Whom.
All right, whom.
Cardinal Sean, Archbishop Blackie.
Why?
Cardinal Sean thinks he needs a “point man” to work with Middle Eastern immigrants and Muslims. He figures you’d be good at the job. He doesn’t know about the parish priest bit, but he’ll like that even more.
You have the authority to make that offer? No, don’t answer that. It’s a dumb question … Is Dermot there?
Certainly.
Hi, Dermot.
Hi, Des.
I suppose that I’d have to go to the seminary for a couple of years? Probably be a good idea.
They know how to deal.
Dermot, does she talk with the brogue?
All the way from West Galway to Trinity College, depending on the game she’s playing. What’s it like over there?
Up here it’s pretty good. A lot of professional people come up here for vacations from Baghdad. The Kurds are good at security. Not many Sunnis around. You move down to Kirkut you’ve got more trouble. The Kurds are driving out the Shiites that Saddam planted up here like the Brits replaced Catholics in the Island with lowland Scots. The Turkomans, not to be confused with their cousins the Ottoman Turks who live in Turkey, are a presence up here in Kurdistan too and they’ve been pushed around a lot. Our guys, the Assyrians, claim very little land since there’s not all that many of us. Occasionally someone kills a few of them in the name of Allah the merciful. Farther south towards Baghdad you have bloody chaos. The Americans destroyed the old social order and don’t know how to make a new one. The Shiites have been pushed around for a couple of centuries, NOW they want to push back. The Sunnis think they rule by divine right. Americans try hard and work hard, but they don’t know anything about Iraq. They don’t have enough troops, enough equipment, enough training, enough experience.
What have you been doing in Mosul?
Praying, learning languages, studying religion, putting out fires, usual stuff. Fun mostly. Tho there’s always the madman with the rifle-propelled grenade, most of the people are good people. I even get along with the local Muslim clergy. Sometimes they come to liaise with the Americans. That’s how I got in trouble with the CIA and why they won’t talk to me.
Won’t talk to you?
Well I worked out a deal between the Kurds and the Americans about not throwing Shiites out of their homes. There was a hardhead colonel who was furious. So when he went home to the Pentagon, he complained about me and they ordered the CIA to pretend that I don’t exist. Ironic because the army guys still get along with me.
So if you want to get out, how do you manage?
I suppose you talked to Tariq.
Yes.
That’s one way. Truly scary. Or I could put off my monk’s robe and try to make it down to Baghdad. It might take forever to persuade someone to let me on their plane down there. Dangerous too.
And the CIA?
They have daily chopper flights from here down to Kuwait. I could buy a ticket and fly home from there, though they’d probably want to hold me for questioning. Still, it’s the best way out but not with me under interdict.
I think maybe I’ll ask Jenny to talk to Tariq.
How much time do you have?
The monks would like me to leave this week. I probably have more time than that.
We will talk to Archbishop Blackie in the morning. Can we print out this conversation?
Why not? Your husband has a photographic memory anyway.
’Tis true … When will we be able to get in touch with you again?
Seven tonight your time.
We’ll do it, Des.
Somehow I don’t doubt it for a moment.
Bye, Des.
Bye, Nuala. Bye, Dermot.
Bye, Des.
Nine o’clock the next morning we were in Archbishop Blackie’s office in the Cathedral rectory. Crystal Lane, the youth minister and, in Blackie’s words, “our resident saint,” was playing with our youngest in the “counseling room” next to the office. Patjo, as always, was delighted to discover a new worshipper.
The “Arch,” as the Cathedral teens called him, read the transcript of our communication with Des for a second time. He placed it gently on his desk.
“This young man will make a fine priest,” he said softly. “He is not seeking a personal identity like so many of the applicants we encounter these days. He is seeking to serve God’s people. Indeed, he appears to have rendered more service in a few years than most of us priests do in our whole lives.”
He was silent for a moment.
“This ban on him will not continue.”
He picked up a phone on his desk, turned on the speakerphone, signaled us to be silent, and punched in a number.
“Walter speaking.”
“This is Father Ryan.”
“I hear rumors that you are an Archbishop now.”
“You may discount the importance of those rumors. I am calling about a certain Chicago Catholic whom the CIA apparently has placed under interdict, one Desmond Doolin.”
“I can’t talk about him.”
“Walter, you will talk about him nonetheless. The media, especially here in this city, will find it passing strange that the CIA refuses to acknowledge the existence of a young man who has been accepted as a candidate for the priesthood in this Archdiocese. They will also find it strange that this ban is imposed at the orders of the Pentagon. Since when, Walter, does the Central Intelligence Agency take orders from the Department of Defense?”
“I am not unfamiliar with the case.”
“I would assume that to be patent. Otherwise, I would not be harassing you.”
“We don’t make these kinds of decisions anymore. There have been changes in personnel. The people at DOD have short memories …”
“I presume that the Reverend Doolin has done excellent work in Iraq.”
“We should give him a medal, he’s saved so many lives. He’s a legend. The trouble is no one controls him.”
“And over there the Pentagon controls everything.”
“That’s the premise.”
“It has been called to my attention that Reverend Doolin’s life is in danger because some of the more agitated people, as we say here in Chicago, have put out a contract on him. We deem it essential that he be extricated from this situation immediately. Just now live priests are more important to us than martyrs, especially when the martyring agent is the United States government.”
Walter was silent for a moment. In the meantime, the Cardinal himself appeared at the door of the office. The only signs of his office were ruby cuff links on a collarless shirt and a ruby ring. His snow-white hair, his broad shoulders, and his dangerously flashing blue eyes, as Blackie once put it, “create the presence that all such churchmen should have but most lack, myself notably so.” Leaning against the doorjamb, a casual Renaissance prince on Wabash Avenue, he was reading the transcript he had snatched from Blackie’s desk.
“Does he want out?”
“Walter, if he didn’t want to, I wouldn’t be harassing you. More to the point Milord Cardinal Cronin wants him out.”
The Cardinal grinned and winked at us.
“How soon?”
“Yesterday would not have been soon enough.”
“You’re in touch with him?”
“It is safe to assume that we are.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“We wish to settle the matter to our satisfaction by the end of business today. Reverend Doolin’s life is in grave danger. We will await your response.”
The “Arch” replaced the phone with infinite care.
“Like I always say, Blackwood, I’m glad you’re on my side.”
“Arguably … These men are worse fools than your very good friends over in Vatican City. But then, unlike the Secretary of Defense, the Vatican is infallible only in certain limited matters.”
Crystal appeared, sleeping boy child in her arms.
“
You poured the sacred waters on this young man, didn’t you, Cardinal?”
She passed him over to Sean Cronin, who accepted him with the practiced skill of a Chicago politician.
“You’re growing into a pretty big guy, Poraig Josefa,” he said softly.
Our kid opened his eyes at the sound of a new voice, frowned, and then went back to sleep.
Crystal took him back. I figured it would not hurt the rest of our day if he continued in the arms of a certified, bona fide mystic (which me wife insists is not the same as being fey, well not exactly the same). Nuala Anne smiled contentedly.
“Are we going to get our guy out of there, Blackwood?”
“It would seem so.”
“You did everything but call him Father Doolin.”
Blackie sighed.
“I would have done that if necessary. It is an old Irish custom to use the term of anyone who has enrolled in the seminary.”
“’Tis true, but before my time.” Nuala confirmed the folk tale.
So we collected our baby from his admirers and returned to the much-less-hallowed halls of Sheffield Avenue.
“Now we wait,” Nuala said, never a woman who was very good at waiting. “And pray.”
“What will his parents say when he comes home?” Nuala asked.
“His father will be delighted to see him,” I replied. “His mother will never forgive him. He humiliated her by coming home alive after her silly memorial Mass.”
“Won’t she be proud to have a son a priest?”
“With all the troubles the priesthood has these days, people like them aren’t always proud of the priest son. Heaven knows my parents are proud of Prester George, but they’re different. They’re even proud of their son the poet who married the gorgeous colleen from Galway.”
“Hmf.”
Time passed as though one were sitting in a hospital lobby waiting for the doctor to report on the surgery he was performing. Neither of us had any sense when the end of business was in Langley, Virginia. We had to presume that Blackie knew when to send his last and best warning. If there were either good news or bad, we would hear immediately.
Surely Walter—whoever Walter was—knew the risks of playing hardball against the apparently harmless little prelate. Could he convey these risks to whoever had to make the final decision?
After “tea” the family assembled in the game room to say the Rosary, an event which occurred when herself was not altogether sure that God was awake and listening. Socra Marie always prayed with great fervor but without sufficient speed. Thus her “at the hour of our death. Amen” trailed the communal expression of these same thoughts and thereby caused merriment among her older siblings. The latter were fixed with a murderous glare from their mother. Promptly at seven we turned on my computer and Nuala sent out the message to Desmunk.
Are you there, Desmunk?
Right on time.
We’re leaning on CIA right now. No news yet. How long can you stay at the Internet café?
Two hours. Maybe a little longer.
We’ll be back to you as soon as we hear.
Thank you. Pray.
“He sounds worried,” Nuala said.
“He does indeed. Maybe there’s something going down that he didn’t want to tell us.”
So we said the Rosary a couple of more times. Nuala sang hymns which I could join without too much embarrassment. She saw to the bedding down of the children, brought Patjo back to the office and fed him. At first he was more interested in sleeping, but like most males he could not turn down good food. Then he returned to his dreams.
At 8:45 the phone rang.
“Nuala Anne.”
“Blackie here. The issue is still in doubt. There has been little debate all day about extracting-their quaint word—Des. The debate is whether they should serve notice on the Pentagon of their intentions. Our man said this would be absolute folly. He questioned whether news of the removal of a single innocuous monk from Mosul would ever reach the upper levels of the Pentagon. Still, the debate goes on for such is the nature of bureaucracy. I told him that the issue would become moot at 9:00 Chicago time because I would then summon the local and the national media for a press conference in which Cardinal Sean Cronin, by the grace of God and favor of the Holy See Archbishop of Chicago, would blame the Director of Central Intelligence, the Secretary of Defense, and the President of the United States for risking the life of an American citizen because of bureaucratic infighting. I warned him that I was not bluffing and that in fact I never bluff. As you both know on occasion I do bluff. In any case I will be back to you at 9:15. Are you still in touch with Father Desmond?”
“We are. I’m afraid he’s in some imminent danger. We will ask him to give us fifteen more minutes.”
Nuala returned to AOL:
Des, can you give us fifteen more minutes?
Sure, some of my friends are hanging around here.
Who are these friends?
Some very tough Assyrian youth who would do well as security guards at the court of Nabucco, a few Kurdish cops and a squad of American paratroopers.
We’ll be back to you.
“They must be expecting an attack if they have their own gang out to protect him,” Nuala said fretfully.
“I think we can assume that Des would put together his own gang.”
“Suppose they drive a car bomb into the café?”
“I think his gang will be prepared for such an attempt.”
“Dermot love, you need a splasheen of the crayture.”
THAT MEANS SHE NEEDS THE SPLASHEEN.
We both do.
Nuala rushed back with the ravaged bottle of Middleton’s and the two goblets, scrupulously clean from all traces of the previous night’s consumption. At 9:10 the phone rang.
“You answer it, Dermot, I’m too nervous.”
WHAT’S THE POINT IN BEING FEY IF SHE GETS THAT NERVOUS?
“Dermot Coyne.”
“Father Ryan here. I believe it’s safe to say that we have won. Here are the details to transmit to the valiant Father Desmond. In midafternoon local time, an official of the CIA named Steffan, obviously a code name, will wait on Desmond and confirm the extraction—sorry if their slang would be more appropriate in a dental office. Sometime later in the day, probably after nightfall, he and his personal effects will be lifted to Baghdad by helicopter. Thereupon he will be transferred to the Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Thence he will be moved to the Frankfurt Airport and flown to Chicago, along with Steffan and another CIA officer. They will arrive at O’Hare about noontime … Thereupon he will be driven to your home, where he will be handed over to the custody of Milord Cronin and my undistinguished self. You will be notified of the time of this meeting. Is that all committed to your usually retentive memory, Dermot?”
“’Tis.”
“Excellent.”
I moved me wife aside and repeated the Arch’s narrative on the computer screen.
For five long minutes there was no response from Des.
Got it, guys. I know Steffan, informally of course. He’s a good guy. Sorry for the delay. We had an incident down the street. A group of unpleasant people tried to blow up this café. They were diverted from their goal. I’m going home now to sleep—home still being the monastery.
You have a cell phone?
I’m American, am I not? I never use it much.
Phone us from Baghdad and Frankfurt—312-773-2525.
Will do. Good night and good luck.
“He thinks he’s Edward R. Murrow.”
“Or Sinbad the Sailor,” Nuala said with a vast sigh of relief.
I reached for the Flight Guide and checked flights from FRA to ORD, American Flt 83 left FRA at 1410 and arrived at Chicago at 1730-2:10 and 5:30.
“Five-thirty tomorrow afternoon!” my spouse, who had virtuously put the bottle of the water of life back in its cupboard, exclaimed. “And the house such a terrible mess. I won’t have time to clean it.”
Fiona ambled into the office, yawned, turned around a couple of times and settled into the carpet.
“Day after tomorrow. And the house doesn’t need cleaning.”
“And I’ll have to make a few bites for our guests …”
“And insult Danuta? I won’t hear of it!”
“Sure, don’t you have the right of it … I’d better call the Arch.”
“’Tis Nuala Anne, Your Grace. We’ve passed on all your information to him. Apparently there was a little dust-up at the Internet café-that sounds like one of your Clint Eastwood filums, doesn’t it, but everyone on his side is all right …”
“It is well that we acted expeditiously!”
“’Tis true … He’ll try to call us from Baghdad or Frankfurt if they’ll let him. He’ll be here probably tomorrow at five-thirty. We’ll have a bite here at our cottage … Ah no, me husband tells me it will be the day after tomorrow … We poor West of Ireland folk tell time by the shadows the sun makes on our fields, don’t we now?”
“I have required my good friend Walter to keep me informed about the progress of this mission. I will call you as soon as I learn anything. Probably early tomorrow afternoon.”
“Do you think them fellas over at the Pentagon will try to make any last-minute trouble?”
“They are capable of anything—if they find out. We must get Desmond into the boarding area of the Frankfurt Airport … You might have your virtuous sister-in-law meet the plane. I will, of course, be there too.”
“Good idea.”
“My best to all the childer. I will look forward to sharing a bite with them the day after tomorrow.”
I called my sister, who was delighted at the prospect of a battle with federal bureaucrats.
“Is there anything more we can do, Dermot?”
“Do our exercise and get a good night’s sleep.”
“I’d rather have another jar.”
“It would not be good for you. We both have to run for the tension.”
“Why must you always have the right of it, Dermot Michael Coyne?”
“Because me wife is smart enough to know that I’m occasionally correct.”
Irish Linen Page 29
