oversimplification that has been going on for centuries and, recently, has been taken over and amplified by the media.
“There is no such person as a
“I understand what you are saying, your Eminence. But even if this is no more than a game people play, you must admit there are those who believe in it. There is speculation about who might become the next Pope. Books are written about it. In all due reverence, your Eminence, there are even people who bet on it. To some people, the probability is a reality. And, you must admit, if there is such a group as the Rastafarians who, since they feel they cannot reach the Pope himself, intend to eliminate those who are next in line, it would be necessary for them to have a list of all who are in the running for the Papacy.”
“But why would they attempt such an undertaking? As long as there is one Catholic left in the world, there can be a Pope, I suppose—though I have never thought about it. In any case, with many more than a hundred Cardinals, and with the Pope’s power to name as many more Cardinals as he wishes, eliminating all possible candidates to the Papacy is a veritable impossibility.”
“I cannot presume to interpret their drug-numbed minds, your Eminence. But I would guess they feel that if they can do away with everyone on that list, there would be no appropriate candidate left.
“Or, perhaps, more probably they feel that as they eliminate one after another of the most prominent Cardinals, the others will become so frightened of becoming victims, they will abolish the office of the Papacy. Thus, having accomplished the destruction of the Papacy, the Rastafarians could then in an indirect way feel they had achieved their aim of ‘death to the Pope.’”
Boyle toyed with the ring on the third finger of his right hand, as was his habit. “I suppose there is something in what you say,” he admitted.
“Well, then, your Eminence, I would ask you once again to reflect upon the list I have given you.”
Boyle did.
“Now, your Eminence, granted the caveats and disclaimers we have already discussed, would you agree that this is at least a fairly comprehensive listing of those Cardinals who would be strong candidates for the Papacy? At least as appreciated by the students of this sort of thing?”
Boyle considered for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“Do you know everyone on this list?”
“I know
“Then, tell me, your Eminence, if you feel we are correct in our somewhat hurried evaluations. With three exceptions, the men on this list all have bureaucratic positions in Rome.”
Boyle again considered briefly. “Yes, I would agree.”
“Good. Now, those in such bureaucratic positions are generally removed from everyday contact with ordinary people, and thus can be protected rather easily. The sole exception would have been poor Cardinal Gattari. Yet, if we had known of the danger to him, we could have protected him until we got this situation under control. For one thing, we would never have let him go into the Sistine Chapel unaccompanied while this threat lasted.
“But now, we come to the other three. The three that would not be in such protected and protectable positions.”
“Yes,” said Boyle, a new note of gravity in his voice, “That would be Cardinal Claret, Cardinal Whealan, and,” he paused, “myself.”
“That is correct, your Eminence. Cardinal Claret is, unfortunately, already a victim. That leaves yourself and Cardinal Whealan, Archbishop of London. The two Cardinals most vulnerable . . . and you will both be in the same place for the next two days.”
“That is correct.” He continued to finger his ring. “But of course we did not have the slightest notion of such a bizarre plot when we made our plans to meet. We are old friends, you know.”
“Well, I do not think we should have too difficult a time providing security while both of you meet away from the public eye. Say, in Cardinal Whealan’s quarters. Is there any plan for the two of you to be together in any public place?”
“Yes, there is.” Boyle felt somehow apologetic about something over which he had neither foreknowledge nor control. “Tomorrow evening there is to be an ecumenical service involving the Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Whealan, and myself.”
“And where might this service be planned?” Koznicki almost hated to ask.
“Westminster Abbey.”
Koznicki shut his eyes and tried to conjure up the Abbey from memory. He knew it was and had been for many centuries the site for coronations of British monarchs. He assumed it would be a devil of a place to make secure. Still, they must have provided a maximum type of security for the coronations.
Koznicki had been silent so long Boyle finally spoke up. “Is there something wrong, Inspector?”
“We will work it out.”
“I have one question, Inspector. You have been saying such things as, ‘until we get this situation under control’ and ‘until we can clear this matter up.’ Am I to take this to mean that you see an end to this threat at some time in the near future?”
“Oh, yes. The danger comes from one small though aggressive segment of the Rastafarians. They are a splinter group of extremists—zealots, if you will. Just as many situations breed terrorist extremists, so their background and environment has spawned this unbalanced bunch of religious fanatics. It is merely a matter of finding them and apprehending them. And this, in time, will be done. We have contacted Interpol as well as the police forces of each city where any Cardinal on that list is located. In effect, your Eminence, in fictional parlance, we know whodunit; the question remaining is, can we stop them and catch them? I think the answer is most decidedly yes.”
Satisfied, Boyle nodded.
“Oh, and one last thing, your Eminence. With all due respect: not a word about that list to anyone. The news media do not have that information and we do not wish them to have it until this case is closed. We do not want the Rastafarians to know that we know who their targets are. This is the element of surprise that will be our ace of trump in foiling their plot. Only the police, the listed Cardinals, Father Koesler, and, of course, the Reverend Toussaint, through whose good offices we have the list, know about it. No one else is to know.” Koznicki was torn between the enormous reverence he felt for a Cardinal of the Catholic Church and the necessity of stating his admonishment as forcefully as possible.
“Of course, Inspector.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. If you look out the windows on the right side of the plane, you’ll get a good view of the Alps. It’s a breathtaking sight this morning with the sun glancing off the snow cover.”
“It never fails,” said Joan Blackford Hayes to Irene Casey. “When one of those announcements is made, I am always on the wrong side of the plane.”
Neither of them made a move to the other side of the cabin to take in the Alps.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” Joan continued, “I just knew I shouldn’t have been in that greeting line last night at St. John’s. I mean, I looked around and saw that I was just about the only Detroiter in line and I said to myself, you shouldn’t be here. And the next thing I knew I was on the floor in a heap of people.”
Irene Casey studied Joan Hayes. There was not a hair out of place, including the white streak that ran through her otherwise black, perfectly groomed tresses. Irene had known Joan for a considerable number of years, going back to their days at Marygrove College. She had never known Joan to be less than perfectly put together, not even, she recalled, on the basketball court. Even last night, Irene, from her perch of safety near the Cardinal, had watched Joan topple into the pile and emerge somehow unscathed.
“Checking things over back at the hotel later,” said Joan, “I found I did have a run in my stocking.”
Poor dear, thought Irene.
“But it was exciting, wasn’t it?” Joan continued. “The closest I’d ever gotten to a murder was reading about it. And there I was, as close to a real murderer—uh, I guess you call them assailants if they’re unsuccessful—as I am to you.”
“Yesterday,” Irene commented, “I didn’t even know what an eyewitness was, and today I are one.”
