Pope's Assassin (6 page)

    Hans was not so obtuse.
Saint Paul, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Saint
Augustine would have to be removed from the list along with Saint Domi
nic,
he thought without saying it aloud.

    Like Saint Dominic, Father Hans Schmidt was being judged by similar people in the Vatican. Despite seeing his work suspended for almost a year, he was still a priest. The summons bore his complete name, Hans Matthaus Schmidt, preceded by his title. The congrega tion usually didn't eliminate the former titles of the accused. Innocent until proved guilty. Although not officially condemned, he felt as if he were in purgatory, not knowing whether to expect hell or heaven. He knew the congregation would decide. In the words of some reassuring historians, in case of doubt, burn him at the stake. And these days there were many ways of burning without fi re.

    Hans Schmidt was advised by relatives and friends, "Careful what you say or write. It could cost you."

    His friends, the few who remained, were starting to avoid him.
Per
sona non grata
may have been too strong a term, but what did you call someone who was no longer invited by his social circle and relatives?

    His mother would have sympathized if she were still alive. His father was unknown. He had grown up without a permanent male presence in the outskirts of the capital, in Essling, during the Second World War. Everything was excusable in that era, even abandoning a pregnant woman. Fortunately, he didn't remember those times very well, but he remembered the Café Landtmann and seeing his real father with his wife and three small children one day when he returned from the seminary. What a dedicated father! He didn't glance at Hans, maybe didn't recognize him. He tenderly wiped away the kisses of his youngest child, ignoring his oldest there, looking at him, the fruit of another life. He didn't remember now how he knew he was his father. His mother would have agreed with what Hans said or wrote, even though she was profoundly Catholic and devoted to the good Pope John, God protect him.

    The Ringstrasse seemed different to him today. Full of life as always but with different nuances. Or that was his impression. He passed in front of the Landtmann and let himself look inside, as he did on that far-off day when he saw his father. Maybe he would still be there, decrepit, frozen by the years? He never saw him again after that return from the seminary. He wouldn't be there today. Almost every table was occupied, but nobody fit the description. He was probably sleeping in peace in some cemetery in Vienna. Freud would have enjoyed Hans. Freud would have liked to analyze him there at one of the tables in the Landtmann he frequented. He wouldn't have a coffee today, or leaf through the books in Thalia, either, or the newspapers.

    He limited himself to walking, tasting the cold weather that con quered the city. The sun would yield to twilight and set at the time peo ple gathered together at home to relax, eat, smile, and cry. Vienna at the close of day, the same as in every other city in the world, although with a charm of its own. Hans remained a little longer on the Ring strasse, watching the people, the window displays, the lives passing by, absorbed in themselves and nothing else.

    A difficult battle in a lost war awaited him. He had no illusions. Age had brought him wisdom and perspective. He didn't feel lonely in spite of having no one left. He was living well and in peace, giving himself to others without asking anything in return. Perhaps that was why he felt so much. The formal summons sent three months before would not silence him.

    
The congregation directs the above-inscribed subject to
appear for a standard hearing for the purpose of clarifying
some doubts concerning the volumes authored by him
The Man Who Never Existed
and J
esus Is Life,
which, according
to the preliminary opinion of the Congregation for the
Doctrine of the Faith, contain erroneous and dangerous
propositions.

    
Rome, the seat of the Congregation for the Doctrine of
the Faith, June 29, 2010, the day of the martyrs Saint Peter
and Saint Paul.

                             
Signed,

                             
William Cardinal Levada

                             
Prefect

                             
Luis F. Ladaria S.I.

                             
Titular Archbishop of

                             
Thibica

                             
Secretary

    Over the last one hundred days, he'd had a lot of time to read the cold text. And the day chosen to send him the notice didn't seem inno cent, either. The Day of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the most important after Christmas, the birth of Our Savior Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of the Universe. It could be either an encrypted message or his own paranoia.

    Hans took an envelope from the pocket of his cassock. From the quality of the paper it might be mistaken for the summons referred to above, but that was in his briefcase at his residence, ready to go on the trip with him. This one came from the same place, the Holy See, but in place of a formal return address without capital letters, it had a seal with a red background. A miter with triple crown, topped by a gold cross, a white stole that hung down from the crown to come together below with two interlaced keys, one silver and the other gold. The keys that open the kingdom of heaven. Those versed in coats of arms, bla zons, and symbols would recognize these in the blink of an eye, since they are the most famous next to those of the Supreme Pontiff. They indicate an envelope from the secretary of state of the Holy See.

    Hans pulled out a paper and reread it. He did this often these days. It didn't take long, and as soon as he finished he understood the reason the Ringstrasse seemed different to him. From there in a few hours he would catch a flight to Rome. The next day he would not be here to admire the movement, life, and lights, he wouldn't be buying a hot coffee in the Café Schwarzenberg, the oldest in Vienna, nor would he be browsing through books at Thalia. He wouldn't feel this cold and watch his breath make clouds of vapor in the air.

    It was good-bye. An unknown departure, indeterminate, of which he didn't know the outcome. Who knew what would happen. If man planned, God smiled.

    He felt good, at peace. Before turning his back on the Ringstrasse, he tore up the paper and envelope and threw them in a garbage can.

    "What's it going to cost me to go sooner and help a friend?" he murmured while he walked to his residence. "To give without regard to whom."

    If someone had looked over Hans Schmidt's shoulder while he read over the letter, and no one did, he wouldn't have been able to read the hasty scribble, but the signature wouldn't have fooled anyone:

TARCISIO BERTONE, S.D.B.

H
is slow steps showed the heavy weight of years. He considered himself well preserved for his age, but he couldn't fool himself about his own unsteady strength, which he tried hard to hide. His steps had brought him a long way so far, to places he never longed for in his youth, when distances seem shorter than they are.

    The small chapel was for his use alone, only for him or whomever he wanted to invite. A statue of Christ at the back on the altar defi ned the space. Six feet of Carrara granite from which the sculptor, believed to be Michelangelo, removed the excess stone to reveal this immense Christ. His head hung toward His right side with an expression of suffering set there four hundred years ago. Human cruelty. Certainly this was not just any statue by any sculptor. It was Christ in person, in His divine aspect, whom he saw and to whom he prayed whenever he entered the chapel and knelt at His gleaming feet. He did it every morning and night, but today required a special prayer, and he dragged himself along the corridor. He was bending under the effort and worry. This was not an ordinary end of the day. They were never the same, but this one brought an additional weight.

    "Your Eminence," Trevor, one of his younger assistants, in a black cassock, called out at the door of the study.

    His Eminence raised his hand in an abrupt, rude gesture that called for silence and entered the door of the chapel in front of him. He knelt at the feet of the angelic Christ, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head more in mercy than in reverence. He whispered an unintel ligible litany for a few moments until he realized he was not alone. He didn't need to look up to know who it was.

    "Can't I pray in peace?" he protested without looking behind him.

    "It's not time to pray, Tarcisio," the other person replied, dressed identically in the scarlet uniform of a prince of the church.

    "Maybe not, but, certainly it's something we do less and less," Tarci sio argued.

    "Do as I say, not as I do," the other replied.

    Tarcisio repeated the sign of the cross and got up. He turned around to the one who had disturbed his prayer to at once drop his gaze.

    "This is going to have consequences, William," he said.

    "We have to minimize them."

    "At what price, William?" he said, raising his voice in irritation.

    "Whatever price necessary," he replied strongly. "We have to be pre pared for everything, whatever it costs."

    "I don't know if I have the strength," Tarcisio confessed.

    "God gives you the burden and the strength to bear it. You've come far. Look where your strength has brought you. Look what God wants you to do." William's voice was sincerely encouraging. He believed in Tarcisio's ability. He laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder. "And your road is far from the end. He wants much more of you. More still. You know this very well."

    Tarcisio coughed uncomfortably. "We don't know what He wants later." He covered his face with his hands."We don't even know what He wants now." Tarcisio looked perturbed, a sheep lost among the others.

    William set both hands on Tarcisio's shoulders and looked at him intensely. "Look at me."

    Tarcisio took his time complying with the request, not an order, since Tarcisio was William's superior.

    "Look at me," he repeated with the same firm posture. Tarcisio finally looked at him with a beaten, lost expression. "You're concen trating on the problem when you should be thinking of the solution. Things are in play. We can't stop them now. But I need your approval. I myself will try personally to guarantee that everything will work out in our favor." He looked intensely at Tarcisio again. "We've got to do what's right."

    Tarcisio freed himself from William and turned his back. He had to think about what he'd said. The moment required lucidity, he rec ognized this, but it was hard to fi nd it. He
lp me, Father. Show me the
way. Guide me in the calm sea of Your arms,
he prayed mentally. William was right. Crossed arms and burying one's head in the sand resolved nothing. A firm hand and a very short rein were necessary. He grabbed William's hand.

    "Thank you, my good friend. You brought me back."

    William smiled. "Not me." He looked at the suffering statue."Him."

    "Your Eminence," Trevor called again fearfully from the door of the chapel. He didn't dare enter.

    Tarcisio looked at his assistant without showing his excitement. "What is it, Trevor?"

    "Ah . . . you asked to be told when Father Schmidt arrived," he said, awaiting a reaction.

    "I'll be right there," Tarcisio only said. "You can go back to work."

    The assistant disappeared almost instantly from the entrance to the chapel, as if the devil were watching him from the corner.

    William looked embarrassed. "What are you going to say?"

    "Nothing. He's here as my friend from the church. I'm not going to intercede, nor do I want to," he deliberated. Now he was the Tarcisio he always was when he assumed control and responsibility. An imposing secretary.

    "That seems wise to me." William returned to the matter at hand. "You're giving me your official approval, then?"

    "You can count on it," he said, going to the chapel door. He longed to see Schmidt again. He was playing on both sides at the moment. He wanted to do what was right. Christ would help him.

    "We already have people in the field," William informed him as they walked out. "I want to give the final orders and go over to Via Cavour."

    "Be careful. Are you sure we can trust them?"

    "We don't have another choice."

    "Another innocent thrown to the beasts," Tarcisio argued pensively. Traces of conscience.

    "Others have done it. Don't worry. We're at war."

    "I know."

    "It's a holy war, but there are damages we have to sustain. Every thing will be resolved quickly."

    "May God hear you," Tarcisio replied.

    "He'll hear," William said with a smile.

    "Were you able to analyze the DVD? Any indication?" he ques tioned shyly.

    "Nothing. Clean. I'm going now."

    Tarcisio left for his office in front, not without flexing his right leg and making the sign of the cross out of respect to the figure on the altar. William did the same, and both left to pursue their own affairs. Only Christ remained, nailed to the cross, His head hanging at His right side with an expression of suffering that foresaw the times to come.

T
he press conference in the La Feltrinelli bookstore was much calmer than Sarah had imagined. Francesco contributed by ask ing questions from time to time that called for a light response, with out the institutional weight attached to most subjects linked with the Holy See. Even if his questions seemed planted, he did break the ice. Sarah felt grateful, since they had not planned it in advance. She didn't even know Francesco would attend the conference, pen and notebook in hand, leaning up against a wall with a calm, serene expression, attracting the attention of the female contingent and of a few men as well. The Vatican contingent had not shown up, and this, too, helped lighten the atmosphere. The book she was promoting attacked certain people associated with John Paul II and suggested their responsibility for the attempt on the Holy Father's life on May 13, 1981. The most prestigious journalists from
La Repubblica, Corriere,
and
Il Messaggero
were there. They sent professionals who for decades had studied and investigated that case, as well as others tied to the Vatican, and asked pertinent, intelligent questions, which Sarah answered confi dently.