Forbidden Sanctuary (24 page)

One by one he was reviewing the possibilities, assessing the consequences. It was a procedure that was second nature to him by now. He did it out of habit, not from any hope that somehow he would come up with a sequence that would end happily. The ones that did were fantasies, pipe dreams. And the greatest fantasy was that Clement would succeed tomorrow. He hadn't prepared a strategy, he hadn't asked advice, he hadn't studied the Numoi, he hadn't done anything that would give the slightest hope of success. It was clear that he was relying on the Holy Spirit to inspire him in his meeting with Zanla—which sounded very nice, but in Collingwood's experience was just an excuse for not having done what you were supposed to do. When would Clement learn that holiness just wasn't enough, that more was required in his position, and if he didn't have what was required, he should turn to those who did?

Collingwood exhaled slowly. The possibilities were exhausted. He had done what he could. Perhaps, like Clement, he should leave things in God's hands now. Perhaps he should resign immediately, teach theology, write a book, become a missionary. Reasons of health, the long hours... ah, how they would cackle with glee in the Curia.

Their cackles turned to beeps, and he was confused for a moment. It was his phone, of course, although his heart was pounding with the thought that somehow the Curia had been in the room with him, reading his mind. He took the phone out of his pocket and flipped it on. "Collingwood here."

"Hello, Father, this is David Shea. From Fordham?"

"Yes, David, how are you?" And what the devil—

"Fine, fine. I'm very sorry to disturb you, but it's about the conversation we had yesterday?"

"Yes?" Collingwood was suddenly totally alert.

"It may be nothing, but I understand how important this is. You see, one of the cleaning ladies here swears she saw Bernardi."

"Where?"

"At morning Mass. Saint Anthony's Church. In the Bronx."

"I know where it is. Is she sure?"

"She's seen his picture in the paper. She didn't know what to do, so she came to me."

"Was he alone?"

"Yes."

"What time is the Mass?"

"Seven-thirty."

"All right, keep her away from there until this clears up if you can, David. And tell her to keep quiet about it. Okay?"

"Sure. What are you going to do?"

Collingwood paused. "I don't know just yet," he replied softly. "Thanks for the information."

"Sure thing."

Collingwood put the phone away and listened to the wind for a while. Saint Anthony. His patron saint. Clement would take that to be a sign from on high. He wasn't totally unmoved himself. But what should he do about it? To act would be to disobey the Pope, to break his vows. Not to act would be to shirk his responsibility to the Church. And he himself would certainly be drowned in the waves of contempt and disapproval that would follow the debacle toward which Clement was blundering.

He meditated for a few minutes, and then decided. If Clement didn't know how to compromise, he did. He would wait for the results of tomorrow's meeting. If Clement achieved nothing he would use the information with a clear conscience, knowing that he, and the Church, had no other choice.

Collingwood suddenly felt much better. He had a handle on things now. Events could be shaped, plans could be made. He rose from the chair and quickly prepared for bed. He would need his wits about him tomorrow.

* * *

Clement would have preferred to say Mass alone, unnoticed, but he was the servant of the servants of God, so he obliged the pastor and let most of the parish crowd into the small, cold church. Evidently not everyone despised him, though this was a far cry from the crowd he and his predecessors were used to. He wished he could have thought of something eloquent and memorable for his homily, but he had only a limited amount of eloquence, and that was best saved for Zanla. So he skipped the sermon altogether, and went quickly through the ritual that was far more meaningful than anything he could think of to say.

After Mass he returned to the rectory. Collingwood was in one of the drafty parlors, standing with a man Clement recognized as Claude Bacquier. The Frenchman advanced and kissed Clement's ring diplomatically, but still managed to convey a sense of his opposition and, yes, enmity. "I am here to bring your Holiness to the Numoi's ship whenever you are ready. Zanla was told you would come sometime this morning."

Clement hadn't eaten, but he had no wish to. Should he talk to his advisers? Call Fontanelli and let him blather about Curial policy? Give Collingwood one last chance to make his points? No, it wasn't worth it. It was time to act "I am ready, then. Let's go."

The other two men appeared a little startled. Did they expect him to be indecisive about everything? "Excellent," Bacquier said after a barely perceptible pause. "I will just alert the security people and so on."

"One item," Clement said. "The interpreter."

"Oh yes, we have one ready."

"We would like Ms.—what's the name, Anthony?"

"Summers," Collingwood replied—a bit glumly, Clement thought. Another one of the old man's headstrong ideas.

"Oh, but that will be impossible," Bacquier said hurriedly. "Ms. Summers has been dismissed from her job."

"Where is she?"

"Well, she is in the compound. We have to keep her there until the Numoi leave, and then she will be handed over to U.S. authorities for prosecution."

"If she is there, then we want her. It's foolish to oppose us on this, isn't it?"

Bacquier shrugged. "Very well. You shall have Ms. Summers. I will go to make the arrangements."

Clement watched Bacquier leave, then sat down and stared at Collingwood. After a moment's silence he spoke. "Will you pray for me, Anthony?"

The question seemed to bother Collingwood. Why? He blinked rapidly behind his rimless glasses. "Of course, Holiness," he replied finally.

"Thank you," Clement murmured, and they were silent until Bacquier returned.

* * *

The morning was overcast and bitter cold. Clement huddled in his seat and looked out the window. In daylight the countryside had an austere beauty that made him homesick for England: a few birch trees alternating with the pines, a distant farmhouse blending into the slate-gray sky, an ancient horse swishing its tail and eyeing the passersby sleepily.

But soon they confronted warning signs and barbed wire and guards with rifles conspicuously displayed. So much for nature. They barely slowed down at the gate, roaring through until they came to a halt in front of a motel. Clement wasn't looking at the motel, however. His eyes were fixed on the strange blue craft beyond, which looked to him like some enormous jewel dropped onto the New England landscape.

A pyramid, of course. Strangely familiar, yet also utterly strange. Someone had claimed this as evidence that the aliens had helped the ancient Egyptians build their own pyramids as replicas of the craft. But the pyramids were only tombs. What was this, then: a jewel or a tomb?

"Ashanti," Collingwood murmured next to him. Clement unwillingly brought his attention back to Earth. The little Secretary-General was standing in the doorway of the motel, waiting for them to get out of the car. Clement should have expected Ashanti. The UN's ultimate weapon.

Clement emerged from the car and exchanged effusive greetings with the smiling diplomat. Ashanti led him inside, with Bacquier and Collingwood following.

"Perhaps you have time for a short chat before you visit our friends?" Ashanti inquired.

"As you wish," Clement replied, seeing no polite way out of it.

Ashanti bowed his thanks and led him past the front desk into the first empty room—which happened to be the motel's cocktail lounge, bleak and lifeless in the morning light. The decor was Plastic English Pub. In the far corner drums and audio equipment were stacked, awaiting a more appreciative audience. Clement caught sight of himself in the long mirror behind the rows of bottles, and had to smile. "It has been many years since I have been in a pub," he observed.

Ashanti laughed and took two chairs down off a table. "I do not frequent them myself. But special cases require exceptions." He gestured to Clement to sit.

"My meeting this morning is another special case. Does your rule apply to it as well?"

Ashanti laughed again. His teeth were dazzlingly white, and his laughter seemed so sincere it warmed up the room. "I have always enjoyed our visits, your Holiness. Even when we meet under difficult circumstances."

"I have enjoyed them too, although I always seem to end up giving you what you want."

"But I want so little," Ashanti replied, and it was Clement's turn to laugh. Ashanti leaned back in his chair and looked up at the tiled ceiling. "We both have difficult jobs, do we not?"

"It cannot be denied."

"But you know," Ashanti continued, "at a time like this I think I envy you."

"How is that?" Clement asked, puzzled.

"Well, because you have the opportunity to live by your convictions. How few of us have that chance? Certainly not I, nor the President of the United States, or any other world leader."

"We are hardly free from pressure."

"Oh yes, of course, tremendous pressure. But ultimately you are free. If I did some of the things I would like to do, I would be dismissed tomorrow. But no one can dismiss you."

"Don't you think that freedom creates its own burden?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. We all have burdens, though. I am talking about opportunities. A Secretary-General can never become a hero, for example. Oh, he may accomplish one thing or another, arrange a truce here, settle a dispute there. But he must lead a life of compromise. He can never take the courageous but unpopular step. You can."

"Are you seriously suggesting that I can become a hero out of all this?"

"Ah, you must take the long perspective, your Holiness. Let me give you an example. You may remember the cases of Japanese soldiers in the Philippines who never heard the news of the surrender at the end of World War Two. As a result they spent twenty, thirty years in the jungle, because our emperor had told them never to give up, you see, and they would not disobey orders. Had they returned to Japan in 1945 they would have been nothing, just a few more defeated soldiers, to be forgotten in our national shame. But returning in 1975, they became heroes. Their courage may have been misguided, but courage it truly was, and after thirty years we could applaud it."

"Are we then fighting a long-lost war all by ourselves?"

Ashanti smiled and leaned toward Clement. "People do not forget courage, your Holiness. It will take a while—perhaps a long while, if things go badly in the next few days—but eventually your memory will be honored. Why, your Church has canonized men for less, I truly believe."

The point had been made. "If you could trade places, then, would you do what we are doing?" Clement asked.

"Oh, I do not say that. I am what I am. I do not have your courage. Who does? I would strive as always to find some middle road, to satisfy as many and offend as few as possible. That is all I am capable of doing, I fear."

"Well, thank you for your encouragement anyway. When we are made a saint we will intercede with God to have you released from the purgatory to which all compromisers are assigned."

Ashanti inclined his head in thanks. "You are too kind."

He is not particularly subtle, Clement thought, but he knows it makes no difference. The doubt has been planted. Was this just an empty gesture, an attempt to save his Papacy in the eyes of the future?
Am I being courageous just to show that I am still capable of courage?

But did Ashanti think that he had not already considered such questions? Did Ashanti believe him that incapable of self-examination? Perhaps. Perhaps it was the best the man could do at the last moment. It wasn't quite good enough, though. Clement rose and wearily headed out of the lounge, with Ashanti following close behind.

The lobby was crowded, and all eyes were on him. He instinctively recognized Angela Summers, however, standing meekly behind Bacquier. He walked over to her and held out his hand. "My child," he said, "you have suffered a great deal for your faith."

"I have only done what I had to, your Holiness," she responded, bowing to kiss his ring.

"How many of us have the courage to do that?" he wondered. He gave her his blessing. "Let us go, and see where it will take us all."

The rest of the crowd tried to offer him last-minute information, suggestions, warnings. He ignored them all and walked out into the cold with Angela. The blue ship waited. Never had the burden of his freedom weighed more heavily upon him.

Chapter 24