CHAPTER FIVE

 

“A DISGUSTING idea!” roared Cardinal Michael at the group, spittle spraying from his flaccid lips. There was little reaction from the group of high churchmen.

Cardinal Bartolomeo was bored. He glanced at his Rolex, his only worldly conceit. Meeting or not, he would have to leave for Paris with the Pope in a few minutes.

It would have been a run-of-the-mill conference of businessmen, except for the costumes—black robes, white robes, and red birettas—and the fact that the conclave was taking place in the Vatican's elegant meeting room, oak-paneled and high ceilinged, amid the paintings and antiquities of centuries. There were some thirty men there, most of them cardinal deacons, but some cardinal priests and abbots were also present. The abbot in charge of finances sat at a long table flanked by two aides with stacks of papers and ledgers before them. The other men sat in the rococo chairs arranged in a semicircle, facing the table. They all had binders and some were taking notes. Most of them had briefcases by their chairs.

"I say it is a disgusting idea!" repeated Cardinal Michael, one of the oldest and most respected members of the See. "What you are suggesting, Monsignori, is that we prostitute the Vatican Radio to the highest bidder. Disgusting, and I say so with considerable heat."

Abbot Elminger sighed and went on with a variation of exactly what he'd been saying all morning.

"Your Eminences, let's get back to the deficit. It is very t easy to be noble and above such things, Your Eminence, but still, how is one to run the Church in the style to which the world has become accustomed?"

"I submit,then, that we change that style," said Cardinal Michael bitterly.

"Your Eminence would have us go back to the Dark Ages—to all of us living in solitude, as they do at Mount Athos, or becoming wandering ministers with no churches?"

"That is not the worst idea I have heard this morning," said Cardinal Michael. "It was good enough for Our Lord."

"But hardly practical today, Your Eminence."

Another cardinal spoke up: "I, for one, am all for the idea about the radio."

A fat abbot grunted, "And so am I. How else can we afford to help the poor?”      

"Quite apart from the poor," said Abbot Elminger, who had briefly been a clerk in a Swiss bank before hearing the call of the Church and who soon thereafter heard the call of the Vatican, which needed a smart young man in the finance department. "Quite apart from the wonderful work we do, there is the simple problem of maintaining ourselves. Take New York, for example. In the vicariate areas of Manhattan, Staten

Island, and the Bronx, plus the seven counties to the north, we now have 408 parishes, some 1,005 priests, 393 elementary and high schools with almost 200,000 students, nine hospitals, and seven institutions of higher learning. How are they to be maintained with all the rising costs?"

Cardinal Michael spat out, "Yes, of course we need money. But selling out the Vatican Radio! This powerful, influential voice! Selling it out to political factions, to big business—"

"Your Eminence," said Cardinal Deacon Bartolomeo, "may I remind you, we are big business?"

"And so you see," the fat, bespectacled abbot went on, as though no one had said anything about the Vatican Radio. "Or do you see? I realize that half of you have not understood a word I said ". A great sigh. "All right. Your Eminences let me recapitulate. Deficit. Now we all know the word deficit, don't we?" He glanced sardonically around the room. "Well, we have a deficit. Now before we truly understand the word deficit, we have to understand another word — income. Write that down. I-N-C-O-M-E. A word not to be found in any of our breviaries."

He looked balefully over the group of cardinals. "Income! Now our stocks, as you know or should know, are divided by countries — only ten percent in our beloved Italy, because of tax laws and political unrest, not due to any lack of patriotism. About thirty-five percent, maybe forty, in America. The rest in Europe. Well, there is a bit in Japan. Almost nothing in Latin America and Africa. That is the source, the major source of our income, as you know.

"Secondly, “l’ obolo di Pietro” Peter's pence, as they say — are the offerings of the faithful all over the world. A third source of income is from missions and special collections. Fourth, from rentals and sales of real estate. Fifth, from sales here at the Vatican of coins, stamps, books, et cetera, to tourists. Sixth...”

As he sat with this conclave in the depths of the Vatican, the Brooklyn-born Cardinal Deacon Bartolomeo was bored, and his swinging right leg, crossed over his left, was a sure indication of his growing impatience. Why couldn't these bloody accountants, or rather these esteemed and blessed clergymen, get to the bloody point? He wanted to leave. He had to leave in twenty minutes for Paris, but he was obliged to stay so that  he'd be able to brief the Pope on what had transpired in this meeting. His Holiness was too smart to attend in person.

Barto, as his few intimates called him, had better things to do than attend this meeting. Church matters, real Church matters — the earthquake in Honduras, the flood in Verona, Cardinal Vincenzo's mother dying of cancer and her last wish to see His Holiness — not the mundane secular business matters of a group of men who, in spite of their titles and fancy clerical robes, were no different than a bunch of Wall Street brokers.

And Taylor Phillips. Just to think of her was a pleasure. What a good friend she had become in the last few years! He had never had a woman friend like her. Before he'd gone into the Church, way back in his Brooklyn days, there had been a woman… Angelina Battaglia…a lovely young girl whom he had adored. He had wavered between the Church and Angie, but God had made the decision for him, by taking Angie away with leukemia. Since then, he'd never really thought of any woman as more than a parishioner, except the lovely Taylor Phillips, and even she didn't know how often he thought of her, and how tenderly. Now this telephone call from her, asking about some scrolls. How in the world had she become involved with something like that? Of course, her research into architectural relics could have brought her in contact with others interested in antiquities. It had been one of his great satisfactions to encourage her interest in archaeology when her husband left her and her depression was so worrisome to him. And that young son of hers—such a fine boy. Oh, to have a son like that!

He forced himself to look at the speaker and concentrate on his words. But then he found himself looking around and wondering, What would Jesus have thought if He'd suddenly waited into this room, this marketplace? Father Bartolomeo chuckled inwardly as the thought piqued his imagination and he visualized the Nazarene walking into this staid and beautifully furnished chamber, dressed in His simple white robe and sandals and addressing the gathering solemnly: "Deficit, brethren? Of course it hath come to pass that ye hath a deficit; yea, verily ye did not buy soybean futures when I advised ye thus!"

Unseemly, unworthy thoughts, Barto, he said to himself. Mother had said early on that his sense of humor would be this ruination. Maybe she was right. Maybe that was why he was only a cardinal deacon instead of an archbishop or even a Pope.

He glanced at his watch. He'd give it a few more minutes. He brushed his fingers through his leonine mane of gray hair. Except for his thick lips, he was a good-looking man of sixty-four. With the unlined face and athletic body of a man twenty years younger, he walked with a limp that was not the result of age but rather of a piece of metal that was still embedded in his knee, a souvenir of Vietnam, when he had been a chaplain on an aircraft carrier. He'd received the Purple Heart and other medals for that episode, when, his leg spouting blood and his uniform afire, he had dragged an unconscious man from the cockpit of a flaming fighter. He wished he had taken the surgeon's advice and had the second operation to remove the chip that had been missed in the initial emergency surgery, but he'd been young then, and the leg hadn't even slowed up his tennis game. Funny how these things caught up with you when you grew older.

Time to go. Father Bartolomeo stood up for a moment, letting the circulation in his bad leg improve before attempting to walk.

"Yes, Cardinal Bartolomeo?" the abbot's abrupt voice was directed at him. "What do you think, Your Eminence?"

"I think," said Father Bartolomeo, making an elaborate gesture of looking at his watch, "that if I don't leave this august of body of savants right this moment, His Holiness will bust me back to altar boy."

Under the ripple of laughter, he took his briefcase and limped out of the conference room. As he stepped out into the hall, he saw two cardinals huddled in conversation. There was something about both of them he'd never liked—something almost sinister, especially about Cardinal Tobin. He was an unattractive man. Very small and trim, he came from Ireland, but was as dark as any South American Indian. His black hair was combed down over his forehead and his manner was brusque, dictatorial, detached, and authoritative.

The other was Tertius, a brown-haired, cadaverous fifty-year-old Neopolitan. He was considered an intellectual, possibly because he spoke five languages and wore glasses with lenses as thick as the ends of cola bottles. It was rumored that he was a pederast, and Bartolomeo always felt a little discomfited in Tertius's presence. The two greeted Bartolomeo with pasted-on smiles and he nodded back.

As he hurried down the hall, he saw a familiar form at the  end, by a drinking fountain whose water gushed forth from the mouth of a leaping porpoise. As he neared, the man looked up.

"Barto!" he called out with obvious pleasure.

In the See, there were more than a hundred cardinals, but only this one called him by his nickname. They had known each other since St. Catherine's back in Brooklyn, where they once had served together as altar boys. They didn't see each other often these days, and Bartolomeo regretted it.

"Georgie!" countered Cardinal Bartolomeo. "Just the man I need to talk to. Walk along with me!”

He had called Patrick Furst "Georgie" when, as a youngster, Patrick had admired the movie actor George Raft, and, indeed he had resembled the star in his sleek, dark good looks.

"So, Barto," Patrick said with an easy smile, "how goes it? Pretty grim back there with J. P. Morgan and Sons, eh?"

In the Vatican, Patrick Furst was called Cardinal Patricio. His mother was Irish-American and his father a Jew, Polish-born, who had come to America prior to the First World War. His father had been employed by a large corporation and sent with his family to Germany because of his ability to speak German. When the Nazis came into power, he was “relocated”. Patrick managed to get his mother and himself back to the States, where they later learned that his father had been "relocated" "to Auschwitz. His mother was convinced that her husband's fate had been God's way of punishing her for having left the Church, since her husband had not even become a naturalized United States citizen and had no intention of abandoning his faith when they married. She atoned for this lapse by persuading their only child, Patrick, to become a priest. He became, and remained, fanatically religious, growing more zealous as he got older.

  Father Patricio was a handsome man of sixty-three, his once patent-leather hair was only slightly gray and his deepest eyes were those of a melancholy dreamer and ascetic.

"Boring, deadly boring," agreed Bartolomeo. "Maybe it's age. I used to find everything about the Church, even the seamy financial workings, interesting. But now all I think about are my bum leg and my liver. I don't even play tennis anymore. I tell you, Georgie, old age is no place for sissies. After fifty it's just patch, patch, patch!"

"But you, Barto," Father Patrick said. "You look a lot better than most of us. We're all marching down the road, though.” He slipped his arm through the other's as they walked "Let's just think of our age as life's test score—the closer we get to perfect.”

“I m glad to have this chance to talk to you, Patrick. You know all about the history of the Church. I had a phone call from Istanbul, from Mrs. Taylor Phillips."

"Ah, a lady friend, Your Eminence?" Patrick chided. "Seems to me you've mentioned her before."         

"I may have. I am very fond of her...lovely person... sometimes this damned uniform..." He indicated his Cardinal's robes. "But anyway, we are good friends and I keep, an eye on her boy, Jonny, who's been staying here in Rome with Taylor's sister, Jean Hudson."

He then told Patrick about Jason, Lascaris, and the story of the scrolls.

Father Patricio was suddenly a little pale and shook his head vehemently. "Wish I could help you, Barto, but it sounds to like just another hoax. I know of no such scrolls. Sorry."

"Thanks, Georgie. I'm sure you'd know, if anyone would, give her a call and tell her our resident expert says it's baloney. Well, I've got to run. Can't keep His Holiness waiting."

"Have a good trip, Barto."

Patrick waited until Bartolomeo went around the corner, then walked back quickly to find Tobin and Tertius. They were no longer in the hall, so he went to Tobin's office and knocked on the door. He could hear a rustling of papers.

"Who is it?" asked Tobin

"Patricio."

"One moment."

The door opened and Patrick walked into the small office. Tobin quickly closed the door and locked it. There was a glint of triumph in the little man's eyes, and Cardinal Tertius had a pleased smirk on his face.

"Look, my friend, and tell me whether or not the Guardians still know how to get things done!" Tobin said as he went to the desk.

"It just arrived," added Tertius. "By, one might say, special courier."

Tobin took out the briefcase with the locked handcuff still dangling from it. "A little present from Izmir!" he said as he brandished it. "And wait till you see its contents!"

“Why the handcuff ?" Patrick frowned. "I trust there was no violence connected with the assignment."

Tobin assumed a hurt look. -"My dear Patricio, it is a violent world outside our Vatican. Besides, we Guardians never inquire about details. The overall image of Christ is all we care about. He opened the case, saying, "And what were you and our" beloved confrere, Bartolomeo, talking about? Something interesting?"

Patricio hesitated, then said, "Something very interesting indeed. We did not get that briefcase in time. Lascaris got to Van Cleve. Photographs were made. Bartolomeo's friend was involved, the one whose child he looks out for here in Rome.”

Tobin cut him off. "Van Cleve is alive?" His little black eyes went squinty. "I had reason to believe he died in a fire in Izmir."

Patricio looked hard at Tobin, then said, "I wouldn't count on it."

"What else did your friend Bartolomeo tell you?" asked Tertius.

Father Patricio said, "He only wanted to know if I had ever heard of the Ephesus scrolls."

“And what did you tell him?” Tobin demanded.

“That I had never heard of them, of course."   ,

"Who is this child you mentioned?" Tobin asked. "Who is this friend of Bartolomeo's? What have they to do with this?"

"The woman is a Mrs. Phillips, and it is her son that is here in Rome, living with his aunt while going to school here… Jean Hudson. Bartolomeo has mentioned before that he looks in on them. Apparently he's known Mrs. Phillips for some time. She was once vice-consul of the United States in Izmir."

"I repeat, what does she have to do with this?" demanded Tobin.

"It seems she has taken up with this Van Cleve," said Father Patricio.

Tobin nodded to Tertius. "That must be the woman we were told about." Turning back to Patrick, he asked, "Does Mrs. Phillips agree with Mr. Van Cleve's crusade to find the scrolls?'

"I think not. She is a good Catholic."

"As we all are!" said Tertius. "Perhaps she might be very helpful to us, should Van Cleve's American zeal and investigative powers lead him to the original scrolls. Perhaps we should urge her to cooperate with him.

"And then what do we do with the scrolls?" asked Patrick. "Destroy them, I trust?"

"Ah," said Tobin. "We will decide that detail once we get our hands on them. Our Lord will help us decide what to do with them." Cardinal Tobin then took a small black book from his desk drawer, saying, "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have some phone calls to make."

Patrick said, "I must go anyway," and left the room.

Tertius had not intended to leave, but Tobin waited with feigned patience until Father Tertius realized he was no longer welcome and left.  '

When both men had gone, Tobin picked up the phone and made two calls: one to San Francisco, to a clergyman, and the other to a professional criminal, a specialist in kidnapping who lived on the outskirts of Rome.

The one to the clergyman was delivered in a cheery, offhand way

   "Bless you, Edward. How goes the battle? You are well? Thank God for His blessings! I am well also, thanks to Him. Ah, traveling, are you? Spread that special gift of yours to communicate the Word as far as possible.”

"Now"--Cardinal Tobin's voice went down an octave as he became serious—"I trust this line is, well, inviolable, as we say? You're sure? Truly private? Good! Problems? Yes, if you can imagine. Now, with reference to our previous conversation, we've found a good man for the assignment. His name is McCue. We'll have him contact you soon. He must be engaged, but misled. Tell him Melnick recommended him.         So if he is apprehended or gets in trouble with the authorities it is Melnick who is to blame, understand? I thought you would. You received the photos? Good. Give McCue the money and brief him. You'll have all the data by tomorrow! What? Don't worry about any previous orders from Cardinal Furst; he's as soft as eiderdown. The New Guardians are about to take over, believe me, and will run things in the traditional way, the way used to be run in the old days. Be prepared.

“Now remember, emphasize to McCue that he should not simply go there and perform what we might call an ordinary task. No, it is far more complicated, and in fact, depending upon the circumstances, it may not be necessary for him to do it at all. He must be made to understand that. We must try to be civilized. We will let Van Cleve find the scrolls if he has the know-how and the desire. But don't tell McCue how much the scrolls mean to us—that they represent power and that we can use them as a fulcrum to form the New Guardians, which will continue the heritage of our forebears. Under no circumstances must they be returned to Cardinal Furst—or, God forbid, to the Vatican directly. I must go."

He started to hang up. "What? Oh, you mean if Van Cleve does indeed find the scrolls? Well, then, tell McCue to…you are sure that this line is secure? Well, then, Edward—Eduardo, mi amico—for Jason Van Cleve, it seems to come down to... requiescat in pace, eh? Buona sera, my friend, and may the spirit of Jesus fill your heart."