by Ray Flynn
A subdued secretary of state could only summon a slight smile, but he felt an enormous weight lifting from his shoulders as the pope continued speaking.
“I fully intend to explore avenues and concepts that may be of benefit to the Church, and especially the laity. So please feel free to disagree with me as vehemently as necessary when we meet for our private discussions.” He smiled, nodding his head as though in benediction.
“And now,” Bill said briskly, “let’s see how those phones work. I need to blow some kisses across the ocean to my family.”
Cardinal Robitelli, satisfied, explained to the pope how to make an overseas phone call through the switchboard. “I’ll be back to take you to ‘the last supper’… with the cardinals, that is.” He chuckled and left Bill Kelly alone, puzzled at the remark, to talk with his family.
“Colleen, is it you?” His voice was unsteady as his call came through. “All OK?”
“I miss you already, Daddy. How are you holding up?”
“Fine. Is everybody there?” He listened. “Ryan is out on the trawler, eh? Testing the new generator. Good man! I was going to do that myself today. Put Roger and Meghan on.”
He listened a moment. “Who? Oh, yes, your Uncle Brian told me the bishop would probably be there, so lean on him for support. How are the other kids handling it?”
Bill nodded at the phone as though Colleen could see him. “I expect Cardinal Robitelli, secretary of state here, will be discussing all that with me tomorrow. We’ll have everything set here when you can come. Yes, honey, I will have someone look into the school situation. Ambassador Kirby’s daughter attends Marymount, a fine school here in Rome, and she loves it … I will miss you until then too. But we have to take this thing one step at a time. Just pretend I’m out on one of those longer fishing trips.”
Then, moments later, “Hello, Roger … Yes, I’ll be in touch with you about your quarters when you come to stay here. Lots of room. Sure, you can skateboard for miles. Put Meghan on … Hello, dear. Yes, I’ll e-mail my address at the Vatican. You can send me a daily report. I haven’t much time now. Put Colleen back on, please.”
“Hi, Dad. Don’t worry about us … No, Ryan doesn’t know yet. Unless he has the boat’s radio on the news station.” She listened to her father’s next question, and the contumacious expression which Roger and Meghan instantly recognized seized her face. They looked at each other helplessly. Their big sister was the same age their mother had been when she had married their dad. Colleen reminded them of this reality at any breach of sibling discipline.
“No, Dad. I won’t be there this Sunday—any more than I have been to Mass for two years.” Colleen’s tone had an unmistakable edge. “I love you, Your Holiness, but I can’t be a hypocrite just because you have this new job.” She took a deep breath. “Wouldn’t you like to talk to Bishop Sean Patrick? He’s being very helpful to us.”
Back in the Vatican, Bill Kelly’s features momentarily betrayed anguish. “Sure, put him on. I’d love to. Yes, hello, Bishop! Listen, Brian always told me you’re a very special priest. I appreciate all you are doing for my family, and that’s an understatement. I’m sorry about Colleen’s attitude. Maybe you can do something to soften her attitude towards God. Hey, could you work with me over here? I mean it … I need someone like you.”
After a moment Bill went on. “I know, but even popes need loyal people they can identify with. That’s certainly what John Paul II did. Well, I can see why you won’t want to be a cardinal just yet … Yes, and please think it over. People calling me ‘Your Holiness’ makes me feel quite odd. After all, it’s only been a few hours since I was a New England fisherman traveling to Rome. But I’ll still call you Sean … Okay? I guess I will get used to it after a while. Let me talk to her now. Yes, Meghan. Love to all of you. I don’t want to use up the whole Vatican phone budget in one day.”
He heard his daughter’s voice. “Yes, Meg. He is obviously a dedicated priest and a straightforward guy. So it’s six hours’ time difference. Just say what you think and feel to the press. We’ve got nothing whatever to hide, so let it all hang out. Except”—he paused a moment—“tell Colleen to be careful. I mean that. It is important to me now. None of her atheistic stuff. ’Bye sweetheart. I’ll call tomorrow. I have an official dinner coming up. Don’t forget, when you all land at the airport I’ll run up to the plane and give you a big hug!”
Pope Peter II hung up, sighed mightily, and looked out the window onto St. Peter’s Square. Thousands of people still lingered there, singing, delighted to be witness to this seeming miracle and state of ecclesiastical disarray.
An air of unreality descended upon him as he cast his eyes about his apartment at the Apostolic Palace. So chaste, so abnormally antiseptic despite its elegance. He noticed among the beautiful silver and gold religious relics that filled his bedroom a hand-carved wooden replica of “Our Lady of Fatima Appearing to the Three Children” resting on the dresser. His crew had presented it to him on his fifth anniversary as captain of his late father’s fishing fleet. He remembered how Mary used to hold it when she would dust the bedroom. He had obviously slipped it subconsciously into his kit, and Brian had put it on his dresser here.
Bill knew with a pang that he was going to need the help of Our Lady of Fatima more than ever before. But his devotion to her was already strong. He felt comfortable talking to her regularly as he used to do so often on those long fishing trips out on the bank. He chuckled, imagining how the kids would soon “modify” the apostolic apartments, and he wondered if here you could get lobster and Guinness stout and catch the Red Sox on TV.
19
WASHINGTON ROCKS
Neither DCM J. Calstrom Seedworth nor his secretary was able to field the volume of telephone calls swamping the U.S. embassy switchboard. Phones and all other resource systems, including U.S. Marine Corps guards, had long been downsized by the State Department to a point where this embassy didn’t have the capability of coping with the press, public, as well as the security of the U.S. Embassy as professionally as did other, more favored diplomatic posts.
Seedworth had just heard about the photographs of Bill Kelly with Ed, Kathy, and Maureen Kirby taken by Patrick at the residence a few hours before the pope’s elevation. They were now displayed on all the national TV news shows. Next morning, he knew, every paper in the world would carry them on their front pages. The line from the Vatican Desk in Washington was now open, the desk shouting for more information—where, by the way, was the ambassador?
* * *
Kirby was at home, but that line was perpetually busy also. Only the White House knew Ed’s private number. When it rang, Kirby tensed and snatched the phone from its cradle in time to hear the president laughing. “This morning I said you were recalled,” the president chuckled. “Tomorrow morning they’ll publish our leak, namely that I’m nominating you for State’s Thomas Jefferson award!”
“I am indeed honored, Mr. President! But don’t draw extra flak from those Foggy Bottom career types. Their philosophy is say nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. That way they don’t have to do anything.”
“They have no imagination,” the president growled, “or loyalty. They undermine all my appointments. Don’t take it personally, Ed.” The president paused, then asked, “Look, how did you pull this thing off?”
“I went AWOL, Mr. President. It was the only way.”
“Well, the ‘Ed and Bill’—or should I say ‘Ed and Peter’—show is taking the world by storm,” the president chortled. “It’s completely replacing certain ‘right-wing conspiracy’ lies about me. Even Rush Limbaugh didn’t mention my name today. That’s a first. Now, Ed, I want you to stay at the Vatican. I don’t know how it happened, but this is the most interesting news out of there since Henry the Eighth turned Protestant.” He paused. “Don’t quote me on that!”
“No, sir.” Ed Kirby tried to hide his distaste.
“You are doing a hell of a job, Ed. So is your family. Nice picture of the three o
f you with this fisherman, Kelly, before he became Peter II. Catholics over here will love it.”
“Mr. President, I think the time is right to have a word with my DCM and get a few matters straightened out. For one thing, he’s been writing his own efficiency reports and signing them. From now on, I’ll write them and sign them. That will shake things up a bit.”
“You are chief of mission. You have just pulled off the hat trick, an outstanding job. Go to it. Be the pope’s best friend. And get him to say something positive about our administration. I need all the help I can get these days.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” The ambassador shook his head as he hung up. The president wants the pope to say something positive about him, while the Church in America is on the warpath against him about abortion! he thought.
Patrick walked into his office. “The phones are off the hook at the embassy and also here. Every newspaper and TV station on earth wants to interview you. Will you hold a press conference?”
“Ask the DCM to call State. I don’t want to give them another excuse to fry me!”
“I’m glad you’re having the press conference at the embassy. It would be politic to have Mrs. Kirby and Maureen on hand, too.”
“Damn, I wish I could reach Comiskey.”
“That’s easy. He’s on his way up here to see you before the pope’s dinner with the cardinals. He flies back to Ireland tomorrow.”
“Get Maureen on her cell phone and have her come back now. Please send the cardinal in as soon as he gets here.”
* * *
In response to the call from Patrick, working the residence today, DCM Cal Seedworth began the process of getting through to the Vatican Desk in Washington about the press conference the ambassador had requested to be held at the embassy. The desk officer reminded his DCM that the ambassador could not take it upon himself to call a press conference without planning it with the public affairs officer at State in Washington.
“Seedworth, I’ll check it out. Hang on or I’ll never get you back. The PAO is calling.”
Seedworth held the telephone to one ear and picked up another ringing instrument. “Yes!” he barked. “We’re discussing the conference now. No, I can’t tell you how it happened. The ambassador himself will answer your questions soon.”
A strangled cry over the line the DCM was holding open with Washington distracted him. Seedworth abruptly turned his attention to the desk officer.
“What?” he gasped.
“PA just got a call from the Washington Post. They were checking on a White House leak that the president is nominating Kirby for the Thomas Jefferson.”
“Oh, no! Son of a bitch!” Seedworth groaned. “He’ll be out of control.”
“Let him have his conference, but write the opening statement yourself. We’ll do damage control from here.”
The DCM was shaking with apprehension as he hung up. He had been outmaneuvered by a rotten political appointee.
* * *
Patrick came in to Ed’s office to say that Cardinal Comiskey had arrived and Seedworth needed to speak to him about the press conference.
Ed nodded. “Send in the cardinal while I talk to our DCM.”
As Kirby reached Seedworth on the direct line between the residence and the embassy, Brian Comiskey thrust his head in the office doorway. Ed waved him in as he relayed on the phone, “Yes, I think six is a good time for the brief. That’s noon in Washington. We’ll catch TV news all over the U.S. and give the morning papers plenty of time for stories. We’ll make the European media just in time so they can hit their TV evening news and headline the morning papers.”
Kirby detected a sharp intake of breath on Seedworth’s end, and his voice took on a sharper edge. “Actually, maybe I’d better have Patrick call the media and set the show up here at the residence.”
“Ambassador, let’s have it at the embassy—to show that we’re still in the loop,” Seedworth importuned and hastily apologized for any irresolution he might have projected. “Will anyone from the Vatican be along?” he asked.
“Will Cardinal Comiskey be there?” Ed repeated Seedworth’s next question, glancing at Brian. The cardinal shook his head firmly. Ed smiled and nodded. “No, Cal,” he said into the phone. “He won’t be there. He’s already spoken to the press. I think I’ll handle the press alone.”
“I’m on it, Mr. Ambassador. We’ll use the Cardinal Baum Room, just as you said.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be there at”—he glanced at his watch—“five-forty-five.”
“You want the full treatment, sir?”
“Too late for the wine-and-sandwich routine. Just make sure the microphone is working.” He hung up and turned to Brian. “Don’t you want to come, say a few words and answer some questions?”
“No way, my friend. I paid my penance just now with them. And please don’t expose any conclave secrets you may have picked up.”
“Brian, we’ve known each other for years. And these past two days have been something else. You know you can trust me.”
“Look, tell it your way. You don’t know how Bill got elected within the conclave. Nobody outside knows that. You only know that I asked you for help and you obliged.”
“Suppose Bill had refused, as you expected he would?” Ed held up a restraining hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to spill any conclave secrets.” He paused. “But I do owe the president an explanation. He backed me all the way. State had already leaked word of my recall when Bill and I finally got back to Rome. If he hadn’t been elected, I’d have come back alone, and the leak about my being fired would have ended up as fact. There was no way I could have explained things.”
“The cardinals are grateful for your help—and silence.”
“So, are you planning to stay on for a while to help the pope get adjusted?”
“He doesn’t need me as badly as I need Ireland. I have done my work. It’s up to the pope himself now. I requested that Tim Shanahan call you if the pope needs political advice.”
“I appreciate your faith, but Tim can do infinitely more. He’ll be a big asset to the pope.”
“Exactly, Ed,” Brian agreed. “Timmy is the right man for Bill now. But I’m ahead of you. Tim has already talked to the pope. I’m not from Ireland for nothing. Let’s have a taste of the Bush and I’m off to the pope’s dinner. Then I’m back to the Auld Sod.”
“Sorry to see you leave, old friend. But I’ll keep on top of Bill’s problems as they come up. Now, let me lead the way to the sideboard and we’ll have that good-bye toast. Should I see any trouble on the horizon, I’ll call. I still wish you would stay around a little longer.”
“No. I’ve done everything I can do to promote God’s will. Now it’s up to Bill and the Holy Spirit.”
Ida, the housemaid, was standing in the doorway. “Will you be having dinner after the press conference, Mr. Ambassador?”
“No, thank you, Ida. Mrs. Kirby and I will have to grab a pizza and a glass of wine at Campo de’ Fiori and watch all the people walk back and forth.”
He put his hand on the cardinal’s shoulder and steered him toward the Nancy Reagan Sun Room. “The sideboard lies ahead.”
20
BUZZARDS BAY
At twelve noon in Washington an anxious group of bow-tied and miniskirted young State Department careerists were gathered around their TV sets to catch whatever snippets from Ambassador Kirby’s six P.M. press conference in Rome might get through on the news. The Vatican Desk officer, Skiddy von Stade, and his staff were particularly anxious to hear what their newest “out-of-control” envoy might choose to impart.
Also watching the news that noon were the Kelly children, except for Ryan. Bishop Sean Patrick was with them. Live from Rome, Ambassador Kirby explained succinctly how Cardinal Comiskey of Ireland had asked him to go to Boston and escort William Kelly, a Cape Cod fisherman, to Rome.
“Did you know he was about to become the next pope?” a reporter asked.
“No,
it seemed to me beyond the bounds of reason,” Ed replied.
“Did you notify the State Department you were going to meet Mr. Kelly?”
“I was asked by my Vatican contact not to do so,” Ed answered casually.
“So you ignored protocol and flew off on your own?”
The questioner seemed a replica of his press antagonists at home. “In a manner of speaking,” Ed replied nonchalantly. “I felt I was serving my country.”
“What happened when you got to Boston yesterday morning?” another reporter asked.
“I arranged to meet Mr. Kelly in Fall River, Massachusetts, and drive him to JFK Airport.”
“Did you know you were escorting the next pope?”
“As I said, it seemed highly unlikely, but I couldn’t understand why else I was bringing a fisherman and, as I discovered, ex-priest to Rome during a papal conclave.”
“When did you notify the State Department of your self-appointed mission?”
“It wasn’t self-appointed. I called in my DCM, acronym for deputy chief of mission, after hearing speculation that I had perhaps taken a plane to Monte Carlo or some other destination. One report had me going to a football match in Dublin with Irish friends.”
The camera cut to a chagrined-looking Seedworth and then swung back to the ambassador.
“When did you realize Bill Kelly would be the next pope?”
“I wavered in that direction when I saw him wearing a monsignor’s cassock left for him at my residence.”
A voice burst out from the back of the knot of reporters and cameras. “Did you know that the president has nominated you to receive the Thomas Jefferson Medal, the State Department’s highest award?”
“The president mentioned it to me on the phone this morning.”
“Do you expect to maintain a close relationship with Pope Peter?”
“Look, it’s my job. The late pope and I were personal friends. It’s important to the diplomatic relationship between our two governments.” Ed was trying to downplay the personal relationship.
