God's Spy (10 page)

Francis Augustus Casey
Cardinal, Archdiocese of Boston

November 1995

Transcript of Interview Number 45 between Patient Number 3643 and Doctor Canice Conroy, with the Assistance of Doctor Anthony Fowler and Salher Fanabarzra

Dr Conroy: Hello, Victor. May we come in?
No. 6: Certainly, doctor. It’s your clinic.
Dr conroy: It’s your room.
No. 6: Do come in, please.
Dr Conroy: I see that you are in a good mood today. Do you feel

well?
No. 6: Stupendous.
Dr Conroy: I’m happy to see that there have been no violent

incidents since your departure from the infirmary. You’re taking your medications on schedule, you’re participating in the group sessions . . . You’re making progress, Victor.

No. 6: Thank you, doctor. I do what I can.
Dr Conroy: Fine. As we discussed earlier, today we’re beginning your regression therapy. This is Mr Fanabarzra. He is a therapist from India, a specialist in hypnosis.
No. 6: Doctor, I don’t know if I’m comfortable with the idea of participating in this experiment.
Dr Conroy: It’s important, Victor. We spoke about it last week, do you remember?
No. 6: Yes, I remember.
Dr Conroy: Then we’ve agreed. Mr Fanabarzra, where do you want the patient to sit?
Fanabarzra: He’ll be most comfortable lying down. It’s important for him to be as relaxed as possible.
Dr Conroy: On the bed, then. You can lie down, Victor.
No. 6: As you wish.
Fanabarzra: Very well, Victor. I am going to show you a pendulum. Could you lower the blind a little, doctor? That’s enough. Victor, watch the pendulum, if you’d be so kind.

[ Transcription omits Fanabarzra’s process of hypnosis, at his request. Pauses between responses have also been eliminated for the sake of brevity.]

Fanabarzra: All right then . . . it’s 97. What do you remember from this period?
No. 6: My father . . . He was never at home. Sometimes the whole family went to wait for him at the factory on Friday afternoon. Mother said he was a good for nothing and if we found him we’d stop him spending our money in the bars. It was cold outside. One day we waited and waited. We stamped our feet on the ground to keep our toes from freezing. Emil asked me for my scarf because he was cold. I didn’t give it to him. My mother rapped me on the head and told me to give it to him. Finally we got tired of waiting and we left.
Dr Conroy: Ask him where his father was.
Fanabarzra: Do you know where your father was?
No. 6: He’d been fired from his job. He came back home two days later in bad shape. Mother said he’d been drinking and sleeping with strangers. They’d given him a cheque but there wasn’t much left. We’d go to Social Security to get Dad’s benefit but sometimes he got there first and he drank it. Emil didn’t understand how someone could drink a piece of paper.
Fanabarzra: Did you ask for help?
No. 6: Sometimes the parish gave us clothes. Other kids got their clothes at the Salvation Army, because they had better clothes there. But Mother said that they were heretics and pagans and it was better to wear decent Christian clothes. Beria said that his decent Christian clothes were full of holes. That’s why he hated them. Fanabarzra: Were you happy when Beria left?
No. 6: I was in bed. I saw him walk across the bedroom in the dark, carrying his boots in one hand. He gave me his key chain with a silver bear and told me I could put the keys I needed on it. In the morning, Emil was crying because he hadn’t said goodbye to Beria, so I gave him the key chain. But he kept crying and threw the key chain away. He cried all day. I tore up a book of stories he was reading, just to get him to shut up. I cut it into pieces with a pair of scissors. My father locked me in his room.
Fanabarzra: Where was your mother?
No. 6: Playing bingo at the parish hall. It was Tuesday. She always played bingo on Tuesdays. Each card cost a penny.
Fanabarzra: What happened in your father’s room?
No. 6: Nothing. I sat around.
Fanabarzra: Victor, you have to tell me.
No. 6: Nothing happened. Do you understand, sir? Nothing.
Fanabarzra: Victor, you have to tell me. Your father locked you in his room and he did something to you. Correct?
No. 6: You don’t understand. I deserved it.
Fanabarza: What did you deserve?
No. 6: To be punished. I had to be punished so many times so that I would repent for all the bad things I’d done.
Fanabarza: What bad things?
No. 6: So many bad things. The bad person I was. The things I did to the cat. I threw a cat into a rubbish bin full of old newspapers all crumpled up and set the paper on fire. The cat howled. It sounded like a human voice. And for what I did to the book of stories.
Fanabarzra: What was the punishment, Victor?
No. 6: Hurt. He hurt me. And he liked it, I know that. He told me that it hurt him too, but that was a lie. He said it in Polish. He didn’t know how to lie in English, he got the words all mixed up. He always spoke in Polish when he was punishing me.
Fanabarzra: He touched you?
No. 6: He gave it to me in the rear end. He didn’t let me turn around. And he put something in me. Something hot that hurt.
Fanabarzra: Did these punishments happen frequently?
No. 6: Every Tuesday. When Mother wasn’t around. Sometimes, when he was finished, he just lay there, sleeping on top of me, as if he was dead. At times he couldn’t punish me so he hit me instead.
Fanabarzra: How did he hit you?
No. 6: He spanked me until he was tired. Sometimes after he hit me he could punish me and sometimes not.
Fanabarzra: And your brothers, Victor? Did your father punish them?
No. 6: I think he punished Beria. Never Emil; Emil was the good one. That’s why he died.
Fanabarzra: Only the good people die, Victor?
No. 6: Only the good. Bad people never do.

Wednesday, 6 April 2005, 10.34 a.m.

Pacing back and forth on the rug in the hallway with short, nervous steps, Paola waited for Dante. The day had begun badly. She’d barely slept a wink, and when she’d arrived at her office she’d run smack into a pile of insufferable paperwork and admin. The man in charge of civil defence, Guido Bertolano, was throwing a fit over the increasingly enormous number of pilgrims who were inundating the city. By now the sports stadiums, universities, and any municipal institutions with space to spare were full to the rafters. People were sleeping in the streets, in doorways, the town squares, even the vestibules of ATMs. Dicanti had got in touch with Bertolano to ask him for help in the search for a suspect, and he’d almost laughed in her face.

‘My dear ispettore, even if your suspect were Osama himself, there’s very little we could do. It’s going to have to wait until after this whole madhouse has died down.’

‘I don’t know if you are aware that—’
‘Ispettore – you said your name was Dicanti, right? Air Force One is parked at Fiumicino. There isn’t a single five-star hotel that doesn’t have at least one monarch ensconced in its presidential suite. Can you imagine what sort of nightmare it is to protect these people? There are reports of possible terrorist attacks and fake bomb threats every fifteen minutes. I’m in contact with the carabinieri in towns from over a two-hundred-kilometre radius. Believe me, your problem has to wait. So please stop tying up my line,’ he said, hanging up without another word.
Go to hell! Why didn’t anyone take her seriously? This case was an absolute killer. The silence it dictated, inherent in the nature of the beast, only contributed to the clash between what she was trying to do and the indifference she met with. She’d wasted a long time on the phone without finding out anything. Between the various calls she’d asked Pontiero to go to talk to the old Carmelite at Santa Maria in Traspontina while she headed off for her meeting with Cardinal Samalo, the Pope’s chamberlain, or il camerlengo, as he was known in Italian. So there she was, at the doors to the camerlengo’s office, pacing like a tiger, with a belly full of black coffee.
Fowler, meanwhile, relaxed on an ornate bench of dark-red wood. He was reading his breviary. ‘It’s at moments like this that I regret having given up smoking.’
‘A bit nervous yourself?’
‘No, but you’re making it hard not to follow in your footsteps.’
Paola took the priest’s hint, stopped walking in circles and sat down next to him. She pretended to read Dante’s report on the first murder, all the time thinking about the strange look that the superintendent had given Fowler when she’d introduced them at UACV headquarters that morning. Dante had taken Paola aside and said tersely, ‘Don’t trust him.’ She was worried, intrigued. She decided that the first chance she got, she would ask Dante exactly what he’d meant.
She turned her attention back to the report. A complete disaster. It was clear that Dante didn’t take assignments like this very often, which was lucky for him. They would painstakingly have to go back over the scene where Cardinal Portini died, in the hope of turning up some other piece of evidence. This afternoon, no later. The photographs weren’t so bad in any case. She slammed the folder shut. She couldn’t concentrate.
Paola found it difficult to admit that she was frightened. There she was, in the very heart of the Vatican, in an edifice set apart in the centre of the City – a building with more than fifteen hundred offices, including the private office of the Pope himself. To Paola, the mere profusion of statues and paintings that filled the hallways was unsettling, distracting. And, of course, for the Vatican’s statesmen over the course of the centuries, that was the desired result; they were well aware of the effect their city produced on visitors. Yet Paola couldn’t allow herself even the slightest distraction. ‘Padre Fowler?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s the first time I’m going to see a cardinal.’
‘Really.’
Paola thought for a moment. ‘I mean to say, in the flesh.’ ‘And what is your question?’
‘How do you address a cardinal?’
‘Normally you would say “Your Eminence”.’ Fowler closed his book and looked her in the eye. ‘Relax. He’s only a person, like you or me. And you’re the inspector running the investigation. You’re a professional. Act just as you would under normal circumstances.’
Dicanti smiled gratefully.
At last Dante opened the door to the office’s waiting room. ‘Please come in.’
There were two desks in the waiting room, with two young priests seated by the telephone and a computer. They greeted the visitors with polite nods of the head, and the small party continued on into the chamberlain’s office. It was an ascetic room, without paintings or carpets. There was a library on one side and a sofa with small tables on the other. A wooden crucifix was the only decoration on the walls.
Unlike the empty walls, the desk of Eduardo González Samalo, the man who held the reins of the Church until the election of the next Pope, was crammed with papers. Samalo, in dark-red robes, got up to greet them. Fowler kneeled and kissed the cardinal’s ring as a sign of respect and obedience, something every Catholic does when meeting a cardinal. Paola hung back, hoping to be discreet. She bowed her head a little, perhaps slightly ashamed. She hadn’t regarded herself as a Catholic for many years.
Samalo took Dicanti’s rudeness gracefully, but exhaustion and anxiety were clearly etched on his face and in the slump of his shoulders. He was the ultimate authority in the Vatican for the next few days and he didn’t seem to be enjoying the role.
‘Forgive me for making you wait. I was on the phone with a delegate from Germany. He’s extremely out of sorts. There are no hotel rooms to be found anywhere and the city is a veritable nightmare. And the whole wide world wants to be in the front row at tomorrow morning’s funeral.’
Paola nodded her head courteously. ‘I imagine this whole commotion must be tremendously trying.’
Samalo merely let out a long, painful sigh in response.
‘Have you been informed about the situation, Your Eminence?’
‘Of course. Camilo Cirin has been diligent in keeping me abreast of events as they’ve taken place. It’s a horrible state of affairs, all of it. I suppose that in other circumstances I would have reacted much more strongly to these nefarious crimes, but I must tell you in all sincerity, I just haven’t had the time.’
‘As you know, we have to think about the security of the other cardinals, Your Eminence.’
Samalo gestured in Dante’s direction. ‘The Vigilanza has made a special effort to gather all of them together in the Domus Sanctae Marthae ahead of time, in order to maintain the building’s security.’
‘La Domus Sanctae Marthae?’
Dante interrupted. ‘Saint Martha’s House. A building that was remodelled at the direct request of John Paul II. He wanted it to serve as the principal residence for the cardinals during the Conclave.’
‘A very specific use for a whole building, wouldn’t you say?’
‘When it isn’t hosting a Conclave, it is used to lodge prominent visitors,’ said Cardinal Samalo. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, Padre Fowler, even you stayed there once. Isn’t that so?’
Fowler seemed very uneasy. For a few moments it looked as if there was going to be a minor confrontation, without blood, but a battle of wills nonetheless. It was Fowler who lowered his head.
‘Indeed, Your Eminence. I was once invited to the Holy See.’
‘I believe you had a problem with the Holy Office.’
‘I was called to an inquiry regarding activities in which I had taken part; that much is true – nothing more.’
The cardinal seemed to be satisfied with the priest’s visible discomfort.
‘Ah, but of course, Padre Fowler . . . There’s no need to give me any sort of explanation. Your reputation precedes you. As I was saying, Ispector Dicanti, I am reassured with regard to the safety of my fellow cardinals, thanks to the good efforts of the Vigilanza. Nearly all of them are accounted for and are safely installed here inside the Vatican. A few have yet to arrive. In principle, residing at the Domus was optional until April and many of the cardinals have been staying with various congregations or in religious residences. But we are in the process of letting them know that they should transfer to Saint Martha’s House immediately.’
‘How many are at the house right now?’
‘Eighty-four out of one hundred and fifteen. The others will arrive in the next few hours. We’ve attempted to contact all of the latter and have asked for their itinerary in order to supplement security. They are the ones uppermost in our minds. But as I’ve told you, Inspector General Cirin is in charge of everything. So there’s no need to worry, dear child.’
‘Does that one hundred and fifteen include Robayra and Portini?’ asked Dicanti, riled by the chamberlain’s condescending tone.
‘Well, I suppose that in reality I should say one hundred and thirteen cardinals,’ Samalo responded resentfully. He was a proud man and took no pleasure in being corrected by a woman.
‘I’m sure Your Eminence has already settled on a plan in that regard,’ Fowler added, making an attempt to mediate between the two.
‘Indeed. We are spreading the rumour that Portini has been taken ill at his family’s country home in Corsica. The illness will unfortunately end on a tragic note. With respect to Robayra, we are saying that matters relating to his pastoral mission will prevent him from attending the Conclave, although he certainly plans to travel to Rome to render his obedience to the new Supreme Pontiff. Sadly, he will die in a tragic car accident, something that the police will be able to confirm. These stories will only be sent to the press after the Conclave, not before.’
‘I see that Your Eminence has everything well in hand,’ Paola said, thoroughly astonished.
The chamberlain cleared his throat before answering. ‘It’s one story among many. And it is one that causes no harm to anyone.’
‘Except to the truth.’
‘This is the Catholic Church, inspector – the inspiration and light that illuminates the way for millions of people. We cannot allow ourselves any further scandals. From that point of view, what exactly is the truth?’
Dicanti wore a sceptical look on her face, even though she recognised the logic implicit in the old man’s words. She thought of the many ways she might reply to him, but understood that it wouldn’t prove a thing. She preferred to return to the interview.
‘I suppose that the reason for gathering earlier than planned won’t be communicated to the cardinals?’
‘Absolutely not. I have told them that a radical group has made threats against the Church hierarchy and that they therefore must not leave the city without being accompanied by a member of the Vigilanza or the Swiss Guard. I believe they all understand.’
‘Did you know the victims personally?’
The cardinal’s face darkened for a moment.
‘Good heavens, yes. I had less in common with Cardinal Portini, despite the fact that he was Italian. My work has always been very centred on the internal organisation of the Vatican and he dedicated his life to doctrine. He was always writing and travelling. A great man. On a personal level, I didn’t always agree with his politics, which were so open and revolutionary.’
‘Revolutionary?’ Fowler leaned forward.
‘Very much so, padre. He argued for the use of condoms, for the ordination of women priests. He would have been a pope for the twenty-first century. Furthermore he still would have been relatively young for a pope, although he was nearly 9 years old. If he had sat on the throne of Peter, he would have been in charge of Vatican Council III, something many people believe the Church urgently needs. His death has been a terrible and senseless misfortune.’
‘You would have voted for him?’ Fowler asked.
The camerlengo laughed silently. ‘You’re not seriously asking me to reveal who I’m going to vote for, are you, padre?’
Paola stepped back in. ‘Your Eminence, you said you had less in common with Portini. What about Robayra?’
‘Another great man. Totally committed to the cause of the poor. He had defects, certainly. He was very given to imagining himself dressed in white, standing on the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square. Of course, he never spoke of his ambition in public. We were very close friends and wrote to each other all the time. His only sin was his pride. He always made a great show of his poverty, and signed his letters with a beati pauperes. Just to rile him, I used to sign mine with beati pauperes spirito, but he never let on that he understood my allusion. Despite his defects, he was a statesman and a man of the Church. He did so much good over the course of his lifetime. I never dreamed I’d see him wearing the fisherman’s sandals, but I suppose that was because I was so close to him.’
As he spoke about his friend, the old cardinal shrank a little and turned a shade of grey, his voice became sad and his face revealed the accumulated fatigue of his seventy-eight years. In spite of the fact that she didn’t share the man’s ideas, Paola felt sorry for him. She knew that behind his carefully crafted homage, the old Spaniard regretted not having any time to be alone and weep for his friend. Damned dignity. As she was thinking this, she realised that she was beginning to look beyond the cardinal’s cape and his red robe, to see the person wearing them. She’d have to learn to stop looking at the clergy as if they were one-dimensional. Her prejudice against the priesthood could easily jeopardise her work.
‘When all is said and done, I suppose no one is a prophet in their own country. As I mentioned, we agreed on a great many things. Good old Emilio came here seven months ago. It was the last stop on his trip. One of my assistants took a photograph here in the office. I know I have it somewhere.’
The man in the dark-red robes walked over to his desk, and reached inside a drawer for an envelope that contained some photographs. He looked through them, chose one and handed the picture to his visitors.
Paola looked at the photograph without much interest. Suddenly she saw something that seized her attention and forced her eyes wide open. She grabbed Dante’s arm, nearly pulling it out of its socket.
‘Oh, shit. Shit!’