The Assassin (9 page)

‘We've worked together since I came here,' the Cardinal said. ‘I've often meant to tell you how I appreciate your help, but somehow I never seemed to have the time. I'd like to thank you now.'

Jameson only nodded. This was it. At twelve-forty-five in the morning of all times to get the push.

‘I want to ask you something. What do you think will happen to the people of this country if Johnny Jackson gets to the White House?'

It was such a surprise that Jameson opened his mouth and couldn't bring out an answer. When he did open it again he said what he thought, without trying to be intelligent. The Cardinal had a way of challenging people to measure up to him. Jameson always felt this and struggled, but that night he was too tired even to try.

‘I've never thought about it,' he said. ‘Because it won't happen. We wouldn't elect a thug like that.'

‘We're running him,' the Cardinal said. ‘A couple of years ago it wouldn't have seemed possible. He was just a dirty word in a dirty state. Now he's right up there fighting.'

‘He can't win,' Jameson said. ‘He can only split the vote.'

‘Exactly. He can do that. He can weaken both parties so that if he doesn't get in this time, the next election he just may. Provided the conditions are right for him. But you haven't answered me. What would happen here if he did get elected?'

Jameson hesitated. ‘The Negroes would revolt,' he said. ‘I'd say that was sure. We'd have a civil war on our hands. I guess his labour policy would bring out the unions, there'd be strikes. Foreign policy I don't know; some kind of isolationism, I suppose. He'd have a lot of power behind him, though. I can see whole sections of this country going along with some of his ideas. And then again, like the coloured people, whole sections more who'd fight 'em.'

‘Civil war and chaos,' the Cardinal said. ‘A man like Jackson causes them, but what causes a man like Jackson? Isn't that equally important?'

‘I guess so.' There was a pipe in Jameson's pocket but he didn't like to bring it out. Regazzi never smoked or drank.

‘Ignorance and poverty and social injustice cause men like Jackson to get into public life,' the Cardinal said. He was speaking quietly, keeping it intimate between them. ‘Those sort of people breed anyway, but they never get further than the street corners or the local lynch mob, except that the rest of us create a suitable climate for them. Jackson is contesting for the Presidency simply because that climate exists. There is so much poverty and ignorance and inequality in our society that the people who are its victims have turned to violence in despair. And their violence brings more ignorance and fear from a whole lot of other people, who can't answer any problem except with fire hoses and riot police. A man like Jackson just naturally climbs on their shoulders and tells them what they want to hear. This is the danger.'

It was, and put like that, there was no argument. Jameson nodded.

‘That's what I'm fighting,' the Cardinal said. ‘I'm fighting the climate. The misery, the ignorance, the arrogance that says that if people suffer from these things it's their own fault. And I'll use all the means at my disposal. I'll let them make up my face and go on TV. I'll act it out and pray it out loud, and beat it into people because God has given me these gifts and he wants me to use them. I know you don't approve of me, Patrick, I've always known it. But I hope that you can understand why it has to be done. I'd like you to support me from your heart.'

It was the first time the Cardinal had ever used his Christian name; Jameson felt his face and neck begin to redden. Shame and embarrassment fought for possession. He actually grabbed the pipe out of his pocket and began to stuff tobacco in it. ‘If I've ever shown—if I've ever conveyed anything to you—Eminence, I just don't know what to say!'

‘Say that you understand,' the Cardinal said. ‘You're a good man and a good priest. And you've borne with me like a real Christian. I believe we have something more to do than just our ministry within the Mass and the Sacraments. I believe we have to fight for good in every level of society.
In
the world, as well as in the Church in the world. I believe I must fight for my people, and I mean all my people, black and white, Catholic and Protestant. I must fight in politics, in social work, in industrial relations. I am going to fight Jackson. I've been drafting a sermon for St Patrick's Day. I'd like you to read it tomorrow.'

‘I'd be honoured,' Jameson said. ‘I surely would be honoured.'

‘It's late now,' Regazzi said. ‘And you are tired. We both are. I hope you'll go on working with me, in spite of the late nights.'

He got up and Jameson scrambled out of his chair. He put the unlit pipe back in his pocket, and in the light he saw Regazzi's hand held out to him to shake. He didn't shake it. He went down on one stiff knee and kissed the Episcopal ring. He remembered that the Cardinal had substituted paste for the twenty-five-carat amethyst, and sold the stone for a Vincentian charity.

‘If you can stand the pace, Eminence,' he said, ‘please God I can. Good night.'

When he had gone Regazzi put his papers in order and locked his desk drawers. He switched out the harsh little working light on its long flexible neck, and except for a single corner lamp the room was dark. He flicked that off at the door and went out. His room was on the same floor as his office; he had moved out of the comfortable suite occupied by former cardinals, and the bedroom was bleak, with nothing but the necessities for sleeping and keeping his clothes. He spent little enough time in it. But that night he didn't go there; he walked on down the corridor and down the stairs. By his orders the chapel was never locked; he went into it, and paused. There was no austerity here, none of the ruthless pruning of luxuries which had made him so unpopular with his priests and staff. This was the Tabernacle of God, the golden shrine of that supreme mystery which had brought Martino Regazzi from the delinquent slum background of his youth in a crusader's quest for glory. But glory for God, not for himself. He genuflected and went to the altar rail to kneel. Perhaps it was this silence, so different from the chaos of his ordinary life, which had stirred the vocation in his heart. He didn't know; he had spent a lot of time thinking about it, examining his motives for pride or psychological slants. No doubt there were other explanations beside the call of God, but he was not aware of them. He loved the peace, the isolation of the empty chapel, empty of people but to him full of that other personality. And when he needed comfort or encouragement, this was where the Cardinal found it. He had made a decision that night; perhaps the biggest decision of his life since he became a priest. He was going to commit the unforgivable sin and enter into politics. It was not an easy choice; he was brave and there was more than a streak of braggadocio from his Sicilian grandmother, but what he was going to say from the pulpit of St Pat's Cathedral would open the skies on him. The Church was political; but when people said this they weren't paying any compliment. Even for Catholics it was a facet of their religion which they preferred to play down. The Vatican was far enough away to conduct itself like a national government in international affairs, but God help the priest who started weighing in for candidates at home. That was one reason why Regazzi had stayed neutral, refusing to ally with the obvious choice, an Irish Catholic democrat whose family counted the last Cardinal as their closest friend. Also he didn't like them. Millionaires were not his kind of people, however similar their background might have been. The Cardinal believed in that unpopular saying that no good man dies rich; he went further still and said he couldn't live rich either. He hadn't supported Casey, because he wanted to be independent, to be everyone's champion, rather than the Father Confessor to the White House. But not supporting was different from not condemning. The sins of omission were more heinous than the rest. That way was cowardice, indifference, sloth. John R. Jackson was the worst thing to happen in American politics in anybody's memory. A lot of people were fighting him, but it seemed to Regazzi that from the citadels of American Catholicism the voice had been tactful if not mute. The Church of God was the Church of the poor, the coloureds, the underprivileged, the drop-outs, more in his opinion, than of the respectable people whose security was threatened by these elements. Had society been less selfish, more Christian in its distribution of the great riches of America, there would have been no problem population and no threat. The rich had many champions. He, Martino Regazzi, was about to become the champion of the rest and throw his Christian challenge in Jackson's face; literally because he would be sitting there among the congregation on St Patrick's Day. He had worked on the first draft of that speech; there would be many more before the final text. And that was why he had woken poor old Patrick Jameson, whom he knew was asleep in the outer office. He had needed somebody to turn to, somebody to confide in, and the impulse overcame him. He had judged his private secretary long ago. He had told the truth when he said Jameson was a good priest and a good man. He was simple and kind, without pretensions except a natural yearning for a little ease in life. His loyalty was something the Cardinal wanted very badly. That night, with this burden of decision on him, he had been human enough to come right out and ask for it. He knelt for a long time, praying for courage and strength, and he thanked God for the generosity of Patrick Jameson, who had suffered him for three long years and not refused him in his need.

3

In the four years since he walked out on Elizabeth Cameron life had changed direction for Peter Mathews. He had done the usual things rich men's sons did—gone through Yale and into his family's broking business; slept with pretty girls and taken a few amusing trips; involved himself in a divorce case and come out without marrying the woman. He had been conventional in all the conventional ways of wealth and amorality and been bored to death in the process. His affair with Elizabeth had been one of many; it was no landmark in itself. He only remembered it in detail because right after he escaped, and he used the word in connection with the marriage he felt she expected him to offer, he decided to change his job as well as his bedmate. He took a plane down to Washington to lunch with an old class-mate who was with the State Department, and over the third J. & B. whisky he asked him outright if he could think of anything, he, Peter Mathews, could do before he went berserk and reinvested all his clients' money in a South American gold mine.

He came back to New York with his question unanswered; by the end of the week he had forgotten ever asking it. And then the class-mate called him up and this time there was another man at lunch. The same man, who was sitting behind his desk in the New York offices of the C.I.A. four years later, asking Mathews about that old affair with Elizabeth Cameron. He had taken the bored, spoiled loafer out of his broker's office and made him into one of the best local operators in the Agency. Peter Mathews looked the same, mixed in a wider circle than before, but kept them amused with the old blend of flippancy and good nature which had always opened doors. And sheets. Inside, the restless, unscrupulous instincts had been channelled away from the bed, the bottle and the jetting junket from one resort to the next; Mathews had all the interest and excitement he needed. In return he had willingly toughened and disciplined himself. Francis J. Leary wouldn't have covered one lapse that could be traced to sloth or carelessness. Mathews knew that. He liked his boss; he had liked him over that lunch four years ago, and he still did, in spite of his being an Irishman. Mathews found the Irish tricky people; so many of them had a chip on their shoulders. Leary had no irritability; he was affable, with a generous allotment of his people's charm, a quick sense of humour which enjoyed Mathews' slick wit, and he was also the most exacting and pitiless bastard in his profession that Mathews had ever met.

Now Leary wanted to know about Elizabeth. He knew of the association because Mathews' own background had been thoroughly checked. The idea didn't worry him. He found it rather amusing to have his girl friends catalogued and filed away.

‘Have you seen Miss Cameron at all since you broke up?' Leary asked.

‘A few times, but only at other people's parties.'

‘Did you part on friendly terms?'

‘Medium friendly. I said I didn't want to get married; she said okay. That kind of thing. No malice; no scenes. She's a very civilised girl.'

‘She sounds it,' Leary said. He didn't make it a complimentary remark.

‘Can I know what this is all about? It's a bit late for a paternity suit …'

Leary laughed. ‘You're a bastard, Pete,' he said. ‘It's not about anything much—yet. I just want a character check on the girl, and I knew you'd been connected with her.'

‘You could put it like that,' Mathews said innocently.

‘Shut up. Did she ever discuss politics with you?'

‘No sir. She had a good little brain, but I never encouraged it. I don't think she had any opinions.'

‘When you were with her,' Leary went on, ‘who were her friends? Were they in your set? Did she have any odd acquaintances, people from a different strata? Any intellectuals?'

‘No. Her mother was arty; she had the house full of bloody painters and musicians, but Liz didn't pick up any herself. Her mother was a kind of patron. Liz was just like all the other girls; we all went around in the same crowd. She certainly wasn't Left, if that's what you mean. Not with her money!'

Leary took his glasses off and put them away in a cloth case. ‘She's going around with someone we don't like the smell of,' he said. He always used the word smell to describe a suspect. ‘You know anything about Eddi King, man who owns
Future
?'