Authors: John Gordon Davis
But he should still put the question. If only in the hopes the man answered Yes. And thereby made it easier.
But oh God, if he answered No it was going to make it even harder …
Morgan squeezed his eyes closed. At the end of his tether.
Who? Danziger?
And all he had to do was pick up the telephone and call Danziger in Marseilles. And it would all be over.
He took a deep breath, sick in his guts.
That terrible day went that way.
At eight-thirty that night, he left the hotel. At nine o’clock he drove past Saint Anne’s Gate at Vatican City, and began to time himself.
He drove along the route he had selected, across Rome, and out onto the Appian Way towards the beauty spot. He passed the public telephone half a mile before the intersection. He drove on, to the intersection. He timed it: about thirty-five minutes.
He turned around, and drove back towards Rome. Tomorrow he had to buy gloves. And binoculars.
The next day was the longest of his life.
At eight o’clock that night he paid his bill, up until the next day. He explained that he might be leaving very early in the morning. He returned to his room, packed everything into his handgrip and left the hotel with it. Then he drove carefully across Rome, and out onto the Appian Way.
It was a few minutes before nine when he came to the public telephone, half a mile before the intersection. He waited until exactly nine o’clock. He went to the box.
He dialled Cardinal Gunter’s private telephone number.
The cardinal answered immediately. He sounded very tense. Morgan said: ‘What kind of car do you have? Your own private car, not your official one.’
The cardinal said nervously: ‘A Citroën.’
‘Colour?’
‘Blue. Dark blue.’
‘Number?’
The cardinal told him. Morgan said: ‘Leave the Vatican immediately, driving this car. Drive out onto the Appian Way. About sixteen kilometres from the centre of Rome you will encounter an intersection, in the forest, with a stop sign. There’re some street lights there. About five kilometres further on you will see a truckers’ hostel, called Bar-Ristorante Venezia.
Go inside and get something to drink. You’ll see a public telephone in the corner. Sit near it. When it rings, answer it. Got that?’
‘Yes,’ the cardinal whispered.
Morgan hung up. His face and hands felt clammy.
He got back into his car and he drove on down the dark Appian Way. He came to the intersection and turned left. He drove five hundred metres, then came to the track leading up into the forest. He swung onto it. He drove up through the forest. Over the hill. He came to the fork. He first turned down the right fork. He drove to the picnic tables. He switched off his lights and peered around. There were definitely no other cars. He turned and drove back, up to the fork. He turned down the left fork. He drove for a hundred yards, then pulled into the trees. He got out of the car. He left it unlocked. He started running back up the track, towards the tarred road.
He walked back to the intersection. Then he scrambled up the bank, into the forest again. He crouched down, and peered down the Appian Way, towards Rome. He could see the road well.
He sat down, and pressed his hands to his face. They trembled.
He looked at his watch. He had at least fifteen minutes to wait. With all his sickened heart he wanted to pray. But for what? For help? For forgiveness? He could not bring himself to try.
He put his new gloves on.
Four cars passed. Each time Morgan’s stomach turned over. He peered through the binoculars. But as soon as each car came within a hundred metres, into the lamplight, slowing down for the stop sign, he could see it was not a blue Citroën. And he untensed, sick in his guts. Then, after seventeen minutes he saw new headlights coming. And this was a Citroën.
The car came up the hill, slowing for the stop sign. Morgan crouched, his heart pounding, peering through the binoculars. Then he could make out the car’s number. Only one person in it. It came rolling to a halt, abreast of him. And Morgan came bursting out of the trees, onto the road.
He flung open the front passenger door. Pieter Gunter
jerked, shocked, his face ashen in the panel lights, it’s me,’ Morgan snapped. He got in and slammed the door. ‘Go. Turn left here.’
The cardinal hastily surged the car forward. ‘I thought you were going to telephone –’
‘Change of plan. Just drive.’
The car swung left, down the road. The cardinal looked ill. ‘Why the change?’ he said hoarsely.
‘In case you have people covering the bar. To jump on me.’
‘I see. Well, I haven’t.’
‘Good.’ Sick in his guts. He looked through the rear window. There was nobody following. He said, ‘There’s a turn-off into the forest, on the right. Take it.’
The car turned off the tarred road, onto the forest track. It ground up the hill. Then came the fork. ‘Take the right.’
The cardinal Obeyed. Two hundred yards on they came into the picnic area.
‘Stop. Switch the headlights out. Put the interior lights on. Leave your safety strap on.’
The cardinal obeyed. He turned to Morgan. He was haggard.
‘Now?’ he said.
Morgan opened his door and climbed quickly out. He crouched on his haunches in the open doorway. He took a trembly breath. ‘Have you got the resignations?’
Pieter Gunter was very frightened. ‘Why have you got out?’
‘Elementary self-defence. Have you got the resignations?’
Pieter Gunter put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a large envelope. It trembled in his hand. He passed it over.
Morgan fumbled it open. He pulled out a sheaf of photocopied documents.
There were twenty sheets, stapled together in twos. The top copy was in Italian. The second was in English. All on official Vatican paper. Morgan speed-read the English copies. They were exactly as he had ordered: a simple, one-line confession; a simple, unequivocal resignation. ‘Was there any trouble?’
‘Some.’
‘Meaning?’ He did not care.
‘Meaning I’m convinced that some of them are holy men, to whom an injustice has been done.’
‘They all protested their innocence? Claimed to have found God?’
Pieter Gunter closed his eyes briefly, and nodded. ‘True.’
‘But in the end they all accepted the inevitable? And agreed to resign quietly.’
‘True.’
Thank God he had been right. And please God he was right in what he yet had to do. Pieter Gunter said:
‘And now? Have I satisfied all your conditions?’ He held out a trembly hand: ‘Have you got the evidence?’
Morgan felt sick anger flare that this had been thrust upon him. He said: ‘Yes. But I have another condition to impose first.’
Pieter Gunter closed his haggard eyes again. ‘What is it now?’
Morgan’s mouth was dry. God, now he wanted the answer to be the wrong one, to make it easier: if the answer was the right one it was going to be even more terrible. Perhaps it would be easier not to know, to execute judgement on what he already knew, but he had to ask it. He said:
‘The world is rapidly becoming over-populated. A big part of it is starving already. In a hundred years there will be chaos.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know that you cannot countermand the Pope’s ruling on the subject. But as Secretary of State you can lead a powerful movement to persuade him to lift the Catholic Church’s prohibition on contraception …’
There was a silence. Pieter Gunter looked at him, his eyes haggard. Then he said:
‘And if I agree, you will give me the microfilm?’ He cleared his throat. ‘And if I then break the agreement, you will blackmail me, by using my hand-written confession. And if I still don’t do your bidding, you will expose me.’
Morgan’s nerves were near breaking. ‘Just answer the question!’
Cardinal Gunter went on unsteadily: ‘And if I refuse this new condition, you will
not
give me the microfilm? And I, and the Church, will ever more be liable to be blackmailed by you – we’ll live under the constant sword of Damocles that you will use the microfilm against us, for whatever purpose, expose this
whole sordid story and bring the Church into disgrace. So I cannot trick you. You have all the cards.’
‘Correct.’
Pieter Gunter said shakily: ‘So all is lost. So I have nothing to lose, my friend. Nothing to lose by giving you a truthful answer. And that answer is No.’
Morgan wanted to bellow his fury to the sky because this answer made it harder. The cardinal went on grimly:
‘This may be wasted effort, but I also have nothing to lose by trying to persuade you.’ He took a tremulous breath. ‘This matter of contraception has been a bitter bone of contention between the Church and modern man for decades. And the arguments in favour of contraception are weighty. But the hard fact is that human life is sacred. It is God-given, for His purpose. And I will not now, nor ever, allow that divine purpose to be frustrated by man.’
Morgan did not know why he was arguing with the man because it made no difference but he cried, ‘
But the world’s only so big – how can we keep filling it with people who’re going to starve?
’
‘I am familiar with all the arguments, believe me. And if you like I will debate them with you till the cows come home. But the end result will be the same: as long as I have any power I will not permit the matter to be bargained about …’ He looked at Morgan, his exhausted eyes liquid. Then said with controlled anger: ‘You may expose me for what happened in my youth! You may shake the Holy Roman Church to its foundations by so doing, but I will not bargain about the sanctity of human life! God’s will is not negotiable!’
Morgan wanted to retch. His task had not been made easier for him. Cardinal Pieter Gunter said, white-faced:
‘So? Now you are not going to give me the evidence?’
Morgan wanted to break down and weep. Before he could answer, the cardinal said: ‘And now you’re going to kill me?’
Morgan’s throat was thick. He said: ‘You are the Secretary of State. You know so much. The Russians can make you talk if they ever catch up with you …’
The cardinal interrupted shakily: ‘I anticipated this. So I have something further to offer you … My last card …’
He put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out another envelope, sealed. It trembled in his hand.
Morgan took it. He began to open it. The cardinal’s hand shot back inside his jacket and he pulled out a gun.
He pointed it at Morgan tremblingly.
Morgan crouched in the open door, astonished, staring at the gun. The cardinal clutched it in both hands, his face a mask of horror at what he was doing. He whispered:
‘
For God’s sake let me spare your life, Englishman. Give me the microfilm
…’ Morgan’s mind was stammering. The cardinal blurted: ‘
If you don’t, I’ve got to kill you, Englishman! And damn myself …
’
Morgan whispered: ‘You said human life is sacred.’
The gun trembled three feet from his face. ‘But so is the Church! The Church is worth much more than your life and my immortal soul in purgatory. The Church must live so that mankind can live, and you have the evil power to destroy the Church!’
‘I do not want to destroy it! – I’m trying to save it!’
‘Then in the name of God give me the microfilm, Englishman! And save the Church and your life and my immortal soul!’ The gun trembled in his clasped hands.
Morgan blurted: ‘I haven’t got it on me –’
The cardinal cried desperately: ‘You’re lying! You said you had it on you!’
‘I’m not!’
‘I can’t afford to believe you, Englishman! Nor can the Church! Nor can mankind! If you don’t give it to me now I’ve got to kill you! I can’t take the risk on behalf of God and the whole of mankind! Your life isn’t worth that risk! So in the name of Jesus Christ I beg you to remove the risk and give me the evidence now and save your precious life! This is the last time I ask!’
‘Tomorrow! – I haven’t got it with me now …’
And Pieter Gunter’s eyes widened and his face seemed to swell with horror and Morgan stared at the gun aghast; Pieter Gunter’s clutching hands tremblingly tightened, and the bile welled up in his throat. And he could not pull the trigger, and Morgan flung himself sideways.
He flung himself wildly onto the ground beside the car. He scrambled up and pulled out his gun and crouched against the rear mudguard, his heart pounding. He heard the driver’s door burst open and the cardinal scramble out. Morgan looked desperately at the trees, for cover to run to. But the car was stopped right out in the open. He raised his head and peered through the rear-door window. He jerked his head down again. He could not see the man. He looked frantically behind him, then peered under the car, looking for the man’s feet. He could see nothing. Blackness. He scrambled to the very rear of the car. Gun up. He peered around the rear light.
Nothing. He dashed to the other rear light. He crouched there, gun ready. Then he peered around the corner.
Again nothing! He swivelled and faced the other way, then scrambled backwards to the rear left mudguard, his heart hammering: then he peered through the rear passenger window, and he saw the man. Saw his horrified face looking back at him, and they both jerked their heads down simultaneously. Then Morgan heard the man vomit.
He heard a heaving sound, and a retch, then out it came in a gush. Morgan was amazed; then he scrambled back around the rear of the car. Then he leapt out into the open, his gun clasped in both hands in front of him, his heart pounding.
He stared. Cardinal Pieter Gunter was on his hands and knees, his head hanging, his gun on the ground. He retched once more, then coughed, and shuddered; then he raised his head.
His haggard eyes were streaming, his face suffused. Vomit on his chin. He seemed quite unsurprised to see Morgan covering him with the gun, quite unafraid; just exhausted; nauseous, finished. He raised his wrist to his chin, and wiped the vomit off. He looked at Morgan, his eyes wet, and he said: ‘Forgive me …’
Morgan stared, the trembling gun trained on him. The man lifted his other wrist and wiped his eyes.