To Kill the Pope (21 page)

Because of a special dispensation from his Jesuit superiors, Tim did not have to celebrate Mass every morning in his hotel room. He could not have risked traveling with liturgical paraphernalia or being surprised by a hotel maid—his cover had to be protected. He was sure that his room had already been searched. During the day, Tim took taxis in the midtown area, darting in and out of modern office buildings along Istiklal Boulevard and riding elevators up and down to impress the men presumably tailing him with his business activities. He also visited foreign banks' branches for lengthy conversations with vice presidents on financial topics of his imagination.

Evenings, Tim sat at the hotel bar, alone or with one of the young women always present there, nursing a Scotch on the rocks and making small talk. He was never tempted on these occasions to break his chastity vows, but the Wolves could not know it as they observed him marching toward a hotel elevator with a young woman whom he then dismissed, with
bakshish
—a bribe—on one of the floors. Tim thought this was comical—for a Jesuit.

He used his idle time as well playing the tourist, admiring the extravagant beauty of Istambul's great monuments, mosques, and museums. As an orientalist, Tim loved his stay in the city: it was a rich bonus. Well, bless Sainte-Ange, he thought gratefully the third time he strolled under the dome of St. Sophia. Along the Bosphorus, a tourist guide, spotting him as a rich American, pointed to the narrowing of the straits across which an American ambassador to Turkey had once swum from Europe to Asia to make an obscure diplomatic machismo point.

At the Jesuit community the evening of the “dinner,” the Pole told Tim, “They're waiting for us. I guess they've checked you out to their satisfaction. I'll drive you over.”

*  *  *

It was a long way from the Covered Bazaar, over the Golden Horn Bridge, to the Istambul downtown and across the suspension bridge to the Asia side of the Bosphorus and to the Üsküdar district to the south. Amidst Üsküdar's mosques, the Jesuit located a large, whitewashed house on narrow Aziz Mahmut Street. The front door opened before they had time to ring the bell, and Mohammed stepped out to greet the visitors. On the second floor, three men in cheap black suits, no neckties, awaited them. No introductions were made. A slim, bespectacled man with a scholarly mien, probably in his early thirties, went straight to the point as soon as the two Jesuits sat down on straight-backed chairs. There was no other furniture in the big room.

“What do you have to sell?” he asked impatiently in English. “In what quantities and at what prices?”

“Right now,” Tim replied, having memorized his presentation, “I can offer you a lot of one hundred M-16s with spare parts and a reasonable supply of munitions. I also have ten .50-caliber heavy machine guns, a dozen grenade launchers . . . This is for immediate
delivery. I have it in Izmir, near that NATO base, but more of it and other items can be brought to the country without much delay.”

“We could be interested,” the bespectacled man told him. “We could be interested in everything you have in Izmir. We can take delivery there. And we could be interested in more if the price is acceptable.”

Tim and the Wolves' leader discussed prices for several minutes, both writing figures down. Tim had a Conrad Istambul hotel notepad, the Turk wrote in a small black leather notebook. The money negotiation went well though Tim deliberately delayed it with unnecessary comments about the quality and reliability of the American-made arms he was offering. It was the crucial moment of his mission. He needed a better and easier rapport with this man. He was gambling everything on the Turk's reaction to the question he was finally about to ask.

“Well, I guess we're in business,” Tim said at length. “You can take delivery a week from today in Izmir for a cash payment. But I have a question I'd like to ask you, if you don't mind. Or, rather, ask your advice about something very special . . .”

“Yes?”

“Hypothetically, where, or to whom, I would turn if I wished to have someone liquidated in another country. You know, in a very discreet way.”

The men exchanged quick glances.

“Why do you ask us, Mr. Savage?” the leader inquired calmly. “Why should we know such things? We are not an employment agency for assassins.”

“No, of course not,” Tim said reasonably, keeping excitement out of his voice. “But we're all professionals in what we do, and there surely is no harm in asking a professional question. Is there?”

The Turk stared at Tim with cold curiosity.

“No, but there could be harm in
answering
a question like that,” he remarked. “In any case, why do you bring it up with us at all? Why do you ask in Turkey, why not elsewhere?”

Tim said a quick, silent prayer. It was now or never.

“I shall be frank with you,” he said. “It's impossible to find
someone knowledgable in the United States these days because of all that crazy business in the past with the CIA trying to assassinate foreign leaders, like Castro in Cuba, and so forth. It's too dangerous. In Europe, all there is nowadays are dishonest people one cannot trust; the professionals or stupid amateurs from the old outfits like the Red Brigades in Italy who don't know what they're doing. The Palestinians are nuts. Okay?”

Tim took a deep breath.

“So why do I ask in Turkey?”, he continued. “I ask in Turkey because I remember—you see, I, too, read newspapers—that it was a Turkish person who tried to kill the pope in Rome five years ago. He was a good shot; he hit the old man, but he was out of luck. The pope lives and the shooter sits in prison. Poor sonofabitch . . . So what I'm asking is whether you know, by any chance, another person like what's-his-name . . . And I'm asking
you
people because we're doing business together and I think I can trust you, at least enough to ask. Besides, you have quite a reputation for your contacts and your efficiency. Naturally, I have friends who would pay very well for advice. And, you understand, I'm putting myself at risk by even asking the question. But I trust you. . . .”

There was a long silence. The bespectacled man looked at the window. It now was very dark outside. There were no streetlights on Mehmet Aga. But they could hear the evening wind from the Bosphorus whistling through the neighborhood.

“Sit down,” he said to Tim. “Let's talk a bit.”

Tim felt a wave of relief washing over him. His nerves were steadier. He had not blown it—yet.

“I must explain something to you,” the leader told him. “Yes, it's obviously true that it was a Turk who shot the pope. And you must know, just from reading newspapers, as you put it, that Agca Circlic—that's his name, in case you forget—had once belonged to our organization. This makes it clear to me why you ask how to hire a murderer. But I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Savage. The Gray Wolves, or whatever they call us, are not in the business of assassination for money. We are a political organization, a revolutionary organization—that's why we're doing business with you today to get the arms we need—and if we kill, it is for reasons of politics. Not for dollars . . .”

He paused briefly to let his words sink in.

“So you, Mr. Savage,” the Turk went on, “are really asking why Agca Circlic, who may or may not have been one of us at the time, went to Rome to kill the pope, a project of no special interest to us.”

Tim nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Then I shall tell you in order to protect the good name of our organization,” the leader said, peering at Tim intently through his thick glasses. “We did make Circlic available for that job because our brethren, our Muslim brethren—and don't forget that we
are
Muslims—had asked us for someone like him as a fraternal favor in the name of our religion. And Circlic was as good as they come as a shooter. He had proved it in the past. And he was just stupid enough to be trusted for that operation.”

Tim listened tensely as the Turk kept talking.

“You will never understand our culture, but let me try to say to you that we are men of honor and when we kill, we kill as a matter of honor and duty. We are inspired by Allah and his Prophet to be pure and defend our religion and our nation . . . Yes, when Atatürk was president way back after the First World War, he turned Turkey into a secular state. He betrayed Islam. They call us criminals and terrorists because of what we do, but our first aim is to be faithful to Allah and the Koran. This is why we agreed to honor the request from our French brethren. By the way, I have a degree in theology and—”

“French?”
Tim interrupted, uncomprehendingly.

“Yes, French,” the Turk replied. “French Muslims. The people who came from Algeria and so on. They suffer a lot in France and we're often in touch with them. Sometimes we help. We helped with Circlic.”

“But why would they want to kill a Roman Catholic pope in Rome?” Tim asked, now completely disoriented. “I don't follow . . .”

“Frankly,” the Gray Wolf told him, “I don't know and I don't care. I don't need to know. It doesn't concern us. We have no problem with the pope. All we did was what our brethren desired. I have no idea whether they have a problem with him.”

“Wait a minute,” Tim broke in. “Why did this man write a letter
to a Turkish newspaper that he would kill the pope? Why all this stuff about the Soviets, the KGB, the Bulgarians?”

The Turk smiled for the first time since they had met. He looked pleased with himself.

“Oh, this is what you Americans call ‘disinformation,' ” he said. “It was part of the whole arrangement with Paris that was nearly a year in the making. We sprang Circlic out of prison after he had assassinated that newspaper editor—it was at our suggestion for our own reasons—and we prepared and trained him for the work in Rome. Later, a weapon was given to him. And it was I who wrote the letter to the newspaper about planning to kill the pope and signed Circlic's name. Then we invented the thing about the Soviets and the Bulgarians so that, Allah forbid, our brethren would not be accused of anything. The pope, of course, is so strongly anticommunist that it was a very plausible deception. And did the press eat it up! It sort of worked. But nothing can be proven—so I don't mind telling you our end of the story. You know, Circlic was supposed to have been killed himself—like your Oswald in Dallas—but our other guy screwed up and ran for dear life. What the hell! . . . As you must have read, Circlic said nothing truly useful to the police. This was because he didn't know why he was doing it. He simply took his orders from us—and our money. So now, Mr. Savage, you know as much as I do. Or almost . . .”

“I see,” Tim said. “You people were just doing the brotherly thing. It wasn't business.”

“That's right. And that's why I cannot give you any advice—and I would certainly not procure a new Circlic for you. Please understand that we wouldn't do it for money. You Americans are not our brethren so we owe you nothing. Only the dollars for the arms when you deliver them in Izmir. . . .”

*  *  *

On his way to the airport, Tim stopped at the Jesuit house to bid farewell to the Polish priest and thank him for his assistance.

“But there's a loose end,” he told him. “What about the ‘arms' they think they'll be buying from me in Izmir? Will they feel deceived, betrayed, try to kill you, or what?”

“Oh, not to worry,” the Pole said with an endearing smile. “We
get along just fine for their reasons and my reasons. Exchanging information, you know, is a very valuable commodity in Istambul. I'll go over there to explain that at the last minute the Turkish Army, on a tip from the CIA, or somebody, had impounded your shipment . . . No big deal. They're not out of any money, which is what would mean the most to them. In their line of business, life is full of glitches like that. And I doubt they'll lose much sleep over telling you about the ‘French Brethren.' The Wolves have no idea who you are and why you would be really interested in all that stuff. It had no significance to them. So forget it, Father Savage, and enjoy your flight back to Rome. I'm glad I could be of help. . . .”

A
CLUE IS A CLUE
is a clue, Tim mused as he flew home to Rome, but it is meaningless unless one knows what it means. Gertrude Stein knew, at least, that a rose
was
a rose. Tim did
not
know who were the “French Brethren” of the Gray Wolves and why the Turkish terrorists had provided them with an assassin. Yet, the French clue was crucial, he thought.

But if he ever were to run down the “French Brethren” and move ahead with his investigation, his next destination had to be France, Tim knew even before his airliner landed at Fiumicino. As he entered his Istambul impressions in his big ledger in his hot Villa Malta room, he noted that while, in a literal sense, a “Muslim connection” was part of the assassination conspiracy, the shooter being a Muslim belonging to a Muslim organization, the attack had not been a Muslim enterprise. The Muslims appeared to be intermediaries, not intellectual authors of the attempt against Gregory XVII.

In this sense, the Istambul conversations had been extremely useful to Tim, eliminating to his satisfaction the notion that Islam fanatics had been behind the plot. Having so concluded, Tim now wondered what, precisely, Monsignor Saint-Ange had meant by “Muslim connection.” Was it just stating the obvious because Circlic was a Muslim, or did he know something else he was not telling? Inevitably, the question arose in Tim's mind whether there was some link between the mysterious “French Brethren” and de Marenches' “warning” from Paris? And should he tell the monsignor about the “French Brethren” before he had learned who they were? How did the violent history of tensions between France and the Holy See fit into this vast murky picture?