To Kill the Pope (42 page)

“Incredible,” the monsignor said. “So, not only does Savage know almost everything about the conspiracy, but he is playing some kind of a game with me—not informing me about meeting Leduc or about the attempt to kill him . . . And he knows something, though probably not everything, about de Marenches' warning. Can you imagine what this goddamned Jesuit can do with this information? It's pure dynamite! How do we control him? Do we have to get rid of him at all costs? And, by the way, Georges, how did you know that Savage works for me?”

“Ah, that's an easy one, dear cousin,” the intelligence chief replied. “The moment I heard from Leduc that an American Jesuit was investigating the 1981 shooting, I had to assume that he was working for
somebody.
Savage wouldn't be doing it on his own because there was no reason for an Islamic scholar from the Vatican to embark suddenly on investigating conspiracies to kill the pope. And, of course, I ran a quick check on him and, surprise of surprises, it turned out that he was a CIA veteran as well, which I'm sure you knew from the outset . . . You know, Romain, it is a shame that, as family, we don't stay in better touch. We could both learn a lot . . .”

“Unquestionably,” the monsignor replied, “but the reality is that Savage is now a problem and a liability for both of us, a much greater problem than I thought when I called you yesterday. We better find a solution before it is too late.”

“Yes. I just hope and pray that Pope Gregory XVII never loses his faith in you. Our family could never afford it.”

*  *  *

“I killed Jake Kurtski,” Tim said quietly to Paul Martinius.

They were having lunch at the penthouse restaurant of the Hotel Eden, across the street from Villa Malta. It commanded the most magnificent view of Rome, across the Tiber and the Aventine hills, with St. Peter's Basilica looming majestically in the distance.
Tim had called Paul on Monday, two days after his meeting with Sainte-Ange and his dinner with Angela. He needed to share his new knowledge with the CIA Station Chief. They agreed to get together the following day, selecting the Eden as the most convenient spot in the neighborhood.

“You did
what?”
Martinius gasped, choking on his beer. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I shot Kurtski dead because he was trying to shoot
me
dead,” Tim told him. “In a little town on a hill named Fanjeaux in the Languedoc in France . . . I guess that what goes around, comes around. Maybe it was the final chapter of Vietnam for both of us. You remember what happened there, when I refused to kill on Kurtski's orders, resigned from the Agency, and all that . . .”

“Holy shit!” Martinius exclaimed. “How did it happen? Why was that bastard out to kill you? I know that he was in Rome earlier in the year—I think I mentioned it to you at the time—but I had no idea he was involved in your kind of stuff.”

“Let me tell you the whole story as I understand it,” Tim said. “The big headline is that the conspiracy against Gregory XVII, part of a secret ‘crusade' against Rome, was planned and carried out by old Archbishop Jules Leduc and his fanatic Pius V Fraternity. They worked through their contacts in the Muslim fundamentalist community in Toulouse who, in turn, helped to recruit Agca Circlic through
their
contacts in Istambul. I was able, much of it through sheer luck, to reconstruct the main outlines of how it was done—until the conspiracy collapsed when Circlic failed to kill the pope that day on St. Peter's Square. At one point, however, Leduc and his people found out how much I had learned—which, presumably, made me dangerous to all concerned—and Kurtski became the designated hitter. But I don't think they had the slightest idea of Kurtski's and my history in Vietnam. It was just the weirdest coincidence in the world.”

For a full hour, Tim recounted for Martinius every step of his investigation, culminating with his late-night session with Archbishop Leduc.

“But this thing still remains very odd,” he said. “When I went to see Sainte-Ange on Saturday morning to make my presentation orally—I was forbidden to put anything down in writing, which I
thought was strange—the Monsignor spent almost the entire time trying to knock down my story, to challenge me over my lack of proof or evidence. It was like telling me, ‘You're full of shit and nobody will believe you, anyway, if you come out with your revelations.' He made a point of informing me that I was a nobody, which suits me fine, but it doesn't explain his demeanor. I had the very distinct impression that Sainte-Ange, having recruited me, now wanted to sweep that whole business under the carpet, forget about it, and make me forget about it, if I know what's good for me . . . And, by the way, he wouldn't let me make my presentation directly to the pope, who he said was too busy . . . What do you make of it?”

“Maybe he didn't like your conclusions,” Martinius offered, “and I mean it. This isn't a simple affair of just trying to knock off the pope. There's more to it . . . But how did Saint-Ange react to your shoot-out with Kurtski and your conversation with Leduc?”

“Well, I must confess that I didn't mention either to Sainte-Ange,” Tim replied. “My instinct warned me against telling him everything. And the way he treated me the other day sort of vindicated my caution. I really distrust him.”

“Then I had better clue
you
in on a couple of things you should know at this stage that I didn't feel free to tell you the last time we met,” Martinius said. “But I did tell you to look into some activities of the late Alexandre de Marenches of the French SDECE. Remember?”

“Yes, I do, and I know that he had sent a warning to the Vatican that a plot against the pope was in the works, but they paid no attention to him here,” Tim answered. “That warning story and what's behind it is a big gap in my research.”

“Let me see if I can help you a bit,” Martinius interjected. “De Marenches had sent Monsignor Sainte-Ange a fairly detailed report on the preparations to kill the pope, including—specifically—Archbishop Leduc's and the Fraternity's leading role in the plot. As you realize, the Holy See chose to ignore this warning—or, more to the point, Sainte-Ange decided to ignore it. I have no way of knowing what he had, or had not, told Gregory XVII, although I have my suspicions . . .”

“I, of course, had no idea that Sainte-Ange had been aware from the very beginning that it was Leduc who was gunning for his boss,” Tim said. “But how do you know about it?”

“It's very interesting, Tim,” his friend told him. “De Marenches shared his information about the plot both with us—the Paris Station—and with Interpol in Lyons. I imagine that he didn't trust Sainte-Ange, either, for whatever reasons, and wanted to make sure that others were informed as well in great secrecy. The Agency and the White House naturally did nothing about it—there was nothing to be done—and when the assassination attempt actually occurred, the top-level Administration policy decision in Washington was to stay out of it completely. This is why, Tim, the CIA rejected the Soviet KGB theory from the very beginning. It was incredibly frustrating, but that's the way life is in this line of work.”

“Do you know why Sainte-Ange resolved to ignore the warning?” Tim asked.

“No,” Martinius said, “that's
my
gap in the story . . . But I have to assume that it's a matter involving the Vatican, the French Church, and French politics. That's an anthill I don't propose to stir, certainly not from Rome. And especially because there have been other mysterious events involving some of the principals, none of which is in my jurisdiction.”

“For example?” Tim inquired.

“For example that de Marenches died not too long ago,” Martinius said. “The official story was that the cause of death was a heart attack. My British pal, the Interpol chief, told me at the time that de Marenches had no heart disease history and that his cadaver was cremated before an autopsy could be conducted. His family were terribly angry. In any case, the real circumstances of de Marenches' death remain a closely held secret at the highest levels of the French government. But, as I listen to you, I begin to wonder whether there was a connection between it and the plot to assassinate the pope. You know, Colonel Bernard Nut, who was de Marenches' most trusted aide, who had hand-delivered the warning to Sainte-Ange, was shot to death in Nice shortly after his chief died. I'm afraid we'll never find out what happened and how all these intrigues are linked.”

“My God !” Tim whispered.

“And one more fact for you,” Martinius continued. “Immediately after he died, de Marenches was replaced as head of the SDECE by Georges de Sainte-Ange, who had been the head of their Soviet Division, a career spook. As it happens, he and Romain de Sainte-Ange, yes, the pope's private secretary, are first cousins. It's a family back channel. This may be why, I suspect, the Italian investigating magistrate never received a reply to his request for additional information concerning de Marenches' warning about which he had heard in very general terms. So, there you are.”

“But do we know why Sainte-Ange had blocked de Marenches' warning?” Tim persisted. “This could be the principal piece in the whole puzzle. Besides, I think that the pope's enemies haven't given up.”

“No, we do not,” the Station Chief said. “And I wish we could find out before somebody takes another potshot at Gregory XVII—or at you, old buddy. . . .”

1987

T
IM
S
AVAGE NEVER SAW
Monsignor Sainte-Ange again. Autumn had turned into winter and into spring anew, and, as far as the Apostolic Palace was concerned, it seemed as if Tim simply did not exist. He had resumed work at his office, reassuring colleagues that he had recovered from ill health, and plunged back into matters affecting the Vatican's interests in Iran, Iraq, Sudan, and other Islamic countries. In papal Rome, both the unwritten protocol and unspoken political rules sheltered Tim from curiosity and questions. Everything was normal—as if he had never left his desk at Via dell'Erba 1.

At first, following his conversation with Paul Martinius, Tim thought that Sainte-Ange might recall him for a more detailed—and calmer—debriefing. But, perhaps, as Angela had told him, the private secretary, disappointed with Tim's report and conclusions, had decided that the American had, so to speak, outlived his usefulness and no further contacts were desired.

Tim was certain that the monsignor had no concerns about his discretion, not only as a matter of his integrity as a man and a priest, but because he would not disobey Gregory XVII's orders, relayed by Sainte-Ange, to maintain eternal public silence about his mission. In any case, Tim had no intention of divulging the investigation he had pursued. That had been his CIA training, the Agency also requiring a written pledge of secrecy from its employees. He did not regard Kurtski's attack on him as an excuse for breaking his silence: For an intelligence professional, the Fanjeaux incident was merely part of a day's work. Romeo team's raids in Vietnam, with all their perils, had also been part of a
working day. Nor did he consider that his conversations with Angela and Martinius violated the canon of discretion: He had discussed the subject with each of them in the past in the context of the investigation. Back at Villa Malta, Tim had burned in the furnace his investigative ledger with all his notes and other written materials he had accumulated.

And Tim did not believe that, under the circumstances, he faced further physical danger. The assignment was over, his involvement in the assassination affair had ended, and he was back in the safe mantle of Vatican anonymity. He doubted that Leduc would again go after him. As Sainte-Ange had stated correctly, the assassination conspiracy was no longer any of Tim's business. He had done his duty in cautioning the private secretary that, in his opinion, the pope was still in danger, but it was up to the Holy See to protect Gregory XVII.

*  *  *

Angela, however, was very much Tim's business and very much on his mind. Without the urgency of the investigation, he had the leisure—and definitely the inclination—to meditate about his own life, and not in a theological mode. He realized, among other realities, that he had never been seriously in love, though it would not be very long before he reached his half-century mark—he had just passed his forty-fifth birthday. And there was no question that his meditation had a lot to do with Angela. It was no more unchaste thoughts, not just unavowed lust: it went much deeper. So now what? Tim asked himself as he stared at the springtime greenery of Rome extending almost endlessly from his window high up at Villa Malta. He could not forget the touch of her hand on his own that Saturday evening at the fish restaurant.

Priests falling in love with nuns, as Tim knew, was not at all that uncommon. Nor was it uncommon for nuns to reciprocate. Since the marriage of a priest to any woman was prohibited in the universal Church, certainly since Christianity's early centuries, it would be idle for him to contemplate it even in his wildest dreams—and he was having the wildest dreams these nights. He was reminded of St. Augustine's comment in
The City of God:
“At times, without intention, the body stirs on its own insistence . . . At other times, it leaves a straining lover in the lurch.” Maybe the
Protestants were right in letting their clergy marry. But this, too, was irrelevant. The obvious solution, should he wish to marry and there was a reciprocating partner, would be to recant his vows and leave the Church. This was occurring increasingly, for reasons of principle as for other reasons, as the Roman Catholic Church was losing its appeal and a number of its members. And, quite aside from Angela, Tim had felt in recent years his faith weakening and doubts emerging as to whether his priestly vocation was really total and absolute—and not a psychological and spiritual reaction to his Vietnam trauma. He did not want to admit it fully even to himself—he had not been to confession since he had embarked on the papal investigation—but the doubts and discouragement were mounting.