To Kill the Pope (3 page)

Tim shook his head, watching the monsignor turn red with anger.

“I am almost convinced that there is a conspiracy of some kind to prevent the discovery of the truth,” Sainte-Ange hissed. “Everybody seems afraid of the truth. Despite President Reagan's promises, your Central Intelligence Agency obviously has made no real effort to help the Italian investigating judge. The same goes for Interpol. Can you understand that?”

“No, I can't,” Tim answered. He was completely at sea. This was a surreal conversation, he thought, on a subject he had utterly ignored and that was none of his business. But, mysteriously, it was being made his business.

“For five years, we've been stuck with the same tired old theories nobody can prove,” the monsignor told him. “That the Turk did it because he's a Muslim and Muslims are supposed to hate Christians. What nonsense! Or that the Turk had been sent by the Bulgarian secret police on orders from the KGB, which is idiotic, too, because nobody in the Kremlin is mad enough to want to kill the pope. My God, we are in secret negotiations with the Russians!”

Tim nodded again, praying for an explanation of what his meeting with Sainte-Ange was all about. In all his years at the Vatican, he had never had an experience even remotely resembling today's. Still, the Vatican was famous for strange and mysterious happenings.

Now the monsignor had regained his calm, smiling encouragingly at the American Jesuit across a small table from him in the minuscule but beautifully appointed square sitting room next to his office on the second
loggia
of the Apostolic Palace. It was one of the magnificent
loggie
designed by Raphael in the sixteenth century
when St. Peter's Basilica and the adjoining holy edifice were being rebuilt after the Sack of Rome. An antique Venetian clock ticked on a marble-top table in a corner. The scent of Saint-Ange's expensive aftershave lotion, probably Hermès' Equipage, wafted richly around him. Tim thought idly that it was more pleasant than the smell of incense that seemed to permeate permanently the great halls and galleries of the Apostolic Palace. The odor of piety.

“Under the circumstances,” the private secretary declared in a solemn voice, “the Holy Father has determined that we must rely on our own resources to discover the truth. He feels morally and legally that we must do what must be done. It is vital that we fully understand the dangers that may face the Church in the future, that we know who is the enemy . . . As in the past . . .”

He paused again and his smile was beatific.

“And,” he said softly, almost seductively, “we have selected you to undertake this mission on behalf of the Holy Father. To find the truth. We hope that you will accept . . .”

*  *  *

Tim Savage stirred uneasily in his chair, trying desperately to dissemble the shock produced by the monsignor's words. He knew, of course, that the Vatican had its own secret service and even a department of “dirty tricks,” but he had always succeeded in keeping his research work apart from subtle papal intelligence enterprises. And now this! At forty-four, Tim thought, he had lived through all imaginable surprises, yet he had been wrong.

And there was no way he could turn down Sainte-Ange's “invitation.” As a Jesuit, he had taken a vow of obedience to the pope. He felt he was dreaming, that he was living a fantasy, that he had suddenly been trapped in an iron cage. A thousand alarms sounded in his mind: It was like the Kennedy brothers decades ago, murders never definitively solved, like Dag Hammarskjöld, the United Nations secretary general, whose death in a fiery plane crash in Africa may or may not have been an accident, like the much loved Swedish prime minister, Olof Palme, shot by unknowns in the street. What chance did he, Tim Savage, have to succeed in investigating the attempt on Gregory XVII?

Tim slowly inclined his head in assent. A minute had not elapsed since Sainte-Ange had spoken the fateful words.

“Yes,” he said, “I am always at the service of the Holy Father. But why me? I'm just a simple American Jesuit working in Rome. I know nothing, absolutely nothing, about the assassination attempt. You have the wrong person.”

“No, we have the
right
person in you,” the monsignor replied firmly, pointing his immaculately manicured stubby finger at Tim. “Please believe me, Father, that much thought has gone into our decision to entrust you with the investigation. Much thought and deliberation. We are very familiar with your background, your special talents, and your experience. You are not ‘a simple Jesuit . . .' Ah, it is a case of ‘it takes a thief to grab a thief,' as you Americans say . . .”

“Actually, we say, ‘to
catch
a thief,' ” Tim Savage remarked politely, wondering immediately what made him correct the older man and realizing it was a silly little stab at asserting himself in this impossible situation.

The monsignor ignored it, making a steeple of his tiny hands and lowering his voice to a whisper as he continued to address Tim:

“I am so glad that you have accepted the mission. But your investigation must be conducted in the most confidential, not to say top-secret, manner. Your profile must be very low. That's why it must be a one-man investigation. As you are doubtless aware, the Vatican has its own prosecutor and Civil Court, but we have chosen to bypass them as well as the secret agents of the Swiss Guard. And we do not propose to take any action if we—you—discover the truth. We just want to
know
the truth.

“There is very little we can tell you to get you started,” Sainte-Ange went on. “Just the obvious things. Because the Turk who fired the bullets, Agca Circlic, is a Muslim and a dedicated terrorist, we must envisage a Muslim connection, whatever it may be, though it's nothing more than a theory. But this is where your knowledge and background make you so perfect. And your special type of experience may fit some of the other theories kicking around to this day. Besides, few would suspect an American Jesuit scholar to be a detective for the Vatican . . .”

Tim again inclined his head in agreement. There was no point insisting on his uselessness as a sleuth for the Holy See. The pope
and Sainte-Ange had decided his destiny. Well, so be it, he told himself. Others had done it before.

“One more thing,” the monsignor added with a frozen smile. “You will be completely on your own. You can work any way you choose. Should anyone learn of your mission, or suspect it, we shall simply deny that you have anything to do with us. Our Press Office director, the Spanish psychiatrist, is unaware of your assignment anyway and he won't be lying in his denials. He'll say that you are a crazy American with delusions, a renegade priest . . . On the other hand, you will naturally have logistical support from this end through special channels I am creating. In fact, let me start you immediately.”

Sainte-Ange picked up the telephone, whispering a few words in French.

“Just a moment,” he said to Tim.

*  *  *

There was a discreet knock and the door behind Tim opened. He looked back, rose from his chair, and experienced his second shock of the day, a greatly more pleasing one. Standing before him was a petite nun in a white habit, smiling modestly.

“Father Savage,” the monsignor said without getting up, “this is Sister Angela. She belongs to the order of Augustine Sisters of Notre Dame of Paris and, like me, she is French. She has been with the Papal Household for quite a few years, helping with the Holy Father's English-language paperwork and, sometimes, with foreign visitors because she speaks such excellent English. And this is why I decided to designate her as your direct contact with me. The sister has been briefed about your mission and she will be the liaison between us—you will see me only in emergencies or on special occasions. Sister Angela will provide you with funds, documentation, and anything else you need. You will have her direct telephone number and you will call her as required. If necessary, you may come to her office, but try to keep your visits down to an absolute minimum. You shouldn't be seen around here too often.”

Listening to Sainte-Ange, Tim stared with total fascination at Sister Angela. He had instantly decided that she was uncommonly pretty, reminiscent of a delicate Matisse painting. And he decided, just as quickly, that she could be no more than in her early thirties.
He liked the way she looked calmly and directly into his eyes as the monsignor made the presentations. Most European nuns Tim had met tended to stare intensely at their feet or their hands in the presence of a man, even a priest. Damn impure thoughts, he told himself—it's the price you pay for being a man as well as a celibate. But he had to say something to her, to break the silence after the monsignor had introduced them. Sainte-Ange had already raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Tell me,” Tim asked her, “where did you learn your English?”

“I went to school at the Convent of the English Augustine Sisters in Paris,” Angela replied in accentless English. She had a pleasant, low voice.

“English sisters in Paris?” he inquired incredulously. “I didn't know they had a convent there.”

“Oh, yes,” the sister answered. “It's on the Left Bank, in Faubourg St. Germain. It was established in 1653 by Augustine sisters who fled England to escape the persecution of Catholics by Cromwell. You know, he wrote that the great question was ‘whether the Christian world should all be popery.' Anyway, the convent has been there ever since. George Sand, the famous novelist of the nineteenth century, studied there.”

“But how did you wind up there?”

“In my case,” Angela said, “it was because of my parents. My father was English, an expatriate in Paris . . . He was a Jew. My mother came from a long line of devout Catholics. They met during the German occupation; she fell in love with him and helped to hide him from the Nazis. Then they were married and I was born ten years later. My father died when I was a little girl, my mother brought me up as a Catholic, and the rest must have been predestined . . . But here's my telephone number, Father. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything.”

She bowed to Sainte-Ange and left the room. The monsignor stood up, extending his hand to Tim Savage.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “I know the Holy Father will be most gratified . . . Please bear in mind that if you don't track down the truth, the pope will never be safe. His enemies will never give up. That's why your mission is so vital in immediate terms. It's not simply historical research.”

*  *  *

“What did you think of the American?” Gregory XVII asked Monsignor Sainte-Ange. “Is he really the man for the job?”

They sat in the pope's private study on the third
loggia
of the Apostolic Palace, enjoying the quiet of the late morning before the noontime meal. Gregory XVII had bidden farewell to his last visitor of the day—there rarely were audiences in the afternoon—and Sainte-Ange had come up after Tim Savage's departure from his office. In the distance, they could see the sun's rays lighting golden fires on Rome's roofs across the Tiber as far as the Aventine Hill.

“Yes,” the monsignor said. “Yes, I think he will do fine. I liked what I already knew about his past, and he made a good impression on me. My instinct tells me that we made the right choice.”

Gregory XVII trusted Sainte-Ange without reservation. He was his oldest friend. It had been forty-five years since both entered the seminary at the age of twenty-one, near Clermont-Ferrand in the Vichy-governed zone of France. They remained there when, soon afterward, the Germans occupied that part of the country too. Both men discovered to their surprise how many priests sympathized with Vichy, collaborating with its police and subsequently with the Gestapo; many had denounced to the authorities Jewish families hiding in the countryside and
maquis
Resistance fighters defying the Nazis. Because neither the future pope nor Sainte-Ange was willing to join the right-wing “integrist” priests' organizations, they were shunned and isolated in the seminary. But, in the process, they learned much about the French Church's many hidden faces. They never forgot it, even when Church integrists paid homage to Gregory XVII upon his election to the papacy.

Now, at the age of sixty-six, the pope and his private secretary formed a perfect team, oddly paired and seemingly unmatched as it was. While Gregory XVII, tall, thin with a regal bearing, was cerebral, visionary, and immensely captivating, Sainte-Ange was purely pragmatic, and essentially cold. He was the classic French
homme des coulisses,
more comfortable in background shadows than in the limelight Gregory XVII adored, and a genius in the manipulation of power, which he exercised, often mercilessly, in assuring
the Roman Curia's unquestioned obedience to his master and friend. It was logical that Sainte-Ange alone had devised and managed the investigation of the 1981 assassination attempt, convincing the pope of the urgent need for it, and, in effect, discovering Timothy Savage for the mission. In all of the Vatican, only Sister Angela, who had to perform the vital function of liaison and whom the monsignor decided he could trust, largely because of her own personal background, knew about the Timothy Savage undertaking.

“Well, I'm glad the mission is now under way,” Gregory XVII said, savoring a sip of his favorite Gavi di Gavi white wine. “But does the American know about de Marenches' warning and that it was not heeded?”

“No, I thought it was premature,” Sainte-Ange replied in his careful manner. “He has to do a lot of homework before he can understand it and all its implications. But I hope that our Father Savage will not be wasting time. You're never certain of being safe, perhaps more now than ever.”

“True,” the pope told him. “This is why I ask Our Lady of Fátima for protection in my every prayer.”