The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  Ed couldn’t let the priest blame it all on a White House that had appointed him. “The queen of England entertained some pretty nasty African dictators recently.”

  “Pay no heed for the queen,” Aengus muttered. “America’s human rights record is a bunch of you-know-what-makes-the-grass-grow-green. I have priests and nuns being beaten and killed, and nurses raped by these government-sponsored puppets. And then we are told that nothing can be done about it! My priests can’t celebrate Mass in Beijing unless they clear the text with the government. They can’t wear the Roman collar. You heard Father Leo Shea of the Maryknoll Order tell us in Rome about China, that most of the food and medicine sent into the provinces for peasants on the verge of starvation is stolen by the officials and never reaches the sick and hungry. Yet when I look at the TV news I see these U.S. businessmen and politicians kissing that Chinese Communist chairman’s fat rear end at lavish parties. It makes me sick. I’ve brought this to your attention before, Ed. You have seen it yourself, yet nothing changes.”

  Father Aengus took another swallow of his beer as though to calm himself down. “Ed, I know you discussed this business with your president and secretary of state. But the letter you got back laying out the official U.S. position is a joke. I hate to say this, but your country is more concerned with trade than with humanity. Or, as we settle into the third millennium, your country is concerned about human rights if, and only if, it does not conflict with big trade deals.” Again a long pull on his jar quieted the priest for a moment.

  Uneasily Ed noticed a bespectacled intellectual type down the bar listening to every word the exercised old priest was saying. As Aengus continued to air his grievances, Ed had the distinct impression that the young man, definitely a journalist type, recognized him as the ambassador to the Vatican.

  “I’m sorry to put this on you, Ed, but I know how strongly you feel about it. The pope and the president will meet sometime soon. Could this be a topic of concern between ’em?”

  Kirby was sipping his beer, listening to his friend, and watching the TV coverage of the pope’s visit up north. He was also following what the bartender and customers were saying about the pope’s trip, what it meant to both the republic and Northern Ireland. A photo of the pope playing darts in a Belfast pub had been ripped from the front page of the Cork Examiner and hung behind the bar for all to see.

  After Aengus got his grievances off his chest they left the pub and caught up with Kathy. “Find anything interesting at the shops?” the straightforward but likable priest asked in his deep Irish brogue.

  “I did,” Kathy snapped. “I found that no matter where you two go, whether in the jungles of Africa, the poverty-ravaged streets of Calcutta, or even visiting the dead in an Irish cemetery, you’ll ultimately manage to find a pub.”

  Their chauffeur, Tom, a retired bus driver, was waiting in the parking lot reading the paper when Kathy, Aengus, and Ed got in the car. “How long will it take to get to Mayo?” asked Kathy.

  “Without stopping, about four hours, but the way these two lads are going”—nodding to the ambassador and Father Aengus—“we won’t be there till after the pope concludes his High Mass in Knock.”

  As if to ignore any response Tom turned up the car radio, playing music as he drove along the main highway until they came to Charlestown in County Mayo.

  Ed’s party and the papal delegation all arrived at Our Lady of Knock at the same time. Knock is revered because it is where the Blessed Virgin Mary, queen of Ireland, appeared to the Irish people with a message of peace and love. Following the service, presided over by Pope Peter II and Brian Cardinal Comiskey, primate of all Ireland and successor to St. Patrick, the entire group drove the short distance to Monsignor Horan Airport in Mayo and boarded the pope’s chartered Aer Lingus flagship, St. Brendan, back to Rome.

  But before leaving Knock for the airport, Ed Kirby asked Monsignor Tim Shanahan if Father Aengus might ride with the pope to the airport. “As someone who heads a large organization of humanitarian workers in central and east Africa, he wants to give His Holiness some impressions on what needs to be done for the poor of the area.”

  “I’m sure that will be OK,” Tim said. “But let me get approval.”

  Once in the car, Father Aengus told Bill in a torrent of words how important it was for the Church to get a handle on the situation. “The U.S. and Russians don’t give a damn about the people. Both are concerned only about oil and minerals, especially the silver and diamonds. They treat the people like dirt. I predict that more famine and tribal war will break out soon. Not even to mention the threat of Islamic fundamentalists and the Russian Orthodox jockeying for power. They see the enormous economic potential and have to control the land in order to exploit it.”

  Aengus talked about the deep divisions in Africa and the hardships on the horizon for the people in the pews. “Famine, plague—you mark my words. Every kind of fatal virus infection is even now sweeping rampant through Africa.”

  Suddenly the priest was caught by a thought, and he stared at the pope. “I heard from my nuns that you were exposed to some of the worst strains of virus there that we have seen. One sister said that a Russian Orthodox Serbian woman doctor deliberately did it. Are you all right, Your Holiness?”

  “I hope so, Aengus.” After an unsurpassable sigh and a long reflective pause, “I found your observations sobering and helpful. Thanks.” Not that the priest had told him anything he didn’t know, but it obviously made him feel better.

  On the plane winging its way back to Rome, Ed Kirby filled Bill in on how well the visit up north had played in the republic. “This whole trip was very positive. The people thought you were wonderful at the pub in Belfast. Be very happy with it,” Ed declared.

  * * *

  It was only a few days later that Kirby found out how much additional trouble he had fallen into with the State Department. He was hosting an important diplomatic lunch when Seri, the Sri Lankan waiter at Villa Richardson, interrupted him at lunch and handed him a note.

  Call DCM ASAP, important. State Department called this morning—concerned.

  Reading the note, Kirby murmured under his breath, “What the hell are they up to now? They are always looking for a way to bust my chops!”

  After lunch, Ed went down to his office at the embassy, but Cal Seed-worth, he was told by the DCM’s secretary, Evelyn, was out playing tennis for a couple of hours. Ed asked her what time the State Department call had come in.

  Evelyn looked at her call list. “We received no call this morning, nor did we call Washington.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Ed.

  “Positive,” said the always competent secretary. “Here is the log. All the calls received or made.”

  While looking for State Department calls, Ed noticed two calls from the London Star, a tabloid newspaper. “What the hell is that rag calling us for?”

  “A reporter by the name of Randolph Bradlee called yesterday afternoon asking to talk to you. The DCM told me to refer all media calls to him,” said Evelyn. “Let’s see. They talked for about twenty minutes, and Mr. Bradlee called back again this morning and spoke to the DCM.” Evelyn picked up a note on her desk. “Oh, the State Department did call the DCM at his residence early this morning.”

  “It seems that the London Star and State Department calls are connected,” Kirby muttered. “But I don’t know what it is all about. Tell Seedworth I want to talk to him.”—Ed could not restrain the sneer in his tone—“whenever he gets back from his tennis. OK?”

  Later that afternoon, Seedworth returned to the embassy and immediately went up to Kirby’s office. “Ambassador, the State Department did call me. They received a call from the London Star, which has a story going that is very negative about you. It concerns an incident that took place in a bar in Kerry, Ireland, when you were drinking with a Catholic priest. They say the conversation got very loud and unruly, and your conversation was overheard by many. Your comments were critical of the qu
een of England. You were quoted as calling Paisley, Cromwell, and Trevelyan ‘sons of bitches.’ Eyewitness sources also said you and the priest were pub-crawling throughout southern Ireland. The story further reported that you could not go north with the pope because of your less than past civility toward Reverend Ian Paisley. The reporter followed the incident up with a quote from the British government, who were outraged by the comments of the U.S. ambassador and a certain Catholic priest.”

  Seedworth flashed his maddeningly owlish look through heavy glasses. “It seems your comments took place just before you were going to meet the pope in Mayo. SD wants to talk to you. They are embarrassed. The British government demands an apology.”

  Kirby was stunned but not surprised. Typical of the State Department.

  “Shall I get SD on the phone?” Seedworth prompted.

  “No, I’ll talk to them in a little while,” Kirby replied. He went to his residence, where his phone call couldn’t be immediately monitored, and called up Father Aengus, explaining the situation.

  “That’s a lot of garbage,” the priest shot back. “I’m assuming that the story is referring to the stop we made coming up from visiting the graves in Clonakilty. We stopped in Kerry for no more than thirty minutes, watched the pope on TV. Maybe you called Trevelyan and Cromwell sons of bitches, but that is mild compared to what historians could call them for all they did to Catholics. You did mention Paisley and we also talked about U.S. foreign policy. The newspaper story is nonsense,” Aengus said emphatically.

  “You better put it all down in a letter, Aengus, as accurately as possible. Check with the bartender too. He seemed like a pretty nice man. What about the postman who was delivering the mail? We talked to him for about five minutes. As best as I can remember, there were no more than ten people in the entire bar and everyone was looking up at the TV, watching the pope in Belfast,” Ed recalled.

  “Is this all your State Department has got to do?” Finucume carped. “No problems to solve? The rest of the world wants to know why the U.S. walked away from the genocide in Africa and your State Department is worrying about what you called Trevelyan? You should have called him much worse. A British official who said that starvation was actually good for Ireland. A man responsible for exporting tons of food out of the country while more than a million people starved to death. What are you supposed to call him? Sir Charles? I can only imagine what John Morrison from the An Gorta Mor committee in Chicago and Dave Burke with the A.O.H. in Lawrence, Massachusetts, would have called Trevelyan.”

  An hour or so later, the State Department called back and, before Kirby could say a word, told him how embarrassed the secretary was with his behavior in that bar in Kerry. “The British press is all over the story,” an assistant desk officer recited, “and the U.S. press is picking it up big-time. It has made the talk shows and CNN. State has ordered the inspector general to Ireland to get the details from the people at the bar and then is coming to Rome to interview you. A report will be filed with the secretary of state, and Senator Delms has already asked for a copy. He will probably hold a public hearing on the matter.”

  Ten days later, two men and a young woman from the inspector general’s office came to Rome from Ireland to interview Kirby. They checked into the Excelsior Hotel for four days and sampled Sabitino’s and other luxury restaurants. They concluded that after interviewing several people in the bar in Kerry, including the bartender, postman, a reporter for the local weekly newspaper, and the cook who was preparing the lunch, as well as Father Aengus Finucume, nobody had any idea what the story was all about. The report cleared Kirby, but it wasn’t the only inaccurate and made-up negative story that found its way into the press.

  40

  LOST AT SEA

  Shortly after returning from his successful journey to Ireland, Pope Bill was more than ever determined to help the desperate people of east and central Africa. The trip there had had a profound and moving effect on him. Now he was expending considerable time and much of his waning energy on the project. The pope did not underestimate the massive international aid necessary to lift that part of the continent out of its morass of disease and famine. Nevertheless Pope Peter II was determined to somehow arrange for the cultivation of available land for food, provide cleaner water, build schools and hospitals, and establish an international medical research center.

  He realized that neither he nor the Church could do it alone. The project needed the active support of the United Nations and other international humanitarian, medical, and business organizations, as well as not-for-profit foundations. What he had going for him was the considerable goodwill of many sincere believers and supporters both within and outside the Church. As pope, he could reach them all. In this context his nuncio to the United Nations was busy scheduling the speech the pope would deliver reporting on his visit to Africa.

  Meanwhile, the Kelly children were occupied with unexpected plans for the wedding of their brother Ryan and Paula Novak. It was a stressful time for Colleen and Meghan, who were dedicated to easing their father’s self-imposed burden and his obviously failing health.

  The pope’s family was just beginning to realize the extent of the intrusions and lack of privacy that they were in for and to understand why popes, in fact all dedicated priests, took on a vow of celibacy. That was a reason why Ryan and Paula wanted a very brief engagement. The pope’s son was fast becoming a tabloid item, with reporters and photographers covering his New Bedford fish marketing after he came in from a week at sea to deliver his catch.

  Late one afternoon, Al Cippolini hurried into the pope’s small family room at the Vatican and, finding Colleen, told her that she needed to talk to Fall River Bishop Sean Patrick immediately. “He is on the phone right now from Cape Cod,” said the monsignor.

  “Yes, Uncle Sean,” she said, picking up the telephone. Listening, she became increasingly distressed. “Oh, my God! Oh, please, God help him! Yes, I understand. How long? Is the Coast Guard involved? Yes, Senator Lane is a family friend.”

  She reflected on her statement a moment, thinking of young Lane’s annulment problem, soon to come up at the Vatican. “Yes, we know the senator,” she amended. “I understand. I’ll be there as soon as possible. Call me with any news. Thank you, Uncle Sean. Yes, I will. Good-bye.”

  Colleen turned to Monsignor Cippolini. “This is terrible, Al. Ryan and his crew are missing at sea. I’ve got to tell Dad right away.” As Colleen briskly walked down the long marble corridor and into her father’s office, she heard Monsignor Tim running down the corridor behind her.

  “You’ve heard, Colleen? I just spoke to Senator Lane in Washington. He is on his way to the Cape. He will call you when he gets an assessment of the situation.”

  They both hurried into the pope’s office. He was on the phone being briefed by the Coast Guard from Cape Cod. “There is no contact at all?” they heard him ask.

  The pope concluded his conversation with the Coast Guard commander. Colleen hugged her father, holding back her tears.

  “He’ll be all right, Colleen. God will protect them, and besides, all of them are good seamen. We must pray now to Our Lady of Fatima for their safety.” The pope smiled mistily at his daughter. “We can all be thankful that you have learned to pray again.” He reached into his pocket, took out the shining rosary beads, and handed them to his daughter. “Keep them with you all the time the search is going on and say a decade now and then. Your prayers will be heard. I know that.”

  Solemnly Colleen took them. The group held hands and Tim led them in prayer.

  After informing Roger and Meghan, Colleen called Paula at her Loyola hostel. A distraught Paula begged to accompany her back to New England. They made arrangements to take an Alitalia flight that night to Boston and be driven by car to the Cape. They would arrive at the Coast Guard air terminal near Buzzards Bay in the early morning to help join in the search by helicopter. Senator Lane called two hours later and gave the pope an update on what was happening. I
t was obvious he was using all his power as a U.S. senator to keep the search going.

  Upon arriving in Boston early the next morning, Colleen and Paula were met by a young priest and taken immediately by car to Buzzards Bay. Ryan and his crew had sent out a distress signal but had now been missing somewhere on the outer edge of Georges Bank for about thirty-six hours.

  After a restless night with no encouraging news, Coast Guard authorities started to question whether continued search could prove fruitful. Colleen pleaded with Senator Lane to keep the effort going. Senator Lane was able to convince the commander to continue searching for the lost fishermen. Colleen asked Lane if she could go on the Coast Guard helicopter search of the lost fishing boat. Bishop McCarrick, who was at the scene the whole time, also wanted to go. Senator Lane obtained grudging permission from the base commander for Sean and Colleen to accompany the Coast Guard pilot and crew on the search out over the ocean. Paula stayed in the communication center.

  They remained in the air for several hours, stopping twice to refuel. Colleen held the rosary that her father had given her tightly in her hands as she stared out first through the side windows, then out the front windshield between the two pilots sitting in front of her.

  All this time, prayers and novenas were being said for the pope’s son and crew in homes and Churches all over the world. Hundreds of fishermen based on the Cape and the islands joined the search.

  In the meantime, the pope was conducting an all-day and all-night vigil at the Chapel of Our Lady of Fatima in the Vatican. His devotion and love for her were endless, and at no time was that special relationship ever needed more than now. She has always been there for me, especially in a time of great crisis, Bill thought to himself.