To Kill the Pope (25 page)

“Sure,” Tim said, “but how does it all translate into politics and religious attitudes?”

“In many ways it still is an evolving process and you cannot draw categorical conclusions at this point,” Al-Kutas replied. “And there are a lot of contradictions. Politically, for instance, those with French citizenship, born here or naturalized, vote for the Left, not ideologically, but in protest against what they see as repression by rightists in the government and the brutality of their police. Religiously, however, they are not only discovering that they are devout Muslims—which they probably were not in, say, Algeria—but they follow the most conservative imams who preach the kind of fundamentalism that I, as a Muslim myself, cannot accept. It's incredibly rigid and destructive. Yet, I have to understand reality. You can hear all that fundamentalist thundering at Friday services at the mosques in and around Paris, but you will also find that the fundamentalists are setting up social services, clinics, and schools. This gives them an immense range of power over their people. You know, it is like Hamas in Gaza. Social services, care for the children, a bit of help with money, a new sense of finally belonging to some kind of a rational society—and there you have it: virtually self-governing enclaves, where the French fear to tread, powerful Islamic fundamentalism, and an enormous potential for violence directed at the outside.”

“Well,” Tim asked, “should we be worried about any danger to the pope from Islamic militants when he comes to France next month? After all, the guy who shot him in Rome was a Muslim. What do you think?”

“No, I doubt it very much,” the Egyptian answered. “Certainly not as anything spontaneous. I'm afraid that the pope is the last thing on their minds. I suspect most of them don't even know who Gregory XVII is. They will watch him on television, or not, and that will be it. I definitely see no reason for organized political violence against your man. The Muslims here don't see him as an enemy.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Tim said. “I'll pass it on to headquarters. And, if you don't mind, I'll mention you as one of my founts of knowledge. You have a fine reputation in Rome, and they will be
happy to know that we have your guidance, Ahmed. Meanwhile, I'll hang around Paris, talking to the French and our Church people to flesh out what you've told me.”

“Fine, and, of course, I'm at your disposal at any time. But, you know, you really should hear it also from some of the Muslim leaders, a mullah or two. Would you like to?”

Al-Kutas smiled fondly and gave Tim a farewell embrace.

“I can arrange it fairly easily,” he added.

*  *  *

Al-Kutas' invitation was a godsend for Tim. It had not occurred to him to ask the anthropologist for introductions to Muslim leaders because he thought it would be an improper imposition and might have appeared suspicious. But their conversation had flowed in the right direction and Al-Kutas had made it so simple and spontaneous. His introduction should make all the difference in the world in terms of how he would be received. His luck was holding up.

Al-Kutas called Tim at the Jesuit Residence several days later, suggesting a get-together with “a friend” after mosque services the following Friday. They met at the Egyptian's Ménilmontant apartment, then took the long
métro
ride north on the Yellow Line to the Stalingrad Station in the nineteenth
arrondissement.
It was part of the industrial suburbs' “Muslim Belt,” between La Villette slaughterhouses and the factories of Rue de Flandre, and Tim felt magically transported back to the Middle East.

He could discern minaret towers in the afternoon haze of polluted air, the sun lurking somewhere above the dirty blanket that smothered the town. Store signs were in flowing Arabic script. Most of the women in the streets were in
purdah
or, at least, wore scarves tight around their heads, making them unrecognizable even at a short distance. Men with thick mustaches
à la
Saddam Hussein chatted idly on street corners. Barefoot children played soccer on the pavement and empty lots filled with uncollected garbage. The smell of cooking, the smell of the people, and the indefinable but powerful smell of the poor neighborhood were those of the Cairo slums Tim had known. Civilizations and cultures, the best and the worst of them, can be so easily transplanted, he thought.

With Al-Kutas leading the way, they walked down Rue de Tanger to a huge converted warehouse with an unmarked façade. The Egyptian explained to Tim that it was the Addawa Mosque—Addawa is Arabic for “The Call”—but known commonly as the Stalingrad Mosque because of the nearby subway station. It was, he said, the largest mosque in France, but, Tim saw, it was grim and depressing, compared with the elegant Paris mosque on the Left Bank of the Seine. Poor Muslims regarded the latter as “too much Establishment,” and it was too far for them from their destitute northern
banlieue.
Al-Kutas pounded three times on a solid metal door in the back of the mosque and, at length, it was opened by an emaciated little boy who raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Your father is expecting us,” Al-Kutas said in Egyptian-accented Arabic. “I am the professor from Paris and this man is my friend. Please take us to your father.”

The mosque proper was a large hallway on the ground floor, now empty with the prayer carpets rolled up against the walls. A rickety staircase led to offices on the first floor. A middle-aged man with a full, graying beard and infinitely fatigued eyes came out of a room to greet them. He wore the robe of an imam, prayer leader, over a business suit.

“Salaam Aleikum,”
he said politely, bowing slightly before the visitors. “Please come in.”

The imam's office was small and cluttered, his desk piled high with documents, pamphlets, and books. A shortwave radio receiver, an old-fashioned large instrument encased in dark, brown wood, sat on a table in the corner of the room. Al-Kutas made the introductions, and the imam invited the visitors to sit down on straight-backed chairs, installing himself behind the desk.

“How can I help you?” he asked Tim in French, in a low, pleasant voice. He was French-born and had a doctorate in theology, Al-Kutas had told Tim.

“I understand from the professor that you are concerned about the safety of the pope when he visits France next month,” the imam went on. “But let me first welcome you here as the Islam scholar I am informed you are. I wish for more Christian scholars, particularly religious scholars like you, to share your interest in Islam.”

“Thank you,” Tim said. “I am honored, as a Jesuit and a student of Islam, to be under your roof. I appreciate your hospitality. And, yes, there is concern about the safety of the Holy Father. This is why I took the liberty of asking my friend, Professor Al-Kutas, how Muslim communities in France might react to this visit, and he suggested that you may give me the best answer.”

The imam smiled, leaning back in his swivel chair.

“I suppose your question has to do with the fact that it was a Muslim who tried to kill the pope and your fear that it could happen again, this time here, because there are so many of us in this country,” he said most courteously.

“It does, in part,” Tim told him, “but I was wondering at the same time whether it would be a good idea if the Holy Father met with some of your elders during his stay in Paris. You are a major religious community and, as I'm sure you know, the pope is very keen on a positive dialogue with Islam. He likes to converse with representatives of all the religious communities in the countries he visits. In France, for instance, he will meet with the Jewish community and Protestant leaders, as he has done in the past. It was an oversight, I confess, that the Holy Father had not met with the Muslim community on his previous trips to France, and I think it should be remedied this time. After all, he had worked with Muslims when he was a young priest. What is your opinion?”

Proposing to the imam the possibility of an encounter between Gregory XVII and French Muslims was an inspiration that came to Tim in a flash. He was using his cover as the pope's advance man to the hilt to push forward his investigatory mission although he was not authorized to represent himself in this capacity. But the importance of his assignment surely justified a little improvisation, a notion that had been drilled into him at the CIA concerning the approach to secret missions.

Tim, of course, had no idea whether the pope would desire such an encounter. But it was quite plausible, particularly in the light of his active contacts with Muslims in his days on the Marseille docks. And it was public knowledge that it was on his orders that the Church in France had been vigorously protesting the deportations of Muslims back to North Africa. Tim now hoped that his sudden inspiration would help to create a better rapport
with the imam in his search for the “French Brethren.” His host was himself a Muslim “French Brother” in the broad sense and he might be flattered that the Vatican “envoy” had sought him out, an obscure imam in a Parisian suburb, for his opinions. And the imam appeared to be pleased as he listened to Tim, running his prayer beads through his fingers.

“I can assure you that the pope is in no danger from Muslims in France,” he said solemnly. “As far as a meeting with the pope is concerned, I think it is a very good idea, but I must consult the others.”

The imam paused, hesitated, smiled with a touch of embarrassment, and went on:

“Speaking of the pope and the Muslim who tried to kill him, I think that we owe you an explanation, now that you come to us in peace and friendship.”

“An explanation?”

“Yes. And an apology. Meeting you, Father, is our first opportunity to do so. In our religion, as you are aware, truth comes first . . . and contrition. It is Allah's will that you are here today.”

Tim tensed up. Excitement, anticipation rushed through his mind, like in the Mekong Delta with the chopper lifting his team to a mission.

“You see,” the imam told him softly, “we are responsible in a way for that assassination attempt.”

“What do you mean?”

“We are the ones, the Muslim elders' council in France—and I am one of them—who appealed to our Muslim brethren in Turkey to designate a person who would extract vengeance for an act of religious crime and sin . . .”

“What crime? What sin?” Tim cried.

“The shameful truth is that I don't know,” the imam said. “We were not told that. We were simply honoring, as council of elders, our commitment to our brethren.”

“I don't understand. What commitments? What brethren?”

“Well, we were asked by our brethren in Toulouse, down in the south, to use our contacts abroad to help locate such a person. The Toulouse brethren do not have such contacts. They indicated that it was a matter of faith. In such cases, one asks no questions.
One just does the best one can. On faith. And we were in a position to help.”

“My God!” Tim sighed. “Then what?”

“Then we sent word to our contacts in Turkey and they responded affirmatively,” the imam replied. “That was our last communication with them. And only when we learned of the attack on the pope and that the man with the gun was a terrorist from Turkey—and a Muslim—did we understand what horror had been perpetrated and how
we
made it possible. You see, we had no idea that the pope would be the target. We were never told and it had never occurred to any of us . . .”

“But this is monstrous!” Tim shouted, almost losing all control. “How could you?”

“Yes. I agree. It was monstrous. We sinned against Allah and the Prophet as well as against your church. We should have known better. I wish there was a way of expiation, of atonement.”

Tim thought for a moment.

“Yes,” he said gravely. “I think there is a way, if you wish to take it. I cannot absolve you though I am a priest. I know God forgives you, He who is God of all of us, but it is up to you to atone.”

“How?” the imam asked. He was in tears.

“Put me in touch with your brethren in the south,” Tim said. “Now I need to know the full truth of what happened—and why.”

*  *  *

The
concierge
brother at the Jesuit Residence knocked on the door of Tim's room the morning after the meeting with the imam. Tim had stayed up late into the night working on his notes, and he was barely awake as the
concierge
shouted, “Father, there's a telephone call for you downstairs! Can you come down?”

Getting into a pair of jeans and throwing on a sports shirt, Tim trotted down the stairs to the reception desk on the ground floor and picked up the phone.

“Oui, ici le Père Savage,”
he said into the mouthpiece.

“My, don't you sound like a native Parisian!” a woman's voice told him laughingly in English. “This is Angela. I'm in Paris.”

Tim was speechless for a moment, utter surprise and a surge of joy delivering him to a touch of incoherence.

“You, Sister Angela? . . . You are in Paris? . . . Really? How come? . . .” he stuttered at length.

“Well, I arrived last night for our annual reunion at the Convent of the Augustine Sisters,” she said lightly. “And the Monsignor told me to call you to see how you are faring here . . .”

Tim fell silent again, thinking furiously how to react, what to say. He was completely disoriented.

“Hello, hello, are you there, Father Savage?” Angela asked with concern. “Are you on the line?”

“Oh, yes! . . . I am . . . That's wonderful that you are in Paris. How long will you be here?”

“About a week, I think,” she told him, very warmly. “We have our reunion at the Convent and I want to visit my relatives who live near Paris. But if you are not too busy with your work, perhaps we could meet for a cup of coffee.”