The cardinal sat down on one of the many chairs facing his desk, and covered his eyes.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“Stop acting like a naive parish priest, Cardinal Villot. You know as well as I do that infallibility only serves to keep us in shackles.”
Villot withdrew his hands from his face. “What are you saying?”
“I think I have said exactly what I meant to say. A pope is infallible in his directives concerning the doctrines of faith and morality. Isn’t that right? Doesn’t it seem to you that this is an exceptional way of ensuring that certain customs, perhaps pernicious ones, will never change?”
“Anathema, sacrilege!” Villot sputtered, despairing before this enigma, a hurricane acting like a pleasant summer breeze.
“Sacrilege?” Albino Luciani repeated with a faint smile. “The time has come for me to tell you that you would do well to show some respect for the person you’re talking to. After all, I’m infallible.”
The cardinal bowed his head.
“I won’t be using my position or the supposed divine faculties you attribute to me, because that would indicate my acceptance of what they represent. I only want to remind you that, in holding your post, you ought to behave differently. Respect for others isn’t something that depends on you, Cardinal Villot. And I repeat that infallibility is an error and an unwarranted pretense. And that is why it’s going to be terminated.”
Villot understood that it would be fruitless to keep beating his head against the wall. In fact, those papers from Pope Luciani contained even more outrageous proposals than his heresy concerning infallibility.
“And as to the replacements, Holy Father, do you have any idea of the trouble they would cause in the heart of the Curia?”
“I think I have a pretty good idea, Cardinal Villot,” the pope replied naturally.
“But, but, what about the cardinals? And the moderate prelates who voted for you?”
“I didn’t ask anybody to put me in this place. And I don’t think the decisions I have made could be considered belligerent in any sense. I’m only concerning myself with what I believe should concern me, Cardinal. Don’t forget that my obligations are to the faithful and to God.”
Villot had used most of his arguments. No matter how he pressed his reasoning, so skillful and wise on many occasions, Luciani responded nobly and forcefully, and with unassailable firmness. There was no way to convince him, at least not with words.
“Holy Father, let me study the situation more thoroughly. I will review the names carefully, and give you some alternatives, particularly concerning my own replacement and for the leadership of the IOR.” If the Holy Father agreed to this delay, perhaps there was still some hope.
“It won’t be necessary to go to that trouble, Cardinal Villot. That is my final word. Don’t burden yourself with looking for alternatives. I’m sure that your candidates will be good, capable people, but I won’t accept them. My decision is irrevocable. It should start with Archbishop Marcinkus’s immediate replacement with Monsignor Giovanni Abbo, and the dismissal of De Bonis, Mennini, and Del Strobel. De Bonis is to be replaced with Monsignor Antonetti, and I will try to fill the two other vacancies after I talk with Monsignor Abbo.”
“But-”
“Good afternoon, Cardinal Villot,” the pope concluded, heading for the door.
Villot didn’t even have a chance to respond. Never had he imagined that Luciani could be so resolute. His own position was getting progressively more complex and tougher to handle. Gelli was right. They had miscalculated. This man meant nothing but trouble for them.
“I am counting on you to make a quick transfer of power of the secretary of state to Cardinal Benelli,” the supreme pontiff said, at the door.
“Your Holiness,” Villot stammered. “Shouldn’t you think this over at greater leisure? After all, you haven’t been in your position for very long.”
Pope Luciani gave his secretary of state a long look. Fixing his gaze on the cardinal, he answered with a solid calmness.
“Thank you for your concern, Cardinal Villot. But my decision is irrevocable.”
And he went out, leaving Villot entangled in tortured reflections. He meditated, pondered, prayed, but couldn’t find a solution to the problem. He looked at the telephone next to the papers that had caused the disagreement. He found it at once tempting and threatening. Several times he pressed the first digits of a number he had memorized several days ago. Suddenly he put the phone down, in hopes that some other idea would come to him. How he wished that this weren’t necessary! He decided to risk everything on his last card. If he alone couldn’t manage to persuade the pope, he would hold a meeting of the monsignors who also felt their future was threatened. Together they would make one final effort to convince the pontiff to reconsider.
53
It’s just the two of us, Jack,” Barnes said to Rafael. “You and me.” He sat down, facing him. “I’m sure we’re going to have a very productive conversation.” The place was shadowy, like a scene in a movie. Two chairs; a versation.” The place was shadowy, like a scene in a movie. Two chairs; a square, dark wooden table, old and worn; and a hanging ceiling lamp casting light over the two seated men.
“Where are we?” Rafael asked.
“Jack, Jack, Jack, it seems you haven’t quite understood your place.” Barnes didn’t let up on his sarcasm when he got up from the table and walked around. “I’m the one asking the questions here.”
“Go to hell, Barnes. I’m no fucking idiot. Don’t give me your usual treatment. I’m not going to pee my pants just because you’re here. You don’t scare me.”
The answer was a punch in the face that sent him crashing to the floor.
“Get up,” the fat man ordered. “Get up,” he yelled again, seeing that he wasn’t being obeyed.
Rafael got up at his own pace, not saying a word or showing the slightest sign of pain. Then he straightened the chair and sat down, putting his hands in full view on the table.
“Don’t think you can fool me, Barnes. I know we’re in the United States. I just want to know where exactly,” Rafael continued, calmly. In spite of his difficult situation, he was attempting, as much as possible, to control the chain of events. Nonetheless, he knew he was at a clear disadvantage.
“What makes you think you’re in America? You could be anywhere.”
“That many hours on the plane tell me we’re in the United States. London was only two and a half hours away. So we’re either in Washington or New York, right?”
“We’re smack in the middle of hell, Jack. What difference does it make? Or were you planning to go sightseeing?”
“Not a bad idea.”
Another punch, not so hard this time, hit him squarely in the face, splitting his lip.
“Do you have any idea of what she’s going through right now, Jack? Can you picture it?” Barnes changed tactics. “Such a pretty, sweet face, spoiled by a brute like me.”
Rafael, of course, could imagine it. The two punches he had received were nothing, compared to what could be on the way.
“Are you going to tell me where the papers are?” Barnes asked in a more condescending tone.
“You know very well I’m not. First, because I don’t know. And, second, because if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Staughton’s sudden appearance interrupted the interrogation.
“Mr. Barnes,” he called from the doorway.
“Come in, Staughton.”
He approached, and whispered something in his ear.
“Are you sure?” Barnes asked in his usual loud voice, not liking the news. He thought silently for a moment.
“Right, give me a few minutes,” he said finally, dismissing Staughton. On his way out, the agent closed the door, once again leaving Rafael at Barnes’s mercy.
“I’ll give you one more chance, Jack, for old times’ sake.” Barnes returned to the chair facing him. “Where are the papers?”