Authors: John Gordon Davis
‘No.’
‘Well I can. I’ll go to the public library and dig out their newspaper files.’ She took a breath of determination. ‘And I’ll see if I can arrange for you to have an appointment with
Benetti.’ She added: ‘I’ll have to tell him – or imply – that we are close. Lovers. If that’s all right.’
‘Of course. This is very kind of you, Renata.’
‘I want to help you with that book …’ Then she smiled. ‘On the other hand, psychiatrists would say it’s because I’m a cripple. The lonely girl eager to ingratiate herself with the tall handsome stranger.’
He was on his guard. ‘You shouldn’t be lonely. You’re a very attractive woman.’
‘Ah, yes. The mirror tells me that too. But many do not like to take out an attractive woman with a walking stick. Even though I do not take the stick to bed.’ She smiled.
He did not know what to say to that.
‘Have you a way of finding out whether the Secretary of State ever hears confession? And if so, where and when?’
She thought.
‘I don’t. But I’ll try.’ She smiled. ‘You want to whisper something in the Secretary of State’s ear?’
‘My hero does. I need authentic detail.’ He went on: ‘You said you know the Nigerian ambassador. Do you ever get invited to any embassy parties?’
‘Yes. I don’t always go, I don’t like standing.’
‘Round Christmas, aren’t there a lot of embassy parties?’
She smiled. ‘You want me to take you as my escort?’
Morgan was embarrassed. ‘If you’d be so kind.’ He added: ‘Does the Secretary of State attend these parties?’
‘He’s usually invited, but often sends a representative. I may be able to find out if he’s coming, on the grapevine.’
God, he might be lucky. ‘If I telephone you, say, twice a week in December, will you tell me what parties you’re invited to?’
She said: ‘You’re going away?’
‘Yes. But not for a day or two. And I’ll be back.’
She nodded sadly. ‘Yes, you can telephone me.’ She paused. ‘And I shall start work on those newspaper cuttings for you. I have an engagement tomorrow night. Would you like to call me day after tomorrow? And see what progress I have made. And come around for a drink?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
She sighed. ‘All the interesting people are always going away somewhere.’ She glanced at him. ‘When you come back to
Rome you may stay here, if you wish.’ She added: I have a spare room.’
He did not want to accept that. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
She glanced away, embarrassed. ‘In fact, you may stay tonight if you wish. It is late and it is raining.’
He mentally closed his eyes. He would sleep with her if he had to, to keep her on his side, but with all his heart he wanted to be true to Anna. ‘That’s very kind, but I must make an early start in the morning.’
‘Where are you staying?’
He said, without thinking: ‘A place called Pensione Umberto.’
‘I think I have seen it.’ She sighed. ‘Will you not have one more for the road, as the English say?’
‘I really must be going.’
She sighed again. She bent, and picked up her stick.
He followed her to the door. She turned and faced him. She stretched, and kissed his cheek. ‘
Au revoir
.’
‘
Au revoir
.’ He kissed her cheek. And she slid her arms around his neck.
She held him a moment. Then turned for the door. She slid back the latch.
‘Good night,’ she smiled.
‘Good night, Renata,’ he said.
When he got down to the street he realized something and he was annoyed with himself: he could not go back to his pensione wearing this bloody wig and moustache. They wouldn’t recognize him. Or if they did they would be very suspicious. He had the acetone and cotton wool which the Dutchman had given him but he needed a washbasin to remove the disguise. And even if he did manage to remove it in a dark alleyway, tomorrow morning he could not walk out of the pensione wearing the disguise. So he would have to don it in the street again.
He sighed angrily. He set off through the rain.
Looking for a taxi, to take him to another hotel.
It was after one o’clock when he checked into the Excelsior.
He locked his bedroom door. He went into the bathroom, soaked the cotton wool with acetone, then dabbed it across his lip and hairline.
A minute later he had both moustache and wig off. He washed his face.
He went into the bedroom. He collapsed on the bed. And stared up at the ceiling.
So far he had four possibilities for getting to His Eminence, Cardinal Gunter, Secretary of State.
One: the golf club.
Two: embassy parties.
Three: the confessional. If His Eminence was not too exalted for such chores.
Four: Benetti, the masseur.
Morgan pressed his hands to his face.
Each possibility had its snags, but instinctively Benetti was the option he liked least. In principle, it was the easiest if it worked. Simply give Benetti a letter to deliver to the Secretary of State personally. The cardinal reads the passwords, and obeys the orders to meet at the appointed time and place …
That was the perfect scenario. But there were big snags. It meant trusting Benetti. Morgan was by no means sure that Benetti was as important, as close to the papal throne as Renata thought. Benetti might read the letter – and he would surely identify the passwords as passwords. He would know that something remarkable was up. And, potentially, the cat would be halfway out of the bag. Then anything could happen.
He lay on the bed, trying to think.
But even if Benetti did read the letter and smelt a rat, what was
likely
to happen? If he were indeed accustomed to reporting directly to popes and Vatican heads, would he be likely to interfere? And even if he did make himself a busybody, would not the Secretary of State, with his massive authority, be able to bluff it out and put the masseur off the scent? The Secretary of State did not want his secret exposed.
Morgan sighed. There were so many imponderables …
He swung off the bed.
Now cut that out. You’ve done bloody marvellously in one day. Just take one day at a time.
He took off his clothes. He ripped back the bedcovers; then he hesitated.
He lowered himself to his knees. He leant his elbows on the bed, and prayed.
He slept deeply, as if his body had shut down on him in protest. At seven o’clock that Thursday morning he was dressed, pacing restlessly about his room, waiting for Rome to wake up. Tensely phrasing and rephrasing what he was going to say. Rethinking contingencies, what he should say If. The sun came up, and it was going to be a fine, dry autumn day. A perfect day for golf. Which he dearly wished he did not have to play. At nine o’clock he telephoned the Tourist Bureau.
‘Good morning, I am a film producer from England, and I want to buy some clerical robes for a film I am making. Can you give me the name of some fast tailors?’
Five minutes later he had the addresses and telephone numbers of two firms, plus the name of a costumier. But he was wary of using a costumier – he would have to leave an address, and if he failed to return the costume the police would be informed. He telephoned the first tailor. But nobody there spoke either English or French. He was luckier with the second. He told the clerk he was a visiting priest and needed a new clerical suit, off the peg – jacket, trousers, bib and collar. Size thirty-eight long, in English measurements. Yes, Father, he was respectfully informed, they had most sizes in stock.
Morgan hung up, relieved. He felt like a criminal, telling these lies.
The next call was no easier to make. He sat on the bed, rethinking what he had to say. Then he dialled the Vatican Press Office.
‘Good morning,’ he said, ‘I’m calling international – may I please talk to someone who speaks English? …’
There was a click, then a brisk, female, American voice said, ‘Information Desk.’
Morgan said, ‘Hullo, I’m calling from the
Yorkshire Evening Post
, in England, can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hear you very indistinctly, do you mind if I hang up and call again?’
‘Go ahead.’
He hung up, a little shakily. He waited a minute, then dialled again.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that. Look, my name is Paul Davidson, I’m calling from the
Yorkshire Evening Post
, and I’m flying out to Rome tomorrow to write a piece about the Vatican. What I’m hoping, if you’ll be so kind, is that I can take you to lunch, to talk a little shop?’
‘I see.’ Weary hesitation of a high-powered press officer dealing with a country-bumpkin pressman. ‘I’m very booked up for the foreseeable future, Mr Davidson, but perhaps we can discuss this by telephone? What shop do you want to talk?’
‘A drink, lunch, dinner, anything, the
Post
would be delighted. Well, first of all we’re interested in the Pope himself, and the Secretariat of State, I believe it’s called. You know, Vatican policy, particularly in Africa, where there’re intense social and economic problems, the Church’s civilizing role, et cetera.’ Nervous pause. ‘Would it be possible for me to get an interview with Cardinal Gunter, the Secretary of State?’
Weary unhesitation. ‘I think it highly unlikely, Mr Davidson, he is a very busy man. Anyway, you’d have to apply to the Secretariat.’
‘Oh, dear. And that takes time, I suppose?’
‘A long time.’ She added: ‘Of course, as an accredited newsman, you could attend any press conference he chooses to hold, but none are scheduled for the moment.’
‘Oh. And the Pope? I was also hoping for an interview with His Holiness.’
‘I see.’ He could almost see her smile. ‘Well, the same problem, I’m afraid. But even harder. But do apply.’
‘Well,’ Morgan the newshound from Yorkshire said earnestly, ‘Is the Pope in residence at the moment?’
‘He is.’
‘And the Secretary of State?’
‘He is too. But next Monday he goes abroad.’
‘For how long?’ Morgan demanded.
‘It’s not officially known, Mr Davidson. Affairs of state sometimes take longer than expected, you know.’
Morgan wasn’t sure whether his heart sank or lifted.
‘But when is he expected back? The
Yorkshire Evening Post
would hate to pay for me to come to Rome twice.’
‘I understand,’ the lady smiled, ‘I used to work for a newspaper too. I’m afraid nothing is definite. But watch the
Osservatorie Romano
, the official Vatican newspaper. You’ve heard of that, of course, in Yorkshire? It reports such things as the movements of important Vatican officials.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ He hesitated, then blurted: ‘We hear that the Secretary of State is a keen golfer, madam?’
‘That is true.’
‘Can you tell me when and where he plays?’ He gushed: ‘The
Yorkshire Post
would love a few photographs …’
‘I’m afraid,’ the lady said, ‘the private engagements of His Eminence are private.’
‘I understand,’ Morgan said hastily. ‘Of course I wouldn’t make a nuisance of myself. But can you please tell me when he’s playing?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Davidson. Only his personal secretary would know, and he wouldn’t tell you either.’
‘I see …’ He went on hastily, before the woman politely told him to get lost: ‘One detail you might be able to give my readers: When does the Secretary of State hear confession, from the public? And celebrate mass?’
A moment’s silence. ‘I’ve no idea, Mr Davidson. If the Secretary of State wishes to perform that duty it would be on an
ad hoc
basis, something he would arrange with the priest of the particular church in which he wished to do it.’
Morgan’s heart sank. ‘I see. But he does do it, sometimes?’
‘I dare say he does, but those movements of his are not under the auspices of this office.’
He was pushing his luck: ‘Who could tell me?’
The lady got impatient. ‘Nobody. It’s something he may or may not wish to do, from time to time.’
‘I see, I’m sorry. One last question.’ He reformulated it hastily: ‘All priests have a confessor, don’t they? Somebody to whom they say their confessions?’
‘True.’
Morgan hurried on: ‘Can you by any chance tell me who the confessor of the Secretary of State is? …’
An astonished silence.
‘I have no idea. May I ask the purpose of that question?’
Morgan said hastily: ‘Well, for example, if it’s a village priest somewhere it would be excellent local colour.’
The lady said frostily, ‘I understand. But I’m afraid nobody would know except somebody very close to His Eminence. Confession, as you doubtless know, is a very personal matter.’
‘I know …’ Morgan said apologetically. He ended, before he was cut off: ‘Well, madam, the
Yorkshire Evening Post
is very grateful. And, please? … will you have a drink with me when I come to Rome?’
‘Call me,’ the lady said with polite relief, ‘and see how I’m fixed …’
Morgan hung up. Feeling drained and elated. He had done that very well. And learned that the Secretary of State was out of town as from Monday. And, oh, that felt like the best news he had heard for a long time – he could hardly do anything before Monday.
He sighed and tried his luck again: he telephoned the
Guardian’s
office, and asked for Bill Fletcher.
‘I was given your name by Whacker Ball as being a keen golfer. I’m a visitor, and I wondered if you knew somebody who would give me a game?’
Bill Fletcher could not play that week but he referred him to Brian Kelly, another newspaperman. Kelly could not make it either, but he put Morgan onto Kevin Munro of Associated Press.
‘Sure,’ Kevin said, ‘how about one o’clock tomorrow?’
‘Not today? It’s such a lovely day, may be raining tomorrow.’
‘No can do today, mate.’
Morgan sighed inwardly. ‘Tomorrow is fine. Thanks. By the way, can I rent some clubs somewhere?’
‘I’ll lend you a set. Just buy a ball or two.’
‘Excellent.’ He added quickly, ‘If I get to the club before you? –’
‘Just say you’re my guest and make yourself at home …’
He then telephoned the reception desk of the hotel and asked for the address of a sports store and a shop that sold religious books in the English language.