

  “I also, Monsignor,” Brian echoed. With that Comiskey passed through the door and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the bolt close behind him. A triumphant if enigmatic smile played across his face as he considered the anxiety his fellow princes of the Church had undergone. They had no idea what he had experienced while away from them. Of course, they had no real reason to be concerned. They all knew that he had been sent merely to explain the “joke” and the “problem” to some poor American fisherman. Of course, Mr. Kelly’s refusal had been automatic!

  As Brian walked in, Cardinal Rostia, smiling and extending his hand, was the first to greet him. “I trust your trip was successful and that we can put this whole nightmare behind us?”

  In the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Motupu and the other black cardinals clustered together, anxiously staring at the two. Brian’s grin broadened as he caught the eye of the lead African delegate and gave him a wink, which immediately brought wide, toothy smiles of comprehension on the part of this new faction seeking change.

  Everyone in the august conclave believed he alone was doing God’s work and that, hence, God was working through him. Each believed his individual opinion was God’s opinion, and, therefore, even if his thinking might be at total variance with that of any other princes of the Church, that God, at least, was on his side.

  They are all correct, Brian thought. God will take us and work with us come what may. We are his children. He is capable of considering all our views and opinions, then of getting it to work out and to move us ahead in time.

  “You did your work most expeditiously.” As Cardinal Robitelli turned toward his table facing the chairs arranged for the cardinals, Brian reached out and laid a hand on the camerlengo’s shoulder. Robitelli was now clearly back in charge of conclave proceedings.

  “Please, Your Eminence, may I speak to you for a moment? It is vitally important that I tell yo
u about the mission.”

  The camerlengo showed his vexation that his conclave might be delayed for even another minute. “Not now, please, Comiskey. I’ll have you give your little travel talk as soon as we get back into session.” With that he turned and walked briskly away.

  What a fatuous snob, Brian said to himself before he could stop the thought. Very well. OK. I’ll give my ‘travel talk’ later. But ‘little’? I doubt it. It will be the most momentous travel talk in Catholic annals since Peter walked from Galilee to Rome.

  * * *

  Two Swiss guards on duty who recognized U.S. diplomatic plates on the big bulletproof American Cadillac waved the official embassy driver, Claudio, through the Porta di Sant’Anna. He drove up toward the Sistine Chapel and stopped in front of the side entrance.

  “See you later, Maureen,” Bill said as he stepped out of the car. “I hope you have your historic day.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you later if you’ll be staying on?” Maureen replied. “I’ll make you the best olio e aglio you’ve ever tasted.”

  Bill smiled enigmatically. “What happens to me from this moment on is in the hands of God. I will, of course, assist Him in making His will my own in every way possible.”

  Maureen gave him a questioning look but found it hard to reply as Bill repeated his name to the guard at the door.

  “Yes, Monsignor Kelly. I have been waiting for you,” the multihued-uniformed guardsman said. “Brian Cardinal Comiskey asked me to show you into Monsignor Cippolini’s office at once.”

  Beyond the side entrance to the Sistine Chapel the guard stopped at a large desk, where another Swiss guard wearing a contemporary officer’s uniform sat on duty. “For you, Captain,” the first said, handing him a note. “Cardinal Comiskey of Ireland gave this to me less than an hour ago.”

  The captain read the note, looked over at the imposing cleric in front of him, and reread the paper. “You are Monsignor William Kelly?” the captain asked sternly.

  “Yes, I am!”

  “Have you documents to prove that?” the captain challenged.

  “Yes, of course.” Bill put his folder down, reached for the passport he had obtained when he attended a fishing conference in the Azores several years before, and handed it over.

  The captain looked at the picture, a hint of a smile on his face. He rose, extending his hand. “Welcome to Rome, Monsignor. Follow me, please.”

  Bill picked up his folder, pocketing his passport, and followed through a short, ancient hallway until they reached the desk of Monsignor Cippolini, who scrambled to his feet.

  “Here is the monsignor that Cardinal Comiskey has told you to see.” The captain turned to Bill. “I’m led to presume you must be carrying important documents in that folder.”

  “I presume so,” Bill replied levelly. With that the Swiss guard turned and moved swiftly down the hallway.

  “My name is Monsignor Alonso Cippolini.” He shook hands with the anxious Bill Kelly. “Cardinal Comiskey asked me to receive you. Ah, something to eat, caffè maybe, while we wait for the signal?”

  “I’d love coffee and any kind of roll.”

  Monsignor Cippolini picked up the phone and gave the order, looking at Bill with an engaging grin. “The Americans and other English-speaking just call me ‘Al.’ I must confess I’m as curious as the captain was as to what’s in that apocalyptic folder. But I’m sure with all the trouble Brian, I mean Cardinal Comiskey, went through, we’ll know soon enough.”

  Al’s Italian accent was charming, Bill thought. “Yes,” he replied. “I’m sure the cardinals will be anxious to see me—with this folder, of course. Monsignor—call me Bill.”

  “Right, ‘Bill.’ We’ll sit here at my desk. You can have your caffè and rolls and we can make talk until the phone rings.”

  “Thanks, Al. It’s good to meet a thoughtful person now, at this moment.”

  “I am from Sicily, but of course I love Rome. Rivalry, you know? Is this your first visit?”

  “That’s right. Maybe you could tell me a little bit about your work and what goes on in this place,” Bill suggested.

  “If I did that, Bill, you’d have a long beard and cobwebs before I finished. But I think I could give you a mental tour before they call you. When they are done maybe we will go out to one of my favorite little restaurants for a late lunch.” Monsignor Cippolini turned as a waiter brought in a continental breakfast. “If you are going to be here a while longer I will show you the best restaurants in Rome. The best are also the least expensive.”

  “Thanks, Al. That would be helpful indeed.” Bill sipped the coffee and munched on a tasty, sticky Italian roll.

  Inside, the princes were waiting expectantly, some apprehensively, to hear Brian’s account of the aftermath of their ill-advised “joke” before casting their ballots anew. Various groups were already seated in their places, openly discussing the next ballot despite the rules. Every cardinal was by now eager to put an end to this conclave, to get out of his Vatican prison and speed back to his own semiprivate world again.

  Within minutes after the last cardinal was in his place the camerlengo tapped his wooden gavel on the table before him. “Dear brothers, I know you are all anxious to get our business concluded, so I will not slow you down save to allow our brother, Cardinal Comiskey, a few moments to tell us all about his trip. We are well aware of the pressure he was under the moment he left our presence. I, for one, am particularly proud of him for the near-incredible speed with which he carried out this most difficult assignment. Let us give him a warm welcome back.”

  “Bravo, bravo!” echoed in the chapel.

  Restrained but intense applause greeted their momentary hero. When the clamor began to subside the camerlengo tapped his gavel again. “So, dear brother, before we begin our voting, would you take no more than fifteen minutes to bring us all up to date?” The camerlengo seated himself.

  Cardinal Comiskey felt the butterflies in his stomach and a constriction in his throat as he stood up. To everyone’s surprise he strode to the front of the chamber and turned to face them. “Dear brothers, I feel any account of my journey would be superfluous. The only thing necessary to say, and I certainly did not expect I would be saying it…” He paused, as though incapable for a moment of making the pronouncement. Then, “There will be no need for another vote. Bill Kelly has accepted the papacy!”

  The shocked silence was suffocating. Slowly minds began to absorb the meaning of this declaration. “Mio Dio,” were the first words uttered as one cardinal blessed himself with the sign of the cross.

  Nervous laughter, mingled with a subdued mumbling, was cut off abruptly by Cardinal Robitelli. Without rising, he blared out at the bowed head before him. “Please, Cardinal Comiskey, the ‘joke’ has gone far enough. We will have no more of it! If you think this gathering is a joke, be seated and we will get on at once with our work.”

  Brian turned his head slowly, and the camerlengo mentally shuddered at the withering contempt of his stare. “You are right, Your Eminence. The ‘joke’ is over, and it is on us. God is my witness, and I am not in a jesting mood.”

  The camerlengo was on his feet now as he suddenly realized along with the others in the room that there was no smile on the face or jest in the words of their Irish colleague. “Impossible, Comiskey! What did you say to that man? What are you trying to do to us?”

  Murmurs arose, some angry, from several areas in the room. Only the black cardinals from Africa and America, seated in their own enclave, indulged without constraint or fear in joyous expressions and nods among themselves.

  Brian could see that he needed their attention in the Sistine Chapel to complete his task. “Sit down, Eminence!” his voice whipped. “I will inform you what occurred.” The totally uncharacteristic turnabout had its desired effect. The camerlengo fell back into his seat, dazed by his junior’s outrageous rebuff. Silence, and all eyes were glued on the now isolated figure confronting them in evident pain.

  �
�First, I apologize to you, Cardinal Robitelli, for my outburst, but I felt it the only way I could deliver this most unique of messages. I must explain to all of you exactly what happened, no more and no less.

  “My trip to the United States, as we all expected, was fraught with confusion and bewilderment. But I was blessed with the help of Bishop Murray of Boston and Bishop McCarrick of Fall River. When I arrived at the Kelly residence, Bill Kelly had just returned from a long fishing trip.”

  Brian paused and searched his audience for understanding. “Now, please pay strict attention to what I say. It is of the utmost significance.” All the cardinals, some in a kind of agony, leaned forward to hear the next words. “I went down to the dock to greet him. When I got within five yards of him he caught sight of me. He dropped the nets he was repairing and cried out to me in a shocked voice, ‘Oh, my God! So it’s true!’ His words stunned me totally.” Brian held the rosary he had given to Bill all those years ago, suddenly as bright as new, tightly in his right hand and mustered all the sincerity, emotion, and inner truth he could command.

  “I asked him what he meant by those words. After some fumbling around he quite reluctantly admitted to me that he had dreamed, envisioned, perhaps had even experienced, an apparition from Our Lady of Fatima. She was appealing to the people of the world to recognize the new challenges to the Church. She implored the lowly fisherman to become a fisher of men’s souls.”

  Brief murmurs arose in the assembly as Cardinal Comiskey paused and then continued. “I sat down with him on the side of his boat and tried to explain my purpose in coming and the bizarre manner in which his ‘election’ had transpired. But the more I spoke to him about how impossible this situation had become, the more evidence he provided me for believing that the Blessed Mother Mary somehow had spoken to him beforehand, and he would not be dissuaded from accepting.”