The Accidental Pope (15 page)

Kathy and Maureen welcomed their guest with a kiss on each cheek, an Italian custom Bill had never experienced before. Kathy told him that a box from Brian had been delivered just half an hour earlier and was to be given to him. She pointed to the neat box resting on the hall table with a Roman tailor's label on it. Ed excused himself, leaving Maureen, Kathy, and Bill to chat in the Nancy Reagan Sun Room. In his office he dialed the number that Brian had given him and found himself talking to Monsignor Cippolini at an office in the Sistine Chapel. “Please tell Cardinal Comiskey that Ambassador Kirby called to let him know that the package he has been expecting from the United States has been delivered,” Ed said succinctly.

“His Eminence left word that when you called, Mr. Ambassador, to please send the gentleman to my office here at the Sistine Chapel. And, Mr. Ambassador, please be certain he immediately opens the box delivered to your residence this morning.”

“I will send him down to you with my driver shortly, Monsignor,” Kirby replied. He picked up the package left for Bill. In the sun room, Ed Kirby found him talking animatedly with Maureen and Kathy. Already they'd discovered that Maureen and Bill's daughter Colleen were the same age. Maureen was telling Bill about the excellent school she was attending, Marymount International School, and mentioned that Sister Ann Marie, the principal, was from the same Irish county that her grandparents were from.

“There are many good schools here,” Maureen declared.

“Bill,” Ambassador Kirby interrupted, “the cardinal wants you to open this now before we deliver you over to him. Let me take you up to a guest room so you can refresh yourself.” Bill followed Ed upstairs and into a guest room with a scenic view of St. Peter's resplendent in the midday Italian sunlight.

“Come on down whenever you're ready, Bill.”

In the sun room the ambassador held up a hand against the flood of questions launched by Kathy and Maureen. “We'll all see soon enough why Mr. Kelly has come to Rome. As soon as he is ready, I must have Claudio drive him down to Monsignor Cippolini.”

“I wonder what Cardinal Comiskey sent over to him,” Maureen mused.

“I expect you'll find out. And don't be surprised.”

Ida, the Filipina housemaid, brought in a pot of tea with four cups. “Ed, I'm glad you're home,” Kathy said as she poured. The ambassador began to relax.

“I'd like to drive down with Mr. Kelly,” Maureen said. “It is my turn to keep Marymount's vigil in St. Peter's Square for the election. I want to see history in the making.”

Meanwhile Bill Kelly, upstairs in the guest bedroom, was having his own concerns about a new pope. He sat on the edge of the bed and slowly opened the box that Brian had sent. He gave a half smile, which quickly faded as the cassock seemed to stared back at him. “God, what am I doing here? I must be crazy.” He reached out and touched the cassock. It had been so many years, often full of guilt, since he had worn a cassock. It sent shivers down his spine. He slowly withdrew the cassock from the box. A tear began to form in one eye. Reaching to wipe it away, he looked at the dampness on his finger, then opened his large hand to view the roughness. “These are the hands of a fisherman … not a pope.” He stood up and let the cassock fall to the floor. He was totally lost. His mind went blank: even prayer could not come. Then a picture caught his eye. He slowly moved toward it. A man standing on the shoreline pulling in a full net of fish while Jesus looked on. The caption read:
PETER THE FISHERMAN
. It was settled at last. God was still talking to him. He reached down for the cassock.

*   *   *

“You may very well be part of that history, Maureen,” Ed said in a low tone. The two women followed his eyes, and both let out gasps. Bill Kelly slowly walked into the room wearing a black cassock adorned with the red trim of a monsignor. He was carrying a neatly tied file folder under his right arm, which he set down on the hall table.

“It fits you well,” Ed managed. “I wonder where Brian … It's your size, all right. There is hardly a cardinal, monsignor, or even a priest in Rome as tall as you.”

To a startled Maureen and Kathy, Bill said, “Sorry if I shocked you. I was a priest for six years before I married Mary. I guess Brian wants to remind someone, as the saying goes, ‘Once a priest, always a priest.'”

“Claudio will take you to your next stop. By the way, do you mind if Maureen goes down with you? She somehow thinks a new pope will be on the balcony before sunset today.”

“I would be most appreciative of her company,” Bill replied. “In fact, I need it.”

Kathy stared openmouthed at the imposing figure Bill Kelly presented, standing in their sun room doorway wearing the long black cassock and Roman collar. Bill, aware of the startling effect of his sartorial transformation, strove for a moment of levity. His fingers tracing the red cord outlining his vestment, he quipped, “This is the fastest promotion to monsignor any ex-priest was ever given!”

“With more to come, I vow.” The awe in Ed's tone was almost palpable. He raised his voice and called for Patrick in his cubbyhole office down the hall.

Bill took a cup of tea from Kathy and sipped silently for some moments, then set it down as Patrick came in. “Patrick O'Hearn, this is Bill Kelly,” Ed said. “We just flew back from New York together.”

Patrick reached for Bill's hand and shook it. “Monsignor, a pleasure.”

“Good to meet you, Pat,” Bill boomed heartily. “And to tell you the truth I don't quite know what or who I am at this moment.”

“Patrick, get your camera and take a roll of pictures of Bill here with the rest of us.”

“Yes, sir. I'll go find it. I'm glad you're back.”

“Imposing house,” Bill commented. “What a view of Rome!”

“This is the Nancy Reagan Sun Room,” Kathy explained. “Our first ambassador to the Vatican was a great friend of President Reagan's and was appointed by the president. When Mrs. Reagan decided to visit, the ambassador's wife had this room completely built onto the residence for her at considerable expense. Those new picture windows were put in, and this southern California style furniture. Light, airy upholstering replaced the original, old-fashioned, heavy stuff.”

“I trust the First Lady enjoyed it as much as I do,” Bill remarked, taking in the authentic beauty of the room and the view through the windows.

Kathy laughed deprecatingly. “As it turned out, Nancy had two cups of tea, stayed for three hours, and that was the last she ever saw of her room.”

“Then the State Department found an excuse to replace the ambassador, a political appointee,” Kirby added. “He went to Libya on a confidential mission at the president's request, and when the State desk found out about it, they leaked it to the press and the ambassador was summarily removed. He fell on his sword to protect the president.”

Patrick returned with his camera to shoot the pictures Ed had requested, wondering why the ambassador wanted pictures with a monsignor. In short order he snapped a dozen of Bill with Ed, Kathy, and Maureen and then several of Ed and Bill together. Then Ed snapped one of Bill and Patrick and the photo session was over.

“With all we've been through these past twenty-four hours, it would be a crying shame to be any later in getting on with our mission,” Ed suggested.

Bill turned to Maureen. “Shall we set forth, then?”

“Sure thing.” She paused a moment, her eyes taking in the formidable figure, then said hesitantly, “Bill?”

“Right. Please never forget to call me that—come what may. OK?” He picked up his overnight case and the manila folder.

Kirby walked out to the car and instructed Claudio to take his passenger to the side emergency exit of the Sistine Chapel, there to introduce him to the Swiss guardsman, who knew where he should be escorted.

Smiling, Ed turned to Bill. “You'll like Monsignor Cippolini. He will be expecting those documents.” He tapped the file folder.

On the street, Maureen stepped into the backseat and Ed gripped Bill's hand. “I don't know anything officially,” the ambassador said, “or unofficially either, for that matter, but I gather that it might not be entirely inappropriate for me to say to you, ‘Feed my sheep, Peter.'”

Bill's face was suddenly illuminated as a smile shone from his eyes and lips. “Ed, you just gave me an idea!”

“What's that, Bill?”

“You'll see!”

Ed Kirby watched as the embassy car drove off. He smiled at the likelihood of his daughter being very much a part of the history of this day.

Inside, Patrick answered a phone call in the ambassador's office.

Elizabeth Redmond, AP Rome-Vatican bureau chief, was calling. At first, Patrick said the ambassador was too busy at the moment to talk with the press.

“Well,” the AP woman snapped, “I just thought he might like to have me read the opening paragraph of a story in the early edition of today's
Washington Post.
”

“Why don't you read it to me,” Patrick suggested.

“It starts out with a question. ‘Kirby to be recalled from the Vatican?'”

“Hold it!” Patrick exclaimed. “I'll get the ambassador.”

“Yeah, he might want to hear what State's saying about him over there.”

Patrick quickly summoned Ed Kirby, who exchanged pleasantries with the AP bureau chief and then listened to the feature story. “AWOL?” Ed exclaimed. “Monte Carlo? Ireland? Where did they get that garbage?”

“Unidentified reliable sources,” the reply shot back.

“Look, Elizabeth, this is way off the mark. Why does the press believe these self-serving State Department bureaucrats? They spend their time talking to the press on background and they don't know what the hell they are talking about. I'll never understand it. I had a choice to make: play it safe and do nothing, or take a chance and help a friend and be loyal to my Church and country. And if something phenomenally extraordinary happens at the Vatican you can call me for an explanation.”

“Sounds to me as though you have one hell of a story no matter what happens,” the bureau chief commented.

“Well, there is such a thing as total secrecy within the conclave.”

Smelling the most important story breaking within the Vatican in many years, Redmond tried to pry it out of the ambassador, but with no success. “Just call me if something breaks beyond this
Post
story business,” Kirby said.

“Can you answer the allegations? Off post without permission? Did you drop in at Monte Carlo via Nice?” Redmond pursued.

“Unequivocally, no. I'll tell you as much as I can as soon as I can.” Kirby hung up and looked at his loyal young assistant. “If this situation doesn't work out and I can't explain where I've been the past couple of days, I'm in deep trouble. Any word from the conclave?”

Patrick shook his head. “I can see the chapel down below us from upstairs, but no white smoke.”

“I hate to think of the president greeted by this mess when he comes in from his morning jog. Conclave secret or not, I am going to have to explain to him what happened and leave it up to him what he wants to tell anyone else!”

“Let's hope he doesn't ordinarily read the newspapers before he goes out running,” Patrick said.

14

NO NEED FOR MORE VOTES

Two hours before Ambassador Kirby and Bill Kelly arrived, Cardinal Comiskey was being driven from da Vinci Airport to Vatican City. Making all the preparations on the car telephone for Bill Kelly's arrival, Brian directed the motor pool driver, Tony, to take him to the side entrance of the Sistine Chapel. Outside stood a Swiss guard, with whom Brian exchanged a few words as he stepped out of the Vatican Mercedes. Then he approached the chapel's emergency door that would lead him back into the conclave. Monsignor Alonso Cippolini stood up from his desk to greet him. “So glad to have you back,
Eminenza!
I hope everything went well … whatever you had to do. You have been the most famous face on TV since you departed.”

“Yes, Al, it's a media circus. I have one more item for you. A certain Monsignor Kelly, an American from Massachusetts, is bringing some important information to us. Ambassador Kirby will confirm by phone when Monsignor Kelly is coming. A couple of hours, Al.”

“Massachusetts. Now I am understanding—a little.” He smiled knowingly.

“I left instructions with the captain of the Guard at the gate to bring him straight to this door when he arrives. In your own charming way please make him feel comfortable until I come out and get him.”

“Certainly,
Eminenza.
Will he be staying? I mean, do you want me to prepare a room for him at the new Vatican hotel?”

“No, Al. He may already have arrangements made.”

Smoothly Cippolini unbolted the door, bowed graciously, and smiled. “Have a fruitful day,
Eminenza.
I hope the information you are expecting will get us a pope soon so we can put this long conclave behind us.”

“I also, Monsignor,” Brian echoed. With that Comiskey passed through the door and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the bolt close behind him. A triumphant if enigmatic smile played across his face as he considered the anxiety his fellow princes of the Church had undergone. They had no idea what he had experienced while away from them. Of course, they had no real reason to be concerned. They all knew that he had been sent merely to explain the “joke” and the “problem” to some poor American fisherman. Of course, Mr. Kelly's refusal had been automatic!

As Brian walked in, Cardinal Rostia, smiling and extending his hand, was the first to greet him. “I trust your trip was successful and that we can put this whole nightmare behind us?”

In the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Motupu and the other black cardinals clustered together, anxiously staring at the two. Brian's grin broadened as he caught the eye of the lead African delegate and gave him a wink, which immediately brought wide, toothy smiles of comprehension on the part of this new faction seeking change.