Shadow of Death

Africa would still be home for the forcibly transplanted black men and women. How could one enslave the very people one has been instructed to love and serve?

“Here and there, there are Christians who live up to the faith. Just as there are Rastas who live up to theirs. In a sense, the Rastas we are now involved with are, at worst, not the run-of-the-mill selfish sinner. As evil as is their purpose, they are only trying to wipe out their principal enemy . . . or those whom their confused minds perceive as their principal enemy.

“Which,” Toussaint smiled again, “does not mean we must not prevent them from achieving their goal.”

Koesler shook his head. “I’m going to have to mull this over.” He wondered briefly if Toussaint was aware that he, the deacon, had just delivered a sermon on basic Christianity to a priest.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. We are still right on schedule and will shortly be making our descent preparatory to landing at Heathrow. Just off to the right side of the plane, you may be able to make out the Cliffs of Dover as we complete our crossing of the English Channel.”

“It never fails,” said Joe Cox to his everything companion Pat Lennon, “when one of those announcements is made, I am always on the wrong side of the plane.”

Neither reporter made a move to try to behold the White Cliffs of Dover or the bluebirds that might be over them.

“Look at it this way, love,” said Cox, “if that murder and attempted murder hadn’t happened in Rome, you’d be winging your way back to Detroit with the rest of them.”

“Joe!” Lennon turned toward him, “that’s grotesque!”

“It’s also true. Even with that attack on Boyle last night, poor old Nelson Kane had to roust Larry David and a slew of the other brass before he got an OK for my continuing on this story.”

“No kidding! What possible argument could anyone make against your staying with this?”

“That the Boyle assault was a fluke. That it won’t be repeated. That now that they’ve caught one of the assailants, the rest—if there are any more—will give up their plan. That they can save a lot of money if I get my tail back to Detroit.”

“That’s what you get for loyalty! You should have come over to the News when they invited you.”

“What! And leave Nellie Kane? For the glory of the Freep, I’ll live with my fate and be the only one aboard this plane who can’t afford the trip.”

“You’re forgetting Irene Casey.”

“What?” Cox craned to establish that Irene was aboard. “What do you mean Irene can’t afford the trip? She works for the Archdiocese, doesn’t she?”

“I know.” Lennon was laughing quietly. “That’s what I thought, too, till I talked with her about it this morning. The Detroit Catholic is financially independent of the Archdiocese.”

“No kidding! That little paper has to pay for this trip? I thought the Detroit Catholic was owned by the Archdiocese.”

“In a way yes and in a way no. Technically, the Archbishop is president of the Detroit Catholic Company and publisher of the Detroit Catholic newspaper. But that’s only a legal fiction. The paper stands—or falls—on its own.”

“I never thought—”

“We’re not the only ones who thought the paper was under the financial wing of the Archdiocese.” Lennon smiled. “Irene told me everytime they enter negotiations with the Newspaper Guild—”

“They’ve got the union? That little paper?”

“I was surprised too. Anyway, she says the Guild always takes it for granted that, in a pinch, the Church will sell the Sistine ceiling to cover its demands.”

“Well, as they used to say on ‘Saturday Night Live’: that’s different; never mind.” He shook his head. “I’ll have to lay this on Nellie next time I see him: The little Detroit Catholic pays the freight for its editor to cover this story while the mighty and friendly Free Press equivocates.

“And, speaking of this story, where do you think it’s going?”

“I’m not sure. I have a feeling there’ll be another attempt on Cardinal Boyle’s life.”

Ordinarily, competing reporters would not discuss any story they were each developing, unless it were to subvert the other’s coverage. But the relationship of Cox and Lennon was, in many ways, unusual if not unique. Each was at or near the top of their common field of print journalism. Each had the self-confidence such a position ought to engender. Beyond that, each was reasonably confident that neither would take undue advantage of the other. And, with most infrequent exception, neither did.

“Do you buy the motive?” Cox asked. “That this group of Rastafarians is after top-ranking Cardinals because they can’t get at the Pope?”

“Makes as much sense as anything else, I suppose.”

“How about if it’s just a group that wants to gain publicity by knocking off some pretty important people?”

“I don’t think so, Joe. This would be the first time in my memory that a world conspiracy of murder or terrorism was initiated solely to gain attention. Sure you’ll get your Middle East group, for instance, claiming responsibility for some act of violence so they can call attention to themselves. But there’s always some additional motive: They are nationalists seeking independence for their colonized country, or they are revolutionaries seeking to establish a new form of government in their country . . . something along those lines.

“Individuals might resort to violence to gain attention. But not groups. Groups always have an ulterior motive. Besides, no individual or group—no one, in fact—has publicly claimed responsibility for these acts of violence. Far from seeking the spotlight, they’re lying low.”

“I suppose you’re right. At least they’ve got the guy who tried to kill Boyle last night. They’re probably trying to sweat information out of him right now.” Cox closed his mouth, pinched his nostrils together, and blew to clear his ears. “We must be descending.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now in our descent pattern. The Captain has asked that your seat belts be fastened and that you extinguish all smoking materials. Please remain in your seats until we have arrived at the gate and the plane has come to a complete stop.”

“You’re a prophet, Joe.”

“On the other hand,” Cox resumed his line of thought, “if they don’t get the inside story from this guy, and if this theory is correct, then we’re playing in a pretty big ballpark. I mean, there are a lot of Cardinals. Who’s to say which one might be next?”

“That’s right,” Lennon agreed. “As far as which Cardinals might be favorites to win the next papal election, it all depends on whose lineup you’re looking at.”

Cox nodded, then his eyes narrowed as if struck by a new thought. “Pat . . . suppose—there’s a list.”

“A list?”

“Yeah. Look at it this way: These Rastafarians must know who they’re going after. They must have some sort of list. Sort of a rotten parody of Gilbert & Sullivan—you know: They have a little list; they’ll all of them be missed.” He turned to her. “What do you think?”

Lennon slowly nodded. “I think you’re right; they’d have to have a list.”

“Okay; assuming there is one, do you think the cops know about it?”

Lennon shrugged. “Beats me. But,” she tilted her head, “if we were smart enough to figure it out, the cops must have come to the same conclusion. The big question is: Do they know who’s on such a list?”

It was Cox’s turn to nod. “I think their best shot is that guy they apprehended in Rome. He could open a lot of doors is my guess.” He pondered for a minute. “Boyle is making only one public appearance in London, isn’t he?”

“Right: Westminster Abbey, tomorrow evening.”

“What say we check it out, file our stories, and then get down to some serious investigation?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Mine, silly. You know the News provides better accommodations for its reporters than the Freep.”