Boyle gestured broadly, indicating his numerous relatives aboard the chartered plane. “Neither are they amused.”
For Boyle’s brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and cousins, this trip had been planned as an unalloyed vacation. The reality of being involved in a murder plot, even superficially, had dampened their enthusiasm appreciably.
“It cannot be helped,” said Koznicki. “We can be sure that for Reverend Toussaint there is also little amusement.”
“Poor man.” Boyle shook his head slowly. “That poor, poor man! When I heard what happened to him, as you know, I would have canceled the tour at that point if you had not convinced me that we must continue on as scheduled.”
“As I said last night, Eminence, this is turning out to be like an unpleasant but unfortunately necessary operation. We will expose those who are responsible for this plot by luring them to the surface and flushing them out, as was done in Rome and is being done in London.”
“And I am the bait.”
“Unfortunately, Eminence. But we are closing in; we’re getting to the root of it.
“And now, if you will excuse me, I must go speak with Father Koesler.”
As Koznicki rose and left him, Boyle picked up his breviary. Many priests, particularly the younger ones, had discarded this collection of daily prayers which was, technically, obligatory. And though most of those who read it did so from an English translation, Boyle continued to read it in Latin. He turned to his favorite psalm and prayed it:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to experience a bit of turbulence for a little while. So, as much as possible, please stay in your seats. And buckle up.” The seat belt sign lit up.
“Do you think he’ll recover?” Pat Lennon asked.
“Geez, I don’t know,” Joe Cox replied. “The list of his injuries reads like an anatomy lesson. Just about every bone in his body is broken and the ones that aren’t broken are dislocated. And on top of that, he’s an old geezer— somewhere in his fifties.”
Lennon laughed aloud. “I’ll have to remind you of that when you reach your fifties, lover.”
Cox reddened. He seldom blushed. But his statement had been foolish and he, to his credit, immediately realized that. “I’ll never be fifty. Peter Pan and I, we’re never going to grow up.”
Privately, Lennon would have agreed that in some ways Cox probably would never grow up. She was willing to live with that, though not marry it.
“This trip hasn’t turned out at all the way we planned it,” Cox observed.
“If it had,” Lennon responded, “we’d be back in Detroit now. I’d be pounding my CRT and you’d be laboring over your VDT. Our story would have concluded in Rome.”
“Yeah. I must admit I thought this was just going to be a few predictable, dusty ceremonies that you could just as well cover by Italian TV from a friendly bar. It’s lucky I didn’t try that.”
“You’re damn right it’s lucky. Pull a stunt like that and can you imagine what Nelson Kane would have done to you?”
“Yeah . . . but I’d rather not.”
“Speaking of how our tour has expanded, did you get a handout on the Irish itinerary?”
“Yeah, Boyle’s secretary was giving them out as we boarded. You didn’t get one? Here, take mine. There’s only one major public appearance—at a cathedral in Dublin. The rest of the time, Boyle and his relatives will be sightseeing and visiting other relatives.”
“Which cathedral? Are you sure it’s a cathedral?” Lennon quickly scanned the sheet.
“What difference does it make?”
“You’re not paying very close attention, Joe. There are two cathedrals in Dublin; but neither is Catholic— they’re both Church of Ireland. Then there’s what they call the procathedral—St. Mary’s.
“I thought everything in Ireland was Catholic.”
“It was until a Pope gave Ireland to England.”
“Huh?”
“Nicholas Breakspear, the one and only English Pope, in effect gave Ireland to England.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You will also be surprised to know that after the Republic of Ireland freed itself from English rule, it didn’t repossess all the churches that had been taken from them by their English conquerors. So,” she located on the information sheet the site for the public ceremony, “the cathedral in question will be St. Patrick’s. Now you would think that would have to be a Catholic church, wouldn’t you?”
Cox nodded. “But I’d be wrong, right?”
“Right. It’s Church of Ireland and the resting place of one Jonathan Swift. But there isn’t much more by way of public appearances on the agenda. Looks like we can do some sightseeing ourselves.”
“Great.”
“They’ve got a nifty series of nice, cozy bed-and-breakfast places over here.”
“Sounds exactly like the kind of vacation that was planned for me. Bed and breakfast. We just get out of bed for breakfast and then hop right back in.”
Lennon smiled. “What about the sightseeing?”
“I would be seeing a lot of my favorite sight.”
“Joe, you have put an entirely new light on the maxim that travel is broadening.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. We’ll be touching down at Dublin International Airport in approximately twenty minutes. The temperature is fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. It is overcast and, of course, raining. But it is a soft rain.”
“So you think it was the Rastafarians who abducted and beat Ramon?” Koesler asked.
“I do indeed,” said Koznicki. “Who else? Besides, Father, they left their calling card.”
“That’s right; they did.” Koesler reflected for a moment. “What do you make of the fact that the symbol was an open hand instead of a fist?”
“At this juncture, Father, we can only speculate. Either could be symbolic of the black power movement. Perhaps our Rastafarian splinter party uses the symbols interchangeably.
“As a matter of fact, the Rastafarians being held by Scotland Yard in connection with the attack on Cardinals Boyle and Whealan deny any knowledge of the attack on Toussaint and also of any symbols. However, it is quite common for accused persons, just arrested, to deny everything. And, it is helpful to realize that we are not dealing here with a rational or well-coordinated group. Don’t forget, these are largely unlettered men whose incense is marijuana! And who may be lucky if they can remember anything they’ve done, much less why they’ve done it.”
“But why would they attack Ramon? He is, by no stretch of the imagination, in the running for the Papacy.”
“No, of course not.” Koznicki was letting out his seat belt, giving himself plenty of room prior to buckling it. “But he has proved very successful in frustrating their efforts to do away with Cardinal Boyle. It was the Reverend Toussaint, you will recall, who prevented the assailant in Rome from harming the Cardinal. I would suggest the Rastafarians simply decided to eliminate their antagonist.”
“You think, then, that they meant to kill him?”
“Oh, yes. That beating was certainly intended to be fatal. The only reason it was not, I believe, was because they underestimated the Reverend’s strong constitution. Even the doctor at Hammersmith was amazed at the Reverend’s stamina.”
“But why the beating?” Koesler almost instinctively gripped the armrests as the plane began its gradual descent. “If they wanted to kill him, why didn’t they just do it and get it over? Their attacks on Cardinals Claret and Gattari—on Cardinal Boyle, for that matter—show they are not strangers to good-sized knives. And they seem to have no hesitancy in using them. Why not just kill Ramon outright?”
