The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

“Strange … they outlaw us in Russia, yet send a top man here as ambassador,” Al Cippolini mused aloud.

  “He was Yeltsin’s press secretary, but wrote a laudatory biography about his boss and critical of other government officials, which upset the ex-Communist party leaders, so Yeltsin appointed him to the Vatican as ambassador.” Kirby grinned. “He’s a fun guy, but don’t meet him in the morning. Instead of cappuccino, you’ll get a water glass of Stolichnaya.”

  The others chuckled and Ed dryly went on. “Perhaps you are unaware of this, but the Vatican may be the world’s best diplomatic listening post once you learn how to hear things. The Russians are also hard to beat at intelligence gathering, especially in spots like Africa. Of course, with Vladimir Putin as President of Russia, my friend may not be in his job here much longer. It will be interesting to see what Putin’s attitude toward following the Orthodox Church back into Africa will be.”

  * * *

  Ed Kirby had set up the Russian connection by evening that same day. Pleased he had been able to organize the meeting between Tim Shanahan and Bishop Yussotov so promptly, and in Rome, not Moscow, the ambassador sensed that he was playing into the hands of the Russians. He had never fallen for détente and for the softening of the historically hostile relationship between the former USSR dictators who now would have cozied up to the West. “Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, even Gorby—I wouldn’t trust any of them,” Kirby said openly. “They are all a bunch of butchers.”

  Bishop Yussotov was flown into Rome the next day, and that night he and Tim Shanahan had their first private meeting. The Russian ambassador provided his ornate library for the meeting, complete with a large political wall map of Africa covering one end of the room from the floor to the ceiling. Both the Russian and American clerics were dressed similarly, in black suits with the white collar above black silk vests. The Russian was tall and swarthy, with black hair hanging down to his shoulders and parted in the middle. Tim, with his neatly trimmed, graying, reddish-blond locks and slightly rotund figure, stood in contrast to the lean and taller bishop. Decanters of vodka and brandy stood on the table in the middle of the room, and two stuffed armchairs faced one another in front of the map. Before each chair was a small table with pads, pencils, and pens laid out, and a carafe of water.

  Ed Kirby had taken his leave of this meeting, explaining that it was policy for an American official not to get involved in such discussions without State Department permission. The Russian ambassador made light conversation with the two clerics, each of whom had been given a biographical sketch of the other to read. Tim was armed already with basic knowledge about the bishop’s background, lurid details of which had been collected by Motupu in Africa.

  Bishop Yussotov and Tim bowed to each other like adversaries, and the former monk poured a glass of cold vodka for himself and offered Tim either vodka, scotch, or brandy. Tim chose water, citing Vatican policy, and the bishop disdainfully poured him a glass as the two ecclesiastical emissaries settled down to hopefully productive negotiations.

  The bishop first asked about Cardinal Motupu. Would he be renewing their acquaintanceship during this visit to Rome? Tim assured the Russian that Motupu would attend all subsequent meetings.

  Gesturing toward the large hanging map of Africa, the Orthodox bishop moved closer to it, his finger tracing the new Republic of the Congo, formerly Zaire and before that Belgian Congo. “This is very interesting country.” Despite Yussotov’s thick accent Tim had to score one for the bishop who, at least, could negotiate in English. Few Americans could negotiate in Russian.

  Seeing the dialogue getting under way, the Russian ambassador excused himself, leaving the two clerics to work out their own agenda. The former monk of Odessa poured himself another drink, filled Tim’s glass again with water, and they started talking in earnest.

  * * *

  The following morning Tim Shanahan reported to Motupu and the pope in the pontiff’s library. “Would you believe it? After our meeting, Yussotov went out to some disco clubs to meet Italian girls!”

  “So much for the sanctity of our Orthodox bishop,” Motupu growled. “What was the upshot?”

  “The bishop and his patriarch want to divide up your continent between us on religious lines,” Tim replied. “He wants the Republic of the Congo. He’ll give us Nigeria and Angola and the rest is up to us to negotiate after we meet in Africa, and as soon as possible.”

  “Absurd,” the pope choked. “This isn’t some Treaty of Versailles or Malta conference where you divide up continents politically. We’re contemplating the fate of the very souls of a continent’s people.”

  “Correct, Your Holiness,” Tim agreed fervently.

  There was a long silence, since the outcome of the meeting to come was a foregone conclusion and only the pope could express it. “How soon can we make the necessary travel and security arrangements?” Pope Peter asked. Motupu was hard-pressed to keep from clapping his hands in glee.

  Tim answered the question. “It all depends who handles this trip. You can call in Robitelli and he will assign the Jesuit, Father Roberto Tucci, head of Vatican Radio and overall director of papal visits. He is a wise and thorough man. It will take six months. Or you can allow us to find a new, more expedient way to do things.”

  “The latter, Tim. And so for Yussotov, let’s expedite this visit. I have a feeling that time is of the essence. I can sense, particularly after talking with Ed Kirby, that the Russians have discovered some new way of subjugating land areas. Give their Church establishment maximum backing, including military when needed, and let them propagandize for hearts and souls.”

  Pope Peter let out a guffaw. “If you’ll excuse a crudity that came out of the Vietnam War, let me quote an American politician. The Russians believe that ‘if you have the people by the balls, their hearts and minds will surely follow.’”

  * * *

  To nobody’s surprise, Cardinal Robitelli had deep misgivings about the pope’s trip to Africa. He was openly critical of Cardinal Motupu, who had met with the Russian bishop the day after the nighttime conference between Shanahan and Yussotov. They had agreed to a meeting between the pope and the patriarch in Africa. No agenda was set for the encounter. It would be informal, although it was understood that spheres of influence in Africa would be the main topic of discussion. The actual venue was to be decided later. The secretary of state probed the pope’s intentions, trying to read what he had in mind, and the replies he heard did little to alleviate his concerns about the African situation.

  “To tell you the truth, Eminenza,” the pope chuckled, “I haven’t a clue about what is really going on down there. And I can’t mount my agenda if I know nothing about the place. But I can promise you that the Church will still be here long after you and I are dead and gone, the prophecy of Nostradamus not withstanding.”

  The trip to Africa, while hardly clandestine, was not a Vatican high-profile publicity extravaganza, only a mission by the leader of the Roman Catholic Church to study saving millions of souls for Christ and millions of lives as well.

  It was important that the trip not be understood as a power struggle between Russian Orthodoxy and the Catholic Church, or for that matter between Patriarch Alexis and Pope Peter II. Equally the dispute must not drag the Russian government into a struggle which could then draw in the United Nations and the United States. Much was riding on this African summit, even though a new, modern pope ostensibly planned it as only another spiritual pilgrimage.

  36

  AFRICA UP CLOSE

  Even without the benefit of Father Tucci’s usual painstaking preparations and guidance, the flight to the Dark Continent went off almost as if it were a planned spy mission. The pope had quietly left the Vatican dressed in a long black overcoat and cap. It was not a highly publicized visit, although in Angola, the first stop, it was heralded as a major event in African history. This event, of course, was at the behest of Cardinal Motupu, who would greet the pope upon his arrival.

&n
bsp; Flying south from the Mediterranean coast over Algeria, Monsignor Tim Shanahan described to the pope the many reports of brutality and oppression directed at Catholics. A very serious threat was developing in that region of the world, and no pope or patriarch would go anywhere near there, or Sudan or Libya or some of the other fundamentalist countries, for that matter.

  It took the pope’s jet plane over an hour to cross the Sahara before they came to green jungle foliage below. “Now, here is where black Africa begins and stretches all the way down to Cape Town, South Africa.”

  In another hour they were flying over Nigeria. “We’ll stop there on the way back. Motupu has contacted the bishop, and you’ll visit the most active seminary in Africa. There is no shortage of priests and seminarians studying to become priests in this country. I would say that the patriarch would find it tough to proselytize there. Despite the round of rapacious military dictators that have run Nigeria and its large Islamic population in the south, the country has the largest share of properly ordained priests in Africa.”

  For the next two hours, as they flew south over Cameroon and the Republic of the Congo, Tim pointed out other items of interest below. “Down there used to be Belgian Congo, then Zaire, and now the Republic of the Congo. It is potentially Africa’s richest nation. Minerals, diamonds, and oil. This is where the patriarch and Bishop Yussotov, with the full backing of Moscow, are launching their biggest efforts to win Russian Orthodox converts.”

  The pope stared down thoughtfully. “Looks like tough terrain for missionaries.”

  “It’s even worse in many other parts of the country,” Tim said. “But Cardinal Motupu, operating out of Angola, is doing his best to get the Congo natives into the fold.”

  Finally the jet began losing altitude as it approached Luanda, the capital of Angola.

  “Gus Motupu told me to tell you not to be surprised at anything you may see when we land. He will be heading the reception committee. Extensive TV coverage will be carried out to the natives in the far reaches of this part of Africa. Many villages still have only one TV set for the entire population to watch. That’s why we arranged to land here at dusk, so the people can get to their sets and see a clear picture in at least partial darkness.”

  The plane circled out over the Atlantic and came in for landing at the coastal capital city. “When the Communists engineered their revolution in Portugal, they turned over Angola to a native population which was ready to follow Communist leaders. The only vestige of capitalism left was the Catholic Church. If the atheist leaders in Moscow had backed the patriarch as staunchly up to the fall of Communism in 1991 as they do now, we would have a hard time surviving a new onslaught of Communism here. Today it is getting more difficult to hang on to the majority of Christians still here, to say nothing of creating new Roman Catholics.”

  After landing, the Alitalia charter plane taxied up to the huge crowd of people waiting to greet the pope and came to a stop with its boarding door facing the crowd. Tim Shanahan led the papal entourage from the rear entrance of the plane, followed by several Church dignitaries, including Cardinal Bellotti, whom Robitelli had insisted be included on the trip. They walked through the door of the plane into a restful twilight, which was immediately punctured by TV lights.

  Pope Peter II appeared at the front door. The first thing he noticed, waiting at the foot of the steps below, was what appeared to be a native chief, carrying a long spear and dressed in native loincloth, a mantle of feathers around his shoulders and a Roman collar around his neck. As the strange figure approached the steps up to the plane’s door, Bill Kelly, in a sudden shock wave of recognition, realized that the native apparition was none other than Augustine Cardinal Motupu. It was he who now walked up the steps to the doorway and greeted the pope.

  “Your humble spear chucker welcomes you to Africa, Bill!”

  The pope could not contain his tears of laughter as he slowly recovered from his surprise. They walked down the steps together to greet other religious and political figures and then strode across the tarmac. Monsignor Cippolini and Cardinal Bellotti, with Tim Shanahan alongside them, followed the pope and Motupu into the glare of the camera lights.

  “I’m sorry to startle you, Bill,” Moputu chuckled. “But this scene on TV shown around this part of Africa will get the Church perhaps a hundred thousand new parishioners. Oh, the president will be furious, but he doesn’t have to worry about losing his flock as I do.” Several dignitaries in formal diplomatic attire approached the pope. “Go with them, Bill. By the time you’ve been introduced and made your speech I’ll be in my Vatican gold and reds again and up there with you. But wait until you see what this little charade does for my Church attendance.”

  Monsignor Cippolini and Cardinal Bellotti stared in awe as they watched the pope and Motupu greet each other. The cardinal turned to the smirking monsignor. “Forget it, Cippolini. I’ll die before I walk around in a jockstrap. Let’s go see what else this nut has in store for us.” Almost instantly he found out.

  A large group of young women, perhaps two dozen, danced to a throbbing drumbeat of tom-toms, enthusiastically, suggestively gyrating as they bent supple bodies back and forth, waving horsehair pompoms at the Vatican entourage in a show of hospitality.

  A mischievous grin split Cippolini’s face. “Your Eminence, I think these young ladies are indeed planning to offer you a kind of hospitality we of the Vatican are not permitted to dream of. But, of course, it is part of our mission to effect some compromises between Rome and Africa.”

  “Your confessor will assign you ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers as penance for what you are thinking!” Bellotti growled, unamused.

  The pope and his entourage were escorted onto a raised platform and introduced to the new president of Angola, a plump black man who represented the masses now that Portugal had totally relinquished the colony. The pope accepted his welcome and delivered a speech in Portuguese, which was vigorously applauded. He told the people of his experience giving religious instruction to Portuguese children as well as children from the Azores. Pope Peter seemed off to a great start. He even told one TV reporter that he was looking forward to eating some good Portuguese home cooking, bacalhau cozido com grão e batata, once again.

  * * *

  So far everything that had been quickly though efficiently planned by Tim Shanahan was on schedule. The trip was far from the carefully laid-out expeditions entailing six months of research required by the meticulous Jesuit Roberto Tucci. There just hadn’t been time.

  Somewhere a few hundred miles to the north of where the pope’s plane had landed, Russian Patriarch Alexis and Bishop Yussotov were consolidating the gains the Orthodox Church had made in the Republic of the Congo after the bloody revolt of 1998 when the Hutu and Tutsi massacred each other.

  In the Sudan, famine perennially raged in the wake of battles between the Islamic fundamentalists in the north and the somewhat Christianized tribesmen in the south, the latter seeking autonomy if not independence from Islam. Already half the population had starved to death since troops from both sides stole all the people’s food they could get at gunpoint.

  And in Angola, Jonas Savimbi, the old antigovernment revolutionary, was still alive, lurking in the jungles to the south with an army of boys. These children stole food from their homes and families and were willing to die fighting the ruling government forces. At one time, Savimbi had been well regarded by the Church and the Western nations as a force against the Communists, mostly Cubans, who had taken over when Portugal relinquished control, but now he was nothing but another rebel trying to gain control.

  * * *

  The journey from the airport in the convoy of cars organized by Motupu took two hours to reach its destination, paved roads turning to dust at the outskirts of the city. Cardinal Bellotti registered his dismay and shock as the convoy pulled up before a large, thatched, circular hut, very neatly kept, with a lawn surrounding it. Crowds of ragged natives singing and chattering away peered fro
m a distance at the pope’s party.

  “These are local tribesmen, all good Catholics, who are swelling the population out here, away from the two warring factions fighting to control the country. Jonas Savimbi’s UNITA party, out in the jungles, is constantly attempting to surge into the main cities, like the capital, Luanda, where you landed. For a time we had peace here after the Communists so suddenly fell in 1991.”

  Motupu led the way into the large, primitive structure. Even the dirt floor seemed to have been polished for the occasion. As they entered what seemed to be the reception room, the pope, trying to appear casual, found his curiosity getting the better of him. “Is this your usual residence, Gus? Or are you pulling my leg just a bit?”

  Motupu was obviously enjoying the moment as he watched the pope’s immediate entourage staring at these unusual surroundings with undisguised apprehension. Only Monsignor Shanahan seemed to understand and approve of this first African stop.

  A wide grin cracked Motupu’s face. “To tell the truth, I do have a rather large and nice residence in the city, Pope Bill. But after I was made a cardinal, and wore the only red hat in this part of Africa, I served three countries—Angola, the Congo Republic, and Namibia, which is mostly Protestant.” Motupu winked. “So wherever I could spread God’s word as taught to us by Jesus, I began to feel a bit guilty in my high estate. I started inviting a few poor street people in to share my evening meal. Then, somehow, they showed up for lunch, and finally for breakfast. The next thing I knew, there were those who had no place to sleep and I ended up with a dormitory. As my family increased, I made acolytes of them and sent them out to bring more into our Catholic fold. Meanwhile I was traveling constantly to see the three bishops I am allowed in Congo, Namibia, and here in Angola.” He gave Bellotti a furtive glance. “And I was creating numerous lay ministers to take care of my growing flock. I had so many they took over my house and left me little room to work, live, and even sleep. My family seemed to increase until I found I had no place left to do any work without ten people looking over my shoulder.”