The Accidental Pope (7 page)

The State Department, however, had little concept of how important the place was. In a shortsighted economic cutback, Foggy Bottom had let the lease lapse and moved the embassy to a smaller, less prestigious building farther away from the Vatican itself. It was an example of the State Department's political insensitivity, which elicited amazement within Church circles and the rest of the diplomatic community. Now Ambassador Kirby did most of his official entertaining and much of his State Department business at the comfortable and more easily accessible Villa Richardson.

The ambassador was always susceptible to the constant innuendos aimed at him by career State Department employees who resented the politically appointed. The career types felt that appointees didn't really understand the business or deserve their more prestigious positions. With the Congress in Washington cutting deeply into the State Department budget and fourteen new U.S. embassies opening in the wake of the Soviet Union split-up into independent republics, this placed further pressure on politically appointed ambassadors. The careerists resented political appointees taking jobs away from them—that was how they perceived it, at any rate.

Ed had run three or four miles when he noticed a reflection on the road in front of him from the flashing blue lights on the roof of the security car following behind. He turned and saw the driver, Fabio, waving to him. Stopping, he let the car come alongside him.

“Mrs. Kirby just notified us you had an urgent phone call,” Fabio announced. “Whoever it was will call back soon.”

The only other calls he had received like that were two from the president and one from the Holy Father. The ambassador flashed a glance at the Vatican, laid out below the hill. No smoke rising from the Sistine Chapel. His first thought had been that the conclave had elected a pope and he was being notified. It must be the president.
He probably wants to know what's going on,
Ed surmised.

Kirby jumped into the backseat beside Giovanni, an Italian secret service agent, and in a few moments they passed through the front entrance of Villa Richardson. Kathy was waiting and gave him a glass of water and a reassuring smile in reply to his anxious look.

“Brian will be calling you in a few more minutes. He's on his way to the airport!”

“What!” Ed exclaimed. “What's going on? I didn't see any white smoke coming from the chapel.”

Kathy shrugged. “He'll call you when he gets to the airport.”

Ed walked down the hall, entered his office, and slumped, confused, into a chair. He glanced up at the only photograph on his office wall. Given to him by the homeless people at the Pine Street Inn in Chicago, it was called “Christ in the Breadline.” The homeless in the photograph were waiting in the breadline, and the image of Christ was in the throng. Mario Cuomo, former governor of New York, was one of the very few people who had looked at the picture (which had hung in his city hall office for years) and recognized Christ in the crowd of hungry homeless. It represented a political ideology that had been an important part of his personal and political life. Thoughts raced through his mind, mostly incoherent surmise at the absolute inconsistency of a call coming from Brian Comiskey while the conclave was still in session. And going to the airport!

Ed snatched the telephone before its first ring died out.

“Ed, I have to go to Boston. I'm leaving shortly.” Brian said urgently. “I need your help. I trust you, as someone with the best interests of the Church at heart and having the political savvy. But it has to be absolutely confidential. Not even the White House.”

“You called the right man, Brian. What's going on?”

“I can't tell you much now. What goes on in the conclave is secret. I can say I need your help. I need you to take the first plane to Boston tomorrow and guide me through what might become a very delicate situation.”

“I understand, I think,” Ed replied.

Brian went on breathlessly, “A couple of media people have followed me to the airport and are asking questions.”

“What can I do, Brian?” Kirby asked.

“Be in Boston while I am on this mission. It will be helpful.”

Kirby glanced at his watch. “I can get out on Alitalia's new morning flight and be there before noon tomorrow Boston time.”

“It may be nothing, but if things work out unexpectedly, as an uneasy hunch tells me is possible, I will need your help. You can reach me through Bishop Murray at the Archdiocese of Boston. Here is his telephone number. Don't worry about personal expenses. The Vatican Bank will cover it.” There was a pause and Ed heard the cardinal's muffled protests as an assertive reporter sought to question him.

“Brian, I'll call the bishop when I get in and let him know how to reach me. I'll be standing by for your call. I'm in enough trouble with State now, so another quick disappearance isn't going to make it much worse. The president will support me. He's not the problem.”

“Thanks, Ed. Now, let me shake these news hounds off my tail and get on the plane. I'll be OK.”

Ed hung up and returned Catherine's questioning gaze.

“What's Brian up to? He's going to the States,” she stated. “What does he want you to do?”

“Something very strange is going on.”

“What did I hear you say about going back tomorrow?” Kathy probed.

“Brian needs my help. That's all I know. Make sure tonight when the governor of California comes to dinner that we don't let it slip out that I'm flying to the States tomorrow.” He paused, remembering an important item. “By the way, make sure to call Bill Fugazy in New York, and let him know that we're taking care of his friends. He wanted to get them into the Sistine Chapel for a tour. But tell him”—Ed smiled wryly—“somebody else is using it. Set them up with a tour of the catacombs.”

“Don't you have to get State Department approval before leaving your post?” Catherine clucked her tongue. “Remember the fuss when you flew into New York for the Governor Al Smith Dinner? And how about the time you boycotted the reception for the queen of England and met with the leader of Sinn Féin?” She reproved him with a smile.

“Stop bringing up old stories.” He grinned ruefully. “But there's no politics involved in this mission. Something is afoot in Boston, and Brian needs my help. Maybe they are going out of the conclave and a bishop in the U.S. is being considered.” Ed grinned at his wife. “Or maybe some ‘question' on one of the cardinals likely to be chosen has turned up. I know what the media can and will do when they think they have something on a prominent person, whether it be in politics, business, or religion. Think what the media would do with something juicy on the future pope! A hatchet job!”

“Ed,” Catherine grumbled, “how can you even suggest such a blasphemous thing?”

“Patrick is on his way up to the residence,” Ed said. The young man from Chicago whom Kirby had handpicked as his confidential assistant strode into the room. Patrick O'Hearn had no State Department aspirations and Ed had needed presidential influence to have his bright, young, loyal, former city hall aide hired to work for him at the embassy. “You'll have to cover for me for a couple, maybe three days while I make a quick confidential trip to Boston,” he said to Patrick.

Patrick groaned facetiously. “Your deputy chief of mission will have a field day when he discovers you're off post again without permission. He'll call Washington immediately. They love to make life difficult for you political appointees, and they hate to have extra work while they're writing their book or looking for their next promotion or job.”

“Just do your best to take care of things while I'm away. You and the DCM will have to handle the cable traffic.”

Ed started out of his office. “I'll spend the rest of the day down at the embassy and try to give them the impression that everything is normal. If any press calls come in, you can say that the ambassador and the U.S. government have no comment to make regarding the conclave and Holy See policy. I know damn well that State would prevent me from traveling home if they knew about this mission—no matter how crucial to the Church or anyone else.”

*   *   *

Cardinal Comiskey left the private waiting room at the airport whence he had called Kirby. His worst fears were coming true. Cameras were everywhere. How had they gotten there so fast?

“Your Eminence, please!” the shouts went up. “Where are you going?”

“Why did you leave the conclave?”

“What's going on?”

Thank God he had considered a worst-case scenario and called Ambassador Kirby. He stopped and raised his hand. Amazingly the shouts of the reporters lapsed into silence almost immediately.

“I'm sorry,” the cardinal began. “Our conclave is still going on. I am just being sent to obtain some information needed by the college of cardinals. I am forbidden to discuss anything further. As you know, all our work in the conclave is secret. I realize you have your job to do, but I have mine too. And my work for the conclave has to remain secret. I'll be back in Rome in a few days and fully expect the conclave will elect a new pope.”

Questions were hurled at him as he walked to the gate. He answered none, and soon, followed by the press, he entered the gate to catch the Alitalia afternoon flight to Boston. Several reporters tried to buy tickets on the flight. But Pullella and Simon got the last two cancellations.

Brian Cardinal Comiskey was on his way to America at last. He sat by the window in first class, looking out at the boarding area. He smiled and shook his head. He could see Father Farrell in the midst of a knot of cameras and reporters, presiding as though he were the pope himself.

7

FEED MY SHEEP

At the moment Brian Comiskey left the conclave, it was eleven-thirty in the morning in Rome and five-thirty
A.M.
on Georges Bank off the rugged New England coast. Ryan Kelly went into the captain's compartment of their ninety-foot fishing trawler,
Mary One,
to wake up his father. They had fished for four days on the bank and after one more day they would be heading back to port.

Ryan stared at his father in disbelief. Bill Kelly's face seemed to be glowing in the lifting darkness of dawn. Ryan marveled at the exultation on his father's features. “Hey, Dad, what were you dreaming about? You look like you've seen Moses and Elijah on the mountain.”

“I'm happy to note that you remember your Gospel studies,” Bill replied dryly.

“Seriously, Dad, our catch has been good, but not that good.”

“Just a funny dream. Get the crew moving. I'll be in the wheelhouse in fifteen minutes. We'll drag one more day and head home tonight.”

All day the dragger crew dropped and hauled in the bottom-scraping nets, adding to the catch they would deliver to the New Bedford market by dawn the next morning. Manny, the faithful first mate for twenty years with Bill, and before Bill with his father, kept a curious eye on his boss. Bill Kelly indeed seemed transformed—different, at least—from the stoic former-priest-turned-fishing-captain. His countenance seemed to glow with some new but very palpable inner presence.

It was after supper and the ship was on automatic pilot now for New Bedford. Ryan came up to the wheelhouse to sit for a while with his father and Manny. As he entered he caught half a sentence that included his name. Bill turned to his son and smiled. “Come on in, Ryan. Sit down and you can hear the answer to the question I just put to Manny.” Then, to his first mate: “Well, Manny, what do you say? Don't kid me. Is this guy ready to move up a notch or not?”

Manny glanced at Ryan with a friendly smile and wink. Then he turned back and, true to the captain's expectation, the mate's smile vanished as he paused to frame his response.

“Being captain can be a nightmare as well as a thrill. I've watched Ryan develop. He knows every job on this tub. Of course, there is no way someone can be trained to handle captain when problems rise up among the men … or the weather … or in an accident. Then it's more instinct than skill. It's all in how someone uses the new authority. There's a fine line between being one of the guys and giving orders that will be instantly obeyed.” Manny sighed and his expression lightened. “That's really about all I can say.”

Ryan eagerly joined in the conversation. “Wow! Dad, do you mean you might make me captain sometime? Of which boat? This one? The
Mary One?
”

“Maybe sooner than you think,” Bill said thoughtfully. “Don't you have the watch?”

Ryan nodded and stepped out onto the deck, making his way forward to relieve the crewman watching for other boats in these waters. Manny's eyes followed him. “One thing I didn't say, but yes, Ryan has the right attitude. He'll make a first-rate captain.” Then, after a long pause, a grin crossed his face.

“What's so funny?”

“Your son. He said when he woke you up this morning you looked like you'd had a happy dream, and he hoped it was about his mother.” He refocused on Bill's face. “You know, you do look like the happy fisherman right now. The rest of us have noticed it all day, a sort of glow and a light step on the deck.”

Bill's face took on a sober, serious expression as he looked at his mate and longtime friend. “Manny, I never asked about religious ideas, but I know you are a Catholic like me.”

“I'm not an ex-priest,” Manny said.

“Once a priest always a priest,” Bill murmured. Then, “Manny, could I bounce something off your brain?”

“Sure. Can't say I'm much of a Catholic, though. Mostly I go to Mass because my wife drags me there. But I have faith in God. Out here you need it. What's on your mind?”

“Well, now, don't laugh at me, Manny, but do you believe in visions, prophecies, apparitions, Our Lady of Fatima? Stuff like that?”