In The Name of The Father (3 page)

Stanislaw Dziwisz had followed his beloved Wojtyla from Cracow. It was always thus when a new Pope was elected. Luciani had brought his entourage and household from Venice and Paul had surrounded himself with Milanese.

Father Dziwisz had been the Pope’s personal private secretary for fifteen years, and looked on him as a father. He also believed that he understood him as a father. Now he wasn’t sure. The Pope’s voice contained a tone he had never heard before. His stance and bearing, as he stood in the centre of the room, was rigid and cold.

‘Ask Archbishop Versano to come here immediately . . . and cancel all our other appointments this afternoon.’

Stunned, Dziwisz asked, ‘All of them, Your Holiness . . . ?’ He saw the impatience in the Pope’s eyes and said diffidently, ‘There’s the delegation from Lublin, Your Holiness.’

The Pope sighed. ‘We know. They will be disappointed. Explain to them that something unexpected and urgent has arisen. Something that requires our time . . . and our duty.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Ask Cardinal Casaroli if he has a few minutes to spare for them. He will know the right words to soften their disappointment.’

‘Yes, Your Holiness . . .’ Dziwisz waited. He waited to hear what such an important development could be. The Pope always took him into his confidence.

Not this time. He found himself staring into those cold blue eyes. They contained an expression: impatience. He turned away to summon Archbishop Versano.

The Archbishop took his seat and gratefully accepted the coffee. He had been made Archbishop by this Pope; a promotion that had stunned most Vatican observers, particularly since the embarrassing difficulties of another American in the Vatican hierarchy, Archbishop Paul Marcinkus of Chicago. The name of Marcinkus had become linked in one way or another with the financial scandal of the Banco Ambrosiano. He was, to all intents and purposes, confined to the tiny state-within-a-state of the Vatican. If he stepped outside, he risked arrest. Many thought this would have the effect of hindering the progress and aspirations of other Americans in the Papal entourage. Yet the new Polish Pope had quickly come to rely on Versano, an American of Italian parentage who had rapidly worked his way up through the Vatican bureaucracy. Now, he supervised much of the Pope’s security arrangements and was also deeply involved in the urgent restructuring of the Vatican Bank, to get it fully functioning again in the world markets.

Versano was not without his enemies. One of the youngest men ever to be made Archbishop, he was also tall and good-looking and -so some people said - appeared to enjoy to the full the high profile that his position brought him. He was charming and affable. Also, manipulative and ruthless. Still, he was getting the job done - both in terms of protecting the Pope and reviving the futures of the bank - and his star was very much in the ascendant. Since being elevated to Archbishop he had become part of the Pope’s inner circle. He knew just about everything that went on in the Vatican. He knew, for example, that only half an hour earlier His Holiness had given a private audience at short notice to Carabiniere General, Mario Rossi. He was mightily intrigued.

His curiosity was fast satisfied. Even before he had finished his coffee the Pope had succinctly briefed him.

His reaction was practised and immediate. With his resonant, controlled, logical voice, he soothed. He reminded the Pope that since his election there had been half a dozen documented attempts on his life. Only one had come close to succeeding. There may have been a dozen others unknown. There would be scores more in the future. But security now was honed almost to perfection. Even on overseas trips. He did acknowledge that this threat was particularly dangerous in view of the power of its source, but everything possible would be done to mitigate it. The Pope was prone to discuss details of the enhanced security on the forthcoming trip to the Far East, but again Versano soothed. Relax, was his message, there was still a long time to go. Much could happen in that time. Perhaps Andropov would succumb to his illness. In that case, in view of opposition in the Kremlin, the whole project might well be dropped.

At the mention of Andropov the Pope rose and walked over to the windows and stood silently gazing down at St Peter’s Square. Then he turned and said quietly, ‘Mario, if it is the will of God then that evil man will die before he can perpetrate that atrocity. If not, then it is we who may die.’

Versano also rose and walked slowly across the room. They stood facing each other. The Pope was a big man, but the American was a head taller, if not as thick-set. Versano drawled huskily, ‘It will be the will of God. Your Holiness is a beacon to mankind. A unique force for good. Such evil cannot and will not overcome that.’

He went down on one knee, pulled the Pope’s hand towards him and fervently kissed the ring.

Back in his office, Archbishop Mario Versano gave instructions that he was not to be interrupted. Then he sat behind his desk and for the next hour smoked a series of Marlboros and exercised his considerable intellect. In spite of his happy-go-lucky appearance, the desk was remarkably neat. A telephone console close to his right hand; filing trays on the left; neat stacks of paper to the front; a solid silver Dunhill table lighter exactly centred. On the walls were framed and signed photographs of leading personalities from the banking, diplomatic, ecclesiastical and even showbusiness worlds. Some - in the banking section - had been taken down in the light of continuing investigation by authorities outside the Vatican, but Versano did not feel touched by that. He had tilted his chair on to two legs and was resting his broad back against the wall. After an hour he tipped his chair forward, reached for the lighter, lit another cigarette and punched a button on his telephone console.

There came the tinny voice of his very private personal secretary. The one who knew almost all the secrets.

‘Yes, Your Grace?’

‘Is the Bacon Priest still in town?’

‘Yes, Your Grace, he is at the Collegio Russico. He leaves for Amsterdam in the morning.’

‘Good. Get him on the line for me.’

A short pause, then Versano said heartily, ‘Pieter, Mario Versano. When did you last eat at L’Eau Vive?’

‘Too long ago, my young friend. I’m just a poor priest, you know.’

Versano’s answering laugh was conspiratorial.

‘Nine o’clock tonight then, in the back room.’

He hung up and summoned his secretary, a pale thin priest with spectacles thick enough for a telescope. Brusquely Versano ordered, ‘Book the back room at L’Eau Vive for tonight. And tell Ciban that I would deem it a favour if he would have the entire restaurant carefully “swept” this afternoon.’

The secretary made a note and then said diffidently, ‘It’s very short notice, Your Grace. What if the room is already booked . . . by a Cardinal, say?’

Versano smiled broadly. ‘Speak to Sister Maria personally. Tell her that no one, apart from His Holiness himself, will be more important than my guests.’

The secretary nodded and left. Versano reached for a fresh Marlboro, lit it, dragged appreciatively and then made one more phone call and issued one more invitation. Then he tilted his chair, rested his back against the wall and sighed contentedly.

Chapter 2

It was raining lightly but Father Pieter Van Burgh left his taxi near the Pantheon and walked the last few hundred yards. Habits die hard, especially when they protect a life. He pulled his cloak around him and hurried down the narrow Via Monterone. It was a cold night and there were few people on the street. With a quick backward look he ducked into the recessed doorway.

It was brightly lit; not at all plush. At first an ordinary looking restaurant. But his cloak was taken by a tall black girl dressed in a long batik gown; she wore a gold crucifix at her neck. The priest knew that she was a nun, as were all the serving girls. They came from a French missionary order that worked in West Africa.

Another woman bustled up. She also wore a long dress but in a soft white cloth. She was older and white. Her face held a look of studied piety. The priest remembered her from a previous visit years before as Sister Maria, who ran the restaurant with fierce discipline. She did not remember him.

‘Do you have a reservation, Father?’

‘I am expected, Sister Maria. Father Van Burgh.’

‘Ah yes.’ She was immediately deferential. ‘Follow me, Father.’

He followed her through an extraordinary restaurant. Although open to the public, lay customers were rare. Almost one hundred per cent of the clientèle were from the clergy or from people close to the clergy. Van Burgh noticed that it was practically full. He recognised several diners: a Bishop from Nigeria, his ebony face glistening in the warm atmosphere, dining with the editor of
L’Osservatore Romano.
A Curia Bishop deep in conversation with an official of Vatican Radio. In one corner stood a large plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.

Sister Maria drew aside a red velvet curtain, opened a varnished door and ushered him in. The contrast was immediate.

The walls of the room were hung with rich tapestry. The deep carpet was ruby red. The single table covered by a cream damask tablecloth. Candlelight glistened on silver and crystal and the faces of the two seated men. Versano wore the simple cassock of a parish priest. The other guest was resplendent in purple Cardinal’s robes of a quality that Van Burgh knew could only come from the House of Gammarelli - Papal tailors for two centuries. He recognised the pinched ascetic face: the newly elected Cardinal Angelo Mennini. The Cardinal was known as one of the shrewdest and most intelligent men in Rome. His Order, which had missionaries and influence all over the world, made him one of the most powerful and well-informed as well. Van Burgh had only met him once briefly many years before, but he well knew his reputation.

Both men rose. Van Burgh deferentially kissed the Cardinal’s proffered ring and then heartily shook Versano’s hand. He had heard all the rumours and believed some of them, but he instinctively liked the giant American.

Versano pulled out a chair for him and they all sat. Close to the Archbishop’s right hand was a drinks trolley.

‘Apéritif?’ he asked.

Van Burgh chose a single malt whisky. Versano topped up Mennini’s dry vermouth and his own Negroni. The plopping of ice cubes seemed to amplify the pregnant silence. They raised their glasses in a wordless toast, then in a businesslike voice Versano said, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the meal beforehand. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Also it means we’ll have fewer interruptions.’ The youngest man present seemed to have no difficulty in establishing his authority over the meeting.

He paused for effect, and then said sombrely, ‘For what I have to tell you tonight has the gravest implications for our beloved Father and for the entire Church.’

Van Burgh coughed and looked dubiously around the plush room. Versano smiled and raised a placating hand. ‘Don’t worry, Pieter, this room - the entire restaurant - has been “swept” this afternoon. There are no bugs, and I can tell you that the entire Vatican itself is now secure.’

He was referring to the incident in 1977 when Camilio Ciban, head of Vatican Security, had persuaded Secretary of State Cardinal Villot to have the Secretariat checked for listening devices. Eleven sophisticated ‘bugs’ had been found of both American and Russian origin. One of the most secret institutions on earth had been shocked to its core.

Cardinal Mennini was studying the Dutch priest opposite him. With his round, ruddy cheeks and wide girth he could have been Friar Tuck straight out of a medieval Sherwood Forest. He had a habit of rubbing the pads of his fingers against his palms and of looking around with a slightly surprised air; a bit like a child finding himself suddenly alone in a chocolate factory. But at sixty-two he was no child and Mennini well knew that his simple manner hid a razor mind and a vast repertoire of talents.

Father Pieter Van Burgh headed the Vatican’s Iron Curtain Church Relief Fund. Since the early ‘60s he had made numerous clandestine visits to Eastern Europe in a variety of disguises. The Vatican allows no publicity to surround him. He is loathed by anti-Church officials in Eastern Europe but although they know of his activities they have never been able to trap him. He is a ‘Pimpernel’ called the ‘Bacon Priest’ because, on his frequent incursions behind the Iron Curtain, he always carries slabs of bacon to hand out to those in his secret flock who are particularly deprived or lonely in their clandestine work. He had been a close friend of the Pope since his early days as Archbishop of Cracow.

A door silently opened and a beautiful black girl wheeled in a trolley. They watched in appreciation as she modestly served the
fettuccine con cacio e pepe.
She then poured the Falerno and silently retired. The food served in the main restaurant was French, moderately good and inexpensive. In the back room the food was Italian, superb and vastly expensive. In dining there a parish priest would wipe out a month’s stipend.

Versano picked up his fork with anticipation but was stopped by Van Burgh’s discreet cough. He was looking at the Cardinal expectantly. Mennini had a puzzled expression, then he understood. He nodded, lowered his head and muttered rapidly, ‘
Benedictus benedicat per Jesum Christum Dominum nostrum.
Amen.’

They raised their heads and with an unrepentant grin Versano tucked into the pasta. He ate rapidly, impatiently, as did Mennini, as though food was nothing more than a necessary fuel. Van Burgh took his time, savouring the delicate flavouring. There had been many times in his life when a meal consisted of nothing more than a heel of bread and with luck a lump of cheese; and several times when there had been no meal at all.

Versano sat back and said, ‘I told them to leave a little time between courses.’ He held up a cigarette. ‘Do you mind? I like eating here,’ he said, ‘even if no one can see us in this room!’ Van Burgh allowed himself a smile at the younger cleric’s self-deprecating comment, but he knew they were not here for small-talk.