The Clowns of God (22 page)

“But no mischief?” asked Larsen.

“No violence?”

“Not yet,” said Rainer dubiously.

“But once they know where the list is …”

“Who are ‘they’?” asked Lotte.

“I have no idea.” Rainer’s gesture was one of weary puzzlement.

“Unlike Carl here, I am not surprised by anything the Vatican does. But in this case we are dealing with a single cleric, a zealot, a known informer, who was willing to topple his own master. He may be serving other interests than the Vatican. Pia has her own opinion.”

“Please!” Mendelius urged her into the discussion.

“We could use some fresh thoughts.”

Pia Menendez hesitated for a moment and then explained quietly: “My father was a diplomat. He used to say that diplomacy was possible only between established institutions, good or bad. In a revolutionary situation you could not negotiate, only gamble. Now, from what Georg has told me, Gregory XVII believed that a world-wide revolutionary situation would follow an atomic catastrophe and that he or others would have to gamble on men of good-will inside and outside the Church. They might be presently obscure, but such as could survive into positions of power.”

“Men presently obscure.” Larsen seized on the phrase.

“Or perhaps out of favour, or even considered dangerous to existing regimes. That would make another reason for pushing Gregory XVII off the throne.”

“But it doesn’t tell me who is having us shadowed,” said Georg Rainer.

“Let’s reason a little.” Mendelius entered the talk again.

“Monsignor Logue said he had never seen the list. That’s possible. Once Jean Marie knew him for an informer he would obviously try to protect his documents. But Logue knew the list existed. Once he knew you had access to it, Georg, whom would he tell: his present masters in the Vatican or those other unspecified interests? Round-the clock surveillance doesn’t sound like a Vatican tactic. As Pia points out, they, above all, play the institutional game. So, my guess is the outside interest. What’s your view on that, Georg?”

“None until I’ve read all your documents. I’d like to take them to bed with me.”

“Before you go to bed,” said Lars Larsen hastily, “I’d like a short chat about contracts.”

“I’ll save you the trouble,” said Georg Rainer with a grin.

“Mendelius is the Jesuit among us. If your contracts satisfy his sense of justice, I’ll sign “em.”

“I’ll get the stuff Jean Marie sent me,” said Mendelius.

“I

warn you, it will keep you awake ill night.”

“For once,” said Pia, the diplomat’s daughter, “I’m happy to be sleeping alone!”

That night Mendelius lay wakeful, long into the small, sinister hours after midnight, trying, as any good historian should, to think himself back into the ancient battles of Christendom: the battle to establish a codex of belief, a constitution for the assembly and to hold them secure against the encroachments of the fantasists and the forgers.

The battles were always bitter and sometimes violent. Men of good-will were sacrificed without mercy. Complacent rogues flourished under the umbrella of orthodoxy. Marriages of convenience were made between Church and State.

There were harsh divorcements of nations and communities from union with the elect.

The battle continued still. Jean Marie Barette, lately a Pope, was one of its casualties. He had invoked the Spirit; the Cardinals had invoked the Assembly and the Assembly had won, as always, by the weight of numbers and the strength of the organisation. This was the lesson the Romans had taught the Marxists: keep the codex pure and the hierarchy exclusive. With the one you smoke out the heretic; with the other you crush him.

Which brought Mendelius by swift turnabout to this question: who were the Friends of Silence? It was tempting to adopt Pia Menendez’ theory of men waiting in the shadows to be called to salvage a situation of revolution or catastrophe.

On the other hand, he remembered a letter from the long-ago when Jean Marie, still a Cardinal, had inveighed against elitist movements in the Church. I distrust them, Carl! If I were Pope I should discourage actively anything that remotely resembled a secret society, a hermetic association, a privileged cadre in the Church. Of all societies, the assembly of the people of God should be the most open, the most sharing. There are enough mysteries in the universe without our fabricating any more. But the Romans love their whispers and their gossip in the corridors and their secret archives!

It was hard to believe that the man who had written those words would set up his own elite club and give it so obvious a name. Was it not more probable that Les Amis du Silence was an outside group whose French title was designed to create the impression of approval by a French Pope. Years ago the Spaniards had set the example when they created their own authoritarian elite and called it Opus Dci God’s work.

Still restless, Mendelius began rummaging in his memory for anything that would associate with the Friends of Silence.

The word ‘friends’ produced some odd correlatives: from the Society of Friends, to amicus curiae, and the Marquis de Mirabeau’s “Friend of Man’. The word ‘silence’ produced a greater variety of associations. In the Mamertine Prison in Rome a dusty lamp burned in memory of the “Church of Silence’: the faithful denied the liberty to worship or persecuted for their adherence to the old faith. There was the Amyclean Silence, which forbade the citizens of Amyclae to speak of the Spartan threat, so that when the invasions did come, the city fell easy prey. There was the sinister Italian proverb: “Noble vengeance is the daughter of deep silence.”

Drowsy at last, Mendelius decided that this might be the occasion to test Drexel on his promise to supply reference points on matters of fact. Lotte stirred and reached out in the dark for reassurance. He folded himself into her warmth and lapsed swiftly into sleep.

There were unexpected problems in Georg Rainer’s contract with Die Welt, so immediately after breakfast Lars Larsen left for Bonn and Berlin to talk with executives of the Springer group. He was jaunty and confident as always.

“They have to play ball. No agreement, no newsbreak and Georg resigns! Leave it to me. You guys settle down and put the story together. I want to carry it back by hand to New York.”

Mendelius and Rainer closed themselves in the study to set their materials in order: Rainer’s files on the pontificate of Gregory XVII, Mendelius’ private correspondence with him, before and during his reign, lecture notes and bibliography on the millennial tradition, and, for corner-stone to the edifice, the three most recent documents: the letter, the encyclical and the list of names. On these last Georg Rainer rendered a curt judgment.

“If you’re not a believer and I’m at best a vestigial Lutheran the letter and the encyclical are like poetry, beyond rational discussion. Either you feel them or you don’t. I felt the man’s agony. However, for me, he was walking on the moon, far out of reach. But the list of names that was a different matter. I recognised most of them. I knew enough about them to observe certain common factors, and guess that a computer run might show even more. I want to work through the list again this morning before I commit to any conclusions.”

“Can you see them as “Friends of Silence’?”

“No way at all. They’ve all been very vocal people, some of whom have suffered checks in their careers and may or may not recover.”

“I’m going to try the name on Drexel.”

Mendelius reached for the phone, dialled the number of Vatican City and asked to be connected with Cardinal Drexel. His Eminence sounded surprised and a little wary.

“Mendelius? You’re stirring early. What can I do for you?”

“I am working on my memoir. You were kind enough to offer your assistance on matters of fact.”

“Yes?”

“Who are Les Amis du Silence?”

“I’m sorry.” Drexel was brusque.

“I can give you no information at all on that question.”

“Can you refer me, as you promised, to any other source?”

“That would not be opportune.”

“Others have informed me that the subject may be dangerous.”

“As to that, I can offer no opinion.”

“Thank you, Eminence, at least for accepting my call.”

“My pleasure, Mendelius. Good morning!”

Rainer was not surprised.

“No luck?”

Mendelius gave a snort of disgust.

“The subject is inopportune!”

“I love that word! They use it to bury all sorts of bodies.

Why not ring Monte Cassino and ask your friend for clarification?”

“Because I don’t want him to bear any responsibility for what we write. You’re the reporter. Where else can we try?”

“I suggest we forget it for the moment and block out the argument of the piece. As I see it we start with the abdication itself, a large, consequential act, the reason for which is still a mystery. We have now accumulated enough evidence to affirm that the members of the Sacred College engineered the situation. We demonstrate how it was done. Finally we come to the why; which depends on your testimony, the final three documents and your interviews with Drexel in Rome and the former Gregory XVII in Monte Cassino. I report all that and cite the evidence. Immediately our readers make judgments.

The cynics say the man was mad and the Cardinals were right to get rid of him. The devout rest tranquil on the official line that whatever happened, the Holy Spirit will make it come right in the end. The curious and the critical will want to know more. Which is where you take up the narrative with a portrait of the man and an examination of what he said and wrote. I know you’re a very lucid writer, but this time you’ll really have to spell things out in simple language even for our sub-editors! Well, do you agree the form?”

“As a beginning, yes. Let’s see how it looks in typescript.

You make yourself comfortable. I’m going to take a walk before I start work.”

As he was walking through the lounge the telephone rang.

The man on the other end of the line identified himself as Dieter Lorenz, senior investigator with the Landeskriminalamt. A matter of some importance had come up; he would like to discuss it with the Herr Professor.

He arrived ten minutes later, a gangling shabby-looking fellow dressed in blue jeans and a leather jacket. While Lotte prepared coffee he displayed to Mendelius a grubby sheet of mimeograph paper on which was a line-drawn portrait of Mendelius with his name, address and telephone number.

The paper was folded several times as if it had been carried in a wallet. Lorenz explained its provenance.

“There’s a beer-hall frequented by Turkish workmen from the paper factory. It’s one of the centres for drug traffic in the city and among the students. Last night there was an affray between some Turks and a bunch of young Germans. A man was knifed. He was dead before they got him to hospital.

We’ve identified him as Albrecht Metzger, one-time clerk at the paperworks, sacked six months ago for petty theft. We found that paper in his wallet.”

“What does it mean?”

“In brief, Professor, it means you are under terrorist surveillance. The sketch is mimeographed, which indicates it has been circulated to a number of people. The paper is German. The drawing was probably done in Rome. It was made from one of the photographs of you which appeared in the Italian press. The rest of the story is not yet clear. We do know that some underground groups finance themselves by trafficking in drugs which originate in Turkey. There are 20,000 students at the University so that’s a highly significant market for the dealers. The dead man was not on any of our wanted lists. However, the terrorist groups do use fringe operators, paid in cash, in order to protect the central organisation. The way things are now with high unemployment and social unrest there’s no trouble finding pick-up labour for jobs like this.”

Lotte brought the coffee and while she served it Mendelius explained the situation. She took it calmly enough; but her face was pale and her hand trembled as she set down the coffee-pot. Lorenz continued his exposition:

“You have to understand how the terrorist system works.

Using people like our deceased friend Metzger we call them ‘spotters’ they build up a picture of the habits and movements of the intended victim. In a big city it’s more difficult;

but in a small one like Tubingen and with a professional man like yourself, it’s comparatively easy. You go always to the same place of work. You shop at the same stores. You can’t introduce too many variations. So you get inattentive and careless. Then, one day, they move in a hit team, three, four people, with a couple of vehicles, and pouf! the thing is done.”

“It’s not a very hopeful picture, is it?” Lotte’s voice was unsteady.

“No, dear lady, it is not.” Lorenz offered no comfort at all.

“We can give your husband a pistol permit; but unless he’s prepared to take small-arms training, it’s not much use. You can hire bodyguards, but they’re ruinously expensive unless of course your students are prepared to help.”

“No!” Mendelius refused flatly.

“Then the only answer is personal vigilance, and constant contact with us. You must report even the most trivial incident that appears strange or out of the ordinary. I’ll leave you my card. Call that number at any time, day or night.

There’s always a man on desk-duty.”

“One thing I can’t understand,” said Lotte.

“Why do they pursue Carl like this? He made his depositions in Rome. The information is already on file. Dead or alive he can’t change that.”

“You miss the point, dear lady.” Lorenz explained patiently.

“The whole object of terror is to create fear and uncertainty. If the terrorist does not exact retribution, he loses his influence. It’s the old idea of vendetta, which never stops until one side is wiped out. In a settled society, our job as policemen was easier. Now it gets harder every day dirtier, too!”

“That’s what bothers me,” said Mendelius moodily.

“You know, I presume, that the University staff may be asked to supply security information on our students?”

Lorenz gave him a swift hooded glance and nodded.