The Parchment (4 page)

When he reached the landing on the third floor, Barbo knocked at Pope Benedict's private apartment. Sister Consuela came to the door.

“Ah, Your Eminence, the Holy Father must have asked for you ten times in the last hour. He has been pacing up and down and refuses to take his pills.”

The pope sat on the side of his bed in bathrobe and slippers. Sister Consuela had already turned down the sheets for the night and adjusted the air-conditioning. Three white pills and a glass of water stood on the pope's night table.

Cardinal Barbo walked over to the pope and kissed his ring.

When Benedict recognized who it was, he jumped up from the bed.

“Francesco, how are the hostages doing?”

“Conditions inside the church are deteriorating rapidly, Holy Father. In sixteen hours, Hamas will start executing hostages.”

The pope began to pace up and down the room.

“Your Holiness, take your medicine.”

“No. The pills make me groggy. What about the nuncios, are they here?”

“Yes, I'm on my way to the meeting.”

The pope looked at his Secretary of State. “Finnergan behaved disgracefully at the Sepulchre. And the rest of them — don't they understand that at times like this, you keep quiet. The last thing you do is issue a press release.”

“Holy Father, don't upset yourself. The negotiations are still proceeding. Washington has pressured Israel to agree to arrest only five of the gunmen. The Americans have asked us to use our good offices to find safe havens for the remaining twelve. I have called several prime ministers myself.”

“Why didn't you use the nuncios?”

“You once told me, Your Holiness, if you need a coordinated plan, do it yourself. Our nuncios are fond of telling me they play as a team. If they are a team, then they play by a strange set of rules. They tackle their captain instead of their opponents.”

The pope smiled at his secretary of state. “You were always a good student, Francesco. How many nations have agreed to take some of the gunmen?”

“Italy, Spain and the Netherlands have each agreed to take three. Portugal is still considering the request.”

“The Netherlands should take more.” The pope looked angry. “After all, it's their countrymen whose lives are at stake.”

“The Dutch prime minister assured me privately he would take more if it meant ending the crisis. He knows two of the hostages personally.”

The Dutch prime minister's private assurance seemed to calm the pontiff. “So if Washington can persuade the Israelis to free the last five gunmen, the siege is over.”

“Yes,
if
Washington can persuade the Israelis. But no matter what happens, Holy Father, the president is grateful for what the Holy See is doing to help. It's the right time to approach him on your initiative.”

“You were going to give me a short list of possible envoys to present my initiative to the president.”

“It should be on your desk, Holy Father.” Barbo found the list under a pile of unread documents.

“The Secretariat has vetted three names. I ruled out two—Abbot Maloof and Cardinal Verebrand. Even though he's an Arab, Maloof doesn't have a red hat. You know how important titles are to the Palestinians. Verebrand, on the other hand, has the title but I'm afraid the Israelis will veto him because his uncle was an officer in the SS.”

“’That is true. Who else do you have?”

“Cardinal Jean Calvaux. He's lived in the Middle East, speaks Arabic, and comes from an old French aristocratic background.”

“He's a Montelambert. I forgot that.”

“He comes without any obvious baggage. What's more he's a new face. He may add some excitement to the process.”

“Calvaux is a good choice. I will speak to him myself.”

“But your health, Holy Father. Are you well enough to meet with him?”

“Yes I am.”

“Are you taking your medicine?”

“Only when Sister Consuela forces me to.”

“You must take it, Your Holiness.”

Barbo picked up the three pills on the night table and handed them to the pontiff. Begrudgingly the pope took a drink of water and swallowed them.

“Francesco, I know what's coming. This morning I forgot where I left my breviary. Sister Consuela told me where it was but within a couple of minutes, I'd forgotten what she told me. It will be more and more like this.”

“Holy Father, God has taken your health for some purpose.”

Pope Benedict paused for a moment as if he were looking at the dark road that lay ahead of him.

“How long have we been friends, Francesco?”

Barbo looked affectionately at the Holy Father. “You taught me theology at the seminary.”

“Then I must have told you the story about Thomas Aquinas's last words.”

“If you did, I don't remember it.” Barbo lied. He had heard the story many times before but he could not deprive the pope of his obvious pleasure in retelling it.

“It's rather amazing. One day, as the great theologian took communion, he fell to the ground. When he got up, he said ‘All I have written is straw.’ He rarely spoke after that.”

“Did Aquinas suffer from Alzheimer's, Holy Father?”

“I prefer to think it was something else. After pushing reason to its limits, Aquinas had a direct experience of God — like Moses in the Sinai or Ezekiel.”

“And that beggared all he had written.”

“Yes. Perhaps Jesus is giving me the same chance — to experience him in a place beyond human understanding.”

Barbo touched the pope gently on the arm. “But your work for peace in the Holy Land will never be considered straw.”

Pope Benedict smiled. “Straw can make bricks and bricks can build bridges. Maybe my initiative will help rebuild trust in the region. You have been my strong right arm on so many things. Help me this one last time.”

Barbo's eyes filled with emotion. “You need not ask me that.”

The cardinal walked over to a phone on the pope's bedstead and dialed the Vatican switchboard operator.

“This is the Secretary of State. Please get me Cardinal Calvaux in Marseilles.” Barbo looked at the Holy Father. The two friends knew the significance of the call.

“This is Cardinal Francesco Barbo calling from Rome. The Holy Father wishes to speak with Cardinal Calvaux.”

Barbo could hear frantic whispers at the other end of the phone. Finally a man's voice came on the line.

“This is Monsignor Rosuet, the vicar general of the diocese. Cardinal Calvaux is at City Hall. The Mayor is hosting a trade delegation from Sicily. I will try to patch him in on his cell phone?”

Several minutes later Cardinal Calvaux came on the line. Barbo handed the receiver to Pope Benedict.

“Jean?”

“Holy Father, it's good to hear your voice.”

“Thank you. I feel remiss. Marseilles is so close but I have never come to pray in your cathedral.”

“We will be blessed if you would come.”

“Perhaps some day soon. But right now, Jean, I must ask you to travel to Rome. There's a matter that I would like to discuss with you. It's urgent.”

“I can be there tomorrow.”

“Good! Cardinal Barbo will join us for our meeting. In the meantime, watch out for your Sicilian guests. They know how to tempt even a Prince of the Church.”

Cardinal Calvaux laughed. “Yes, they do appreciate how expensive it is to run a diocese. They have even offered to build the archdiocese a new cathedral.”

The pope put down the receiver.

“Francesco, Calvaux will be here tomorrow. The peace initiative has begun.”

Barbo kissed the pope's ring and turned to leave. “The nuncios are waiting in my conference room.”

“One thing more, Francesco.” The pontiff hesitated as if debating whether to raise the issue. “Will Finnergan be at the nuncios' meeting?”

“Yes, he will.”

“Remember he was my choice to send into the church. Don't be too hard on him. God can sometimes work in strange ways.”

Cardinal Barbo walked down the stairs to the conference room adjacent to his office. When he opened the door, the group rose from their seats. As secretary of state, the cardinal was head of the Vatican government and second to the pope in the Church's hierarchy.

“Please, keep your seats. Thank you all for flying in on such short notice.”

The door to the conference room suddenly flew open and a perspiring archbishop Paul Kennedy, papal nuncio in Amman, Jordan, entered. A chain-smoker, Kennedy was out of breath from climbing the stairs to the second-floor landing.

“I'm sorry, Your Eminence, I missed my connection in Tel Aviv.”

“Take a seat, Paul.” There was an edge to Barbo's voice.

A place had been kept open for Kennedy between Archbishop Finnergan and the Vatican nuncio to Egypt, Archbishop Eugenio Rontalvi. Although Church protocol did not require it, seating at nuncios' meetings went according to strict hierarchical rank, with archbishops at the head of the table, followed by bishops, and finally by monsignori. Seeking to emphasize equality among nuncios, Barbo had discouraged the practice. He soon realized, however, that this was a battle he would not win.

“Your Eminence, before we begin, could I ask a rather undiplomatic question?” With his expressionless face and coal black eyes, there was a hint of the Inquisition about Archbishop Eugenio Rontalvi.

“Of course, Eugenio.”

“How is the Holy Father's health? He hasn't said Sunday Mass in St. Peter's for two weeks.”

Barbo sensed that the question came from the group.

“The pope is preoccupied with the crisis in the Middle East, Eugenio. You know how hard he has worked to bring peace to the Holy Land.”

“Your Eminence,” Archbishop Paul Kennedy spoke, “please tell the Holy Father to slow down a little. We don't want a conclave in the near future.”

“Paul, you go and tell the pope to work less. He will smile and thank you for your concern and....”

Kennedy smiled. “And keep on working.”

“Exactly. Now, gentlemen, to the matter at hand.” Barbo's tone of voice made it clear that there would be no more discussion of the pope's health.

Several nuncios glanced at one another. Barbo had nimbly evaded the question.

“If I may be blunt, gentlemen, our diplomatic efforts in the Hamas crisis have made us look foolish.” There was steel in Barbo's voice.

Barbo stared at Finnergan. The Irish archbishop sat stone-faced, his eyes fixed on a crucifix that hung over the entrance door. Perspiration glistened on his brow.

“I will speak with Archbishop Finnergan privately about the incident in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Let us focus now on the immediate concern. Over one hundred hostages are still in the church. Hamas has threatened to start executing them at noon tomorrow.”

“Your Eminence, let me open the discussion.” The speaker was Monsignor Albert Goethals, the apostolic delegate to the Palestinian Authority. Goethals' mellifluous voice annoyed Barbo — it made him appear more intelligent than he really was. “In my view, the Israelis will reopen the Al-Aqsa Mosque and let the suspected Hamas militants go free. The stumbling block will be the gunmen in the church. The Israelis have evidence that this group was involved in the bombing at the Wailing Wall. The incident shocked the country to the core. It limits the Israeli government's latitude for negotiating.”

Finnergan nodded in agreement. “Monsignor Goethals is right. Israel won't let the terrorists in the church be flown to safety. When the opportunity presents itself, they'll go in and get them.”

Barbo interrupted. “According to American sources, the Israelis have agreed to free twelve of the seventeen terrorists. But I'm afraid there won't be a deal unless all of them are freed.”

Bishop Jacques Viret, the nuncio to Iraq, nodded his head in agreement. “His Eminence is right. Hamas loves death more than the Israelis love life. The terrorists will die rather than surrender even one of their men to the Israelis.”

“That's a pretty grim assessment, Jacques.” Finnergan spoke gruffly to his fellow nuncio.

“But a realistic one,” Viret replied.

Goethals broke into the conversation. “Of course, we wouldn't be in this crisis if Israel had agreed to create a Palestinian state on the West Bank and close their settlements there.”

Finnergan pounded his fist on the table. “You can't just close the settlements, Goethals. People live there.”

The secretary of state pushed his seat back from the conference table and stood up impatiently.

“Gentlemen, lives hang in the balance in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. We are here to get the hostages out alive — not to debate what might have been done to avert the crisis.”

Cardinal Barbo's cell phone rang. As he listened, blood drained from his face.

“Yes, Holy Father. I will tell them.”

Barbo clicked off the phone and reached for a glass of water. Viret noticed that the cardinal's hands were shaking.

“Gentlemen, the Holy Father has been informed there's been a sarin gas attack in Eilat—over a hundred Israelis have been admitted to hospitals — including many children.”

Bishop Viret finally broke the silence. “Chemical weapons— God help us!”

Stunned by the news, Barbo walked out of the room.

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