“What we need,” yowled one TV evangelist, “is a new Michael the Archangel, who will smite this son of Satan with a fiery sword!”
In Jerusalem, the chief rabbi and grand mufti stunned the world by appearing in public side-by-side to castigate Sam and call upon all good Jews and Moslems to accept whatever God or Allah sends their way.
“Humility and acceptance are the hallmarks of the true believers,” they jointly told their flocks.
My sources on the Senate intelligence committee told me that the chief rabbi added privately, “May He Who Is Nameless remove this evil man from our sight.”
The Grand Mufti apparently went further. He promised eternal paradise for anyone who martyred himself assassinating Sam. In a burst of modernism he added, “Even if the assassin is a woman, paradise awaits her.” I thought he must have been either pretty damned furious at Sam or pretty damned desperate.
Officially, the Vatican refused to defend itself. The Pope would not even recognize the suit, and the Curia—which had been at odds with the new American Pope—backed him on this issue one hundred percent.
Even though they knew that the World Court could hear the suit in their absence and then send in the Peacekeepers to enforce its decision, they felt certain that the Court would never send armed troops against the Vatican. It would make a pretty picture, our tanks and jet bombers against their Swiss Guardsmen. Heat-seeking missiles against medieval pikes. In St. Peter’s, yet.
But the insurance conglomerate that carried the policy for Ecuador National Space Systems decided that it would step forward and represent the Vatican in the pretrial hearing.
“We’ve got to put a cork in this bottle right away,” said their president to me. “It’s a disgrace, a shameful disgrace.”
His name was -Frank Banner, and he normally looked cheerful and friendly, probably from the days when he was a salesman who made his living from sweet-talking corporate officials into multimillion-dollar insurance policies. We had known each other for years; Frank had often testified to Senate committees—and donated generously to campaign funds, including mine.
But now he looked worried. He had flown up to Nashua to see me shortly after I returned from Quito. His usual broad smile and easygoing manner were gone; he was grim, almost angry.
“He’s ruining the Christmas season,” Frank grumbled.
I had to admit that it was hard to work up the usual holiday cheer with this lawsuit hanging over us.
“Look,” he said, as we sipped hot toddies in my living room, “I’ve had my run-ins with Sam Gunn in the past, Lord knows, but this time the little pisser’s gone too goddamned far. He’s not just attacking the Pope, although that in itself is bad enough. He’s attacking the very foundation of western civilization! That wise-assed little bastard is spitting in the eye of every God-fearing man, woman and child in the world!”
I had never seen Frank so wound up. He sounded like an old-time politician yelling from a soapbox. His face got purple and I was afraid he’d hyperventilate. I didn’t argue with him; I merely snuggled deeper into my armchair and let him rant until he ran out of steam.
Finally he said, “Well, somebody’s got to stand up for what’s right and decent.”
“I suppose so,” I murmured.
“I’m assigning one of our young lawyers to act as an amicus curiae in your pretrial hearing.”
“I’m not sure that’s the proper legal term,” I said.
“Well, whatever!” His face reddened again.”Somebody’s got to protect the Pope’s ass. Might as well be us.”
I nodded, thinking that if Sam somehow did win his suit against the Pope it would turn the entire insurance industry upside down. Amicus curiae indeed.
The moment I laid eyes on the lawyer that Frank sent I knew we’d have nothing but trouble.
Her name was Josella Ecks, and she was a tall, slim, gorgeous black woman with a mind as sharp as a laser beam. Skin the color of milk chocolate. Almond-shaped eyes that I would have killed for. Long silky legs, and she didn’t mind wearing slitted skirts that showed them off cunningly.
I knew Sam would go ape over her; the little juvenile delinquent always let his hormones overpower his brain.
Sure enough, Sam took one look at her and his eyes started spinning like the wheels in a slot machine. I felt myself turning seventeen shades of green. If Sam had seemed a little jealous of Carlos de Rivera, I was positively bilious with envy over Josella Ecks.
The four of us met ten days before Christmas in my formal office in the World Court building in The Hague: Sam, his lawyer Greg Molina, the delectable Ms. Ecks, and my plain old self. I settled into my desk chair, feeling shabby and miserable in a nubby tweed suit. Josella sat between the two men; when she crossed her long legs her slitted skirt fell away, revealing ankle, calf and a lot of thigh. I thought I saw steam spout out of Sam’s ears.
She didn’t seem to affect Greg that way, but then Gregory Molina was a married man; married to President de Rivera’s daughter, no less.
“This pretrial hearing,”. I said, trying to put my emotions under some semblance of control, “is mandated by the International Court of Justice for the purpose of trying to come to an amicable agreement on the matter of Ecuador v. Vatican without the expense and publicity of an actual trial.”
“Fine by me,” Sam said breezily, his eyes still on the young woman sitting beside him. “As long as we can get it over with by eleven. I’ve gotta catch the midnight Clipper. Gotta be back at Selene City for the Christmas festivities.”
I glowered at Sam. Here the future of Christianity was hanging in the balance and he was worried about a Christmas party.
Greg was more formal. His brows knitting very earnestly, he said, “The nation of Ecuador would be very much in favor of settling this case out of court.” He was looking at me, not Josella. “Providing, of course, that we can arrive at a reasonable settlement.”
Josella smiled as if she knew more than he did. “Our position is that a reasonable settlement would be to throw this case in the trash bin, where it belongs.”
Sam sighed as if someone had told them there is no Santa Claus. “A reasonable settlement would be a half billion dollars, U.S.”
Josella waggled a finger at him. I saw that her nails were done in warm pink. “Your suit is without legal basis, Mr. Gunn.”
“Then why are we here, oh beauteous one?”
I resisted the urge to crown Sam with the meteoric iron paperweight on my desk. He had given it to me years earlier, and at that particular moment I really wanted to give it back to him—smack between his leering eyes.
Josella was unimpressed. Quite coolly she answered, “We are here, Mr. Gunn, because you have entered a frivolous suit against the Vatican.”
Greg spoke up. “I assure you, Ms. Ecks, the nation of Ecuador is not frivolous.”
“Perhaps not,” she granted. “But I’m afraid that you’re being led down the garden path by this unscrupulous little man.”
“Little?” A vein in Sam’s forehead started to throb. “Was Napoleon little? Was Steinmetz little? Did Neil Armstrong play basketball in college?”
Laughing, Josella said, “I apologize for the personal reference, Mr. Gunn. It was unprofessional of me.”
“Sam.”
“Mr. Gunn,” she repeated.
“I still want half a bill,” Sam growled.
“There isn’t that much money in the entire Vatican,” she said.
“Baloney. They take in a mint and a half.” Sam ticked off on his fingers, “Tourists come by the millions. The Vatican prints its own stamps and currency. They’re into banking and money exchange, with no internal taxes and no restrictions on importing and exporting foreign currencies. Nobody knows how much cash flows through the Vatican, but they must have the highest per capita income in the solar system.”