Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  the corners of Koenig's mouth.

  "I agree wholeheartedly," said

  Devereaux, eagerly nodding his head.

  "I'd throw it away if I were you."

  "You would like that? All of you.

  You are all out to get me! My great

  contributions that kept peace in the

  world, enemies in constant touch, that

  opened hot lines and.red lines and

  blue lines between the great

  powers these are forgotten. Now you

  whisper behind my back. You tell lies

  about nonexistent bank accounts, even

  my humble places of residence. You

  never concede that I earned every

  deutschmark I possess! When I retired,

  none of you could tolerate it; you did

  not have me to kick around any longer!

  And now this! The injustice!" 14

  "Oh, I understand."

  "You understand nothing! Give me

  something to write with, you idiot."

  He farted and signed.

  142

  CHAPIER FOURTEEN

  The bells of the Angelus pealed in

  solemn, vibrant splendor. They echoed

  throughout St. Peter's Square, floated

  above Bernini's marble guardians, and

  were heard in quiet celebration beyond

  the (lame, deep in the Vatican gar-

  dens. Seated on a bench of white

  stone, looking up at the orange rays

  of the descending sun, was a corpulent

  man with a face best described as

  having weathered seven decades

  good-naturedly, if not always

  peacefully. The face was full, but the

  peasant quality of the.bone structure

  under the folds of flesh would tend to

  deny that the face was pampered. The

  man's eyes were wide and large and

  brown and soft; they held nearly equal

  parts of strength, perception,

  resignation, and amusement.

  He was dressed in the splendid white

  robes of his office. The highest

  office of the Holy Apostolic Catholic

  Church, the descendent of Peter

  himself, the Bishop of Rome, the

  spiritual commander of 400 million

  souls throughout the earth.

  Pope Francesco I, the Vicar of Christ.

  Born Giovanni Bombalini in a small

  village north of Padua in the first

  years of the century. It was a birth

  that was recorded sketchily, at best,

  for the Bombalinis were not affluent.

  Giovanni was delivered by a midwife

  who, as often as not, forgot to report

  the fruits of her labors (and her

  patient's labors) to the village

  clerk, secure in the knowledge that

  the church would do something;

  christenings made money. Actually

  Giovanni Bombalini's emergence into

  this world might never have been

  legally recorded at all except that

  his father had a wager with his cousin

  Frescobaldi, three villages to the

  north, that his second child would be

  a male. Bornbalini Senior wanted to

  143

  _

  take no chances that his cousin

  Frescobaldi would renege on the bet,

  so he went to the village hall himself

  to report the birth of a male child.

  As it happened, part of the wager

  was that Frescobaldi's wife who was

  expecting in the same month would not

  give birth to a boy. But of course she

  did, and the bet was canceled. This

  child, Guido Frescobaldi, was born

  according to the sketchy records two

  days after his cousin, Giovanni.

  Early in his life Giovanni showed

  signs of being different from the

  other children of the village. To

  begin with he did not care to learn

  his catechism by verbal repetition, he

  wanted to read it, then memorize it.

  This upset the village priest for it

  smacked of precociousness and somehow

  was an affront to authority, but the

  child would not be denied.

  The ways of Giovanni Bombalini were

  indeed extraordinary. Although he

  never shirked his labors in the

  fields, he was rarely too tired to

  stay up half the night reading

  whatever he could get his hands on.

  When he was twelve he discovered the

  biblioteca in Padua, which was hardly

  the library in Milan, nor Venice, nor

  certainly Rome, but it was said by

  those who knew Giovanni that he read

  every book in Padua, then Milan, then

  Venice. By which time his priest

  recommended him to the holy fathers in

  Rome.

  The church was Giovanni's answer to

  a prayer. And as long as he prayed a

  great dea~which was easier, though no

  less time-consuming than laboring in

  the fields he was allowed to read more

  than he ever thought would be allowed

  him.

  By the age of twenty-two, Giovanni

  Bombalini was an ordained priest. Some

  said the best-read priest in Rome an

  erudite fantastico. But Giovanni did

  not possess the properly stern visage

  of a proper Vatican erudite; nor did

  he assume the proper attitudes of

  certainty with regard to everyday

  truths. He was forever finding

  exceptions and flexibilities in

  liturgical history, pointing out (some

  said mischievously) that the writings

  of the church found their strength in

  honest contradictions.

  At twenty-six Giovanni Bombalini was

  a sharp pain in the large Vatican ass.

  Aggravated further by his matured

  appearance, which was the antithesis

  of the gaunt, aca144

  demic image so desired by Rome's

  eruditi. He was, if anything, the

  caricature of a field peasant from the

  northern districts. Short of stature,

  stocky, and wide of girth, he looked

  like a farmhand more at home in the

  goat stables than in the marble halls

  of the various Vatican collegia. No

  amount of theological erudition, or

  good nature, or, indeed, deep belief

  in his church could counteract the

  combined aggravation of his mind and

  appearance. So posts were found for

  him in such unlikely locations as the

  Gold Coast, Sierra Leone, Malta, and,

  through an error Monte Carlo. An

  exhausted Vatican dispatcher misread

  the name Montes Claros and inserted

  Monte Carlo no doubt because he had

  never heard of Brazil's Montes

  Claros and the fortunes of Giovanni

  Bombalini turned.

  For into the cauldron of high stakes

  and high emotions wandered the simple

  looking priest with the bemused eyes,

  gentle humor, and a head packed with

  more knowledge than any twelve

  international financiers put together.

  He'd had little to do in the Gold

  Coast, Sierra Leone, and Malta, so he

  had occupied his time, when not

  praying or teaching the
natives, by

  subscribing to scores of reading

  services and adding to his already

  extraordinary memory bank.

  It is common knowledge that people

  who live with constant motion, and

  high risk, and a great deal of

  alcohol, occasionally need spiritual

  consolation. So Father Bombalini began

  to comfort a few stray lambs. And to

  the amazement of these first few

  strays, they found not so much a

  simple priest who outlined penance,

  but a most amusing fellow who could

  discourse at length on almost any

  subject: economic conditions of world

  markets, historical precedents for

  anticipated geopolitical events, and,

  particularly,. food. (Here he favored

  the more basic sauces, eschewing the

  artifices of the often inappropriate

  haste cuisine.)

  Before too many months had passed,

  Father Bombalini was a regular guest

  at many of the larger hotel suites and

  great houses of the CBte d'Azur. This

  rather odd-looking, rotund prelate was

  a marvelous raconteur, and it always

  made everyone feel better to have him

  around before going out to

  covet successfully his neighbor's

  wife.

  And a number of excessively large

  contributions to the 145

  .

  church were made in Father Giovanni's

  name. With increasing frequency.

  Rome could no longer overlook

  Bombalini. The exchequers of the

  Vatican treasury said so.

  The war found Monsignor Bombalini in

  various Allied capitals and

  occasionally attached to various

  Allied armies. This was brought about

  for two reasons. The first was his

  adamant deposition to his superiors

  that he could not remain neutral in

  light of the known Hitlerian

  objectives. He catalogued his thesis

  with sixteen pages of historical,

  theological, and liturgical

  precendents, none but the Jesuits

  could understand it, and they were on

  his side. So Rome shut its eyes and

  hoped for the best. The second reason

  for his wartime travels was that the

  international rich of Monte Carlo in

  the thirties were now colonels and

  generals and diplomats and

  ambassadorial liaisons. They all

  wanted him. There were so many

  intra-Allied requests for his services

  that in Washington, 1 Edgar Hoover

  marked Bombalini's file: Highly

  Suspect. May be a fairy.

  The postwar years were a time of

  rapid acceleration up the Vatican

  ladder for Cardinal Bombalini. Much of

  his success was due to his close

  friendship with Angelo Roncalli, with

  whom he shared a number of unorthodox

  views, as well as a penchant for

  decent, but not necessarily exclusive,

  wine and a good game of cards after

  the evening prayers.

  As he sat on the white stone bench

  in the Vatican gardens Giovanni

  Bombalini Pope Francesco reflected

  that he missed Roncalli. They had

  accomplished much together; it had

  been good. And the similarities of

  their respective ascendencies to the

  chair of St. Peter never ceased to

  amuse him. Roncalli, John, would have

  been amused, too; no doubt, was, of

  course.

  They were both compromises offered

  by the stern, orthodox constituencies

  of the Curia to quiet the fires of

  discontent within the global flock.

  Neither compromise expected to reign

  very long. But Roncalli had it easy;

  he had only theological arguments and

  undeveloped social reformers to

  contend with. He didn't have damn fool

  young priests who wanted to marry and

  have children and, when of other

  persuasions, run homosexual parishes"

  Not 146

  that any of these personally bothered

  Giovanni; there was absolutely nothing

  in theological law or dogma that

  actually prohibited marriage and

  offspring; and, as far as the other,

  if love of fellow man did not surmount

  biblical ambiguities, what had they

  learned? But, Mother of God, the fuss

  that was made!

  There was so much to do and the

  doctors had made it clear that his

  time was limited. It was the only

  thing they were clear about, they

  could isolate no specific illness, no

  particular malady. They just conferred

  and confirmed that his "vital signs"

  were slowing down at an alarming rate.

  He had demanded openness from them;

  Mother of God, he had no feat of

  death! He welcomed the rest. He and

  Roncalli could plow the heavenly

  vineyards together and take up their

  baccarat again. At last count Roncalli

  owed him something over six hundred

  million fire.

  He had told the doctors that they

  looked too long in their microscopes

  and too little at the obvious. The ma-

  chine was wearing out; it was as

  simple as that. Whereupon they nodded

  pontifically and uttered somberly

  "Three months, four at the most, Holy

  Father."

  Doctors. Basta! Veterinarians with

  cagini in the Curia! Their bills were

  outrageous! The goatherders of Padua

  knew more about medicine; they had to.

  Francesco heard the footsteps behind

  him and turned. Walking up the garden

  path was a young papal aide whose name

  escaped him. The youthful priest

  carried a clipboard in his hand. There

  was a painted crucifix on the

  underside; it looked silly.

  "Your Holiness asked that we resolve

  some minor matters before the vesper

  hour."

  "By all means, Father. What are they?"

  The aide rattled off a series of

  inconsequential functions ceremonial

  in nature, and Giovanni flattered the

  young prelate by requesting his

  opinion on most of them.

  "Then there is a request from an

  American periodical, Viva Gourmet. I

  would not mention it to the Holy

  Father except that the inquiry was

  accompanied by a strong recommendation

  from the United States Armed Forces

  Information Service."

  "That is a most unusual combination, is

  it not, Father?" 141

  1

  "Yes, Your Holiness. Quite

  incomprehensible."

  "What was the request?"

  "They had the effrontery to ask the

  Holy Father to submit to an interview

  with a lady journalist regarding the

  pontiffs favorite dishes."

  "Why is that an effrontery?"

  The young prelate paused; he seemed

  momentarily perplexed. Then he

  continued with confidence. "Because

&nb
sp; Cardinal Quartze said it was, Holy

  Father."

  "Did the learned cardinal give his

  reasons? Or, as usual did he commune

  with God all by himself and simply

  deliver the divine edict?" Francesco

  tried not to overdo his perfectly

  natural reaction to Ignatio Quartze.

  The cardinal was a loathsome fellow in

  just about every department. He was an

  erudite aristocratico frbm a powerful

  Italian-Swiss family, who had the

  compassion of a disturbed cobra.

  Looked like one, too, thought

  Giovanni.

  "He did, Holy Father," replied the

  priest. And the instant he spoke, the

  aide was struck by a sudden embar-

  rassment. "He he

  "May I suggest, Father," said the

  pontiff with graceful understanding,

  "that our splendidly berobed ca dinal

  offered the opinion that the pope's

  favorite dishes were less than

  impressive?"

  "I I

  "I see he did. Well, Father, it is

  true that I subscribe to simpler

  cooking than does our cardinal with

  the unfortunate nasal drip, but it is

  not due to lack of knowledge. Merely

  lack of, perhaps, ostentation, not

  that our cardinal who is afflicted

  with that unfortunate eye that strays

  to the right as he talks, is

  ostentatious. I don't believe it ever

  crossed his mind."

  "No, of course not, Holy Father."

  "But I think that during these days

  of high prices and widespread

  unemployment, it might be a fine idea

  for your pontiff to outline a number

  of inexpensive, though I assure you,

  quite excellent dishes. Who is this

  journalist? A lady, you say? Don't

  ever tell anyone I said it, Father,

  but they are not the best cooks."

  "No, surely not, Your Holiness. The

  nuns of Rome are strenuous

  148

  "Galvanizing, Father. Positively

  galvanizing! Who is the journalist

  from this gourmet periodical?"