A Woman Involved (39 page)

Then he made the most important call of all. He did not
expect it to work, but if by some fluke it did it would save him a lot of trouble. He mentally rehearsed his lines for the last time, then he dialled the Vatican Secretariat of State.

‘Good morning! I am calling from England to speak to the personal secretary of Cardinal Gunter, please! My name is Anderson, Reverend Michael Anderson.’

‘One moment, please, Reverend …’

There was a click, then a voice said, ‘
Prego?
’

Morgan said, ‘Is that the personal secretary to Cardinal Gunter?’

‘It is he. Father Ryan speaking, good morning.’

Morgan said, ‘Praise the Lord, I’ve been trying for days to telephone you from Africa! I’m calling you from England now, Father, I am Reverend Michael Anderson of the Church of England, my parish is in Zambia.’

‘Oh yes?’ Father Ryan said politely.

‘Father, I am flying to Rome today in the hopes of getting an appointment to see Cardinal Gunter. I have something very,
very
important to tell him. Now, how do I go about getting that appointment?’

‘Well,’ Father Ryan said, ‘I would not come to Rome yet, Reverend –’

‘I’ve already come from Zambia, expressly for this purpose, that’s why I was trying so desperately to call you from there.’

‘You should write a letter –’ Father Ryan began.

‘There isn’t time for that because I’ve got to get back urgently.’

‘– setting out what you need to see the Secretary of State about, Reverend. And that letter should actually come to us from your bishop, or even higher authority, and he should actually refer the matter to the British ambassador to the Holy See, here in Rome, asking him to take it up with this office.’

There simply isn’t
time.
If I don’t see him in the next two days it will be too late to save the situation.’

‘What situation?’

‘It’s far too sensitive to discuss, I’m afraid, Father. But it concerns the Holy Roman Church. Would it be possible for me to have a quick word with Cardinal Gunter now, on the telephone?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m afraid an appointment in the next few
days would be equally impossible. The cardinal is extremely heavily committed since he goes away next week.’

‘For how long, please?’

‘For some weeks. Now I suggest, Reverend, if you’re determined to come to Rome, that you take this matter up with the British ambassador to the Holy See.’

Morgan said wearily, ‘Very well. May I call you again when I get to Rome? And may I ask that you mention this matter to Cardinal Gunter? Maybe he’ll see me.’

‘You may telephone me, certainly, Reverend Anderson, but I doubt I’ll have anything different to tell you.’

Morgan said goodbye with weary politeness.

He thought, Bloody bureaucrats – All the way from fucking Zambia and he doesn’t bend the rules. But it was as he had expected.

He left the hotel. He took a taxi to the sports shop the receptionist had recommended. He bought four golf balls, all-purpose walking shoes, a showerproof tracksuit and a small hold-all.

He went to the bookshop. He bought two copies of
Letters to the Mighty
by Pieter Gunter.

Then he took a taxi to the Vatican again.

First he walked around the entire perimeter of Vatican City, studying the walls and entrances, looking for possible ways to get in. He did not think he would ever do it that way, but the possibility was something he should know about. He saw a few places where it would be possible, with daring and the right equipment, and he marked them on his map. He returned to the point he had started at, Saint Anne’s Gate.

It was noon. On the other side of the road is a bar. He got a table near the door. He ordered a beer. He unfolded his map, opened his guide book, and watched the gate.

It is the business entrance to Vatican City. Ornate pillars, in high brown walls, crested iron-work. The map told him that immediately beyond were the barracks of the Swiss guards. Beyond that, the papal palace, where both the Pope and Cardinal Gunter had their private apartments. Beyond that, a miscellany of impressive buildings, joined to each other, containing a confusing array of art galleries, museums, chapels, lesser palaces, and
Vatican government departments. Beyond that, over a hundred acres of sculptured gardens and more official buildings. All neatly numbered on his map, and indexed. But, infuriatingly, the Secretariat of State was not identified on the map. Where Father Ryan, the arch-bureaucrat, festered.

Cars and people were coming and going through the gate all the time. Two Swiss guards in medieval uniforms stopped them, and examined permits.

Or, stopped most of them. Morgan watched. A number of people were not stopped by the guards. Mostly they were priests, who strode through with busy authority, or they were women in civilian clothes. Some were smartly dressed, looking like senior secretaries, but the others looked like housemaids.

All cars were stopped

But that wasn’t true either.

Morgan saw an elongated limousine swing into the gates and go through without stopping, with a wave from the Swiss guard. Morgan presumed it was an official Vatican vehicle. He noted the number plate. But the next limousine was not stopped either, and it had different plates. Neither car had anything on it indicating that it belonged to one of the embassies. The next car was the same.

Morgan ordered spaghetti and a bottle of wine, and watched the gate.

Where did these limousines come from? Could he hire one?

Dress as a priest. Hire a limousine with chauffeur. Drive through the gates unchallenged. Tell the chauffeur to take him to the Secretariat of State. Enter with all the authority of a priest who knows where he’s going.

Then what? Reverend Anderson from Zambia, come to plead his cause in person with Father Ryan? And say what?

Urgent, urgent, urgent, got to catch a plane back to Zambia. Terrible problems. Just five minutes with His Eminence please. In the name of pity and all that’s holy … 

And if that failed, leave a copy of the cardinal’s book for his autograph, with the passwords written on the fly-leaf?

Morgan rubbed his chin.

It could work. But the snags were serious. The cardinal might not even be there when he arrived. If he was turned away, he would have drawn attention to himself. His face remembered.
And he would have alerted Cardinal Gunter. And he might be in trouble for breaking Vatican security.

Morgan sat, watching the gate, thinking it through.

Finally he got up. He went to look for a public telephone. To call the Tourist Bureau again, to ask where he could rent a limousine.

A taxi dropped him outside the premises of Alberto Andreotti, tailor. Morgan walked in.

A priest was being fitted by a tailor at one end. A grey-haired clerk with a tape measure around his neck looked up. Morgan said: ‘I telephoned this morning about buying a clerical suit?’

‘Ah, yes.’ He glanced at Morgan’s clothes. ‘This is for you?’

‘Yes, I’m visiting Rome on holiday.’

The priest at the other end of the shop called, in an American accent, ‘Lucky for some.’

Morgan smiled: ‘No rest for the wicked, huh?’

‘
No, sir
.’

‘Well, don’t let the lesson be wasted on you, brother.’

The clerk said, ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I must ask you for some identification.’

Morgan frowned at him. ‘What on earth for?’

‘You see, Father, only priests are allowed to buy such suits. Your passport must say what you are.’

Morgan closed his eyes in exasperation. Then he remembered the blank passports he had bought from Danziger. ‘I haven’t got it on me. Can I bring it in later?’

‘What the heck, Alberto,’ the American called, ‘I’ll guarantee the man, he looks overworked enough to be a priest.’

Ten minutes later Morgan was looking at himself in the mirror. White clerical collar, black bib, black suit, black shoes. The Reverend Michael Anderson, from Zambia.

He stuffed his other clothes into the hold-all along with the tracksuit and golf gear. He paid and left the shop, with a brotherly wave to the American.

He took a taxi to the Grand Hotel. He checked in, and paid. He said to the clerk:

‘I’m going out soon. I’m expecting an important message to be left for me. If I telephone you, will you be sure to read it to me?’

‘Certainly, Father, please.’

He took the elevator up to the room. The bell-boy refused a tip. ‘Only a pleasure, Father.’

Morgan rang room service. He ordered a double scotch.

It came immediately. He sat on the bed, drinking the whisky tastelessly, rethinking it through for the last time. Were the chances of success worth the risks?

But it was now or never. Tomorrow was Friday and the Secretary of State left Rome on Monday. If he didn’t try the trick today it would be a long time before he could try it again.
Fuck it – yes.
He swallowed back the whisky in one go. He went to his bag, and pulled out a copy of
Letters to the Mighty
by Cardinal Pieter Gunter.

He opened the book at the title page. He presumed that was where authors autographed their books. He took out his pen. His hand was shaky again.

He scrawled casually over the title:
The elk is not only a Siberian creature.

Well, the cardinal could hardly miss that.

Then he tore a page out of his notebook. He wrote neatly:

He put the note in the title page, and closed the book.

He sighed tensely. And picked up the telephone again. He dialled one of the firms that rented limousines.

He ordered a car, with chauffeur, to fetch the Reverend Anderson from the Grand Hotel immediately.

The driver spoke French. Morgan said:

‘The Swiss guards know me at Saint Anne’s Gate, so don’t stop, just drive through, because I’m already late for my appointment.’

‘Yes, Father.’

The limousine sped across Rome.

Morgan sat in the back, desperately trying to get calm. Telling himself that compared to going into the Union Bank of Switzerland, this was a piece of cake … But, oh God, he could not make it. This was what all the effort had been for, and it could all blow up in his face now, everything undone. And then anything could happen. And God, he wanted this whole business over.

The limousine was whisking up the Via della Conciliazione now, and Morgan felt his stomach contract. Up towards the crescent arms of Saint Peter’s. The limousine swung right, and there, beyond the colonnades, was the Saint Anne’s Gate. Morgan took a deep breath, and crossed himself.

‘Please help me, now, God …’

The limousine slowed as it approached the gate.

There were people coming and going. Another car was ahead of them, stopped. The limousine’s speed dropped more. The car ahead moved through the gate.

Morgan rolled down his window. The limousine drove towards the Swiss guards. The Swiss guard watched, expecting the car to stop. ‘Just go,’ Morgan snapped. He leant towards the window to show his clerical collar and he held up a slip of paper.
‘I’m terribly late.’
And the limousine drove past, into Vatican City.

Morgan sat back, his heart pounding. He looked back through the tinted window. The guard was staring after them. Morgan closed his eyes. He whispered ardently: ‘Thank you, God …’

The limousine pulled to a stop in the parking bay. There were hundreds of other parked cars.

Morgan got out of the car. Without looking left or right he set off across the compound hurriedly, towards the doorway the driver had indicated.

There were people going busily in all directions, mostly priests. Morgan strode through them, trying to look like a man of God who knew exactly what he was doing. He strode into the big, yellow-stucco building clutching
Letters to the Mighty.

He glanced about him, his heart knocking. There were signs in Italian. A priest was striding down the corridor. Morgan
smiled shakily at him: ‘The Secretariat of State, please, brother? …’

He mounted the wide stone stairs. Passing people on the way. He came to the landing.

There were big, ornate, double doors. He walked in.

Into an office, consisting of a short counter with two desks behind it. A young priest was studiously typing. He looked up with a busy smile.

‘Father Ryan?’ Morgan said.

The young man said, with an Italian accent: ‘Nobody as exalted as that. Who must I say is calling?’

‘Reverend Anderson, Church of England, Zambia, please.’

The young man made a brisk note, and picked up the telephone. He pressed a button and waited. He began to speak rapidly in Italian. He paused, and listened. Morgan turned away, and prayed feverishly:
Please God, we’ve done so well … 

The clerk hung up the telephone. ‘He is coming, Father.’

Thank you.’

Morgan waited the longest minute. Trying to calm himself.
For God’s sake, this is a piece of cake compared to the Union Bank of Switzerland … 

The door opened, and in walked Father Ryan, in a bustle of black cassock.

The man was annoyed. ‘Reverend Anderson, what are you doing here?’

Charm was the tactic. ‘Father Ryan, thank you for seeing me –’

‘How did you get here, Reverend?’

‘By plane –’

‘I mean how did you get into Vatican City? Did you get a pass?’

Morgan looked nonplussed. ‘Pass? I had no idea I needed one, I just drove in. I’m awfully sorry.’

‘It’s highly irregular. The guards didn’t stop you?’

Morgan looked mystified. ‘I didn’t even look at them. I was in the back seat.’

Father Ryan shook his head. ‘Very lax of them. Now, then, Reverend, I’m very sorry that you’ve come all this way, but as I said on the telephone –’

‘Father,’ Morgan pleaded with all his charm, ‘it is desperately,
desperately
urgent that I see Cardinal Gunter for just one minute, to give him some information of vital importance –’

Father Ryan interrupted. ‘I’m afraid he’s not even here now, he’s left his office for the day. And tomorrow and Saturday he’s absolutely fully committed. But if you tell me what this is about, I’ll mention it to him when he’s got a moment to listen.’