William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

It was, indeed, Koesler who located the public phones. The entire small storefront was given over to public phones. There were nine separate booths along one wall, and one control panel behind a counter near the front of the building.

Behind the counter stood one of the most pleasant-appearing women Koesler had ever seen. Pasta had made her round, but pleasantly so. Her face was beautiful and her smile beatific. She was obviously pleased to see two priests in her establishment.

“I want to make a phone call.” Brandon mimed holding a phone and speaking into it. “I want to call Villa Stritch.”

“Si.” She smiled.

“Where do I make the call? Where?” He tried Latin: “Ubi?”

“Numerosette.” She smiled and pointed.

That seemed clear enough. Brandon walked to the seventh booth, stepped in, and disappeared.

A few moments later, his scowling face reappeared. He was holding the receiver to his ear. “There’s no dial tone,” he complained.

“Si.” She smiled.

“No dial tone! There’s no dial tone!” He pointed at the receiver.

She nodded. She comprehended. She clarified. “Non como a Novo York . . . ” then she made a high-pitched, prolonged humming sound.

Even Brandon understood. Unlike New York, there was no dial tone. One simply dialed. On faith.

Brandon disappeared again. After some time he emerged. The call had not removed his scowl. He offered the operator a handful of American coins. She checked the amount of time he’d used, and removed several coins from his outstretched hand.

“Gratia.” She smiled.

“Prego,” Koesler tried.

She smiled even more broadly.

Koesler turned to Brandon. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Not a damn thing. No answer. Probably disconnected the phone and enjoying a nice long nap.”

“Or shower.”

They, as well as their fellow passengers, proceeded to mill about the streets of Grottaferrata for the better part of an hour. It was beginning to feel like home. Finally, their driver called out something that could have been “Andiamo!” and entered the bus, followed quickly by his passengers.

Now, Koesler happily concluded, they were on the right track and following the signs toward Rome. Finally they did indeed enter the Eternal City. They drove, haltingly due to heavy midday traffic, down the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Just before they crossed the bridge over the Tiber, Koesler looked to his right and, down the wide Via della Conciliazione, he caught his first sight of St. Peter’s Basilica, the world’s largest church. Oddly, he wasn’t as impressed as he had expected to be.

It was nearly noon when they arrived at the Garibaldi. As a group, there were few things in life they had wanted more than to reach this hotel.

As they walked into the hotel, Koesler spotted the Koznickis seated in large upholstered chairs in the lobby, surrounded by their luggage.

He hurried to them. “What happened? Why aren’t you in your room?”

“The rooms were not ready for occupancy until after noon,” Koznicki wearily replied.

The dawn came up like thunder. Koesler clapped a hand to his head. “That explains it!”

“Explains what?”

“Our sightseeing tour of the countryside. We’ve been on the bus or in a small village since we left you.”

Koznicki smiled ruefully. “Perhaps you had the better of it after all. At least you saw some scenery. We have been confined to people-watching. And mostly Americans, at that.”

“And we recognized only one person in this lobby all morning,” added Wanda. “That was Cardinal Gattari.”

“The Secretary of State?” Koesler whistled. “You were involved in Very Important People-watching. I wonder what the next Pope was doing in the lobby of the Garibaldi?”

“I do not know,” said Koznicki, “but he surely is an imposing figure of a man.”

An announcement was made that the rooms were now ready. Everyone converged on the registration desk.

As he stood in line, Koesler could not help but overhear a conversation emanating from behind a nearby pillar.

“I don’t care what they do to me,” the voice was saying, “I’m never going to take on another contract like that. It’s too dangerous. For a while, I didn’t know: It could have been them or me. I mean, toward the end they were getting pretty ugly. I tell you, I’m through with it. Finito. Never again.”

The voice spoke in heavily accented English. Koesler peered around the pillar. The voice belonged to their bus driver.

2.

The technical process of making a Cardinal comprises three steps.

On April 28, Pope Leo XIV presided over a secret consistory involving all the Cardinals then present in Rome. During this consistory, the Pope read off the names of his candidates for the Cardinalate. At each name, each Cardinal raised his biretta and bowed his head, indicating his assent to the nominee. A gesture that is the closest thing there is to a rubber stamp.

On April 29, the candidates assembled at prearranged locations in Rome. The three American candidates gathered at a crowded Roman Chancery building. A monsignor from the Vatican Secretary of State’s office, accompanied by one of the laymen attached to the papal household, presented each candidate with the official biglietto— the letter informing him of his elevation. As Archbishop Boyle accepted his biglietto, he became His Eminence Mark Cardinal Boyle.

Tonight, April 30, the final ceremony in the process of becoming a Cardinal was scheduled. In one of the great halls adjoining the papal residence, the Pope would receive in audience all the new Cardinals. During the ceremony, he would place on each Cardinal’s head a scarlet biretta, the sign of their office, and he would reveal the name of the individual Roman parish each Cardinal would become titular bishop of.

For tonight’s ceremony, Father Koesler had been given a blue ticket. A quick study of others’ tickets revealed there were also gold and red tickets to this event. He was unable to determine the exact import of a blue ticket. Apparently, there was no way of knowing where one’s ticket would lead until one got there.

As Koesler began climbing the seemingly endless staircase, he realized Detroit reporters Joe Cox and Pat Lennon were only a step behind him. He dropped back to join them.

“Evening, Father.” Lennon greeted him brightly. “We haven’t seen much of you since we got to Rome.”

“Are you kidding?” said Cox. “The good Father wouldn’t be traveling in the same low-life circles we move in.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Koesler winced. Among many appellations applied to him, he most despised “the good Father.” Like most epithets, the user gave little thought to it. “By the way,” Koesler continued, “may I inquire as to the color of your tickets for this event?”

Cox searched his pockets.

“Blue,” said Lennon.

“Yeah,” Cox located his ticket, “blue.”

“Mine too,” said Koesler. “Would you happen to know what that entitles us to?”

“Haven’t a clue, Father,” Lennon replied. “We won’t know till we get there.”

Somehow, Koesler now felt more confident of a good seat. He knew he personally was relatively unimportant in the scheme of things. But he was sure reporters for major American newspapers would not receive short shrift.

Cox and Lennon were just ahead of Koesler as they reached the tuxedoed master of ceremonies at the top of the stairs. He waved them behind two sawhorses to the left. Koesler was thus surprised when, after displaying his blue ticket, he was directed behind the sawhorses on the right.

Koesler looked about, trying to comprehend what was going on.