The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  Del Val genuflected and kissed the Pope’s ring. Kennedy did the same. The Pope made the sign of the cross over Kennedy and gave him a rosary. It was Archie’s turn. The Pope warmly took Archie’s hand, looked him directly in the eye and started talking in a torrent of Italian.

  “The Pope greets you, Major,” del Val translated. “And blesses you and the American President you represent.” Pius began another stream of rapid Italian, all the while handing Archie two autographed pictures of himself. “He offers these pictures to you as a gift so that you might remember your time with the Pope as one that was illuminated by the Holy Spirit.”

  “Thank you, Your Holiness,” Archie said in a well-practiced, formal tone. “I will present your pictures to the President upon my return to the United States. And I bring you a greeting from President Taft with his warmest regards.” Archie handed the Pope a letter from Taft on the White House stationary, which featured a gold embossed Presidential seal and Taft’s florid signature.

  “Grazie,” the Pope said, seeming genuinely appreciative. “Grazie mille.”

  Archie and Kennedy were brought chairs to sit before the Pope and the audience went according to script. The Pope asked Archie about the state of spirituality in America, to which Archie replied that Americans were a deeply religious, God-fearing people. “America is very much a Christian nation,” Archie said. “But we have no state religion. It is in our nature to respect every man’s belief.”

  “As long as the Catholic Church is respected,” del Val translated the Pope’s words, “the Holy See will never have a problem with America.”

  For Archie, the audience seemed to have hardly begun when the priest standing behind the Pope whispered in his ear. The Pope spoke again and del Val translated: “The Holy Father wishes that the time had not flown by so quickly but he must draw this delightful audience to an end. He asks you, Major, if you have any personal needs you wish to address or spiritual questions you wish him to answer.”

  “No, Your Holiness, my only wish is that my country and the Holy See remain in good stead and that our governments retain close and cordial relations.”

  “Va bene,” Pius said, then reached out and warmly grasped Archie’s hand. The Pope’s palm was velvety soft. Archie felt comforted by his touch, enough so that a thought popped into his head. “Actually, there is a question I have for the Holy Father.” The Pope gestured for Archie to talk. “Thank you, Your Holiness,” Archie said, then hesitated, having second thoughts.

  “Please,” the Pope said. “You ask.”

  “Alright, then. Your Holiness, does the name Sue Mann mean anything to the Pope?”

  The Pope’s benevolent expression grew puzzled. “Sue Mann?” the Pope replied with his thick Italian accent.

  “Si.” Archie repeated, “Sue Mann.”

  The Pope turned to del Val and they had a quick, intense conversation. “The Pope wants to know why you asked such a question,” Del Val said to Archie.

  “A friend of mine uttered her name right before he died.”

  When del Val finished translating, the Pope frowned. “You are sure that is what you’re friend said?” Del Val asked.

  “Yes,” Archie answered.

  “Was he still trying to tell you something?”

  “I don’t know,” Archie said. “It never occurred to me. He said that name, Sue Mann, then groaned, ‘Oooo…’ and died in my arms.”

  “And your friend was a Catholic?” del Val asked.

  “He was.”

  “A good Catholic?”

  “I’m not sure he went to church every Sunday, but he told me about being an altar boy as a child.”

  “And what was the nature of your relationship with him?”

  “We served together in a war. The Philippines. He was a good man.”

  “And a good soldier, yes?”

  “Yes,” Archie said, a little surprised del Val would ask that. “The best soldier I ever served with.”

  “He was a student of war,” del Val went on, his British accent sounding even more clipped. “And he particularly held the Roman warrior in high esteem. Am I correct?”

  “Yes,” Archie said, trying not to show his surprise at del Val’s uncanny knowledge of Mick.

  “And he met a tragic end,” del Val flatly stated.

  “He did,” Archie said. “He was killed in an explosion.”

  Del Val translated, the Pope nodded then spoke somberly. “The Pope understands why you asked him that question,” del Val told Archie.

  He does?! Because I sure don’t, Archie thought.

  Del Val continued, “It is a very serious matter you bring up and it has been troubling you for some time. The Holy Father empathizes with you. Be assured, you will have your answer in hope that it will bring you peace.” With that, del Val turned to a door at the back of the library. “Follow me, if you will, Major.”

  Confused by the sudden veer from the carefully scripted audience, Archie looked to Kennedy. “I’ll meet you later,” the Monsignor said. Archie gave a small, formal bow to the Pope then took off behind del Val.

  “Oh my,” Archie uttered with genuine awe when he stepped into St. Peter’s Cathedral. The cathedral overwhelmed him with its vast magnificence. He looked up into the cathedral’s immense webbed dome. Its designer, Michelangelo, created a dome of such perfect geometry that it appeared to be a portal to heaven. If God were to dwell in any earthy building, it would be this one, Archie thought.

  “Come, Major,” del Val said. “Our destination is below today, not above.” The Cardinal lifted a large wooden floorboard at the base of Bernini’s baldacchino. A narrow stairway was revealed. “It leads to a secret passageway under the basilica,” del Val continued. “For reasons you will soon see, its existence has not been made public. Mind your step.” Del Val started down then held his hand back, guiding Archie down fifteen steep steps that descended to a dim, narrow tunnel. Del Val kept Archie’s hand in his grasp, leading him forward. “Directly above us is the cathedral’s altar. We are coming to a grotto. We have evidence that this holy sanctuary holds the crypt of the founder of our church, Saint Peter, the great servant of Christ.”

  Archie’s eyes were adjusting to the dimness of the primitive grotto whose only light was coming from six large candles that flickered along the ancient walls. Del Val walked up to a rough marble crypt that was inset in the wall and prostrated himself. Archie began to feel queasy breathing the stale underground air. After saying a prayer, del Val rose. He sensed Archie’s discomfort. “I hope you aren’t claustrophobic, Major.”

  “And what if I am, your Eminence?”

  “Then I would suggest earnest prayer,” del Val answered dryly.

  The adroitness of del Val’s delivery caused Archie to burst out with a quick laugh that he swallowed, trying to be considerate of the sanctity of the grotto. “Don’t hold back,” the Cardinal counseled. “Laughter is as natural as any prayer and I’m sure Saint Peter would not be offended.”

  Del Val’s less than reverent tone surprised Archie. “I’m sorry, your Eminence, but I just didn’t think that a man of the cloth would…” Archie searched for the appropriate word. Del Val jumped in: “Crack a joke? You’d be surprised by the healthy bit of irreverence that runs through the clergy. A little humor helps us bear the burdens of the priesthood a bit easier.”

  Del Val took one of the large candles and headed for another narrow tunnel that led away from Saint Peter’s crypt. Archie had to lean forward to avoid bumping his head. “If I might ask,” Archie said, shuffling behind del Val, “I thought you were Spanish, and yet you speak flawless English.”

  “Yes, I am Spanish. My father was the secretary to the Spanish delegation in Great Britain when I was born. My mother is of English, Irish and Spanish heritage. I grew up in London. English is my first language. Though I do also speak Spanish. And Italian. And Latin, of course. And German. And Russian. And Portuguese. And a smattering of Polish…”

  As del Val was talking, A
rchie noticed the tight passageway was opening into another grotto, this one vast. In the dim candlelight the grotto appeared to resemble a ghostly city. There were broken marble structures that hovered in the shadows near jagged rows of crumbled Roman columns and cracked markers with worn inscriptions.

  “What is this place?” Archie asked.

  “It turns out the Vatican was built on an ancient necropolis,” del Val explained. “The first chambers that were found contained crypts of Christian martyrs, so it was suspected that this was a secret burial ground for early Christians. But then we stumbled on this grotto, which appears to be the tip of a much larger city for the dead. We have no idea how extensive it is – it will be an overwhelming task to excavate it. But we have found evidence of Jewish interments along with Christian and Roman burial sites. There is much here that goes to the very beginnings of our church. We have been careful about the information we release to the public because it could be misinterpreted and create a furor over the true nature of the Roman Church as the center of Christ’s kingdom on earth. It’s all politics, Major, something I am sure you can understand.”

  “I understand politics, but I don’t understand why you have taken me here.”

  “Ah, yes. Come this way and I will show you why the Pope, in his infinite wisdom, wanted me to escort you to this place.” Del Val gently took Archie’s arm and led him to a mound of loose soil over which several broken stone tablets were strewn and frozen in some eternal tableau. “It’s an ancient burial site of a Roman general.” Del Val pointed to the largest block on the mound. “See, there, near the top, is a stone with the general’s epitaph.” The Latin letters that were carved into the block were worn and barely legible. Del Valle began reading:“Fortunatus, miles ferox ductorque virorum, qui legatus caesaris fuerat bello gallico, honeste peritt sua manu, a fatis vocatus.”

  Archie thought he heard del Val say Sue Mann while reading the inscription. “Cardinal…?” Archie asked, puzzled.

  “It is actually spoken sua manu,” del Val said, knowing exactly the source of Archie’s confusion. “The epitaph reads, ‘Fortunatus, a fierce soldier and leader of men, third in command during the war in Gaul, died honorably by his own hand when the fates called.’”

  “Then Sue Mann…?”

  “…is not a person,” del Val answered. “During Roman times, when a soldier fell from grace and there was no hope of redemption – maybe he had lost a great battle or allied himself with the wrong politician – it was an act of honor to kill himself. Sua manu was a common phrase for this. It literally means ‘by his own hand.’ Your friend, for whatever reason, appears to have taken it upon himself to emulate that ancient Roman ritual. Does that make sense to you?”

  “No, actually it doesn’t make sense,” Archie answered quickly. “Mick would never commit suicide. He would never give up.” But even as Archie was saying those words, another thought came to him: Mick would have had no trouble honorably sacrificing himself like a Roman soldier if the circumstances called for it. With that insight, the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle began to fall into place. Archie recalled Mrs. Shaughnessy saying that Mick had double-crossed one too many powerful men, discovered one too many secrets, let one too many people down. If Mick was a doomed man and knew it, he would have played the game out to gain as much advantage as he could, making sure his wife and child were financially taken care of before orchestrating his own assassination. It would be absolutely right for Mick Shaughnessy to meet death on his own terms, Archie thought, to die by his own hand and not by the hands of others, choosing the method and moment to make his exit from this world.

  “No Catholic is to commit such an act,” del Valle stated.

  “But for a soldier,” Archie answered firmly, “under the right circumstances, it is the only act to commit. To die with purpose and honor is noble.”

  “I must disagree with you, Major.”

  “Of course you must, your Eminence. You are a priest.”

  “And you are a soldier.”

  “That I am,” Archie said, as if reminding himself of that fact. “I am a soldier.”

  CHAPTER 54

  George Vanderbilt sensed that something was not right. He was dining with John Astor in the drawing room of Astor’s penthouse suite. Astor looked healthy enough – his face had color and his eyes were clear. He was not the quivering ghost of a man Vanderbilt met at the Grand Central Terminal several months earlier. Still, something was not right. “I take it your trip to Rome was comfortable,” Astor asked stiffly while taking a sip of his white wine.

  “Very comfortable. Thank you for asking, John.” Vanderbilt sipped his own wine. “I believe Guggenheim will be arriving today,” Vanderbilt said, trying to veer the conversation to the business at hand.

  “Is he bringing that singer with him? She’ll be a distraction.”

  “You have Madeleine with you,” Vanderbilt said casually.

  But Astor didn’t take it casually at all. “Are you comparing Madeleine to some whore Guggenheim picked up in a dance hall?”

  “Not at all, John. I’m just saying several men are traveling with their wives.”

  “Or mistresses,” Astor interjected with a sneer.

  “You shouldn’t be so cynical,” Vanderbilt said, trying to lighten the mood. “I know for a fact that Isador Straus is not with a mistress. He’s with his wife Ida and they’ve been together for almost fifty years.” Vanderbilt raised his wine glass to sooth Astor’s sourness. “May you and Madeleine enjoy the same love and marital bliss the Straus’ have had for all these long years.”

  “They’re Jews. Jews stay married even if they hate each other.”

  “But Isador and Ida adore each other,” Vanderbilt said. “Like you and Madeleine.”

  “Yes,” Astor said. “In fact, I adore Madeleine more than ever.”

  “Of course you do. She’s your bride and you’re devoted to her.”

  “Especially now, since she is carrying my child.”

  Vanderbilt suppressed a surprised gasp and wondered why Astor was so indifferent delivering such happy news. “John, that’s wonderful. Congratulations, you’re going to be a father again.”

  “Yes,” Astor said. “And because of Madeleine’s condition and her delicate constitution, we have decided to return to America.”

  “That makes all the sense in the world.”

  “Immediately.”

  Vanderbilt held his tongue, sensing that this could be the source of Astor’s sourness. “What do you mean, ‘immediately?’”

  “Tomorrow. The next day. As soon as possible.”

  “But John, you can’t. We’ve set up this meeting.”

  “Don’t tell me I can’t!” Astor barked. “We’ll just have to set it up for some other time.”

  Vanderbilt grabbed the edge of his chair’s armrests and squeezed them to squelch his anger. “Jack,” he started tautly, “we’ve invited some of the most prominent men in America to come all the way to Rome to join us in our project and you’re going to tell them the meeting is off because your pregnant little wife can’t remain another week?”

  Astor’s face flushed red. He tilted his head back and looked down at Vanderbilt. “No, dear boy,” Astor said, his nostrils flaring. “You’re going to tell them.”

  Vanderbilt shot up from his chair and hovered over Astor. “You can’t…”

  “Of course I can,” Astor cut him off, and then began speaking to Vanderbilt like a master speaking to a servant. “This is my project. It started with me. I designed it. I can do anything I want. And if you believe that I give a fig about any of those other men, remember, I am the richest of them all. I don’t need this project, I don’t need those men and I certainly don’t need the money. Not like you, George. You think I don’t know? You’re desperate for this project to happen because you need money. Without it you’re broke. Well, the careless managing of your finances is not my concern. Considering the way you talked about Madeleine, I should cut you out right now so you
can’t sponge off me any longer.” Astor took a slice of salami from an antipasti tray and chewed it slowly. The spewing of vitriol seemed to calm him. “But I won’t, George, I won’t cut you off. I do like this project very much so I’m going to be generous with you. I’m going to allow you to resolve things. And if you can solve this little difficulty, well then, you deserve the money that will come to you. So, take care of it, George, and let me know that everything has been worked out. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to attend to Madeleine. I believe you have some phone calls to make.” Astor daintily wiped his hands with a napkin then rose and stepped out of the drawing room, leaving Vanderbilt standing in the middle of the room, alone.

  Vanderbilt stalked out of Astor’s suite, fuming. He wanted to scream and needed to vent his frustration to someone who could understand his rage. He tromped up one flight of stairs to the fifth floor and marched to a door at the end of the hallway. He rapped hard with his knuckles. Nothing. He banged again, more out of frustration than anything else. Just as he was about to turn away, a voice rumbled from behind the door, “Who is it?”

  “George Vanderbilt,” he said, trying to regain his poise.

  There was some shuffling on the other side then the lock unlatched and the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was J. Pierpont Morgan, clad only in a loose terrycloth robe that revealed more than an ample bit of Morgan’s cascading flesh.

  “I disturbed you,” Vanderbilt said. “I’ll come back another time.”

  Morgan noticed Vanderbilt’s agitated state. “Nonsense. Come on in, George.” Morgan took Vanderbilt’s arm and led him into the sitting room. It had a view over all of Rome, which was still engulfed in a miasma of lingering haze. “Have a seat,” Morgan said, pulling up a chair opposite Vanderbilt. “What’s on your mind?”