by Glenn Cooper
‘What happened?’
‘A personnel change. I shouldn’t say more.’
He backed off. ‘I was hoping you could give me some insight into the process for valuing and selecting the pieces to be sold?’
‘First of all, it’s not just art,’ she said emphatically. ‘It starts with buildings and land holdings. The more money that can be raised there, the less art will need to be sold. Some valuable and historically noteworthy letters and manuscripts from the Vatican Secret Archives may be sold. The remainder will then come from the museums. Carefully selected pieces will be auctioned. I advocate covenants that require the sold work to be available for public display but this is a discussion item.’
She described the internal valuation process and he asked about a few famous works – whether they might be included. She responded with a small, deliberate nod of her veiled head to each query.
‘It’s sobering,’ Cal said. ‘I come down in favor of what Celestine is doing but it’s not a slam dunk for me.’
‘Slam dunk?’
‘Sorry. American basketball slang. It means an easy call, an easy decision.’
‘It’s painful, of course,’ she said, ‘but nowhere as painful as what a starving child or a landmine victim who can’t get a prosthesis must endure. For me, it’s a slam dunk.’
He was embarrassed by the simple power of her argument. ‘When you put it that way,’ he said.
Her eyes seemed to glow, not with anger but intensity. ‘I believe it’s the only way to put it.’
The sound of a demonstration from the piazza grew louder. To change the subject Cal said, ‘I understand your brother is a command officer with the Gendarmerie. This must be a challenging time for him.’
‘He’s quite busy, that’s for sure. How do you know about him?’
‘The pope told me.’
Again, the smile and the look into his eyes. ‘Did he tell you about me too?’
‘Enough to understand that you have a special relationship with him.’
‘And he told me enough to say the same about you.’ She paused and seemed to weigh her next words. ‘The Holy Father is a wonderful man. Even though there are always people around him, I think it’s a very lonely job. So many in the Curia have their own agendas. It must be difficult for him to know whom to trust. It’s good that he has you as a friend, Professor. Thank you for this. I pray for him several times a day.’
Cal couldn’t stop himself from saying what was on his mind. On later reflection it was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.
‘I’m going to kick myself hard when I leave here but I’ve got to open up about something.’
‘I hope you don’t bruise yourself,’ she said, seemingly preparing herself to hear something provocative.
‘The pope told me something of your story, how you came to a religious life following a career in academia. It’s quite inspirational but—’
‘But what, Professor?’
‘But it can’t stop me from telling you that I find you incredibly attractive and intellectually stimulating.’
She pressed her lips into a thin smile, deepening her dimples. ‘And being a nun can’t stop me from telling you that I share your feelings. Perhaps if we had met – well, before. When you take your orders and put on your habit, it doesn’t stop you from being a woman with all manner of feelings. I’m not a machine. But I cherish the life I’ve chosen to live and I’ve found it empowering to pour all the human emotions I feel into my love of God. Can you understand that, Professor?’
‘I can, absolutely. I hope I haven’t ruined our ability to work together.’
‘Certainly not. You may have enhanced it. And now I have someone else to pray for.’
‘Me?’
She nodded and stood. ‘Now I will pray for you too.’
THIRTY
It took a day for the full impact of the Vatican announcement to be felt. Over breakfast in his hotel suite Cal clicked through his newsfeed of American and Italian newspapers and marveled at the polarization of opinion. There didn’t seem to be much of a middle ground; just about all the editorials came down hard in one camp or another. Celestine’s idea was either the stuff of the angels or the work of the Devil.
Pro- and anti-IFH demonstrations were cropping up around the globe. Crowds were biggest in New York City and Rome, where tensions among opposing groups boiled over with several arrests. The most violent scene was outside the Sassoon Bank in New York, where some neo-Nazis bussed themselves in from Pennsylvania and unfurled predictably venomous Christ-killer signs. When members of the radical Jewish Defense League arrived from Brooklyn to take them on, mayhem ensued.
Petitions were being circulated online, some begging the Vatican to preserve its cultural history, others supporting the humanitarian initiative. One enterprising sort started a GoFundMe campaign to raise twenty-seven billion dollars so the Church wouldn’t have to sell its art. Overnight it raised $11,513.12.
Cal called over to Julian’s room to take his temperature. The kid was resolute. He was going to have his press conference in the hotel ballroom come hell or high water. Cal wished him luck and hopped into the shower.
Cal checked out of the hotel, toting his shoulder bag, and took a taxi to the Vatican. The entrance to St Peter’s Square was tightly controlled by the Gendarmerie, who had set up metal detectors at the far end of the Via della Conciliazione. It took him almost an hour to get through and he was grateful he’d left enough time. It wasn’t good form to be late for a papal meeting.
The piazza was thick with the faithful, the curious, the demonstrators, all under the watchful eye of more gendarmes than he’d ever seen in one place. He noticed a pair of smartly dressed plainclothes officers with earpieces and wondered whether one of them might be Elisabetta’s brother.
There was another bottleneck, a queue trying to get close to the Casa Sanctae Marthae guesthouse. Members of the press and visiting prelates had to present themselves to the Swiss Guards manning the barriers and show identification and passes. When Cal got to the gate he told them about his appointment. A radio call was made and he was allowed through.
At the front door of the guesthouse he was stopped again, this time by another well-dressed man with a dark suit and an earpiece.
‘Excuse me, who are you here to see?’ he asked.
‘I have an appointment with Pope Celestine,’ Cal answered.
‘Your name, please?’
‘Calvin Donovan.’
The man asked for his ID, checked a list, and told him he could enter.
‘Thank you,’ Cal said. ‘You wouldn’t be Emilio Celestino, would you?’
‘Sorry, no. I’m his boss, Arturo Viola. Do you know Colonel Celestino?’
‘I know his sister.’
‘He has two sisters.’
‘The nun.’
‘Well, I’ll tell him you asked after him.’
Although he was a few minutes late, the pontiff kept him waiting for over an hour. As he sat, a steady stream of cardinals, many with granite expressions, exited the papal suite. Cal suspected that Celestine was getting an earful.
The second private secretary, Monsignor Dinh, apologized profusely when he finally came for him. Cal said he understood and followed the small man down the corridor, imagining Ludwig Moller in his place.
Celestine looked like he hadn’t slept. His fleshy face drooped more than usual, his eyes, typically bright, were dull. Yet in typical fashion, the pope expressed concern for Cal’s wellbeing.
‘You look tired, Professor.’
‘I had a somewhat restless night, Holy Father.’
‘Sleep did not come easily for me either. On the other hand there was much time for prayer and meditation. I received a report that your interviews were successful. Alas, I haven’t had the chance to read any of them this morning.’
‘I think they went well enough. Some better than others. Most of the journalists wanted to hear about the archive searches. Only one of th
em did enough work to discover the shooting at the Sassoon Bank. I expressed the opinion that it was unrelated, a robbery. In other words, I lied.’
‘When one says something untruthful to a reporter, is it a lie or a survival skill?’ the pope asked, pleased at his joke. At least the laughter brought some color to his face. ‘So, you leave today?’
‘I’m heading from here to the airport. I have what I hope is the final draft of A Tempore Ad Caritas.’
‘Splendid. If possible, I’d like to have it released today. I’m mindful of the bitterly divided reaction around the world, within the Church, within our very Curia. This bull gives the decision an intellectual backbone and hopefully will sway some of those whose opinions have not yet solidified.’
‘It might even change the minds of some doubters,’ Cal said with a touch of faux optimism.
Celestine took the draft bull and began reading it while Cal looked on, wondering whether Celestine had the fortitude to weather a storm that wouldn’t be breaking up anytime soon.
At the Excelsior Hotel a narrow table with microphones had been set up on a raised platform at one end of the Winter Garden banquet hall. The rows upon rows of red chairs set on blue and gold carpeting made something of a regal statement. The hall was filling up, which surprised the events staff since the room was set up for several hundred.
Julian waited in a small adjoining room, chatting with his translator. An event planner hovered, speaking to someone inside the hall via her headset.
‘It’s almost time,’ she said. ‘We’re going to be cutting people off from entering soon. We’re at capacity.’
Julian smiled nervously. ‘Big crowd,’ he jested. ‘I wonder who’s speaking?’
Scotto too was working his headset, communicating with his men who were deployed throughout the Winter Garden. The space was too large to cover with the usual detail of four bodyguards so he had arranged to double the number.
‘We’re ready for you, Mr Sassoon,’ the event planner said.
‘Wait,’ Scotto said. He barked some instructions into his mic and listened to the replies from his earpiece. ‘OK, we can go.’
Scotto led the way to the stage, Julian and the interpreter following.
The young man sat, and surveyed the crowd of print journalists, bloggers, and videographers. He took a couple of handwritten pages from his sport coat and tapped the microphone to see if it was on.
‘Hello, good morning,’ he said in English. ‘My name is Julian Sassoon. I’d like to read a brief statement then I’ll be happy to take your questions.’
He was about to start reading when his translator reminded him that he needed to give him a chance.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve clearly never done this before.’
When the translation was finished Julian began to read.
‘When I first heard about Pope Celestine’s idea of establishing an important new humanitarian foundation to satisfy an old debt between the Vatican and my family my first reaction was surprise, followed by skepticism. However, the more I learned about …’
One of the videographers at the front of the room who was hunched over his LCD monitor rose up and shouted, ‘Jew bastard!’
Julian stopped reading.
There was a handgun.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
The pope removed his spectacles and told Cal, ‘Yes, I think we are there. Perhaps one very small change to the second to last paragraph. It’s more of a matter of syntax than substance.’
Cal listened to the suggestion and agreed with it.
‘Then, Professor, I believe we can say that you have written your first papal bull. You know what we shall do? When it has been issued by the press office on official letterhead I shall sign a copy for you and perhaps you will wish to keep it as a memento of this rather extraordinary week.’
‘It will be my proudest possession, Holy …’
Inspector General Viola burst into the room without knocking.
He was breathing hard, his face twisted in alarm.
‘I’m sorry, Holy Father. You must come with me. There’s been a shooting on the Via Veneto. Julian Sassoon.’ A coughing fit prevented him from continuing for a few seconds. He managed to clear his throat. ‘We’ve received an indication of a threat on your person. There’s no time.’
Celestine didn’t react quickly enough for his chief bodyguard. He seemed slack in his chair. Viola began lifting him by his shoulders but the large man was like jelly. Viola shouted for Cal to help. Cal took one shoulder, Viola the other until the pontiff was upright.
Coming to his senses, the pope asked, ‘How is he? Julian?’
‘I don’t know,’ Viola said, moving him toward the door, ‘but he was hit.’
Scotto was standing at one side of the stage behind Julian and the translator.
His instincts were razor-sharp. Before the word bastard finished echoing in the hall, he had drawn his own gun from its shoulder holster. But such was the speed of the attack that four shots rang out before Scotto could return fire.
Two of Scotto’s men had been standing in front of the stage, facing the crowd. The one closest to the fake videographer squeezed off a quick volley at the assailant.
Everyone in the hall dove for the floor. When the gunfire stopped, the only ones standing or sitting were the bodyguards and Julian. The assassin was bleeding out on the magnificent carpet.
Julian was still in his seat, perfectly immobile, staring ahead.
Then slowly, he raised his right hand to feel at his chest.
‘Holy Father,’ Viola said urgently, ‘we are going to go out the back entrance. We don’t have to run but I want you to walk as quickly as possible. Mr Donovan, will you assist me, please?’
Cal took a forearm for stability. Monsignor Dinh was in the hallway, scared and flustered by Viola’s galloping intrusion. Celestine told him that everything was all right, that he was not to worry.
‘But, Holy Father, where are they taking you?’
‘Where are we going, Inspector General?’ the pope asked.
‘Somewhere safe,’ Viola said.
‘I’ll call when I get there,’ Celestine told the priest. ‘Pray for me.’
Viola led them through the dining room and into the kitchen where the staff stopped chopping and stirring to stare at the unexpected sight. Outside, at the service entrance, a black American-made SUV was idling. The driver, a Gendarmerie officer, leapt out and opened the rear door for the pontiff and Cal helped him in.
Cal was mumbling some kind of farewell when Viola pulled him aside and said, ‘Mr Donovan, please accompany us.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘This intervention. It will be hard for him. He’s an old man. I’m told you’re a friend. It will only be for a few hours until it’s safe to return.’
Cal thought about his flight but when he looked at the pope’s distraught face he went around and climbed in beside him.
‘You’re coming too?’ Celestine asked.
‘To keep you company,’ Cal said.
The pope touched his arm. ‘Bless you, Professor.’
Julian’s forefinger found a hole in his dress shirt and moved on to a second one in the lapel of his sport coat.
There was blood on the table.
His translator’s head was resting on his stenography notebook, oozing red.
Julian was aware of shouting. One of the bodyguards was screaming for an ambulance. Scotto was standing over him shouting too.
‘Are you hit? Are you hit?’
‘My chest,’ he croaked.
Scotto pulled him backwards, gently toppling the chair until he was lying on the floor.
He violently ripped open Julian’s shirt, popping the buttons.
The ballistic vest had two impact points, one of them directly over the heart.
Scotto undid the Velcro straps and lifted the vest off. There were two angry red marks on his chest. He probed them.
‘Ow!’
‘
You’ll have big bruises. Maybe there’s a cracked rib. This is why I insisted on the vest.’
‘Help him,’ Julian said. ‘The translator.’
‘He’s dead,’ Scotto said. ‘We’ve got to go now. Let’s get you up.’
‘Go where?’
‘The airport. Your plane. We’re getting you out of Italy.’
The SUV with its blackened rear windows sped off heading out of the Vatican and into the congestion of Rome. Viola coughed and scanned the streets from the front passenger seat, giving directions to the driver, looking for the fastest route.
‘Can you find out if Julian Sassoon is all right?’ the pope asked.
‘I’ll call soon, Holy Father,’ Viola said. ‘Let me just concentrate on the cars around us in case we were followed.’
Celestine closed his heavy eyelids and said he was going to pray for Julian.
Cal wasn’t as complacent. He pulled out his phone and was about to call Julian’s mobile when Viola shouted at him.
‘Please, Mr Donovan. You need to turn off your phone. These plotters are sophisticated, I think. They have eyes everywhere. They will know you were with the Holy Father and they might track us with your phone.’
Cal agreed to turn it off but that wasn’t enough for Viola.
‘Even if it’s off it can be tracked. Give it to me. I need to remove the SIM card.’
Cal was hesitant but Viola insisted.
The SUV finally broke free of traffic and entered the A1 highway heading north.
‘Now can you tell us where we are going?’ Celestine asked.
‘We have a safe house in Nazzano. We’ll be there shortly.’
‘A safe house?’ the pope asked, annoyed. ‘Another asset I didn’t know about?’
Cal was glad that Celestine was returning to form.
‘It’s on the books in my department,’ Viola said. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not much money.’
‘Who’s behind this?’ Cal asked.
‘That I don’t know, but believe me, we’ll find out and they’ll pay the price. Common sense tells me that it’s people who oppose your plan to give away this fortune.’
The pope said, ‘It pains me greatly to think that I am responsible for harm coming to Julian Sassoon.’
