by Glenn Cooper
The next time the bedroom door opened it was Viola holding a small tray with two cups of coffee. Antonio was behind him, his gun-arm slack, hanging at his side.
‘I have your coffee the way you like it, Holy Father,’ Viola said. ‘Mr Donovan, I didn’t know your preference. I put milk in it.’
Celestine and Cal sat on their beds and received the cups politely, suspending reality, as if they were guests in the man’s house.
Viola looked as tired as his captors. He helped himself to a wooden chair against a wall. Antonio remained by the door.
‘I don’t ask for your forgiveness, Holy Father,’ Viola said, ‘but I must express my sorrow for treating you so roughly. I felt I had no choice. It was necessary to bring you here in – well, a clandestine manner.’
From his aching back, Cal put two and two together. ‘You put us in the trunk of a car,’ he said.
‘I don’t wish to speak of this,’ Viola said, his expression pained.
Celestine pointedly used his first name. ‘Why, Arturo, why did you feel it was necessary to commit this violence upon the pope which is also a form of violence upon the Church? And why did you commit violence against this innocent young man, Julian Sassoon?’
‘Isn’t it obvious, Holy Father?’
‘It is not so obvious to me, Arturo, how you could take a difference in opinion as a justification for violence,’ the pope said. ‘Tell me, have you taken his life?’
‘He survived,’ Viola said. ‘Apparently he was unhurt.’
Celestine closed his eyes and murmured his thanks to God.
‘You see, this is more than a difference in opinion, Holy Father,’ Viola said. ‘There’s no doubt that you are a good man but men of conscience cannot stand by and allow you to destroy the Church we love.’
‘We?’ Celestine said. ‘Who else has done this, Arturo? It wasn’t just you, acting alone. Who are the plotters and schemers? Who among the Curia? Which cardinals are among your confederation?’
‘I alone,’ he replied defiantly.
‘And was it you, alone, who tried to kill Professor Donovan in New York?’
‘It was nothing personal, Mr Donovan. If we had succeeded, none of this would have been necessary.’
Cal had a few angry things he wanted to say about that but this was the pope’s dialogue.
‘There’s the we again,’ the pope said. ‘You could not have known about the loan, Arturo. Someone must have told you. Who was it?’
‘Moller,’ he spat. ‘He was a degenerate. I blackmailed him.’
‘Moller didn’t know either.’
‘Your conference call with the C8. He gave me the code. I listened.’
Celestine shook his head and put his coffee aside. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I won’t press you further on this but I must press you on your motivations. Do you read the Bible, Arturo?’
‘When I was young. Not now.’
‘Do you go to Mass?’
‘Only when you are giving it, Holy Father.’
‘Do you listen on these occasions?’
‘I have to concentrate on the crowds. That’s my job.’
‘If there is a Bible in this house, I want you to read the Gospels,’ the pope said. ‘I want you to read the word of Jesus Christ, our savior, and what he has to say about Christian charity and goodness. Then come to me to discuss the mission of the Church, for I say to you, Arturo, alleviating poverty and suffering is our mission, not operating a museum. Our business is caring for people in this life and saving souls for the next. What about your soul, Arturo? What will become of it?’
‘I will face my fate with serenity,’ he answered.
‘Then tell me,’ Celestine said. ‘What is the point of this abduction? What is its purpose?’
‘For the good of all I hold dear, we – I want you to abandon your plan to poison the well of the Church and reverse your decision to give away our fortune and our treasure. Say this publicly. Describe a change of heart.’
‘You know I will not do that.’
Viola rose and coughed a few times into his handkerchief. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it,’ he said. ‘This young man will bring you food.’
It was dark when the leaders of the Swiss Guard joined Colonel Celestino and his team in the Gendarmerie operations center for a telephonic briefing with officials from the Carabinieri. A Carabinieri lieutenant general was passing along news from their review of CCTV recordings from Rome highways. They had just found an image of Viola’s official SUV on the A1, just north of the A90 orbital. A team of officers was reviewing additional camera files to the north and would report findings in real time. He moved on to the identity of the gunman at the Excelsior. He was a resident of Crotone in Calabria with a long arrest record and ties to the ’Ndrangheta. More information was expected from the local authorities. Finally, the public hotline was inundated with calls but so far none were credible leads.
Celestino thanked the lieutenant general but said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but we specifically requested that Lieutenant Colonel Cecchi from the ROS assist the Vatican on this matter.’
Tommaso Cecchi, the deputy head of the special ops group within the Carabinieri, the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale, was well known to Celestino and the Gendarmerie, having helped the Vatican in the affair involving Berardini, the stigmatic priest. Pope Celestine had personally bestowed on him a medal, the Order of Saint Gregory the Great, for his services to the Holy See.
‘Cecchi is out on leave,’ the lieutenant general said.
A voice interrupted the officer. ‘This is Cecchi. I’m here at the ROS. I cancelled my own leave. One doesn’t take a vacation when the pope is kidnapped.’
‘Very well, Cecchi,’ the lieutenant general said, ‘consider yourself in charge of the Carabinieri’s efforts.’
‘Emilio Celestino here. I look forward to working with you, lieutenant colonel.’
‘Let’s find the Holy Father,’ Cecchi said.
Cardinal Lauriat was in his bedchamber when his prepaid phone rang, the one given to him by Viola only a fortnight ago. He’d left it in his briefcase, so he had to push away his bedclothes and pad across the polished floor in bare feet to retrieve it.
‘We need to talk,’ Viola said.
‘I can hardly hear you. The reception is bad.’
‘It’s the mountains,’ Viola said, trying another part of the room. ‘How’s that?’
‘A little better. Is there a problem?’ Lauriat said, taking the phone back to his bed. ‘Did he not recover?’
‘He recovered from the gas. He’s fine. We talked.’
‘And?’
‘He wanted to know who else was involved in this.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘That I acted alone. That Moller was my source of information.’
‘As we discussed, but that’s not the reason for your call, is it?’
‘No. I don’t think he’s going to relent.’
‘He’s been a prisoner for less than a day.’
‘Believe me, Eminence, he won’t change his mind.’
‘And what do you suggest?’
‘It pains me to say it but I think that the Holy Father and Donovan will have to be eliminated.’
‘Viola, that is a terrible idea. Have you no concept of the awesome power of martyrdom? If Celestine were sacrificed at the altar of his liberalism, what do you think would happen?’
‘I don’t know, Eminence, but I imagine you’re going to tell me.’
‘What would happen is this: the next conclave will see a tidal wave of sympathy and a coalescence around some cardinal from South America perhaps, maybe even Da Silva from Boston, someone who is even more liberal than Celestine. We will be worse off.’
‘Then what can we do if he’s intransigent?’
‘Talk to him again tomorrow. If there is no softening of his position then give him a deadline. Tell him if he has not drafted and recorded a public repudiation of the debt repayment then
Calvin Donovan will be executed.’
THIRTY-THREE
As soon as Cal awoke the next morning he made a beeline to the barred window, dressed only in his boxer shorts, to check on their surroundings.
‘And what can you see, Professor?’
‘I hope I didn’t wake you, Holy Father.’
‘I’ve been awake for a while, thinking, meditating, however one might prefer to characterize it. I didn’t rise to pray because I didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed quite peaceful. So what is outside our sunny window?’
‘Trees and a very nice hillside. I can’t see anything. Oh, there’s snow on the ground.’
‘Well, it’s warm in here,’ the pope said, placing his bare feet on the floor. ‘They do not seem to be trying to freeze us to death.’
He had laid his vestments on a chair the night before.
‘I’ll quickly use the bathroom, if that works for you,’ Cal said.
Cal did his ablutions and dressed inside the bathroom to preserve the pontiff’s modesty. As roommate scenarios went, this one was well off the charts.
When he got out, Celestine was working on his sash. When Cal asked if he needed help, the pope assured him that he did these chores himself. When the pontiff emerged from the bathroom, his hair neatly combed, he commented that Viola had taken the care to buy his usual brand of toothpaste.
‘That was thoughtful, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘Thoughtful would have been not kidnapping and gassing you,’ Cal said.
‘I suppose you are right, but still, it does show a touch of humanity. Would you care to join me in morning prayers?’
‘I’m a little rusty,’ Cal said, ‘but it would be an honor.’
The large man’s knees creaked and popped when he lowered himself to the floor. Cal joined him at the altar of the pope’s bed.
Celestine closed his eyes tightly and said, ‘In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ I will begin this day. I thank you, Lord, for having preserved us during the night. I will do my best to make all I do today pleasing to You and in accordance with Your will. My dear mother Mary, watch over us this day. My Guardian Angel, take care of us. St Joseph and all you saints of God, pray for me and for my dear friend, Calvin.’
Downstairs in the kitchen of the villa, Viola was instructing a fellow named Giaccomo how to prepare the pope’s breakfast.
‘Light toast, no browner than your skin, assorted fruit, cut nicely – please don’t be sloppy – and coffee with two sugars and milk.’
‘What about the other guy?’
‘Who cares about the other guy?’ Viola said. ‘Give him the same!’
He went into the lounge where Antonio and two other young men were watching the morning news. The prime minister was giving a live statement.
‘What’s that jackass saying?’ Viola asked.
‘That they’re looking for him,’ Antonio said.
‘Well, they haven’t found him yet,’ another one cracked.
Viola spilled some coffee when he suddenly began to cough. When it subsided he looked at his handkerchief. It was streaked with blood.
‘You OK, boss?’ Antonio asked.
‘I’m not your boss. This is a one-time job. I’ll never see you again, you’ll never see me again.’
‘Hell with you,’ Antonio said, leaving for the kitchen in a lather. ‘I was just asking if you were all right.’
The newscast went on to highlight international reaction to the kidnapping and after a minute of watching, Viola got up, lit a cigarette, and went outside for a walk in the snowy garden.
Celestine munched on his dry toast and told Cal, who was doing the same, that it was a shame he had to suffer for the pope’s sins.
‘It could become my new breakfast,’ Cal joked. ‘A lot healthier than Pop Tarts.’
Celestine inquired as to what those were and Cal told him he really didn’t want to know. When he was finished with his tray Cal got up and walked the length of the small room back and forth a few times, disguising his mounting agitation by pretending to look out of the window each time.
‘Is something the matter?’ the pope asked. ‘I mean beyond the obvious?’
Cal returned to his bed.
‘I guess I’m a little jittery,’ he said quietly.
‘Why is that?’
‘You’re going to make me confess something I haven’t confessed to myself.’
Celestine said nothing but the receptivity of Celestine’s body language spurred Cal on.
He took a deep, smooth breath before saying, ‘Last night was the first time in I don’t remember how long that I didn’t have a drink. I’m feeling it this morning.’
‘I see,’ the pope said. ‘You’re a big drinker?’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘I intended our dinner the other night to learn more about you but I spent too much time talking about work. I still don’t really know you, Professor.’
‘Why would you?’
‘You’re right. We’ve had a wonderful friendship that has been the source of some pleasure for me but it’s been a friendship based upon your work and our mutual interests. I have never asked about you as a person. We certainly have not been – what’s the American expression – drinking buddies.’
‘I wouldn’t have expected you to engage with me beyond professional interests. I mean, you’re the pope!’
Celestine gestured expansively at the room. ‘But here we are. Bound together by our captivity. A perfect time to talk, don’t you think?’
Cal took the bait. The version of his life that flowed out with a fluidity that frankly surprised him was more intimate and psychologically shaded than he’d revealed to any friend or lover. A brittle, distant mother. An imperious father whose archeology digs took him away for extended stretches. A lonely boy, raised in privilege, who became a wild adolescent, a hell-raiser. The big professor’s house in Cambridge, all his when his lonely mother decamped for her haunts in Manhattan, that became the hub of wild parties, big-time drinking, and girls, girls, girls. His rebellious decision – a thumb in the eye to his parents – to enlist in the army instead of going to college. Washing out after only two years the moment his fist landed on his sergeant’s jaw. His father pulling strings to get him into Harvard despite his ignominious discharge. Getting his life on some sort of even keel only to be upended when his father died in mysterious circumstances on a Middle Eastern dig. Fighting the gravitational pull of this man he disliked and feared, but eventually succumbing to it and embarking on a strikingly similar academic career. Coming to grips with the religious ambiguity of his childhood and choosing his father’s Catholicism over his mother’s Judaism. Despite his best intentions, becoming too much like his father the older he got. His old man was a drinker and a womanizer. He was too. In spades. At least Cal had the decency of never marrying or even subjecting a partner to some shaky version of long-term commitment. He knew himself too well. He’d only stray off the reservation.
The pontiff listened without interrupting, nodding at times, furrowing his brow, frowning, smiling. When he did speak, this was his question: ‘You say you feared your father, even disliked him, but did you love him?’
Cal looked toward the cold, sunlit window before answering. ‘I respected him. He was a legend in his field. I’ve got a joint appointment in the archeology department and I walk past the Hiram Donovan Laboratory to get to my office. I never got to really know him. I wish I had.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’
‘I think I did. Deep down.’
‘Losing a parent, particularly at a time of important transition in life, particularly a dominant kind of parent like your father – this can be terribly difficult and something you have to carry like a heavy weight.’
Cal wouldn’t let himself get teary. He hadn’t cried since childhood and even this conversation wasn’t going to turn on the waterworks. ‘It does feel like that sometimes.’
‘Professor, I’m not a psychologist, I
’m a priest who, for reasons that are mysterious to me, kept getting promoted to fancier and fancier jobs. As a priest I ask you: do you think this burden you carry causes your drinking?’
At that, Cal got up again, drawn to the window. ‘Maybe,’ was the best he could do. ‘I mean, who knows if I’m a single-issue kind of drinker? These things can be more complicated, I’m sure.’
‘Have you tried to stop drinking?’
‘It’s part of who I am and it’s never interfered with my work, so no. I think the term is functional alcoholic.’ He thought of Gail Sassoon, a sloppy, dysfunctional drunk if ever there was one. ‘If I ever crossed the line I’d have to deal with it.’
Celestine bent the curve of the conversation. ‘Tell me about your faith. What did your mother think about your choice to embrace your father’s religion?’
‘She was bitter and resentful at the time and twenty years later she’s still bitter and resentful.’
That made the pope laugh. ‘She wouldn’t be a Jewish mother if she thought otherwise. And what about your faith, Professor? Is it strong?’
‘Is it strong?’ Cal repeated. ‘To be honest, it could be a lot stronger. I don’t attend Mass except when I happen upon a ceremony at a church I’m visiting for academic interest. The last time I prayed like I did with you this morning was when I was undergoing my conversion.’
‘No, your faith.’
‘I don’t not believe in God.’
‘That’s a starting point. Why did you become a Catholic? Can you remember?’
Cal gulped at the question. His nose got stuffy though his eyes remained dry. ‘I think I did it to be closer to my father.’
‘That is a fine reason, Professor, a fine reason.’
There was a polite knock on the door before it was unlocked and opened. Viola and his shadow, Antonio, came in.
‘Was your breakfast satisfactory, Your Holiness?’
‘It was fine, Arturo, thank you.’
The inspector general coughed a few times and asked whether he had thought about the demand to reverse his decision.
‘I had a restless night which gave me much time to think about what you want. My answer is the same as yesterday. I cannot change what I believe to be a fundamentally correct and decent choice.’
