‘Father Carrara’s not here?’ the visitor asked.
‘He’ll come to afternoon Mass.’
‘Good. My name is Phelps. I am an English priest assigned to the Vatican. James Phelps. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ He held out his hand and received Rafael’s strong, firm grip in return.
‘Rafael Santini.’
Father Phelps couldn’t hide his embarrassment. He was not accustomed to these affairs.
‘Relax, Father Phelps,’ Rafael reassured him in a serious tone. ‘It’s all very simple. Just give me the information they gave you or where to find it, and your work is over. The rest is my problem.’
‘Yes. I wish it were so simple. We have a serious problem.’
‘They all are.’
‘My orders are to take you immediately to the Holy See.’
‘Seriously? What an honor. It’ll be charming to see the Vatican. Who are we going to see?’
The Englishman wasn’t pleased with the sarcasm, but his respect and admiration for Rafael, picked up through stories told by people in the know, were too much to allow him the luxury of feeling irritated.
‘His Holiness Pope Benedict the Sixteenth.’
5
The Meeting
February 1981
There are some who say that the meeting between the two men did not occur in 1981, but earlier, in 1979 or 1980, or even in March 1982. Others confirm a meeting in 1981, but disagree about the month, saying August, September, or November, with no evidence to support that claim. Some of the defenders of the month of February disagree over the exact date of the meeting, and scarcely two voices are in accord about the content and tone of the conversation. As far as the location, the majority claim it took place in the office of one or the other. Another point of historical discord is the discussion itself. One faction defends a calm, cordial conversation, while another precisely the contrary. There are even those who reject all these theories and claim that such an encounter never took place. With history it’s all a question of point of view and imagination.
In fact the supposed meeting between the two men occurred in the office of the first, at eleven o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, February 3. The second man showed up very early at the door of the office, not knowing that the American slept very late. He should have known his habits, since the man whom he waited for was not exactly a novitiate. At that time he had exercised his duties for more than ten years. No meeting was officially recorded.
Thus, after two and a half hours of waiting, the American finally appeared at the office.
‘Good morning, Your Eminence,’ said the assistant who opened the door promptly so the American wouldn’t dirty his chaste hand on the doorknob.
‘Good morning.’ The harsh voice of someone who has risen too early. The best time in bed for this man was during the morning, the warmth of the sheets, the sound of daily movements, no guilty conscience…
Someone was sitting inside his office.
‘The cardinal has been waiting for you a long time,’ the secretary told him quickly, nervously. The American had temper tantrums, especially in the morning. This time, though, he restrained himself from throwing any accusing look at the unlucky functionary. What could he do? Refuse a cardinal of the Holy Mother Church?
The other was seated in front of the desk, his face expressionless, absorbed in the documents he’d brought with him. The American went to his desk without looking at him once.
‘Good morning, Your Eminence,’ the recently arrived one said in a neutral tone. ‘I don’t recall that we had an appointment this morning.’
‘We didn’t,’ replied the other without raising his head.
Two dogs sniffing out each other’s fear — if you will pardon the metaphor. Take the canine allusion as merely a metaphor to help understand the scene, not a gratuitous insult to either of those present.
‘Then I’m going to have to ask you to leave and make an official appointment,’ the American said coldly, sitting down and taking a Cuban cigar from a gold box on top of the mahogany desk.
‘Has Bishop Marcinkus forgotten how to behave with his superiors?’ the cardinal asked, lifting his eyes for the first time.
‘Not at all, Your Eminence. I am only doing what my duties demand. All meetings should be previously scheduled. Besides, in this department my superior is His Holiness.’
‘I know, I know,’ the cardinal said without taking his eyes off Marcinkus. ‘And how far do you think you are going to get?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Do you believe His Holiness is going to help you when the Italian and American authorities start applying pressure? Do you believe that he, in good faith, is going to stand by you?’ The cardinal got up and leaned on the desk, looking intently at the bishop.
‘I don’t understand, Your Eminence.’
‘Come on, drop the act. You don’t have to play dumb with me. I already know everything.’
‘What, Your Eminence?’
‘Everything. Everything. The financial machinations, the money laundering, the losses at the Ambrosiano. I know what’s behind it all.’
It was Marcinkus’s turn to stand up and look at the cardinal from his imposing height of six feet.
‘I’ll have to ask you to schedule this meeting for another time. Do me the favor of leaving.’ His deep sigh failed to disguise the fury he wanted to show.
‘That won’t be necessary, Bishop.’ The cardinal took his hands off the desk and moved toward the door. ‘His Holiness is informed.’
Before the cardinal could leave, he heard the American’s reply.
‘That’s good, Your Eminence. You never know what could happen in the future.’
Showing no reaction to these last words, the cardinal left and closed the door.
All the theories end with the closing of this door, witnessed by the employee in the outer office.
Marcinkus ordered no interruption whatsoever until further notice, a decision the employee noted without understanding why. With the American you listened, shut up, and complied.
Inside, the bishop grabbed a phone and dialed a number.
‘They’re tightening the circle,’ he told the person on the other end of the line, not bothering with a greeting. It wasn’t the time for protocol. ‘We have to act quickly.’
The bishop listened for some time to the person he’d called.
‘I don’t want any mistakes or excuses. I want this resolved as quickly as possible. The German, Ratzinger, just left.’
6
Solomon Keys was an American. In itself this was neither a fault nor a virtue, just a fact. He was eighty- seven, and those times of excessive patriotism, of America, land of opportunity, liberty, and so on, were long gone for him. Let it be clear, Solomon Keys did go for all of that in the past even until very recently. He was born in the District of Columbia — named in honor of the discoverer of the continent — the center of world politics since 1800, and Solomon Keys fought in the war of his generation, World War II, ‘fought’ in quotations, since he never saw a front line, death, wounds, or anything similar. His field of operation was in London, in the Office of Strategic Services, decoding German messages, and, perhaps, while hurting his back as he leaned over his desk, he had saved some lives. He escaped the Blitz that darkened England’s nights and days in 1940 and 1941, for he arrived in the English capital in May 1943. Be that as it may, he served his country with dedication, competence, zeal, and
