To Kill the Pope (2 page)

A few minutes before five o'clock, as the sun began to descend toward the western horizon, brushing with gold dust the churches,
monuments, and roofs of Rome, Gregory's Jeep had turned toward the row where Circlic stood, and the Turk began calculating the distance for the optimal moment as the vehicle approached among even louder
evvivas
rising to a crescendo and cascading applause. The General Audience, held on the great wide stairs of the basilica, had ended some twenty minutes past, with the pope greeting the foreign visitors in a score of languages.

When the Jeep was exactly eleven feet away, with Gregory facing him for an instant, the pistol materialized in Circlic's hand. At the precise moment—three minutes after five o'clock, the Turk fired three times at an upward angle. He was cool and collected, mindful of his instructions, a finely tuned human machine. It was like target shooting at the Anatolia training camp back in Turkey: Circlic's hand was steady, his aim true, and the pope collapsed, wordlessly, in the back of the little vehicle.

It lasted less than a second, a frozen frame, that at the same time was an eternity. The French monsignor, Gregory's private secretary who had been sitting in a back seat, next to the pontiff, had thrown himself on top of him to shield him from any more gunfire, his black cassock turning even darker from papal blood. As it happened, the Jeep had been very close to an ambulance routinely parked on the square, and Gregory XVII could be instantly transferred to it. With the monsignor screaming to the driver,
“à l'hôpital, à l'hôpital!”
the ambulance veered violently to the right, dispersing the stricken crowd as it raced out of St. Peter's toward Gemelli Clinic, oblivious of the thick traffic ahead. The ambulance driver knew where to go: Standing orders were to rush to Gemelli in the event of an accident in which the pope might have been hurt. Miraculously, cars and buses made way for him.
Carabinieri
and police cruisers, sirens blaring and lights flashing, roared in the wake of the ambulance.

In the square, where pandemonium now reigned, Circlic had dropped the pistol on the spot on the pavement from where he had fired. It landed near a drying pool of blood, alongside a bouquet of white carnations that had turned bright red, one of the hundreds of bunches of flowers pilgrims had tossed toward Gregory moments earlier. Free of the gun, the Turk had turned in the direction of the shelter of the Bernini colonnade, trying to escape via that route.
But, immediately, he was a captive of the enraged crowd. Men and women had rushed at him with terrible imprecations, pinning him down on the ground, barely letting him breathe.

The sanctity of St. Peter's Square may have saved Circlic from being literally beaten to death, his flesh torn into shreds. Instead, the crowd drew back to let the
carabinieri,
posted as usual along the colonnade, grab and manacle the Turk and throw him inside their cruiser. Circlic looked strangely at peace though he seemed quite surprised at being captured and taken away. He must have been assured by his patrons that somehow he would be able to get away, scot-free, and he must have trusted them. In any event, the young Turk had acknowledged at once in broken Italian that, indeed, he had attempted to kill Gregory XVII, not making the slightest effort to deny, dissemble, or protest. He gave the
carabinieri
his name. Then he plunged into complete silence.

*  *  *

Exactly eight minutes after the affray on the square, the telephone rang shrilly and urgently by the bedside of Cardinal Diarmuid Hume, the octogenarian Irish Dean of the College of Cardinals. In the event of a pope's death, the daily conduct of the Vatican's administrative affairs is directed by the college until the election of a new pontiff. Today, the responsibility was placed personally on Hume. It had therefore been necessary for an official of the Papal Household to interrupt the cardinal's afternoon nap and notify him of the situation so that he would be ready to act at once if needed.

Moreover Hume, who always described himself, jocularly but truthfully, as “the only nondrinking Irishman,” happened to be the wisest, most experienced, and most cynical figure in the Roman Curia. Indeed, he
was
a Holy See institution himself, highly respected and frequently feared in that crucible of piety and intrigue. Hume realized immediately that the Holy See and the Church might face an insoluble crisis if Gregory XVII remained alive indefinitely, but was incapacitated physically or mentally. Told of the extent of the pope's injuries, the cardinal could not rule out incapacitation, and it was an awesome dilemma. He could not and would not wish Gregory dead—for one thing they were warm personal friends—but since Canon Law does not make any provisions
for incapacitation, and there is no such thing as “Deputy Pope,” all decision making in the Church, such as naming bishops or formulating theological or political policies, is paralyzed
ad infinitum,
until there is a new pope elected. And incapacitation could last indefinitely. The prospects were frightening.

“Keep me posted every minute on the Holy Father's condition!” Hume shouted to his assistant, who had called him from the office of the college at the Apostolic Palace. “And now let me get dressed!”

Ten minutes later, as Hume was completing his toilette in the high-ceilinged bedroom of his
palazzo,
the telephone rang again with word that Gregory was fighting for his life at the clinic and that there were high hopes for his survival. The Irishman sighed with relief. “Praise the Lord,” he said to his assistant, “and I mean it . . .”

“And, Eminence,” the assistant told him, “the gunman was captured and taken away by the
carabinieri.
He is a Turk . . .”

“What ? A Turk? What kind of Turk?” Hume asked impatiently.

“I have no idea, Eminence,” the man replied. “All we know is that he is young—and that he will not talk, except to state his name.”

Hume turned the information over in his mind. He never took anything at face value.

“Hmm,” he said to himself. “A Turk . . . Why would a Turk wish to kill Gregory? Because he is a fanatic Muslim, if that's what he is? No, it makes no sense. It's got to be more complicated. There must be more to it . . . Well, we'll find out sooner or later . . . or not. Meanwhile, I want Gregory back on his feet, running the Church.”

Hume was still shaking his head in puzzlement as he entered his black limousine to be driven to his office in the Vatican to stand by for further developments.

“There's something else to this whole business,” the cardinal muttered, thinking of urgent telephone calls he would make as soon as the emergency was over, either way, and of questions that had to be asked.

*  *  *

Rome, Italy, and the world hung for hours in a state of shock on whatever sparse news emerged that afternoon, evening, and night
concerning the condition of Gregory XVII—and concerning the identity and background of the Turkish gunman. Would the pope live? Who
was
this Turk? Why did he try to kill Gregory? Who was behind it all? Of course, it had to be a conspiracy! RAI, the Italian radio and television network, remained on the air with continuous, excited reports on the events of St. Peter's Square—including breathless interviews with real or alleged eyewitnesses—though it had precious little new to say as the evening wore on. It interviewed, as did foreign journalists, anyone that could be located who knew the pope well, slightly, or not at all, or knew something or other about the papacy, all aspiring gravely to appear as experts on Gregory XVII and international terrorism.

From his private office at the American Embassy in Rome, his radio and television sets blaring, the CIA Station Chief was attempting in the early evening—it was early afternoon in Washington—to brief the Director of Central Intelligence over a secure telephone line at Langley headquarters. The CIA, the president, and the entire officialdom back home had learned of the attempted assassination within minutes of its occurrence—the wire services had flashed the news moments after Circlic had fired his gun and Gregory had collapsed—and now they all demanded fulsome answers and explanations. The president had ordered the Director of Central Intelligence to come up with “a full picture” as rapidly as possible; he feared, not unreasonably, a global crisis if the pope died and blame and responsibility had to be apportioned. The United States had to be prepared to act credibly and fearlessly in any contingency, and to make or weigh accusations. What if the Soviets had been behind it?

“No, sir, we have no clue about the Turk's identity,” the Station Chief was telling the director, striving to keep his own impatience and frustration in check. “No, we don't know whether the Soviets are behind it . . . No, I know nothing about notorious Palestinian terrorists turning up in Rome . . . God, it only happened a few hours ago . . . Yes, the shooter remains in custody . . . And, yes, the pope is still alive . . . He was hit by two high-velocity bullets . . . Yes, we have our people at the Clinic . . . Of course, sir, we'll do everything we can to get you all the answers ASAP . . .”

*  *  *

The radio was on as well three blocks from the Vatican, in the tiny office of an American Jesuit in his early forties named Timothy Savage. He was a leading Vatican specialist on Islamic affairs. Savage, informally clad that afternoon in slacks and a polo shirt, had learned about the shooting from a fellow Jesuit who had burst into his office, shouting the fearsome news.

The American had just greeted a visiting retired French archbishop who had served for decades in West Africa, acquiring deep-seated suspicions about everything connected with Islam. He had requested a meeting with Savage to discuss dangers he believed were posed by the Muslim world. The elderly archbishop, severe in his old-fashioned black cassock and redolent of mothballs, had told Savage as they shook hands that he had arrived from his retirement home at the foothills of the Pyrénées in the south of France only two days earlier on a long-planned visit to Rome, probably his farewell one. Savage received him as a courtesy.

An emaciated, stooped figure with deep-sunken ice-cold blue eyes, the archbishop had arched his thick eyebrows and crossed himself silently as he was apprised of the attack on Gregory XVII, a fellow Frenchman. But the two men had talked only about Islam for nearly three hours as the old man would not let go of the subject. The archbishop was curiously reluctant to depart, and Savage tried desperately to listen to his visitor with one ear and the radio broadcasts with the other. Darkness had already fallen outside when the RAI announcer broke in to read a medical bulletin from the Gemelli Clinic that, after six hours in surgery, it appeared that Gregory XVII would live.

Rising from his chair, the archbishop crossed himself again, mouthing silently, “God's will,” as he took leave of Timothy Savage.

1986

“T
HE
H
OLY
F
ATHER
wishes to learn the whole truth about that attempt on his life,” Monsignor Romain de Sainte-Ange announced quietly in his French-accented English.

The monsignor, the pope's private secretary, paused for effect, fussed with his rimless glasses, brushed an invisible speck from the front of his elegantly tailored cassock and the violet sash, and leaned forward to fix the American Jesuit with a trusting, conspiritorial stare.

Father Timothy Savage nodded pleasantly, uncertain of how else to respond. He had no idea why he had been summoned so urgently by Sainte-Ange, whom he had never met before, and why he was now being informed of this wish of Gregory XVII. But the corpulent monsignor with soft features, a pouting mouth, and diamond-hard black eyes, was the pope's closest adviser and confidant—and the most powerful man at the papal court. Everything he did had a precise purpose, and Tim Savage assumed that it included his own meeting with Sainte-Ange this morning.

“You see,” the Monsignor went on, shooting his gold-and-diamond cufflinks as he spoke, “the Italian authorities decided last week to discontinue their investigations of the assassination attempt because Parliament chose not to extend the period of the investigatory mandate, as required by law. Do you know why?”

“No, Monsignor, I do not know,” Tim replied, increasingly perplexed by what he was hearing.

“It was because in the years since the attempt the Italian investigators have failed to come up with any new clues or evidence to indicate who had ordered the attack on His Holiness—and why,”
Sainte-Ange said. “As you know, today is the fifth anniversary of that attack, and we still know absolutely nothing of what was behind it. This is not acceptable! . . .”

The private secretary took a deep breath and continued: “Yes, the culprit, that demented Turk, is in prison serving a life term, but, apart from confessing, which he later recanted, he told the Italian tribunal absolutely nothing. And when the Holy Father visited him in his prison cell to forgive him, the Turk insisted he was Jesus Christ. And you know what?”