

# AN AMERICAN POPE

##

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

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CHAPTER ONE

The Pope was dead. No question about that. The Cardinal Camerlengo had verified this by calling the Pope three times by his name. With a nod to modern times, the medical staff double-checked, issued a death certificate and made the event public by notifying the Cardinal Vicar for the Diocese of Rome.

The Camerlengo then sealed the Pope's apartments, saw to it that the "ring of the fisherman" and the Papal seal were both broken, which is always done when a pope goes to heaven, then prepared for the novemdieles, the nine days of mourning. During the so-called interregnum, the Camerlengo is responsible for the government of the Church plus directing the election of a new pope.

This considerable power was in the hands of one Cardinal John Black, who happened to be an American. After twenty days of mourning and talking about what kind of a pope would fit the Church's current needs, the College of Cardinals turned to the task of electing a new pope, usually one of their own.

About that same time a train was traveling south through France, making its way to Rome, carrying a thirty-two-year-old American student, Justin Scott, on a week-long holiday from studies of French and Italian. Scott hoped to enter the U.S. Foreign Service.

Fixing his gaze out the window, farms, woodlots, cows, assorted farm animals, the occasional village, Justin attempted to ignore the five companions in his compartment. The young Italian couple, writhing and clutching, almost in a sexual mode. The prim schoolmarm type with round glasses, owlish eyes, pointed nose and suspicious look. The old bearded man, immaculately dressed in an out-of-fashion suit and wide tie. One could almost smell the mothballs, but in Europe any attempt at elegance is welcome.

Then there was the sweet young thing across from him with an English accent and beaming good health. She had told him her name was Jane and she intended to see the sites in Rome, with an almost lascivious emphasis on seeing the sites. Obviously she didn't want to see the sites alone, and if the opportunity for a head start on romance cropped up, so be it.

"Where will you be staying?" she asked, tapping him on the knee to break his concentrated stare out the window.

Justin considered his options. He had a girl in the States and he had attempted to be faithful. But a Roman holiday, what the heck. "Probably a B&B, or maybe a hostel. Nothing too elaborate."

"Me too," Jane bubbled. "Maybe we could look together. Two heads are better than one."

"Do you have a guidebook, or anything like that?"

"I do," she replied. "It's in my bag and we can get it out at the station. It's a bit close in here for reading and sharing." She made a sidelong glance toward the young Italians who continually nudged into her space with their contortions. Then she added, "'Roma, non basta una vita,' that means, Rome, a lifetime is not enough." She giggled. "I read it in the guidebook." It had been a long ride, but they would soon be in Rome.

CHAPTER TWO

Cardinal John Black as Camerlengo wielded considerable power, but he was unable to break the deadlock between the wrangling cardinals. More than a hundred of them (those over 80 were excluded) filed into the Sistine Chapel, took seats around the wall, each taking a paper ballot on which was written "Eligo in summum pontificem" – I elect a supreme Pontiff – but they didn't.

Cardinal Giovanni Piovanelli was the most popular among the lot. During early balloting it seemed many cardinals were voting for themselves. Rules of secrecy were strictly adhered to, but the old rule that Cardinals had to remain in the Sistine Chapel under uncomfortable circumstances had been overturned. They were now housed in comfortable hotel lodgings, reducing the urgency for a rapid conclusion.

As the balloting advanced, Piovanelli was becoming the standout favorite. He was a hail-fellow-well-met type, always with a good word for his fellows, a joke or an original remark. The life of the party type, certainly the material for a popular pope.

At this point Cardinal Black as Camerlengo felt it his duty to speak out. "We all know and admire Giovanni," he began. "But as a bishop many of you will remember he shielded many child molesters. He moved pedophiles around his territory as if they were chessmen, shielding them from the public and from the law."

Cardinal Giovanni Piovanelli jumped to his feet in outrage and insisted he had done nothing wrong.

"I understand that," Black asserted, "The good cardinal sees nothing wrong with a sexual relationship between a man and a boy. He has often said that he was in such a relationship as a choirboy and is none the worse for it. Maybe so, but the good cardinal has an unusual mental toughness and outlook on life, possibly with the help of our Savior, that carries him through these situations. But if we should elect a person who condones and has actually condoned child molestation as pope, God help us."

A ripple of assent passed through the gathering, and because the cardinals weren't confined to the Sistine Chapel as they would have been in bygone days, a motion for a two-week recess in balloting was carried.

The hiatus would give Piovanelli an opportunity to convince other cardinals that he was a reformed man begging forgiveness. On the other hand, Black, in charge of the transformation from dead to live pope, was hoping for a religious miracle while banging his head against the reality of Vatican politics, no different from any other rough and tumble political scrap. His task was not unlike herding cats.

CHAPTER THREE

Meanwhile Justin Scott and Jane had been tearing up the Roman scenic scene, a good part of their time spent in violent encounters on a double bed in a cheap hotel, occasionally glancing out the gritty window or laying on their backs in exhaustion and listening to the melody of street traffic blended with the almost constant blaring of horns. They were in the pulsating heart of life and loving it.

Then one morning toward the end of their stay and after an exhilarating sexual romp, Jane said she would carry out her plan to visit a friend enrolled in a convent on the fringe of town. "Please give her my regards and tell her about our adventurous activities," Scott said.

Shooting him a cheerful glance, Jane replied. "What a pity it would be to let Fiona in on our secret life. The poor girl might resign her nun's commission and join us."

"We'd need a larger bed."

"No matter, I'm off. What's your plan, my sweet?"

"The Vatican. No Roman sojourn is complete without it."

"Ta."

Already showered and buffed, Jane was off to visit her friend.

Justin lolled in bed, stared at the ceiling and was tempted to spend the morning napping. As a former altar boy, his better angels tugged him from the bed and into the shower stall. Thoughts of strong Italian coffee and flaky pastries danced in his head as the water rained down upon him. Jane's lithe unclad body was also foremost in his thoughts, along with flashbacks to his girlfriend in the States.

The Vatican was only a few blocks from his tacky hotel, with a number of small coffee shops along the way. Fortified with a four-euro repast, he plodded on, his thoughts now turning to all he had heard of that famed small city-state during his Catholic youth. Perhaps a backslider, Justin yet considered himself a stalwart of that True Church.

He knew well that Nero built a circus in the Ager Vaticanus in the first century AD, and it was likely in this stadium that St. Peter and other Christians were martyred during the next seventy years, their bodies buried anonymously along the circus wall. In the year 315, Emperor Constantine, the first Christian ruler of Rome, ordered the construction of a basilica on the site and the first St. Peter's was consecrated in 326.

From that date forward, a series of popes, now numbering near 270, made addition after addition, improvement piled upon improvement, and that tradition continues today with each new pope adding his personal touch to resound through the ages yet to come.

For all his knowledge gained from the good nuns and various priests of his school years, Justin was filled with awe and a profound sense of spirituality as he stepped into the Piazza San Pietro, the immense square designed by Bernini for Christians of the world to gather. There were the two semicircular colonnades, each with its four rows of Doric columns.

In the center of the piazza was the obelisk sacked by Caligula from Heliopolis in ancient Egypt. In some areas Justin's memory was almost photographic for things he had heard and read over the years. For the moment that he stood savoring his first encounter with the Vatican, the flood of history was almost overwhelming. Details that flashed through his mind were unexpected and startling.

The faith was something he was born into and he took for granted. Never in his lifetime had he felt a strong call to serve the church in any capacity, but he felt something here, on this sacred ground. It was almost as if produced in Hollywood where angels would hum, bells might ring and shafts of light would strike through the clouds.

A deep breath and the feeling evaporated, a feeling he imagined every Catholic might experience upon entering this storied city.

CHAPTER FOUR

After making the rounds, Justin stood before St. Peter's Basilica. He had acquired a guidebook and read what he had heard was true, that despite 150 years of work on the new basilica, despite thousands of dedicated and talented workers, St. Peter's owes the most to Michelangelo, who took over the project in 1547 at the age of 72 and was responsible for the design of the dome.

With soft music filtering through the massive doors and pilgrims slowly entering the cathedral, Justin moved with the crowd, caught in a babble of languages, marching solemnly as supplicants, many of them in religious attire, quite a number of nuns, possibly on their one and only trip to the Vatican. What a waste, Justin thought, to be a nun and not enjoy the wonders of sex, the joy of motherhood. He speculated whether many were lesbians, caught up in their own culture. Then he snapped back to his altar boy days, and he wondered if his very thoughts constituted sin. It had been years since he had been to confession. At this time, in this setting, he felt he should remedy that soon. How many other pilgrims were of the same mind?

Justin moved with the thinning crowd halfway down the aisle, genuflected and slipped into one end of a pew.

The mass just beginning was one of a series Cardinal John Black had ordered to pray for divine guidance in search of a new pope. He was a man of the people, welcoming the involvement of the masses. Black and quite a few nobles of the church were in attendance, seated on throne-like seats facing the congregation.

Black looked out over the gathering crowd and his heart was buoyed up despite the petty politics and friction at play in naming a new pontiff. There had been sleepless nights, but the sight of this makeshift congregation, these lambs of God, these true believers, gave his soul rest.

As Cardinal Camerlengo, Black had made a vow to the Almighty that he would steer the conclave on the proper course to get the best pope possible, one in step with the times. One thing might prove a stumbling block. In 1996 under Pope John Paul II, certain rules were changed while not departing radically from the traditional structure.

One of these demanded that if no pope had been elected after a certain number of ballots the two-thirds majority rule was out the window, and a pope could be elected by a simple majority, fifty percent plus one. Black thought this might play into Cardinal Piovanelli's hands as the most popular handshaking, backslapping, ingratiating one among them, despite his glossed-over reputation as a child molester. Some quick action might be required.

With these thoughts circulating in his brain as they had for many days, Black, the other officers of the church, and the congregants knelt together in that massive interior, now almost filled to capacity with 60,000 pious souls, and a hushed and solemn tone swept the crowd as the mass got underway. Whatever the outcome of this particular election, the church would survive. One century was much like another as the church crept forward from age to age.

Justin knelt in prayerful silence. In the aisle to his left he was aware of a latecomer advancing slowly toward the Throne of St. Peter, possibly a woman of middle years. He was also aware that she was supported by a walker, when suddenly that device was thrown forward and the woman sprawled spread eagle on the floor of the Basilica.

Always a fitness freak, Justin was up and out into the aisle like a shot, grasping the fallen woman on both shoulders and raising her to her feet.

There was a short pause while she gasped for breath, then a loud outcry from the depths of her being. "I can walk. I'm no longer a cripple. It must be a miracle! A Vatican miracle."

Still holding her, Justin didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Such a turn of events certainly came as an abrupt shock, as if someone had dashed a bucket of cold water in his face.

From out of nowhere the Vatican security materialized. One thing the Vatican kept in good supply was cash, and no expense was spared to safeguard its treasures. The interior of the Basilica, decorated by Bernini and Giacomo della Porta, contained numerous art treasures, including Michelangelo's wonderful Pieta, executed when he was but 25 years old, his only work to carry his signature.

A madman with a hammer attacked it in the early 1970s, and now it was protected by bulletproof glass plus beefed up security.

From his high seat looking out at the congregation, Cardinal Black saw exactly what was happening and immediately dialed security on his cell phone. "Hold both that woman and the man who assisted her," he ordered. "Place them in separate rooms, treat them well. A thorough investigation will be conducted. Don't make any mistakes, or say anything to the press."

Aware that the cardinal was acting in the name of the dead pope, security was quick to comply with each and every request. The Vatican, after all, was a city-state, and Black, in the interim between popes, was the supreme commander. Any deviation from his orders would be dealt with quickly and harshly. He was the man.

CHAPTER FIVE

Through the years the Vatican had been accustomed to so-called "miracles" and publicity stunts. But each and every one merited serious study. The structure of the church might be said to be based on a series of miracles.

And this was how a somewhat dazed Justin was ending his Roman holiday, confined to what seemed to be a fairly luxurious hotel room in the heart of the Vatican (Domus Sanctae Marthae). Room service was available, but there was no telephone or TV. It also included a guard in the hall who was there to insure his confinement was complete, but also to insure he was well cared for.

Justin was not so disoriented that he didn't realize Jane would be waiting for him at their shabby hotel. For this purpose he asked the guard to either supply him with a phone or lead him to a telephone. After checking and crosschecking with superiors, he was given such an instrument along with the number for the hotel.

"Jane," he announced when she answered. "I'm at the Vatican at a type of hotel. I may have to stay here for a day or two."

"Oh, darling, the Vatican. Wonderful. It all fits! I met the nicest man today. His name is Alfonso and he invited me to dinner. I'll be headed home the day after tomorrow, so I won't see you anymore. Really, Justice, I had a marvelous time." She made kissing noises then hung up.

Justin was clearly stunned. He held the phone for a long moment, and then slammed it down so hard that the guard cracked the door open and peeked in. "She called me Justice," he finally shouted. "She doesn't even know my name." He stormed around the room looking for something to break, but found nothing, not even a Gideon Bible.

"After all we've been through together! Sex several times a day, words of endearment. Has she no heart?" he demanded of no one in particular. "I've heard that women are not the romantic sex, and by God I think it's true."

At this point the guard entered the room and inquired if he could do anything.

"No," Justin shouted, then calmed down enough to say, "Take the phone away."

"Of course, sir."

He gathered up the phone with a strange wary glance in Justin's direction, a suspicious look from under his brows.

Justin was aware that he was making a bad scene worse. "I'm sorry for my outburst. I've just had bad news." He was fortunate that the guard spoke fairly good English. Hesitating for a moment, he questioned, "I wonder if it's possible to get an alcoholic beverage here? You know, a drink of something strong."

"Alcohol," the guard repeated. "Of course. Anything you want. You are an honored guest. Would you like wine, or possibly whisky?"

"Yes, wine and whisky would be nice."

It was the guard's turn to hesitate. Then he replied, "Of course, sir. Coming right up."

CHAPTER SIX

Two days had expired since the incident in the Basilica di San Pietro, hardly enough time to check on the woman's story. But Cardinal Black felt it was high time to have a chat with Justin Scott. He had been busy warding off an onslaught of cardinals who would have elected Cardinal Piovanelli in a New York minute. There had been a backlash over weeding out priests accused of sexual abuse. After all, many argued, they were there with no women, no sexual outlet, relations between men and boys were strongly rooted in history, centuries before the birth of Jesus Christ.

There were those who favored such activities, those who would stand by and let it happen and those who were disgusted by it. Black was in the latter group, and sometimes he had a feeling of isolation although he knew it wasn't true. In his heart he felt there was a great silent majority among the cardinals who favored ferreting out and stamping out all child abuse.

Black approached Justin's room and nodded to the guard who opened the door to admit him. Justin was sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling, but he jumped up abruptly when the cardinal entered.

Shaking the cobwebs out of his head, Justin exclaimed, "Finally a visitor. Thank God. This room is driving me crackers."

Dressed in the grim attire of a parish priest, Black dropped into a chair and began. "I'm Cardinal John Black, and I'm sorry we have to keep you here like this. But you're part of the incident. The woman fell, you picked her up. You're a strong man."

Justin nodded. "I keep fit. Am I under arrest?"

Black laughed. "Hardly. But you're part of the equation. You know the woman said she was cured, that she could walk, or something like that, after you picked her up. Well, it would seem to be a religious miracle, but we've had such miracles before. Publicity stunts." Black raised his hands to indicate a mystery. "Various reasons, hard to catalog. But the investigation is underway."

"You're an American." Justin said.

"I am."

"Cardinals wear red and most of them are Italian."

"Also true. But we dress as we please in informal situations. Also, I should tell you this. The pope is dead, and we are in the midst of a chaotic situation, picking a new pope. I happen to be the man in charge. I am called Cardinal Camerlengo, the person who verifies the pope's death and is more or less in charge until a new pope is seated."

"Wow. That's some responsibility. I never thought I'd talk to such a person. You must be terribly busy. Why bother with me?"

"You're due an explanation."

"Must I stay in this room?"

"It's probably best until the investigation is concluded. As you might know, we have vast treasures and resources at our disposal. So the investigation should be done with some alacrity."

"Do I need a lawyer?"

Black smiled. "Certainly not."

"But I am a prisoner."

"Not a prisoner, a guest of the Vatican, an honored guest."

"Aren't there laws that prohibit certain practices? No offense meant."

"None taken. You see the Vatican is actually a country. We do have laws, some written, some unwritten. Now I see where you're going with this. You have no TV, no reading material. I assume the meals are satisfactory, and I see you have a bottle of whisky and a couple of bottles of wine on the credenza."

Justin interrupted to say, "I haven't drunk myself into a stupor, but I need something before bedtime or I lie awake and wonder what the hell's going on."

"I should have come earlier," Black acknowledged. "I'll see that you get reading material and a TV set. But the investigation must go forward. Now what I must touch on next is a bit delicate, and I hope you won't be offended. When something like this happens and there is a possibility that it is a contrived miracle, it is often the case that two people are involved."

Justin simply stared at the wall for a long moment, then cocked his head to one side and said, "I see. So I could be a co-conspirator."

"That could be in the cards, but I don't think it is. That's why I personally have undertaken to conduct this phase of the investigation. I need to know more about you and your recent activities. For one thing, are you Catholic?"

It was Justin's turn to crack a big smile. "Well, hell yes. I explored the Vatican, I was attending mass, what else would I be?"

"Understandable," the cardinal replied, "but the fact is we get all kinds here – Protestants, Jews, Hindus, Shinto, Muslims, pagans, agnostics, devil worshippers, practitioners of voodoo, warlocks, you name it we get it. But you are a practicing Catholic?

Justin hesitated.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Off another hallway in the same Vatican hotel, Hilda Krieg, from Germany, was being interviewed by a pair of Jesuit priests. She did not speak Italian, but her English was only slightly accented. Neither priest spoke German. One was elderly, the other mid-twenties. Hilda, about five foot five and slightly overweight, had a sunny disposition. She seemed to be on cloud nine.

The older priest was speaking. "So far three doctors have examined you, two men, one woman."

"It's wonderful," Hilda responded, "free medical care here in Italy. I never expected so much. We've heard things aren't going so well in Italy. Now in Germany we pride ourselves on excellent medicine."

"I appreciate your praise," the priest replied. "But you aren't actually in Italy. This is the Vatican, its own country."

"Yes, but you must admit we are in the heart of Rome."

"So we are," the priest agreed, not wanting to debate the matter farther. "My point is you seem to be in perfect health. Nothing wrong with your legs, your spine, any other parts of your anatomy. You are in splendid health."

"Isn't it wonderful?"

"Good health is always a blessing, my daughter. But when you entered the Vatican you were using a walker."

"Yes, Father. I was quite the cripple. Now I am whole and ready to return to Germany. Why have you detained me?"

The younger priest looked around. "This seems to be a pleasant enough room. You have meals, snacks, wine with dinner. Beer if you want it, just like Germany. Even a TV set and newspapers. Not a bad life, eh?"

Hilda smiled. "Yes all we Germans love beer. Just as Jesuits love red wine and their studies. You are Jesuits are you not?"

"We are. So, Hilda, you have experienced a religious miracle?"

"I have experienced something. I was crippled when I made my pilgrimage to the Vatican. Now I am whole." She faced both of them. "You are the learned fathers of the church. Please tell me what happened. And by the way, why am I held here as if in prison, a very pleasant prison, but still freedom is much cherished by bird, beast and the human form."

"We are merely investigating what happened, my daughter," the older priest said. "There is something of a mystery here."

"A mystery, father. I think not. Why do supplicants come to the Vatican? Why do we seek out spas with miraculous healing waters? Do you not believe in prayer? Do you not believe in acts of God? Are you not holy men affiliated with the True Church?"

"What you say, my daughter, is essential to the church. While the church has many mysteries, while the Good Lord may move in mysterious ways, the fact remains that we are all mortals here. We live and we shall die hoping for a glorious afterlife. Our job is to look into these miracles. We would be remiss if we failed to shoulder our task. You are a daughter of the church, and we ask you to remain here only until our routine investigation is complete. I can assure you we will continue with all deliberate speed." As an afterthought, he tossed in, "The mill grinds slowly, but it grinds exceedingly fine."

Hilda nodded and seemed to agree. "It will not deprive me of income to remain here. I haven't been able to work since my accident. Is this what you want? You want to know about the accident?"

"That's part of it," the younger man said. "It might be necessary for you to sign a release for your medical records in Germany. We need to examine just how you were injured to determine what occurred in the Basilica."

"No problem, fathers. I'll sign whatever you bring me. As you say, I am but a mortal woman faced with the majesty of the church. My health and body functions have been restored. My prayers answered. I am grateful. We are all sinners, is it not true? And we are all sojourners and penitents."

The older father nodded in agreement. "You are wise beyond your years." Just how wise, he wondered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Justin conceded it had been sometime since he had been to mass, or confession, but that in his heart he was a Catholic.

With a full head of sandy hair, cropped fairly short, a frame of approximately six-one that carried around 190 pounds, gray-green eyes, Justin was a fairly handsome man. Cardinal Black needed to know details of his life, what he was doing in Europe and if he could have had contact with Hilda Krieg.

"Did you attend Catholic school?" Black questioned.

"I did. I grew up in Dayton, Ohio. You know, where the Wright brothers lived. Actually my family lived in Centerville, a nearby smaller town. I was also an altar boy for several years."

Black nodded his approval. "The University of Dayton I believe is a Catholic institution. Did you attend?"

"No, sir, I didn't, or no Father, or Cardinal, I don't know what to call you."

"Father is fine."

"Wright State is also at Dayton, but you know how it is, wanting to get away from home, I attended Bowling Green, that's another state school up toward Toledo and Michigan."

"Your major?"

"Liberal arts. Doesn't qualify you for much of anything, but I had my eye on foreign service. That's why I'm in France, studying French and Italian, sopping up European culture."

"Good plan. But you must have leaned some way in your studies."

"I suppose history. World history, ancient history, U.S. history. I love history. That's why I came to Rome."

"So you've been sopping up Roman history just before this incident?"

"Yes and no. Not as much as I thought. I've just had a bad experience with a girl. I mean it was a really good experience that turned sour. I thought she cared for me, and then when they put me in this room they let me have a phone, and I called her." He paused a moment, then said, "She brushed me off."

"That's life," Black said. "It happens every day."

Justin smiled. "Not to you."

Black's turn to grin. "Not to me. But I was a parish priest. I heard thousands of confessions. I know life at its seamiest. I think you do too."

"You've got something there. This wasn't my first rodeo. And I do have a girlfriend in the States. Long distance romances are hard to sustain."

"We here in the Vatican," Black said seriously, "feel we are close to God, yet we never see him. There are bishops in the States who spend their time fighting with politicians over abortion and birth control, among other things. Is that wise? Is that the direction the church should take?"

"Not in my book."

"Tell me, Justin. What do you think of that incident in the Basilica? The woman's name incidentally is Hilda Krieg, and she's a German national."

"I'm confused, Father. She said she was crippled, she used a walker, then she fell and said she was healed."

"You lifted her from the aisle. Are you a miracle worker?"

"Father, please. I had nothing to do with it. I had never seen that woman before in my life. She fell. I was sitting nearby. Naturally I wanted to help."

"But no one else came to her aid, Justin. Were you inspired in some way?"

"I was inspired by a handicapped woman falling down a couple of feet away. I don't know what you're getting at. Tell me."

"I'm getting at the fact that Hilda is claiming a miracle and that you're part of it. It's as plain as the nose on your face."

"But it's the Vatican, the Basilica, the nearness of the Trinity, the setting. I had nothing to do with it. You're certainly confusing me."

"It's what I've told you, Justin. This is an investigation and I'm doing part of it. There are Jesuit priests and others handling the German end. There will be investigators making inquiries about your activities in Paris and probably in the States. The church doesn't take miracles lightly. I'm sure you're aware it can be a path to sainthood."

"Sure. For a priest or a cardinal or some church officer."

"I'm certain you know Joan of Arc was not an officer of the church. In your Catholic past did you ever do anything religious outside your altar boy service?"

"You mean like join a social club, or the Sacred Name Society?"

"Just anything."

"I was more religious in high school. It may have even crossed my mind once to become a priest, but I also thought of joining the Peace Corps, and still might if all else fails. Obviously, with liberal arts I have no particular goal. I enjoy history. So I could get a masters degree and teach. Just after high school, with no guidance from anyone, my parents never told me anything, I wrote a religious novella. It was based on the Bible and involved a young woman who had been raised from the dead. I may have plagiarized part of it."

"Writers borrow from other writers," Black said. "The Bible was written by men, and folks have been plagiarizing it for centuries. I'd like to hear about your book."

CHAPTER NINE

The two Jesuit priests who had been carrying forward their part of the investigation had just entered Hilda Krieg's room for the second time.

"Would you like us to be accompanied by a nun?" Father Pat questioned. Hilda was seated in an overstuffed chair, the only comfortable one in the room. A small table beside her contained an open plastic sack of pretzels. She had been reading a popular news magazine. The TV set was off.

Looking up at the two men, who had entered without knocking, she asked, "Why would that be?"

"Well, " Father Konrad replied. "It might be more discreet. We are two men and you are a woman."

"Of course you are celibate," she said. "And you were here before."

"That comes with the territory," Father Pat said. "But we make every attempt to cater to your wishes."

"May we sit down?" Father Konrad asked.

"Please do."

Each man pulled up a straight chair, facing her at an angle in order to facilitate conversation. "Is there anything you need?" Konrad inquired.

Hilda permitted herself a faint smile. "Perhaps freedom."

"A good point," Konrad said. "You're here as our guest because on the surface there seems to have been a religious miracle."

"On the surface?" Hilda echoed, an inquisitive tone to her words.

"Yes," Pat put in. "These things are subject to church scrutiny. Sometimes there is a perfectly logical non-miraculous explanation to a given event."

"Tell me, what might that be?" she asked.

Pat sighed and moved his hands as if to say who knows. "This investigation is serious business and we have been charged with it. We must take a strict and serious view of the event and come to a rational conclusion. It's upon our heads."

"Are miracles rational?" Hilda questioned.

"We are in the Vatican, this is the home of the Catholic Church," Konrad tossed in. "Miracles through the centuries are perfectly acceptable. I suppose you could say rational. But we don't want to make a mistake. As Father Pat said, it's on our heads."

"Which means you two are responsible, and if you reach the wrong conclusion you'll end up parish priests in some Amazon Indian village."

Pat grinned. "We are Lambs of God and we will serve wherever the church believes we will do the most good. Here, there or everywhere, we serve our Blessed Savior. But at the moment, we have been assigned to your case. And we have made an initial study of your medical records in Germany."

"Good start. I signed a paper that gave you full access. So what else do you need? Should I develop stigmata?"

"Nothing so drastic," Konrad said. "It's good you're interested in assisting us in authenticating a miracle."

"I could care less," Hilda tossed off breezily. "I was crippled, now I'm whole. I'm interested in returning to my home. This Italian diet and no exercise is adding flesh to my bones. I'm not interested in looking like a snowman."

"We have a dietician," Pat interjected. "You might guess that several cardinals are quite old and have special needs. We do need you, Hilda. And as a good Catholic you've been very cooperative."

"So what else do you need?"

"We haven't been able to have an agreeable conversation with your doctor. One or both of us will likely have to go to Germany. Of course that's no big deal. A day or two and we'll return and wrap things up. The old doctor seemed a bit, uh, confused."

"Disoriented." Hilda supplied a word. "He's still in practice and he does very well, but his nurse is generally backing him up. He's suffering from a progressive dementia. Soon he must retire and very likely be confined to a locked-down home. He's already wandered away once or twice."

Konrad raised his hands in frustration. "Then we might not be able to reach any conclusion. Is there another doctor?"

"No. He's the one. After the accident he treated me. I was hospitalized, followed by a siege of home care. He said I would never walk normally again. The records should bear this out. But if they don't, drop your probe. I'll return to Germany and the entire incident will be forgotten."

Pat smiled sheepishly. "The Vatican won't permit such a non-ruling. It's either a miracle, or it's not a miracle. Of course we can say it's not a miracle, but there's evidence to the contrary. We're really letting you in on the ground floor of this investigation, Hilda. We need your help."

"So, say it's a miracle and I'll return to Germany. The incident will be soon forgotten."

"The Church never forgets. Centuries may pass, but a miracle is not forgotten. I would be willing to say 'no miracle,' but we have Cardinal John Black here, who happens to be Cardinal Camerlengo, and he wants a speedy and accurate resolution."

"You have one man who is two cardinals?" Hilda asked.

"No," Konrad explained, "Camerlengo is the title of the cardinal who steps in when a pope dies. He takes over the helm until a new pope is elected."

"I've wondered about that," Hilda said. "What's the hang up in electing a new pope?"

"Politics," Konrad said. "The cardinals haven't been able to agree. In the old days they were confined and had to stay in uncomfortable makeshift quarters, maybe sleep on cots in the Papal Palace until a new pope was named. No longer. Nowadays they stay in rooms very much like this one, in what we call the Domus Sanctae Marthae, which means they don't mind wrangling and making endless remarks. But there is a rule of strict secrecy. So only the cardinals know how the procedure advances."

Hilda, who had been munching pretzels right along, attempted to put an end to the conversation by stating, "Well, gentlemen, I'm for returning to Germany."

But she agreed to stay a few days longer when promised her own menu, choice of wine and recent videos. And the two Jesuits said they would depart for Germany at dawn on the morrow.

CHAPTER TEN

Cardinal Black, meanwhile, resumed his interview with Justin Scott, first questioning him about the Christian novella he had penned some years ago.

"The protagonist, I think you call the main character that, is a young woman who was raised from the dead by Jesus shortly before he was executed. She seems to have a mystical connection to the Savior and knows what is happening to Him up and beyond the crucifixion."

"This all came out of your head?" Black questioned.

"Yes and no. It was some time ago that I wrote it, ten years or so. I have it with my documents, so it's available on line. But I had read some things similar to the theme. Miracles, mystic happenings, these things were common, particularly in those days."

Black nodded in agreement. People living for hundreds of years, bearing children at one hundred plus, entire armies returning to life. He didn't really like to think about such happenings, but they were all part of his religion. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Justin continued. "She is compelled to seek out a Roman officer, who happens to be the emperor's nephew, and influence him to conduct her to the seat of Roman power. The Emperor Tiberius, despised by many, feared by all and probably insane, had fled to the island of Capri, fearing for his life. On that island he conducted ghastly orgies, snuffing out the lives of young people rounded up for his vicious sport."

"This would be shortly after the execution of Christ?"

"Exactly. The Roman officer was quite taken with the young lady whose name translated as Little Wolf. He and his troopers managed to take her to the island, and Tiberius was quite impressed. He had grown weary of worshiping marble statues and longed for a new religion. Then the Roman captain, whose name I think was Drusus, manages to take the girl and his troops back to the Holy Land where an all-out effort is underway to stamp out the followers of Christ."

"That's a bit early for any organized Christianity," Black observed.

"You have a point there, but this is fiction, and occasionally reality is suspended."

"Continue."

Captain Drusus is still in control of Little Wolf who had been in something of a trance, but she is returning to reality after her mission has run its course. Anyway, there's a group of early followers of Christ, and Drusus is ordered to take a contingent of troopers and herd them far into the desert, there to abandon them without food or water, leaving them to perish. He has fallen under the spell of Little Wolf and Christ. He hand picks the troops, and they march off with the early Christians, making a large circle back to a remote seaport to board vessels and make their escape."

"That's it?" Black questioned.

"The ends are tied up. Drusus and Little Wolf marry. Certain members of the party go this way, some go that way. Everyone seems to thrive. I assume they enjoy life into ripe old age. Children, grandchildren, herds of goats, sheep, kitchen gardens, vineyards, lots of wine, what-have-you."

"Sounds like a story made in Heaven for Hollywood."

Justin cracked a large grin. "That was my hope. Maybe the Vatican can produce it. It would play great as a musical."

"I'll see what I can do."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fathers Pat and Konrad returned from Germany and checked in with Cardinal Black.

"The doctor is definitely senile," Konrad began. "He remembers very little about Hilda Krieg's case, but the records are quite clear. She was seriously injured in an auto accident about a year ago. The doctor made a note at that time that she would very likely be wheelchair bound for the remainder of her life. However, from the folks we spoke to, she worked hard and managed to move about quite handily with a walker."

"But still a cripple," Black said.

"Yes. According to everything we have learned."

"So you are confirming a miracle?"

Neither priest spoke for a moment. Finally Pat said, "There seems to be no way out. I'm guessing we could investigate until hell won't have it, but the facts will remain the same."

"What facts do you speak of?"

"Medical records. The nurses' testimony."

"Also friends and neighbors," Konrad tossed in.

Black looked perplexed. Something was wrong. "The facts are there, but you two remain skeptics."

Both men nodded in agreement. "We are skeptics," Pat said. "We've talked this thing through from start to finish several times, but we remain not totally sold on Hilda's story."

"What about the man? What about Justin Scott?"

Konrad shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned he simply saw her fall and picked her up. Anyone might have come to her assistance."

"But if it was a miracle?" Black questioned. "How would he figure in?"

"I'll let Pat answer that," Konrad said. "I'm really not into miracles."

"How can you be a Catholic, particularly a priest, and not believe in miracles?" Black questioned. He had long wondered how many Catholics, particularly among the clergy, actually believed in miracles. He had done the best he could to ignore them, but they were part of the grand scheme.

"I simply don't believe in miracles," Konrad said. "I've mentioned it to my confessor from time to time. He didn't seem to think it was much of a sin. We are all here together. This is a livelihood, and we are attempting to do good in this sinful world. We each have a very small role to play while life endures."

It crossed Black's mind to ask Konrad if he believed in the afterlife, but there were more important issues at hand. He asked Pat for his take on the event.

"Well, you have brought up a point that has been in my thoughts from time to time. Whether there is a miracle here – and there seems to be one according to the known facts, although there may be unknown facts that we are not aware of, and in that case the unknown facts might negate the known facts – but simply if there is a miracle, Hilda fell, sprawled in the aisle, and Justin Scott picked her up. If Hilda was cured miraculously, could it have been Justin's touch that did the job?"

Konrad smiled and shook his head in amused disbelief. "Pat has mentioned this to me more than once. In that case we might be dealing with two miracles. That is a woman miraculously cured and a man who somehow has acquired healing hands, perhaps straight from the Almighty."

"Yes, that could be," Black said. He seemed pleased with Pat's theory. "Now tell me why both of you are skeptics."

"I can fill you in on that one," Konrad said. "Hilda was the proprietor of a coffee shop that had fallen on hard times. It was on the point of closing when she had her so-called accident. You know the German's take care of their own, so the state took care of her fairly well during her convalescence. She also has a large number of friends and relatives in her immediate area, each of whom will endorse anything she says. She is quite the charismatic character."

"You think these people would lie for her, if they knew the facts?"

"Probably, but that's not all. The doctor suffering from dementia has a veteran nurse who happens to be Hilda's aunt. The aunt of course has complete access to the records. In fact she usually makes the records, as the doctor is barely able to function as a physician. His license should have been lifted some time ago."

"So there may be a conspiracy?" Black suggested.

Both Jesuits agreed.

"But the facts contradict a conspiracy. Am I right?"

"One hundred percent," Konrad said.

"Can I trust you both with a confidence?" Black asked. He looked from one to the other, grim faced, deadly serious.

"We are priests," Pat said.

"Jesuits," Konrad added.

"Justin Scott is thirty-two years of age. He has a liberal arts degree from some state school in America. He studies French and Italian in Paris in hopes of joining his country's foreign service. He served as an altar boy in his youth, and in his younger days wrote an interesting religious novella. Unpublished I might add. He is single and healthy. Pat may very well be right that he had something to do with the woman's miraculous cure, that his touch in bringing her to her feet was in fact the reason for her cure. That it is a sign from above. I'm strongly considering proposing him as a candidate for pope."

You might say both priests were dumbfounded. Because that would be a known fact. They were speechless for a few seconds while Black studied their faces.

"A thirty-two year-old American, not a member of the clergy," Pat finally said.

"Exactly," Black agreed, although Pat's statement was in disbelief. "Think what it would mean to the Catholic Church in America. There would be a resurgence, a renewal of the faith, churches would come alive again, pews would be full, not to mention that coffers and good works would flourish. South America and Canada would share the bounty. In fact the entire world would sit up and take notice. Even Asia."

"Holy Christ," Konrad said in wonder.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jesuits or not, Cardinal Black did not believe the two priests could keep to themselves the information he had imparted. With this in mind, he called together the See of Cardinals as soon as possible, although swift is not in the Vatican lexicon. Many of the cardinals are archbishops of the largest dioceses in their countries, or regions, thus long accustomed to common folks bowing and scraping, plus having their slightest desire fulfilled.

They had been to so many sessions wrangling over the choice of a new pope that many did not bother to wear their ordinary dress – a black cassock with scarlet piping and buttons, as well as a scarlet sash, a pectoral cross on a chain and to top it all off a scarlet zucchetto, a small, hemispherical, form-fitting skullcap.

They chatted noisily as they waited for Black to begin the session. Some snacked on a variety of candies or salty treats. One had a package of gummy bears, while several had small bottles of wine, even though the hour was late morning.

"We have met in solemn conclave quite a few times," Black began.

A cardinal nearby was heard to stage whisper "solemn conclave" in a mocking tone. A few of his fellows chuckled.

"In total sincerity I wish to report a sign, a message from on high that might lead down an innovative path to choose a successor to the late pope, whom we all held in high regard.

"At a recent mass, one in a series to pray for divine guidance, there was an event that seemed to be miraculous. A middle-aged German woman arriving late, using a walker to come down the aisle, fell in a heap. She was a cripple. A man seated nearby rushed to her aid, in fact picked her up, and she was healed on the spot."

A murmur of voices among the cardinals. Black waited until it subsided.

"I took the responsibility of interviewing the man who picked her up. The investigation of the woman herself, including medical records, friends and acquaintances in Germany, was carried forward by two respected Jesuit priests. They concluded the event had been a miracle."

More chatter among the cardinals. Some were aware of the event. To classify it as a miracle so soon ran contrary to church tradition.

"I was seated at that mass looking toward the congregation. The sight of the latecomer caught my eye, and I viewed the entire incident. Oddly enough, and perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I detected a certain aura among the two participants, a certain unearthly glow, possibly a divine sign, but maybe not."

Again muttering from the assembled cardinals.

"During my interview of the man involved, I learned his name is Justin Scott, thirty-two years of age, studying French and Italian in Paris, hoping to enter foreign service in his native America. A lifelong Catholic, he served as an altar boy. He also wrote a religious novella in his younger years, unpublished I might add. I've read it and it shows early promise.

"What a thing we would do if we would elect such a person pope. What new ground we would break, what a boon to the church in North and South America, what a standout group of historic cardinals we would become."

It took his words fully thirty seconds to sink in, then a rising torrent of voices, strictly pandemonium! Black took his seat and waited for the tide to subside.

Finally, a strong-voiced Cardinal, Angelo Goicoechea, stood and denounced Black and his radical idea. "What nonsense is this? What idiocy. And who would come up with such an idea? An American from the liberal wing of the church. I thank God that most American Catholics are conservative as they should be. How this man Black ever slimed his way into our midst is beyond me. I think we should take an immediate vote to censure him and start excommunication proceedings."

His words were greeted with approval from quite a few cardinals. Black had known that would be the case and that he would have a fight on his hands, very likely a losing battle. But he also knew that despite the solemn vows of secrecy, word would get out that he had proposed a young American Catholic for the post of pope. If that was his singular accomplishment, he would be satisfied.

The next to rise while the flurry of chatter was still reverberating through the ancient cavernous room was Cardinal Jozef Gagnon who moved that the meeting be adjourned so the cardinals might reflect and look at every angle of the suggestion through a crystal eye.

He was shouted down by several cardinals who wanted to thrash the issue out now at this session.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At last the talking subsided and the cardinals sat and waited for the next member to rise with some pronouncement or the other. One thing they were generally good at was sitting and waiting. Each in his own way had learned that such a posture portrayed the silent one as being filled with wisdom. A benevolent look also helped.

It was Cardinal Mario Pujalte who took the floor, known as a non-stop speaker once he got started. Those cardinals who had brought wine were seen to take a few sips in hopes of dozing off.

"In the past," Pujalte began, "when an immediate decision could not be made, it has sometimes been a practice to elect an old, possibly an ailing cardinal to the post of pope. This gives us all a chance to step back, take a breath, and put on our thinking caps while waiting for the new pope to die."

"What a heartless approach," one of the newer cardinals said.

"Yes, but it's true," Pujalte declared. "I might add that whoever the old man might be who is elected pope, that this will be his last stop before arriving at his heavenly home. Also, that old man would have a shot at sainthood. So it's not so bad."

"His sons, daughters and other offspring might appreciate it," a comedian chimed in, which brought a few chuckles from the assembled celibates.

"And that is part of my point," Pujalte continued. "We nominate and elect old men to be pope for another reason. A young priest, and this has likely happened to a few of you, the temptation, can be seduced by an attractive parish member. You all know there are lascivious women out there who would love to add a priest to their stable of men. Well, what about a young pope? We elect old popes because they are beyond temptation."

"And beyond many other things," Black tossed in. "Beyond any liberal thought, beyond any innovation, beyond anything that hasn't been tried for the last ten or fifteen centuries. One of my points is simply this. We have found an able young man. There has been a sign from above. Surely we all believe in miracles and the hand of God. Let's try something new. Let's step out boldly and energize the old church. Let's try it and see what happens. Shake the stodgy old ways."

"One more point," Pujalte continued. "If, God forbid, we elected a thirty-two-year-old pope, he might serve for sixty years, long after anyone here has died and gone to heaven. Think of that. What if we made a bad choice? He might let women into the priesthood. He might be pro-abortion. He might believe in contraception."

"A young man like this," Black interjected, "would need, and I believe he would accept, guidance. He would not try to overthrow the church as we know it. But he would invigorate and renew interest simply by being a young man from America. We cardinals would offer protection and guidance."

"But what a radical experiment," one of the older heads shouted. "We were debating the qualifications of Cardinal Giovanni Piovanelli, and he is a fairly young man to be in this situation. I suggest we adjourn for several days in order to come to our senses. We're at the point where a simple majority is enough to swing the election."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Few seemed interested in early adjournment; most were following the debate with keen interest, even the wine bibbers were now fully awake. It was at this point that the most popular cardinal, albeit soft on child abuse, rose to address the conclave. That same Giovanni Piovanelli.

"You all know me and know I've been in contention as candidate. I've talked to each and every one of you publicly and in private. And you know I would submerge my feeling about relations between men and boys if I were to become pope. I hope you also know me as a person who is not set in his ways, who can be flexible on many issues. My feeling is the majority of the learned men here should rule."

Cardinal Black braced for what was coming. Because of Piovanelli's popularity and his skill as a public speaker he felt that this would be the deathblow to his innovative proposal.

But instead the good cardinal said he respected Black's opinion and that Justin Scott seemed to be a solid candidate.

"There is no age hurdle to jump, and we all know the candidate doesn't even have to be Catholic. Scott sounds like a very good Catholic and has been exposed to the mass as an altar boy. He would seem to be in robust good health and in the flush of life. Just the sort of person we need to carry out the duties of pope in a vigorous, youthful fashion. No more doddering old men with poor eyesight who cannot walk without assistance.

"Then let me speak to what has been raised as a potential problem. That as pope he might serve for sixty years. If he is a good pope, no problem. He would be the much loved, much respected shepherd figure at the age of ninety-two, tending his worldwide sheep. What are his chances of serving into his ninety-second year? I would say none at all.

"Men die. Men fall ill and leave this life for a better land, I'm sure. Organs fail and carry us off. Some meet with accidents, some are assassinated." This last form of mortal demise was met with a murmuring among the cardinals. "Yes, assassinated. Let's face it as a price of rising to high office, be it in the Vatican, or as the head of a troubled nation. I say we take a chance and heed the sign from above and elect this youthful American. I say we move forward with courage in our hearts. History will record us as heroes, or devious villains. But history will record us, and the eyes of the world will be on the Vatican. This is our moment. Let us seize it without a backward glance. The incident with the German woman was crafted by the hand of the Almighty!"

With that Giovanni sat down and there seemed to be a ripple of new life among the cardinals.

Black rose to his feet. "I say we vote. My man's name is Justin Scott for those who may have not noted it."

The vote was taken, the results tallied. Scott carried the day by a margin of 52 percent. The world had a new pope, a thirty-two-year-old American with little, make that no, experience as a church leader. Now Cardinal Black must break the news to Scott. What a moment. Then would come investment ceremonies, press conferences, criticism, scorn and lord knows what else might follow.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Black was keenly aware that major challenges lay ahead of him. The popular Cardinal Piovanelli had become his ally, but it was a shaky alliance at best. The thought that the good cardinal had something up his scarlet sleeve was mildly troubling, but larger worries loomed dead ahead.

For one thing he had to inform Justin Scott that he had been elected pope and hope that the American would take the news calmly. He and Piovanelli had convinced the conclave to wait three days before announcing Scott's name. Of course the public was well aware that a pope had been elected. There had been the smoke, plus the ringing of bells.

Vatican watchers were aware of the handful of favorites. And bets were down in Las Vegas and London on Piovanelli with slim odds. But who could have pictured a dark horse, coming from behind and overtaking the entire field of cardinals who generally expected to elevate one of their own to that high office.

What an upset! A Cinderella story in the flesh. The press on every continent would eat it up. Catholics worldwide would have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Black would make certain the hand of God received top billing.

In fact it was the hand of God syndrome that convinced Scott that he had been elected pope and must show the proper decorum, respect and aloofness that the office required. This after two hours of badgering, begging, threatening and bullying.

After accepting the inevitable, Scott's mood seemed serene, and he calmly told Black, "I have a girlfriend in the States. Will I be able to see her?"

To which Black replied, "Holy Christ. If it gets out the pope has a girlfriend we'll all be damned to hell and back. She'll talk, won't she, once she reads your name in the paper, or sees it on TV."

"I would think she might mention it."

Black's mind was in a conflicted jumble. This he should have anticipated. They had been warned about young men and their love life. It was playing out before his eyes in this very room.

"We can handle this," the cardinal said. "We can bring her over here. She can live in the Vatican. This is more than just a passing bimbo, isn't it Justin? I mean there's a strong tie between you two?"

"Yes, I'm thirty-two and she's about the same age. We're past that playful bouncing from one hook-up to another stage. We've talked marriage."

"Then I'm certain I can fix it. She may have to join a holy order."

"That might be difficult. We've never talked about religion."

"Talked or didn't talk, you're in it up to your eyeballs now. Remember what this will mean to North and South America and even as far as Asia. An American pope. A young man as pope."

"If I'm pope now, shouldn't I dress as the pope? And maybe you could address me with some sort of title."

"Don't be a pretentious ass. You will be installed as pope in an open air mass in St. Peter's Square. To me you're always going to be Justin in private. And if you step out of line I'll kick your holy ass. Now you must think of a name for yourself. I'll bring you a stack of reading material about past popes, procedures, history and so forth. You give me your girlfriend's phone number and I'll call her and see what I can do."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Her name was Sylvia and she answered on the third ring.

"Sylvia, my name's John Black and I have a message for you from Justin Scott. Are you alone?"

"Has Justin been hurt?"

"No, he's fine. But my news may startle you. It's important that you be alone when I tell you."

"That's a bit odd, John. But OK. I'm alone in my apartment and I wondered what happened to Justin. We usually keep in close touch. He said he was going to Rome, but only for a few days."

Black chuckled. "You might say he's found a home in Rome. But that's why I called."

Agitation entered Sylvia's voice. "You mean he's not coming back?"

Black was quick to tamp down the flare-up. "He loves you Sylvia. He wants you to join him in his new life. He has money, status, everything you might work years to obtain."

Sylvia seemed to be losing patience. "You talk in riddles. This isn't like Justin."

"There is really no good way to break the news," Black said. "So I'll come out with it. He's been elected pope by the College of Cardinals, or the see of cardinals, whatever. He was involved in a religious miracle, and the church authorities decided after much deliberation to elect an American pope."

Silence, then finally the words. "That's the head of the Catholic church, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. A great honor, a rise to great honor and nobility, Something quite unexpected."

"I'll say unexpected. Is this some sort of prank? Is Justin there with you?"

"Sylvia, this is no prank, no joke. I'm a cardinal myself, an officer of the church, and I'm deadly serious. You may know Catholics in the ministry, including the pope, are celibate. They cannot have wives. However this doesn't mean you two can't be together."

"This phone call gets stranger all the time. OK, tell me the rest. I'm listening."

"To live in the Vatican near Justin, you would have to become a nun."

"You mean wear one of those long black dresses and pray a lot?"

Obviously, Sylvia wasn't totally acquainted with religious orders. "Not all nuns wear that sort of thing and not all of them pray excessively. They have regular jobs. We'd find some light work for you. Are you Catholic?"

A short laugh came over the phone. "I'm Jewish."

Black's eyes widened and he thought, "Holy shit." But he said, "We can take care of that. You'd have to become a Catholic and then become a nun. It would be a quick process."

"And what if I said no," she replied coldly.

"Then it's all over between you and Justin. He can never see you again. You'll be known as the pope's ex-girlfriend."

Another long silence. "But we're in love."

Black wondered if she really knew anything about romantic love, or if anyone does. He certainly didn't. "Well, you must decide."

"I think I'll do it. But it will take me a few days to get ready. Then what do I do, fly to Rome?"

"Absolutely not. Under this plan no one must know that the pope has a girlfriend and that she will be joining him in the Vatican. You probably have friends who know your relationship with Justin and they will also learn that he will soon be installed as pope. What you must do is tell a close friend or family member that you have been depressed and are moving out of state to start a new life."

"Where shall I say I'm going?"

"Tell whoever it is who will tell others that you may settle in New Orleans, or Seattle, or San Diego."

"Why those three places? I'm not keen on any of them."

"OK, tell them Chicago, South Bend or Denver," Black was losing patience. "Tell them anything you want. But I'll have a car pick you up in one hour. Pack only one small bag. Tell your friend you'll leave your place open and that she or he can have all your possessions or save some for you. But the church will meet all your worldly needs and beyond."

"That's crazy."

"It's insane, but we must whisk you away to a convent before the world knows Justin has been elected pope. Later on, after a few months, you can contact your friends again. This isn't a witness protection program. All of your needs will be provided for in the Vatican."

"Even contraception?"

"Let's stay off that slippery slope. One hour, Sylvia, a car with very understanding people will pick you up."

"And where will it take me?"

"Have faith. Answers will come in the fullness of time."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Black next turned his attention to installing Justin as pope. He would try to ignore the tornado of media attention, whiplash and backlash of such a departure from the norm of centuries. The event ultimately took place in an open-air mass in St. Peter's Square. There the new pope was presented with the symbols of power, the Papal ring and the pallium, a narrow stole of white wool.

Justin had studied the names of past popes and for himself picked the name Pope Leo XIV. The previous Pope Leo, Pope Leo XIII, was an intellectual and forward-thinking individual known for encouraging a rapprochement between religion and science and for reconciling the Catholic Church with the working class.

His true name was Vincenzo Gioacchino Raffaele Luigi Pecci and was the sixth of seven sons of Count Ludovico Pecci and his wife Anna Prosperi Buzzi. Pope Pius IX appointed him Camerlengo in 1877, and when Pius IX died one year later, Camerlengo Pecci was elected pope. He lived from 1810 until 1903.

Although Justin Scott was a serious-minded scholar, he picked the name Leo because he was born in late July under that particular astrological sign. At Black's urging, he confined himself to a simple blessing of the masses jamming the square on that memorable day plus a few words. The service, which took more than an hour, began with the new pope leading a procession of cardinals to the site of St. Peter's tomb underneath St. Peter's Basilica to pray.

Justin was turned out in a gold robe over sacred white vestments. Emerging into St. Peter's Square to the cheers of thousands, many of them Americans, a choir sang Laudes Regiae, a litany calling for divine assistance for the new pontiff.

After blessing the assembly, Pope Leo XIV ventured that he would rely on the guidance of the Almighty with the help of the many cardinals, bishops and other church officers, but that he would also be open to the views of every Catholic and non-Catholic in the world.

Black, who was standing just behind the new pope, managed to poke him and cut him off at that point, thus a signal for the popular Cardinal Piovanelli to take center stage with praises for the piety of the new pope, the innovative and creative thrust of the cardinals in their wisdom and the church in its unbroken history and future outlook, rooted on the solid rock of St, Peter.

The good cardinal exhibited his linguistic skills during his speech, switching easily from one language to another, eventually piling up four modern languages plus Latin and a phrase or two of ancient Greek.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Victor Greene, Rome bureau New York Times correspondent, had demanded an interview with Pope Leo XIV, but Cardinal Black put him off and instead agreed to a nose-to-nose talk.

Greene, an older man in a trim three-piece suit, arrived at Black's office with both a notepad, recorder and female secretary. Black guessed the reporter was nearing retirement and had been put out to pasture in one of the more interesting cities that was quite thin on breaking news. The cardinal objected to the female secretary and managed to dig up an obliging nun to show her around the Vatican while the two men talked.

"Why are you shielding the new pope?" Greene demanded.

"We are talking here about an act of God, Mr. Greene. The hand of the Good Shepherd reached out and touched the good Pope Leo. He is not a sophisticated or veteran officer of the church. Instead he might be called a Christ figure, age-wise you will note, that applies."

"So how can he handle the duties of the pope?" Greene questioned.

"That is relatively simple, Mr. Greene. We have a competent staff and have always had one. You will recall that many popes have been old timers with failing health, memory slipping, the lord knows what else. The staff steps in. In Pope Leo's case it's a learning curve. He knows the mass, he knows people, he's young, healthy, and has a fine mind. And we believe he was chosen by God. Surely, you're a man of faith."

"My faith only stretches so far. The Catholic Church is very likely bigger than Wal-Mart, bigger than General Motors. I could go on. As far as riches and property go. You've placed a thirty-two-year-old student at the head of this vast empire. Is that wise?"

"The church moves on from century to century. Of course it is fueled by faith and money. But what of your immortal soul? And I must return again to the Jesus theory. A thirty-two-year-old man, tapped by God."

"But not fathered by God."

"You will find comfort in prayer, Mr. Greene. With pro and con interviews in addition to statements from the Vatican, you will have more than enough material for a large book and a series of films. Now I must attend to my duties. The spiritual life beckons."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A startled world took to Pope Leo XIV with a gasp and a cheer, with the exception of the skeptics who gasped, but had little to cheer about. Cardinal Piovanelli, an early supporter credited with the making of the pope, was in his glory, appearing on talk shows, jetting hither and yon. A fairly new American cardinal (who will remain nameless) who had the looks of a schoolyard bully made no secret of his displeasure. If there was to be an American pope, why not him? How he ever bulled his way to become cardinal was somewhat of a mystery.

In the U.S. the new pope's creation was something like the second coming of Elvis, or the resurrection of John Wayne. Fan clubs were formed and the young and middle aged swarmed the churches as if a great treasure hunt had been announced.

The interest washed over Canada, Central and South America. Even Asia stood up and took notice. China vowed to relax restrictions and possibly readmit foreign clergy. All religions seemed to benefit.

In the Vatican Cardinals Black and Piovanelli joined force as the keepers of the nascent pope. Neither of the two cardinals fully trusted one another. Justin thought the two might seek to kiss his attractive golden ring, known as the Fisherman's Ring, with an image of St. Peter in a boat, fishing. It served as his papal seal.

Neither cardinal ever attempted such an act, although visitors from around the globe performed the ritual, always the briefest of audiences, always attended by the two cardinals. But for the most part, Justin was a happy camper, busy with religious duties, being fed and feted like an Arabian prince. He was beginning to miss a lack of exercise.

Justin was no dummy. Keenly aware of his power, he knew he could have the two cardinals sent away if it pleased him. He was also aware that they were his lifelines if he wanted to prosper in his present position. Between the two of them they would make an excellent pope. Black was open and aboveboard about all things, straight talking and to the point. Justin sensed a deeper, more sinister current in Piovanelli, possibly a hidden agenda.

As far as a regime of exercise went, Justin realized he was in the driver's seat.

"I want a regular routine of exercise and you might toss in a personal trainer," Justin told his two keepers.

"There's a gym, but it's used by younger priests and some staff people." Piovanelli replied. "You can't mix with those people. You're definitely not one of the boys."

"Popes just sit and look wise," Black added. "As far as food and wine goes, you're the boss. We can bring in different chefs, you can flip through gourmet magazines looking for likely dishes. The world is your oyster."

"I've had too many oysters and too much wine and rich foods. I'm starting to paunch out."

"Not bad for a pope," Piovanelli said. "Most of them have been on the chunky side."

"But I don't want to be a chunky monkey," Justin said. "Exercise is a must. Maybe I'll be the first pope able to run a four-minute mile. Or at least a five-, six- or seven-minute mile. This is not negotiable. I want exercise space with the usual devices, a hot tub, a sauna and a steam room. You two can feel free to join me."

"What you ask for is out of the ordinary," Black pointed out.

"Let's face it, I'm not an ordinary pope. I can't even say mass. My Italian and Latin are incredibly bad."

"But you're learning," Piovanelli said.

"Yes, I'm learning many things. My tutors are dedicated and diligent. But all work and no play makes Leo XIV a dull fellow. So get with it. I've made few demands. Maybe you can pluck a personal trainer from some place like Notre Dame."

"Paris?" Piovanelli asked in wonder.

"South Bend," Justin replied. "Indiana."

Piovanelli looked puzzled, but Black supplied that it was a Catholic university, fairly sports oriented. "They teach sports?" the cardinal questioned.

"Not exactly, it's more like living and breathing sports," Black replied. "They also consume gallons of beer. And there is a minor academic program."

So it was done. Piovanelli, a Vatican insider, was charged with setting up the small athletic area not far from the Pope's apartment. It was also explained to him that a side room with a semi-secret entrance might be equipped with a lounge so the Pope might rest. Justin looked forward to the day Sylvia would arrive in Rome.

It was Black's job to dig up a bevy of personal trainers, scouring Catholic schools for youthful coaching staff members, then weeding them down to one, first vetting resumes, then telephone contact and finally nose-to-nose interviews for the few candidates who survived. A high level of intelligence was not a requisite.

At this point, Black was bursting with pride. He had managed to steer the church through dangerous reefs and shoals and had created not only a pope, but a rock star, virtually a symbol, well-guarded and briefed for each meeting with an outsider. His messages to the multitude were short and to the point. The masses seemed content just to know he was the crown jewel of the church, well protected by the famed Vatican corps of Swiss guards.

It was at this point that Sylvia arrived at the Vatican.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sister Sylvia had been in the Vatican for two weeks before she was able to see the person she had been told to contact, Cardinal John Black. She had been given a cell upon arrival and found she was supposed to join something called The Apostles of the Sacred Heart, a group of nuns who wore the traditional habit and prayed seven times a day.

She had been assailed by a mother superior and a bevy of older nuns who were puzzled by her attire and behavior. She was dressed like an ordinary person, maybe an office worker. She had been told she must "live authentically" in the Vatican and for added emphasis told she must "live in fidelity."

The entire situation puzzled her, particularly when told that she would never be permitted to approach a cardinal. She was about to leave the Vatican and the church when word of her coming drifted to the ears of Cardinal Black.

She appeared in his office at 8 a.m. on a lovely Vatican morning. Rising from his chair, he greeted her warmly and said he hoped the appointment wasn't too early.

"Early," she said with amazement. "I was awakened as usual at 4 a.m. for prayers, followed by a song fest. I kind of hummed along. The nuns in this place must be throwbacks to the second or third centuries."

"They are a traditional set. Would you like coffee?"

"Coffee? I'd love it. We have water and a type of gruel for breakfast. Lunch is no better." She had been standing and Black waved her to a seat, then rang for coffee.

The two of them sat silently until coffee and croissants arrived. There was peach jam and orange marmalade. Sylvia's eyes lit up as she dug in. Glancing up at Black, she asked, "Are you in the same Catholic church as me?"

"I'm afraid so, Sister Sylvia. We express our devotion to the Savior in different ways. This has been going on for centuries. It's like a monster ship on the ocean. Turning is difficult."

"Where do I apply to be a cardinal?"

"That's one reason you're here, Sister Sylvia. Justin is the pope, an American pope. What a singular breakthrough it is. Not only American, but thirty-two-years-old. It boggles the mind."

"You can say that again, Cardinal. My mind has been boggled ever since that first phone call. I've learned about nuns and the church, but American nuns and the American church. Some of these people don't speak English."

"Most of the world doesn't speak English, Sister Sylvia. I hope you're here for the long haul and will study a little Italian. Enough to get by in Italy. Let me say I have big plans for you. I've monitored your advancement in the convent and your mother superior tells me you're no dummy."

"High praise from the mother. Let's hope coming to the Vatican doesn't show you the flip side when I wig out."

"You won't wig out, Sister Sylvia. You're a strong woman, and the Pope needs you. He needs someone to lean on."

She had finished up the last crumb and most of the peach jam. Now she mopped her face with a napkin and asked: "This Pope you mentioned, this Justin, when do I get to meet His Holiness?"

"Today."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cardinals Black and Piovanelli were both mentoring Justin, his closest allies, but neither trusted the other. Piovanelli had been certain of his election to the papal post, then Black intervened. Piovanelli had been quick to read the writing on the wall and quickly sided with Black for political reasons. Hold your friends close, but your enemies closer.

Piovanelli formed a secret alliance with Cardinal Mario Pujalte and Fathers Pat and Konrad, all three ultra conservative. Their goal was to thwart the new pope in any liberal endeavor he might initiate. The smooth-talking Piovanelli had a much more ambitious long-term goal. If he could somehow rid the Vatican of Justin, he was certain he was next in line for the golden ring and seal.

How to do this, he didn't know. But the majority of bishops, cardinals and for that matter parish priests were a conservative lot. In the United States they had backed right-wing causes and had not shown themselves welcoming to the advancement of women in the church or in everyday life for that matter. They were dead set against any type of abortion or birth control.

Piovanelli was much more flexible. He could bend with the wind, but never break. He had gotten wind of this girl, Sylvia, and had learned she and Justin had been lovers and that she had been fast-tracked as a nun and was destined for the Vatican. Certainly this was a chink in Justin's armor, but by no means the only chink. His dearest hope was, given enough rope, Justin would hang himself.

During late-night meetings of the secret cabal in his apartment, Piovanelli might drop a hint that the young American might favor admitting women to the priesthood.

Father Pat's eyes would flash. "Surely the clowns are running the circus. This man would overturn centuries of tradition!"

"But we must be cautious," Cardinal Pujalte would counsel. The young man is the Pope, and no true Catholic would turn against the Pope. And this one would seem to be placed by the will of God."

"But he must do God's work," Father Konrad tossed in. "If he were found straying from the path of the righteous, then there might be certain consequences."

"Truly," Piovanelli counseled, "Let patience and constant vigilance be our watchwords. We have a multitude of allies both in the Vatican and worldwide. We need only to wait. One so young is certain to misstep as time goes by. Cardinal Black cannot screen him from harm forever."

"What if Cardinal Black was somewhere else, perhaps on a mission of some kind, the young man would be doubly vulnerable," Pujalte reasoned.

"Another string for our bow," Piovanelli agreed. "The young man has much working against him. That he became pope is incredible. That he can serve the office with dignity would seem impossible. Let us crack another bottle of wine and drink to our good fortune and future good deeds. We have much to be thankful for, and the church will have much to thank us for, although our work may never be fully known."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was late night when Sylvia slipped through the secret entrance into the anteroom off Justin's private workout facility. The Pope was waiting, dressed in sweat pants and shoeless. They embraced briefly, then had a long sloppy kiss. Justin held her at arm's length and exclaimed, "You look good enough to eat."

"Please, no kinky sex," Sylvia beamed. "It's been a long road, but here I am. Are you glad to see me?"

"Am I ever! Are you OK? Rested? You look fine."

"I slept this afternoon."

"I had a brief nap. You'd be surprised how much work the pope does around here. I have an office staff, stuff to sign, decisions to make, people to greet. It's topsy-turvy time."

Sylvia was puzzled. "How do you manage? I mean most popes have been in this game for a lifetime. In fact most are retirement age or beyond."

"Oh, yeah. I have two advisors, Black and Piovanelli, both cardinals. You've probably met Black. He engineered your coming over here."

"Yes, I was briefed by him. I'm on a mission just like you. It's his fine hand that splashed us both in the soup. He has big plans for both of us."

Justin frowned slightly. This was unexpected. "I thought he brought you over to be my girl."

"If you mean girl-girl as in sex, remember, I'm a nun. I took a celibate vow. I'm married to Jesus."

Justin pondered that one for a moment, then said, "Yes, of course. Me too. Not married to Jesus, but betrothed to the church. First as an altar boy, then as the pope. Let's try to work through that one."

Sylvia was all smiles. "Let's give it some time and see what happens. They weren't issuing birth control pills in the convent. But Cardinal Black seems skilled at bringing rabbits from hats. Do you want to hear about my mission?"

"Please. Then I'll unload on you. I really need someone I can tell my troubles to. The cares of the day around here are gigantic. I'm careful not to demand too much, but my demands will be met if pushed to the wall."

"So," Sylvia responded, "It's good to have the Pope on my side. I may have a demand or two down the road. In the meanwhile, my mission is to improve the lot of American nuns. There's a push on by the conservative wing of the Vatican to stow them away in nunneries and cover them in black."

Justin agreed. "Those same people would like to push the church back to the third century. Apparently there's a feeling that North American nuns have gotten out of hand – wearing street clothing, living where they like."

"But still doing God's work," Sylvia tossed in. "And in dwindling numbers I might add. I've done some homework. There are 340 qualified congregations of nuns in the United States. In 1965 there were 180,000 nuns, today only 60,000 give or take a few. What does that tell you?"

"Nothing good where the church is concerned and my concern for now is the church."

"For now." Sylvia laughed. "My understanding of the job description for pope, it's a lifetime. And if things work out – on to sainthood, which is eternal."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I'm in this up to my eyeballs, aren't I?"

"For now, yes. If you ever decide to bail, think of your resume – ex-pope."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Sylvia was given an office not far from the papal offices. Her job was to liaison with North American nuns. This included French-speaking Quebec plus Mexico and points south. She immediately began a brisk e-mail correspondence with her former mother superior, whom she addressed as "Dear Mom. "

There was at least one film star who had become a nun at a fairly early age, giving up the Hollywood glitz to the wonder of many. Sylvia hoped to tap into her celebrity. She also hoped to bring possibly, not glamor, but at least style to the habits of the various orders. The work was daunting. She anticipated glacial movement with an occasional breakthrough.

Cardinal Black was a frequent visitor to her office, and on one occasion she suggested he provide her with birth control pills.

"How un-Catholic," he responded.

"How would you like a pregnant nun on your hands? How un-Catholic would that be?"

"Believe it or not, what you mentioned has happened and will likely happen again. At bottom, we are all human. But in your case something should be done. We don't want a pope's son in our midst. Perhaps I can score a few tablets as an example of the devil's work."

"Of course, Satan challenges us on a daily basis and it's good to know what he's up to. Don't get any back-alley stuff, Cardinal. I want top of the line."

Black nodded and smiled. Once again his conscience was on the line. First a trysting place, now the forbidden protection. What's an every-day cardinal to do?

Cardinal Giovanni Piovanelli was also a frequent visitor to Sylvia's office, dropping by frequently to shoot the breeze, usually with a joke and some inside story about goings on in the Eternal City.

Early on, he had told her, "In this setting, with just the two of us, please call me Giovanni."

Sylvia was quite taken with his wit and charm, but was reminded by Justin that good old Giovanni had been his chief rival for the papal office and very likely still had designs on that post.

"His bubbling personality and sparkling wit are the very reasons for his popularity among the cardinals. His piety is an unknown quantity. Of course we are all servants of the Good Shepherd. So far this job seems more political than churchy," Justin mused.

"Churchy. That's a great word for a pope to use. Maybe I should be the pope. At least I've managed to become a nun. And you just an altar boy."

"You're welcome to the job. Some of the frilly robes that princes of the church wear around here would be more suitable for a bordello madam than a macho soldier of the cross."

"Those two cardinals have kept you under wraps so far, Justin. Are you going to come out of your cocoon at some point?"

"Spread my wings like a lovely butterfly. I've a lot of ideas and so have you. There are people lying in wait for me to make some radical move. My becoming pope muddied the waters and I'm waiting for the water to clear. Your good buddy Giovanni might be the major backstabber, but there are many more. "

"They can't just un-elect a pope," Sylvia said.

Justin was thoughtful. The office had matured him. He had never thought of himself as a deep person, but he was torn between many issues, few of them having anything to do with religion, but that did concern people, people around the globe, not only in the Americas.

"Truly they can't un-elect a pope, not without formidable reason, but a pope can die."

That such a turn of events could be around the corner caught Sylvia by surprise. "You fear for your life?"

"Oddly enough, I don't. With the office comes a pleasant feeling of serenity, if you can believe that. I know plots against me can be serious, even deadly, but I have no fear. I'm not saying I'm brave, I'm simply saying that I do not live in fear."

"Very likely you are exaggerating the danger. Who would kill the pope?" Sylvia asked.

"The American bishops for one, once I attempt to rein them in on abortion and birth control. Giovanni for another who wants this office so bad he can taste it. And at least fifty percent of the cardinals after I come out in favor of women's rights. Shall I go on?"

"You didn't mention a lone crazy."

"That is very likely how it will be done. A lone crazy who becomes a suicide either in or out of jail."

"You paint a rosy picture."

"Consider this, Sylvia. What if I can get some reforms rolling, then resign."

"A pope can resign?" she asked in wonder.

"I don't see why not. I think it's been done before because of old age or disability, although I haven't researched it."

"Then what? What would you do? What would we do?"

"Retire to Liechtenstein, write a book entitled Pope for a Year."

"Definitely, a New York Times bestseller."

"What isn't?"

"Oh, Justin, did I tell you, Black brought me a passel of birth control pills."

"When?"

"Soon."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Pope Leo XIV had finished his morning exercises, was still sweating, still clad in his sweat suit, and had assembled his secretary, Father George Poulis who served as his press spokesman, both Cardinals Black and Piovanelli, plus three other cardinals and Father Konrad.

"I would like to get the word out to the public, the Catholic community, particularly the Jesuits, which explains Father Konrad's presence, that abortion is approved by the church under certain circumstances."

A shocked silence, until Father Poulis questioned, "Under what circumstances, Your Holiness?"

Justin sat at his massive desk fiddling with a pen, casting his eyes heavenward now and then. Finally, he said, "That is not entirely up to me. I've been praying over this knotty problem for some days now. I've concluded that incest, rape, the mother's health, possibly discovery that the fetus has some damaged qualities. These among others might be reasons to move ahead with church-sanctioned abortion."

"This is against church policy, Your Holiness," Father Konrad stated.

"Good point, Father Konrad. Then since we are assembled here and seem to have eons of time, and the fact that you are a learned Jesuit, you might take center stage and explain church policy beginning in say the second and third century."

"I would be pleased to research that subject, Your Holiness."

"And you might bring us that research tomorrow morning, Father. We could reassemble at that time."

"No matter how much I would enjoy doing your bidding, a project of that magnitude might stretch into weeks or months."

Justin smiled and tried to look benevolent. "The church grinds on from century to century. Sometimes mistakes are made, but, no matter, in a hundred, two hundred years, they can be corrected. Joan of Arc was burned at the stake near the river Seine, later consecrated as a saint." He studied the faces around him, then said, "What say you, Giovanni?"

Cardinal Piovanelli was eager to respond, praying that this was the beginning of the end for the new pope. But he had to weasel word his answer so as not to indicate that he was in favor of such a liberal policy. "I say good for you, Your Holiness. Not just for this initiative, but for some new policy to come from your lips. The worldwide Catholic community, clergy and lay members alike wait with anticipation to learn what direction the new leader will choose."

"Then, Father Poulis, make the announcement and let the record show that Cardinal Piovanelli is foursquare behind this announcement."

"But, Your Holiness," Piovanelli began."

"There, there cardinal. I know you don't always take credit, and sometimes retire to the background, but I want the world to know that you and I are in tandem in our thinking this time. Since I've held this spiritual office, you've been at my side almost daily. Your experience and seasoning have guided my youth at every turn. You've buoyed up my confidence and kept my hand steady on the tiller. You and others like you might be called the Pope's pope."

Piovanelli was contrite and thanked Justin for high praise.

"The world will never know how much time I've spent in prayerful meditation over many issues facing the church today. But I cannot quickly absorb all the wisdom you men about me have. So I will continue to rely upon your good offices."

Cardinal Pujalte spoke up and questioned if the reasons Justin had given to liberalize abortions would stand.

"Those examples that I mentioned. They form the foundation of my thinking, but I throw them out for debate. I am interested in every cardinal's input, every bishop's thinking and possibly above all the backbone of the church, the lay folks who attend mass, or possibly even the backsliders who we hope to pull back into the fold."

"How will this be accomplished, Your Holiness?" Cardinal Black asked.

"I'm counting on Father Poulis to get the word out. First to the press here in Rome, then to the worldwide media. Visceral reaction from both sides of the issues, followed by thoughtful logic. Views from women will be paramount."

"Paramount, Your Holiness," Cardinal Jozef Gagnon asked. "You mean weighted above the bishops?"

"What is a bishop, Cardinal? He is just a man. We here are all just men. The issues we're dealing with at the moment are women's issues. Logic tells us women's views should be foremost in our thinking."

"But women, Your Holiness. The church has always made the rules that govern women. Of course we have nuns and mothers superior, but there are no women bishops or cardinals."

"That's true, Jozef. Perhaps we should deal with that problem somewhere down the road. It does seem unfair, doesn't it?"

"No, Your Holiness. That's the way it's always been."

"But is that the proper path?"

The Cardinal seemed puzzled that the Pope injected such a radical thought. The Vatican after all is a bastion of the church.

"Do men get pregnant?" the Pope inquired.

This brought chuckles and nods from those assembled.

"I think we've done quite enough today," the Pope said. "I'm sorry to bring you here, dressed the way I am, sweaty from exercise. The mind must be a pure tabernacle, but the body should also be trim and wholesome. Fitness is one way I can lead by example. Spiritually, it's up to us all."

"Perhaps we could all use some gym time," Piovanelli quipped.

"Not a bad idea," Justin agreed. "Let that slip during your press conference, Father Poulis. Our meeting complete, pray for guidance in our supplications. Let's permit the word to get out and see who says a Hail Mary."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The word did get out, followed by a firestorm. The bishops who felt they were the bulwarks against change messaged to and fro with every conceivable electronic device. Their collective thinking was that this might be the first liberal crack in the dike and they should work to nip it here and now.

But how to stand up to the Pope? Difficult. Their decision was to lie in the weeds and wait for a public outcry, then make the most of it.

In the Vatican, Cardinal Gagnon heard that the bishops had gotten together one way or the other and decided to "lie in the weeds." This puzzled him and he asked Cardinal Black what it meant.

"If one walks into a field of weeds and lies down," Black explained, "no one can see you. Thus you remain out of sight until whatever it is blows over."

"Blows over?" Gagnon questioned.

"Generally the expression would be used if someone was in hot water. By hot water I mean some sort of difficulty. In this case the bishops had decided to keep a low profile waiting for a great public hue and cry against the Pope's initiative."

"Against liberalizing abortion?"

"Exactly."

"But the Pope's announcement was made several days ago and from all indications there is no public, or Catholic outcry."

"Also true. In seems the public and the Catholic community have sided with the Pope."

"And against the bishops?" Gagnon asked in disbelief.

"Not really. Because the bishops are lying in the weeds."

This brought a smile to the old cardinal's face. "I would think they'd be tiring. Also thirsty and hungry and possibly in need of sanitary facilities. When do you suppose they will emerge from that field of weeds?"

"I suppose they must deliberate among themselves. At the end of that time what posture they might assume is not predictable. But I suspect whatever it is will be subtle. With a Pope who seems to have been appointed by the hand of God, and Catholics and non-Catholics alike in favor of moving the church on to spiritual matters and getting out of the bedroom, it would seem a fine kettle of fish." Black enjoyed using odd figures of speech when talking to Gagnon. In this case the old cardinal did not rise to the bait, but ambled off mumbling about fish.

With the initial knee-jerk reaction out of the way and the worldwide Catholic debate settled down to a rational basis, Justin's strategy was to let sufficient time expire, then post his initial thoughts as church doctrine. The talking heads and the chattering element would smooth his landing strip and take care of the problem for him.

In their late-night tryst, Sister Sylvia remarked that he had seemed to dodge that bullet.

"Just as I thought it would go, my love. I didn't take that psych class in college for nothing."

"To think 101 could outfox the bishops and archbishops for that matter."

"To stand up to the Pope is daunting for good Catholics and we are talking extraordinarily good Catholics."

"Well, I'm getting to be a tired Catholic," Sylvia said. "These late-night assignations are gradually wearing me down. How do you remain so chipper?"

"After lunch I retire to my chapel for prayerful meditation for two hours. I find napping clears my mind and facilitates such meditation. The chapel is a spiritual place with icons of Mary, Joseph and Jesus. There's also one of St. George slaying a dragon and so forth. It's totally restful and recharges my batteries."

"What if someone should enter and catch you and St. George and that lot, all as silent as the tomb?" Sylvia questioned.

"The Swiss guard stationed at the door has his orders. According to their code, he would prefer death to permitting anyone to pass. A fairly good assurance."

"My batteries are running down, Justin. What do you suggest?"

"I suggest you get an additional two hours of sleep every morning. You can write it off to prayer and supplications. You have a cell, don't you?"

"I do. And unlike the convent, I even have a lock on the door to guard against prowling Vatican brigands."

"Then you're home free, Sylvia. If anyone complains, let me know. I have ways of fixing things around here. How's the women's issues thing going?"

"Swimmingly since your divine revelations on abortion and birth control. Women are in seventh heaven. I hope you can keep them in that state of mind."

"Fear not. Once the water clears, such will become doctrine. Let's get physical."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Pope Leo XIV's personal secretary was Father Stevens. All the staff in the Pope's office were male and their number was legion. There was mail, e-mails, personally delivered pleas for justice and mercy and so forth. It had been decided long ago that every message deserved an answer. The traffic in e-mails alone was horrendous. Most of the material the Pope never saw. Others he personally answered through Father Stevens.

If a seemingly knotty problem cropped up he called in his cardinals, first Black, then Piovanelli and then others more conversant with the problem or geographic area. He was persistent and would stick with a situation until totally satisfied.

He had caused sick African children to be transported to medical facilities in Switzerland and a Cambodian cow thought to be under an evil-eye spell to be exorcized in a traditional ceremony.

Although new to the job, Father Stevens had proven to be an excellent secretary. Justin and Cardinal Black had thought it wise to clear out the dead pope's staff, giving them soft spots to land, while recruiting a bright, new crowd.

Stevens had been suspected of child molestation in his native Sweden, but nothing had been proven. He had been transferred to a cloistered order briefly, but his outstanding resume had come to the fore when the Pope was seeking staff. He spoke perfect English, and he and the Pope would practice Italian for twenty or thirty minutes each morning.

Justin suspected the meticulous Stevens was gay, and it bothered him not at all. In fact, at some point in the future there would likely be a push for gay rights if Justin was able to survive. Stevens had offered to wash his hair and give him backrubs. Justin resisted. But after a particularly tiring meeting he did permit Stevens to massage his shoulders.

On this particular morning Stevens came into the Pope's office to announce that a woman named Hilda Krieg sought a personal audience.

The request puzzled Justin. Personal audiences were reserved for dignitaries or celebrities and generally announced by one of his two favorite cardinals. He wondered if this particular person wore a suicide vest.

"The name is unfamiliar to me, Stevens."

"She is the miracle woman, the one who propelled you to the papacy, the one your touch healed of a severe crippling disorder."

Justin nodded in understanding. He wondered what had become of her and had expected her to surface sooner or later. Her celebrity had bought her admission to a few talk shows around the globe, possibly a few dollars for interviews, even stories she had penned, but little more. Of course she had her good health. Who could ask for anything more? Who indeed?

"Show her in, Stevens. And I'll talk with her alone."

"Is that perfectly safe, Your Holiness?"

"Yes it is. She is a lamb of God and a true follower of the cross."

"Of course."

Hilda entered without a word and was waved to a seat across from the Pope.

"It's good to see you again, Hilda. Are you in good health?"

"Excellent, Your Holiness. Thanks to you."

"We both had a role, didn't we?"

The woman smiled, on the verge of laughter. "Your role was better than mine, wasn't it?"

"I don't understand."

"I mean, look at you," Hilda said. "Silks and satins, a staff to jump to your command. All the money you could ever want. Fine foods, wine."

"Celibacy and the weight of the world on my shoulders. That's what you saddled me with."

"Whatever it was, I want something in return or you'll soon be whistling another tune."

Justin was surprised the conversation had turned rough so soon. He expected something a bit more subtle. "How did you fake it, Hilda?"

The woman shrugged. "Family, friends, a senile doctor. My sister's his nurse. It was very easy. Then those two simple-minded Jesuits. Just school boys."

"And what sort of power do you feel you hold over me?"

"I hold every card. Heaven and Hell. Damnation and heresy."

"But I was duly elected pope."

"And I suppose they can kick your can out of the Vatican once they find you and I were in cahoots."

Justin laughed. "I've been to London and I've been to Paris, but I've never been to cahoots. Is it tropical?"

"I'll tropical your bum."

Justin grinned like a chessy cat, reached in a desk drawer, withdrew an evil looking pistol and pointed it at Hilda. Startled, she pulled back, her eyes widened. Then she regained her composure. She was quite an operator. "You won't shoot me here in this office."

"Really, Hilda, why not? What better place for the Pope to shoot someone? I can have your body wrapped and carried out to the Vatican crematorium. By sundown you'd be a pile of ashes tossed into the Tiber. I'm certain you're not in a state of grace. But you can perform an act of perfect contrition before I pull the trigger. Simply say, 'Father forgive me.'"

"Not so fast, Your Holiness."

"Go ahead, Hilda. Lively now, 'Father forgive me.'"

"We can deal."

"A deal with the Pope, Hilda. I'd say you're better equipped to deal with the devil. Knowing your closeness to the dark one, he might go easy on you. Or is Satan a woman? Maybe in a satin gown?"

"I don't want much, Your Holiness. Just a living. If I destroy you, I've destroyed my meal ticket, my ticket to ride. I just wanted to throw a little scare into you. You've bested me."

"For the moment, but will you stay bested? That's the question. OK, I'll be your friend and help you. But if you get out of line you will end up in a place you may not like. Now stand up and take off your jacket."

"Do what?"

"You heard me. Then place it on my desk."

She did as she was told and he rifled through her jacket. Nothing. She was wearing a loose blouse and he ordered her to remove it.

"Really, your holiness."

He gave her a hard stare and she complied. She was not wearing a bra, but had a small box and wires taped to her upper body.

"Oh, Hilda, you are such a devious person. Are you acting alone or do you have a confederate?"

Without hesitation she replied, "I'm alone."

"Take off the recorder and place it on my desk." She did so, then struck a saucy pose. Provocative! Not a bad looking woman for her early forties.

"You can peddle your wares somewhere else, Hilda. Get dressed and have a seat against the wall."

Justin buzzed Stevens and asked him to find Sylvia and send her to his office.

"Where might I find her, Your Holiness?"

"Sister Sylvia. She has a women's rights office nearby. I've never been there, but I'm certain you can ferret it out."

Five minutes of desultory conversation with Hilda, then Stevens ushered Sylvia into his office. Justin indicated a seat near Hilda, then looked up at Stevens who remained standing in the doorway.

"You may go, Stevens. No interruptions. No electronic eavesdropping."

"But, Your Holiness. Alone in your office with two attractive women?"

"Sister Sylvia is a nun and Miss Krieg is the product of an act of God. I'm certain I'll be safe from all temptation." Stevens exited. Justin had the idea the secretary was putting him on. If Stevens became insolent, he made a note to send him off to Cape Horn or northern Alaska to do the Lord's bidding.

He turned to Sylvia and said, "You may remember Hilda Krieg, the crippled woman who was saved by my touch. Probably she's responsible for my present office. So I either owe her my gratitude or my anger. She did rob me of my freedom while giving me very little except a chance to serve the Lord in exchange. She holds the quaint notion that I am grateful for my present predicament and has come to collect what she believes is due her."

Sylvia took a sidelong glance at Hilda, then said, "I'm guessing she played out some sort of hoax."

"Truly, and she's not alone in it. There are confederates who were able to convince a couple of sly Jesuits that she and I and God were in league in a miraculous healing."

"I sniff blackmail," Sylvia opined.

"Exactly. And once a person succumbs to blackmail, it never stops. Demands follow demands. I offered to shoot Hilda, wrap her body and have it shipped off to our on-site crematorium, but she objected." Justin pointed a finger at the pistol that lay on his desk. He was certain Father Stevens had seen the weapon and he wondered what thought had passed through his head. He also wondered if Stevens had some way to overhear their conversation. He would have to have that attended to.

At this point Hilda objected. "I came here not to blackmail, but to simply ask for help. I am middle-aged and jobless. My assets are being drained. It would be a Christian act to help a poor struggler."

"We are nothing if we are not Christians here. What do you make of this, Sister Sylvia?"

"You have the ability to come to Hilda's aid in a modest way as long as it doesn't get out of hand. It's her confederates that concern me. They must know the entire story."

"There is really only one," Hilda broke in. "A nurse, a relative. And her only wish is to help me. She's a good person."

"A good person engaged in bad things," the Pope observed. "What I think is that Hilda should remain with us for a few days until we can work something out. Frankly, I'd rather not shoot her. It would be unseemly for a person in my office to start shooting people, and word might get out."

"She could be poisoned or drowned, or maybe simply a blunt instrument to smash her skull. What think you, Hilda?"

"I think you are speaking in the broadest jest. Although your humor lacks a certain appeal. I would be pleased to remain here for a few days and accept the Vatican's hospitality for food and shelter. We could see what comes of this. You will find me as honest as any blackmailer anywhere on earth, although that term fails to please me. I will abide by a square deal."

"We both have dogs in this fight, Hilda, and we both have cards up our sleeves. I will trust Sister Sylvia to find you a nun's cell somewhere on the premises. If you fail to play us true, Hilda, there will be consequences."

"Let mutual trust prevail. My hope is the Pope. Without you I am a swimmer on a storm-tossed sea." Both she and Sylvia rose to go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Justin was glad to get Hilda out of his hair. He felt they had reached an initial understanding. The fact that they had talked of her demise and she had actually seen a deadly weapon in the Pope's hand seemed to bring her back to reality. She would likely settle for the possible.

But there was something unsettling about Father Stevens' behavior. Justin imagined the secretary might be in league with Cardinal Piovanelli, the man who for all his sunny disposition seemed to be waiting like a jungle cat to pounce on the first misstep. Piovanelli, the pope-in-waiting.

Justin used his cell phone to call Black and then made his way to the cardinal's apartment.

"I want my office swept for bugs," Justin began.

"That has been done and is routinely done." Black replied. He went to a counter and poured himself and Justin cups of coffee. "You can provide your own condiments."

Justin used a little cream, then returned to his chair. "The food here is rich, too rich. My exercise routine is the only thing keeping me trim."

Black chuckled. "So many fat princes of the church. We should all diet."

"Diet," Justin replied. "Simply follow the example of Christ. Wander the countryside, eating a little fish, maybe a drop of wine and a few crumbs of bread. That's the life, John."

"You think someone may be eavesdropping on your private conversations? Truth or paranoia?"

"There are plotters and there are plotters, as you know. Uneasy is he who wears the shoes of the fisherman."

"In the present situation, yes. Tell me what set you off?"

"Nothing really. Possibly a comment or two by my secretary, Father Stevens. It's possible he's teamed with those who are out to get me. That would include Giovanni and the two Jesuits. Even though the offices have been electronically swept, it's possible Stevens has the ability to eavesdrop."

Black nodded in agreement. "Certainly inner office communications wouldn't be high on the list. The technicians would be seeking bugs attuned to the outside. I'll ask them for a do-over."

Justin stayed on for a second cup of coffee and some sort of Italian scone. He explained his meeting with Hilda Krieg and asked Black's advice about what should be done. The two agreed that they could find some sort of decent paying job for her, probably in the Vatican.

The debate over his proposal to liberalize abortion and contraception had diminished, but was still going strong around the globe. Justin decided to take up another less controversial issue.

He selected a group of seven cardinals, representative of different cultures, and invited them to his office along with Father George Poulis, his public relations spokesman.

The meeting was in the early evening, and wine and snacks were available. After a half hour of socializing, the Pope got to his new initiative.

"I've been petitioned and given this prayerful thought," he began. "I know the church has long worked to meet the spiritual needs of incarcerated men and women, but there is a feeling by some interested in the movement that we could do more."

A cardinal from East Africa said such a program is unknown in his country.

"Exactly," Justin said. "Either unknown, little known, or left to a few zealots. Rather than go all over the map, I'd like to concentrate on one successful effort. In the U.S. there is a Mercy Fire Catholic Prison Ministry that depends on volunteer workers – priests, deacons, sisters. These good people spread God's love and do God's work."

The new American cardinal said he was aware of the program and gave it high praise. "These are the men and women we might salvage and bring to the cross," he said.

"Exactly," Justin agreed. "Sister Judith Krantz, some kind of servant of the eleventh hour, is the founder of that program. They have somehow gotten weekend retreats for prisoners in order to awaken the reality of Christ's love, mercy and hope for their future."

The American cardinal quoted part of the sister's doctrine: "That all may become a living flame to act justly, love tenderly and walk humbly with God."

All of the cardinals seemed to agree that such a mission needed a shot in the arm on a global basis. Justin believed the meeting was a success and said Poulis would get the word out to the public if the cardinals would do their bit both as a group and in their own bailiwicks.

The cardinals remained, having a fine social, time until the wine and snacks were exhausted, then each said his goodbyes to the new Pope. Justin felt he was overcoming initial thoughts that he was far too lightweight to hold such an esteemed office. Little by little he chartered his course.

The following day he learned that the secretary did have the ability to eavesdrop, although it would not be as simple as turning a switch. He also learned that that ability had been removed. Then he set out to find what damage had been done and to control whatever might have happened.

Summoning Stevens to his office, he bid the father to have a seat. "Some comments you have made in recent days are puzzling to me, Stevens."

"In what way, Your Holiness?"

"They would seem to border on sarcasm."

"I have never meant to offend."

"I'm not offended, but I demand the respect due to the office."

"Is that all, Your Holiness?"

"That you would seek to leave before our interview is complete is offensive. As Pope I have certain options."

"And what might they be, Your Holiness?"

"Your attitude has compelled me to review your record. You were accused of child molestation as a parish priest."

"Those charges were dropped."

"Not really. You were transferred and the charges were left to hang in the air. They were never turned over to civil authorities. The complainants and their families remain upset over how the case was handled. They also remain willing to appear in court. In truth, you should be sent back to that civil jurisdiction. Why should the church protect a child molester?"

Color drained from Stevens face. "I was pleased with the way the situation was handled by the bishop." His voice had a humble tone.

"I suppose you were. A long prison term for a child molester might be hell on earth."

"What will you do?"

"I haven't decided. Are you familiar with Cape Horn?"

"At the extreme south of South America. I've read about it."

"It is a cold, wild place. There are glaciers, Indians, I don't know what else. But they are in need of a parish priest."

"Who would want to serve in such a place?"

"To serve the Lord in such a place might be a step toward sainthood. Particularly if you or some other priest might be killed by Indians, thus made a martyr."

"Why do you use me as an example?"

"Because you have sinned against children. To serve in such a dismal setting might be a way to repent and seek the path of the righteous. What if your devious ways continue? I feel it is the responsibility of the church to seek some reformation, some adjustment in your daily life. Because we work in close quarters, I could serve as your confessor. Open your heart to me, Father Stevens, and seek forgiveness. Give it a little thought. Now you may go."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

As usual Justin was in his office early the next day. The Pope's life and his staff do not observe a nine-to-five day. Stevens had gotten there a few minutes earlier than usual, knocked and then entered the Pope's spacious office. His face was grim and he had a frightened look.

"Your Holiness, I have bad news."

Justin looked up from the stack of letters he was signing. "Out with it."

"Cardinal Black is dead."

The news was like a blow to the mid-section. He was transported somewhere between the devil and the deep blue sea. Black was a lifeboat on a troubled sea. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, Sir. The Vatican doctor has pronounced him dead, deceased," Stevens almost stammered.

"Amazing. Of middle years. How did he die?"

"In his sleep. Apparently a heart attack, or heart failure."

Justin was instantly suspicious. "Where is the body?"

"I believe it's being transported to the crematorium as we speak."

Justin jumped from his seat. He shouted at the cowering Stevens. "Stop it. Send the body back to his apartments. Now move, quickly you dimwit!"

Stevens was off like a streak. Justin grabbed the phone and dialed the Vatican guard. "This is the Pope. The body of Cardinal Black is being transported to the crematorium."

"I know it, Your Holiness. There have been orders for instant cremation."

"Stop those orders," Justin demanded. "Get that body back to Black's apartment. Set a guard on the apartment. No one is to enter."

"Certainly, Your Holiness."

As usual during the work day, Justin was dressed in the simple black of a priest. He darted into the hall and made for the crematorium some distance away. It had not been long since the church had approved cremation, but it had gained in popularity as space for flesh burials dwindled.

Justin met Stevens and three guards as they were wheeling the body back to Black's apartment. "Who ordered the cremation?" he questioned.

"I don't know," Stevens replied.

"How about you guards?" One was obviously an officer.

"I believe it was Cardinal Piovanelli. He was in Black's apartment when we retrieved the body. The doctor had just left."

"Let's hustle along to the apartment," Justin said, setting a quick pace down the hall. The guards struggled to keep pace.

Piovanelli was still in the apartment when they arrived. He appeared to be going through Black's possessions.

"Well, Giovanni, this is a sad morning. How did you learn Cardinal Black was dead?"

Piovanelli seemed surprise to see the Pope and even more surprised to see Black's body being wheeled into the apartment.

"His attendant called me."

"And who might that be?"

"Father Parret."

"Did he also summon the doctor?"

"I don't know. I called the doctor after I arrived."

"What was the reason for the immediate cremation?"

"The doctor said heart attack, or heart failure. We like to get these things cleaned up as quickly as possible here in the Vatican."

"I see." He noticed Piovanelli was holding a stack of papers and a thin book. "Are those Black's possessions?"

"Yes, I thought I'd preserve them for the next of kin if such exists."

"You're a good man, Piovanelli, a thoughtful man. But I'll take the artifacts."

With those in his possession he turned to the guard captain and said, "I'll remain here while you summon the head of the guard. I want this room sealed, guarded night and day and absolutely no one is to enter without my permission."

The captain saluted, wheeled and was gone.

"Why the odd orders?" Piovanelli questioned.

"Cardinal Black seemed in the best of health the last time I saw him, which I believe was yesterday. I think we should look into the cause of death."

"Perhaps you're correct. I'll ask the Vatican medical staff to perform a more complete investigation."

Justin almost smiled despite the grim nature of the turn of events.

"I'll see to all those details, thank you, Giovanni. And will do so quickly. Now I will spend a few moments alone with Cardinal Black and turn the air unit up to super cool." He invited everyone to leave the room, then attended to the air conditioning and spent prayerful moments with the body of his friend and advisor until the head of the Swiss Guard tapped on the door."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The chief was a bit surprised to find the Pope and a dead cardinal in the room. Justin explained the situation and said he wanted no one to enter the room until he had made certain arrangements.

"You will do this yourself, Your Holiness?"

"Yes. I intend to. And anyone who tries to interfere with my authority is going to regret it. Cardinal Black was healthy yesterday, and I intend to get to the bottom of his tragic death. The door should never be unattended. Do you need time to organize your forces?"

"No, Your Holiness. I have two men in the hall and I'll arrange shifts to do your bidding."

"Keep in mind that no one is to enter the room without my permission. This includes cardinals, priests, bishops, even medical people."

Justin returned to his office. Without Black he felt isolated, alone. But he knew he must carry on. His Italian lessons had not gotten him much beyond ciao. But he did have a vague idea of law enforcement in Italy. Eight separate police forces, six of which were national.

The best known was likely the Arma dei Carabinieri, which had become much like the Italian military, even serving abroad on peacekeeping missions. They were also referred to as La Benemerita, The Meritorious Corps. Of the two non-national agencies, one was provincial and the other municipal.

Justin decided to go with the Rome municipal force, but how to approach them. He telephoned Sylvia and asked her to bring Hilda Krieg to his office. Once they arrived, he briefed the two women on the situation. Both were upset by the news, and it took a few minutes for them to calm down. He asked Stevens to have coffee and pastries brought to his office.

With coffee in hand and Stevens back in the outer office, Justin said, "We need a complete investigation beginning with a thorough autopsy by medical people we can trust. The doctor's ruling of heart failure is ridiculous."

"It seems to me," Sylvia said, "the Vatican is a closed corporation that does not want its dirty linen displayed in public."

"Historically, I'm certain you're right," Justin said. "But this smells of murder. Murder is a crime against the law of humanity and God. I will not tolerate it as Pope or otherwise."

Hilda smiled. "Perhaps you think you might be next in line."

Justin rolled his eyes to heaven. "If this is murder, I don't think they would cremate a pope. There must be an innovative way to get rid of the man in the shoes of the fisherman short of murder."

"Perhaps they could send you off to Washington as an intern," Sylvia quipped.

The initial shock had obviously worn off for the two women. Justin thought it was time to get down to business.

"We have unlimited funds and we have power. The body is safe for now in Black's apartment. What I would like is a thoroughly professional autopsy to determine the cause of death. To this end I hope to contact the municipal police in Rome and ask them to take charge of the body and alert their coroner. But I would also like other doctors on hand."

He looked to Hilda. "What about flying in some expert from Germany. Everyone trusts German technology."

Hilda appeared confused, but finally said, "Certainly, if the money's there." She checked her watch. Only mid-morning. "I can arrange for a flight today."

"Good. Start the ball rolling. But use your cell phone." Then to Sylvia. "Who do you know who speaks Italian and you can trust to call the municipal police?"

"I have a couple of contacts. But how will they know we're serious?"

"In the name of Pope Leo XIV. I'll be in my office. Give them my official phone number and my cell phone. Our goal is to get the body removed from the Vatican into a safe morgue. Let them know that the Swiss Guard will continue to watch over the body."

"In those crazy costumes?"

"No. I'll have some of them in mufti. I'll also arrange for payment for this operation. So, you have your assignments. May God go with you."

"Yes, Your Holiness," Sylvia said as the two left the room.

Justin wondered why she had said such a thing.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Justin spent the rest of the day and most of the next moving from place to place in the Vatican issuing orders. He wore his anger on his sleeve and no one challenged him. By the morning of the third day everyone he had come in contact with was thoroughly frightened.

He had established himself as the Pope. And what a Pope. Some thought the Pope from Hell. It was late on the third day that the autopsy report was delivered to his office: Mors ab infectum (death by poison).

Justin buzzed Stevens and asked him to invite Cardinal Giovanelli down for a drink and a snack. "Shall I open a bottle, Your Holiness?"

"Thanks, no, Stevens. I have my own special stock."

When the cardinal was ushered into his office there was an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on his desk and two glasses, already poured.

Justin waved Giovanni to a chair and said, "Let's have a little toast to happier times." He hoisted his glass as if to clink and drink. The cardinal hesitated.

"Come, let's drink," Justin insisted.

"I'm not feeling well today, Your Holiness." Justin thought it odd for the cardinal to use the formal title. They were after all the closest companions, particularly with Black out of the way.

"I'm sorry, Giovanni. Might I call for medical assistance?"

"Nothing like that. Maybe I'm simply depressed by John's death. I was one of the first to enter his room, you know, after being summoned by Father Parret."

"I do know that, but a touch of the grape might bring you good cheer."

Giovanni eyed the poured glass with some distaste. "I'm afraid my thirst for wine is greatly diminished. Perhaps tomorrow."

"I could send a few bottles to your apartment. It was my little surprise, but I have done so. When you came down here I had alerted the Swiss Guard to carry a few bottles in for your drinking pleasure."

"Into my apartment!" Giovanni said in chagrin and surprise.

"Why, yes. It was to be my surprise for you. I knew you'd be feeling low. I hope it doesn't disturb you. The guards are totally trustworthy."

"No, no, I thank you for your thoughtfulness. What kind of wine is it?"

"The same as you always drink, of course. You may not even be able to tell they've brought the wine unless you count the bottles. They were to simply fill that wonderful wine rack."

"I won't be able to tell the new from the old then?"

"Probably not. Take a sip of mine now. It will warm your heart."

"Maybe later, Justin." The cardinal was back to the familiar. "Have you received word on the autopsy yet?"

"I have, Giovanni, but it's ultra-confidential. Stevens doesn't even know. This thing has to be handled with extreme delicacy. I've spent much of the afternoon reading up on poisons. Do you know much about them?"

"Certainly not. Why should I?"

"No reason. Or maybe there is one. We are in Italy where the Medici family was known for their poisoning."

"I do know something about that. There may have been one or two incidents, but that they were a family of poisoners is sordid fiction."

"History does tend to exaggerate certain things and gloss over others. They say never let the facts get in the way of a good story."

Giovanni had seemed nervous initially, but now he seemed to be getting into the swing of his old happy-go-lucky self. The issue of the wine was out of the way. Mixing up wine bottles in his apartment did seem something of a nuisance, but nothing he couldn't deal with.

He asked Justin what he had learned about poisons.

"Not much. A few hours of study does not a scholar make. Four major types caught my eye. Botulinum attacks the nervous system. Victim dies in extreme pain. Ricin causes respiratory and organ failure. Cyanide causes cardiac arrest, rapid death. Compound 1080 is odorless, tasteless, water soluble, no antidote, quick yet painful death."

"You're a quick study."

"Nothing wrong with my memory." Justin finished his wine, then picked up the cardinal's glass and drained it by half in one gulp. "No use letting good wine go to waste."

Giovanni couldn't suppress a smile. It was a deadly game they were playing.

"Incidentally," Justin added, "I've had Father Parret detained as a material witness. He's being held in solitary. He is to talk to no one until the interrogation is complete."

The cardinal was surprised by this turn of events. He had eyes and ears everywhere, yet he had not been told. This young man was turning out to be a bit too clever. First the wine, now this.

"But," the cardinal began. "He's probably being held in a drab cell with the minimum of food and drink. Not the kind of life the Vatican usually offers. Perhaps I can see to his comfort."

"I think not, Giovanni. The guards have strict orders and they know the penalty for disobeying the Pope. Truth to tell, isn't a drab cell and simple food a life to be welcomed by a Catholic priest?"

"It might be that some orders go for the cloistered life. Not really my style."

"Well, it won't be for long. Rome's municipal homicide detectives should get his complete story fairly soon."

"You've called in the municipal cops and you have reason to believe there's been a murder?"

"Murder in the Vatican, a great book title, don't you agree?"

"For fiction, yes. But we have appearances to keep up. The church can overlook an occasional murder in order to preserve its good name."

"And we can also ignore scores of child molesters for the same purpose. Shame on you, Giovanni. A new age has dawned. Transparency, justice, honesty, living within the law, decency. Do those words horrify you?"

"Certainly not. I am a child of God, just as you are. We move forward as one. But the role of the church has endured for two thousand years. Long after you and I are gone the church will stand as a rock."

"More likely stoned. With dwindling serious supplicants, a thin veneer of piety masking a multitude of political machinations and arcane mumbo jumbo. Yes, let us move as one to a bright new age, the Pope out front as PR man. That seems to be the job description. And I sincerely believe all is not lost. Our core values are wholesome and have indeed risen above depravity."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

With Black gone and Giovanni a possible threat, a thread of a plan was forming in Justin's mind. He had established himself as the Pope, a young man to be feared as opposed to a doddering codger to be honored. But the murder of Black had left him somewhat isolated. Who could he trust beyond Sylvia and Hilda?

His next step was to arrange a private, secret if possible, meeting with the Chinese ambassador to Italy. Sylvia operated largely under the radar, so he had her invite the ambassador to her office. After several attempts she was able to cajole Ambassador Lee to be spirited into her office.

When he arrived she informed him that the Pope would like a word with him, then phoned Justin. "Your man is in my office."

Accompanied by a plain-clothes guard, the Pope entered the office and shook hands with Mr. Lee, knowing the Chinese would not want to kiss his ring. He asked Sylvia, her secretary and the guard to wait in the outer office, then settled himself behind her desk.

"How are things in China?" he asked Mr. Lee.

"Going very well, Your Holiness. We may soon have the largest economy in the world." Mr. Lee had heard how the Pope should be addressed.

"Of course the economy is important. Your citizens need to be healthy, have wholesome food, education, proper recreation, housing and so forth. Of course my concern is toward the spiritual side of the coin."

"We are a spiritual people. Confucius and others were Chinese. We are an ancient society."

"Many years ago our church had missionaries in China. Usually they traveled by the great river roads."

"That was before my time," Mr. Lee said, smiling at some secret joke, then adding. "We still have the Catholic church in China with Chinese priests."

"I'm aware of that. Government sanctioned and some underground activity. As head of the church I would like to see better relations with China."

Mr. Lee shrugged. "You want to send missionaries back into China. I'm afraid that would be quite out of the question."

"I didn't say that, Mr. Lee," Justin said sharply. He was addressing a diplomat who had not been assigned to a major capitol. "Don't be so quick to jump to conclusions."

"I'm sorry, Your Holiness. Please tell me what you have in mind."

"I can tell you. Or I can send a delegation to Beijing. Which option would you prefer?"

Mr. Lee was quick to think he might be cut out of the loop. Not a good career move. "Please tell me."

"Closer relations do not necessarily mean an influx of missionaries. It could mean something of benefit to both China and the church."

"Of course. I'm with you."

"What I would like to do is send a high level delegation to Beijing headed by a cardinal, possibly half a dozen in all. They would remain there for at least a year, learning Mandarin, getting a feel for the country, looking into what might be possible. It's as simple as that"

"And, of course, brilliant," Mr. Lee agreed. "One step at a time."

"So you have this proposal from the mouth of the Pope. I would like it treated with discretion and confidence while it is considered by your government."

"Of course, Your Holiness, nothing on paper. I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"Marvelous. Your contact here will be Sister Sylvia. You may trust her entirely and she will speak for me."

"Of course."

"Please remain and take a few more minutes to chat with the good sister, form a business relationship." With that Justin rose and left the room, gathering his security man he returned to his office.

Time wore on and Justin continued to get the feel of the job. He would give short addresses to crowds in the square, sometimes using a foreign phrase or two. He continued to learn Italian and work on his Latin. It was odd that the job of pope should require on-the-job training. He had installed his own cook in his apartment, a competent man given to simple recipes, a man careful to select all his food and wine, a trusted retainer.

And there were still the late-night sessions with Sylvia in the room off his small gymnasium. There lovemaking had become a minor part of the night's routine. Generally they thrashed over Vatican politics. This was the spot where decisions were made.

A couple of things bothered Justin. One was that for appearances in public he had to wear outfits that reminded him of large petty coats, skirts with lace and other adornments.

Then there was the glitch in the investigation of Cardinal Black's death. Before the municipal police could conclude their investigation, and the progress did seem snail-like, Black's attendant, Father Parret, was found dead in his cell.

Justin thought it useless to even investigate the event. Parret obviously had been poisoned, likely a little something in his daily rations. So who was involved? Who was to blame? Who knew? Next of kin were notified, the body was cremated, the ashes disposed of. End of story.

In the meantime, Father Stevens had confessed to Justin that Father Pat had attempted to draw him into a conspiracy, but he had resisted. He had been asked to provide information on day-to-day happenings in the Pope's office. He was certain the other Jesuit, Father Konrad was in on it and possibly Cardinal Piovanelli. Justin was not certain he was being told the entire story.

In less than two weeks, Mr. Lee had gotten back to Sylvia.

"Beijing thinks it's a great idea," she said. "Quarters will be provided whenever the delegation arrives."

"I thought as much," Justin said. "It does them no harm and it could do them a great deal of good. I'm certain our delegation will be carefully watched. So have a charter flight standing by in two days to deliver our delegates. Make sure certain passports, visas and so forth are in order. Mr. Lee will be of help."

Next, Justin asked Cardinal Piovanelli to drop by his office.

When he showed up, Justin asked, "Would you like a glass of wine, Giovanni."

"Too early in the day for me, but thanks anyway. What can I do for you?"

"I have a wonderful surprise for you. An extremely interesting and important project." Justin paused for a moment and smiled broadly. "You are to head a delegation to Beijing, helping to improve relations between the church and China. It's the chance of a lifetime."

Piovanelli sat in stunned silence.

"You will leave the day after tomorrow. So pack for a major trip."

"How long might we be in China?"

"That's the beautiful part. It's open ended. I've been talking to the Chinese through their ambassador to Rome and they're as excited about this as I am. You know China may soon be the world's largest economy."

Piovanelli instantly grasped that he was being gotten rid of. "Who might be going with me? Or is this a solo trip?"

"Of course, a delegation. Those two bright young Jesuits, Fathers Konrad and Pat. Then I'm giving up my secretary, Father Stevens to keep track of things. He doesn't know it yet. I thought I should inform you first."

"This is an honor I may want to pass up," the cardinal said.

"But no, the die is cast. The papers are complete. Mr. Lee has the visas. A charter flight will carry your delegation the day after tomorrow."

"Perhaps I've failed to tell you I have certain medical conditions, Your Holiness."

"I took the liberty to check with your doctors. They say you are as fit as a fiddle. And Beijing has super medical facilities in case something comes up. You and your delegates will be treated like lords of the realm. Now you better get started packing. Time flies like an arrow."

Completely crestfallen, but not knowing what posture to assume, the cardinal went his way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

With his chief rival out of the way, Justin was able to turn full steam toward running the church as he thought it should be run. He spent long hours in the study of church doctrine, historic rulings and practices that seemed to have no roots in reality. The church had always been run from the top down.

He was the top dog and the parish priests were beholden, even fearful, of their bishop. It was his ambition to somehow give more power to the rank and file Catholic. This had been done to a certain extent through various organizations, but he wished to place more emphasis on the issue, if it was an issue. He was aware that certain Protestant congregations could hire and fire their clergy, also that a church board would interview candidates for the job. He didn't want to go that far.

Of course he did not labor alone. He bounced ideas off Sylvia almost nightly. An outgoing person, she had allied herself with a bevy of Vatican friends and had amassed a great deal of knowledge about the church in a short time. He also had a number of lawyerly scholars, considered expert on church dogma and law, with whom he regularly consulted.

Basically his idea was simply how to make the parish priest more responsive to the congregation and in so doing how to increase attendance beyond simply the knee-jerk mass.

Pondering this simple issue, because it was devious and convoluted, his reverie was interrupted by a phone call from Beijing. His new secretary, a parish priest he had picked out of Argentina because he had no Vatican connection, informed him that Cardinal Piovanelli was on the line.

"Good day, Giovanni, or is it night over there?"

"Day or night, it's much the same to me. I've just learned that you want this mission to last at least a year. I'm damned upset."

"The church moves slowly, Giovanni. You should master Mandarin, become expert with chopsticks, go to school on the Chinese government. These things take time."

"A year, for the love of God." There was stress in the cardinal's voice. "I've a mind to pull up stakes and return to Rome immediately."

"Disobey the Pope? That would be grounds for excommunication. I could leave you in China, penniless, jobless, no better than a street person."

An enraged Piovanelli shouted, "You can't excommunicate me. I don't think you're a real pope at all."

"I am the Pope, Giovanelli. I am the Pope by act of God. You know that."

"That little fraud Hilda Krieg and John Black's persuasion kicked you into that office."

"And who's to say that such a combo was not divinely inspired? The Lord works in mysterious ways. Think of God giving the Holy Land to the Jews. Maybe he did. There's a mystery for you. The church has many mysteries."

"Mystery, my ass. Anytime we can't explain something it's a mystery. Then you and your midnight assignations with the so-called Sister Sylvia. That's no mystery. I've been on to you from the get-go."

"And the reverse is true, Cardinal. You seem to be almost demanding excommunication. I could do it yet today."

"You have no grounds. I could easily block such an attempt."

"Cardinal, you have your two clever Jesuits and that jerk Stevens. I too have Jesuits, but they are trained in the law and schooled in church doctrine. I am the Pope. So, have a care."

"Possibly I've overreacted, Your Holiness." Piovanelli was gradually seeing the light. He was isolated in China, far from the Vatican where he had been a wheeler-dealer for many years. Justin was in the driver's seat.

"There is a bright side for you. Despite your Machiavellian tactics you are still popular among the more senile cardinals and even appeal to some of the younger members. I did not ask for this job. It was more or less thrust upon me, as you say, thanks to Cardinal Black, may God rest his soul. I am not a spiritual person any more than you are. But I am capable of heading the church. There have been popes, possibly known for their piety, who hadn't the least notion of how the church operates. They frittered away their short careers in prayer." Justin paused, waiting for a comment from Giovanelli.

"I'm with you so far, except for how this might be good for me."

"The fact that I did not want to be pope has helped me considerably to get on top of this job. I see flaws in the church and I can correct them. When I look at you I see ambition. Possibly that ambition led to the removal of Cardinal Black from this mortal coil."

Piovanelli was quick to interrupt that line of thinking. "Don't tar me with that brush. I had nothing to do with it."

"Possibly not. So far it's gone into the unsolved crime folder, along with the death of Father Parret. Obviously he was also poisoned, but I didn't bother to have that one investigated. There were many other pressing matters."

"Things happen."

"Yes, things do happen, Giovanni. Once I got into the swing of things as pope, once I really put my foot down and took charge after John's murder, there were a few items on my agenda."

"Like sending me to China."

"Trivial, but it seemed a good idea at the time. The urge for persons unknown to slip me a dose of poison might be diminished. But now I'm better able to cope with that. Now I'll get to my point. For one thing, you're better off in China at this stage of the game. You're out of the fray, above dog-eat-dog Vatican politics. You know it's still a dog fight even though you've been removed from the field."

"I have my sources."

"Of course you do. And I've developed mine. And I hold the aces. But truth to tell, I did not want to be pope and I do not intend to keep the job forever. What I want is the American dream. A wife, a family, a house, maybe a dog. So at some point I'll step out of this job. You might be my heir apparent."

Giovanni was truly stunned by this announcement. How anyone might not want to be pope was beyond him. Finally he asked, "How soon?"

"Soon, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Church time is counted in centuries. My time would be counted in months. I'm looking at a tour, perhaps a world tour. Maybe even to China. That would be mostly up to you. I've learned how to be silent, look pious and say a few well-rehearsed words at the proper time. I do not like the odd garments, but I can make subtle changes. But the tour will come first."

"I'm with you on this, Your Holiness."

"Good. It's good to have a trustworthy ally. Of course, if you let the cat out of the bag I may decide to spend a long lifetime as Pope."

"I am the Sphinx."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Justin kept the lowest profile possible for several weeks after announcing his views on abortion and contraception as church doctrine. These were building blocks in his plan generally to bring new vigor to the church by making it user-friendly. Bishops were warned to fall into line or face forced retirement.

During this time of repose, Justin turned his attention to the study of the Vatican, its darker history, or La Oscura Historia del Vaticano. There had always been stories and rumors of secret Catholic societies. There were also the actual Secret Archives, said to be so extensive that there are fifty miles of shelves. These archives can be opened only for specific purposes and only by permission of the Pope.

Of course one man could never hope to bring all of this information into his small brain, or even digest the workings of the Holy See. But Justin did his best to skim the surface and was as well informed as any of the cardinals.

And at least once a week he would appear overlooking the masses in St. Peter's Square, give his blessing and say a few words. Shy at first, he was beginning to relish the job of Pope and the unearned respect that was its companion. And it occurred to him that he was actually an instrument of the Lord.

He had talked to Sylvia about a world tour and the possibility of subsequently stepping down from his present task. She had chatted this up with Hilda and the two had come up with a plan, a trial outing to a castle in Germany.

"A German castle," Justin questioned. "A Mouse Tower on the Rhine?"

"Not hardly. I don't believe a Mouse Tower is a castle. Although it might be part of a castle," Sylvia allowed. "In a day or two I'll have her come to my office, then you can slip into my office and she can explain the castle. She was born in that region and the names are insane. You know how the Germans combine a bunch of words into one very long word."

"I'm willing to give it a go. But how would this help?"

"I've looked into it. Travel for a Pope is always a challenge. For one thing you're expected to ride around in that bulletproof Popemobile. Maybe we could do without that if we're on a trip to simply tour a castle. Then there's the entourage. You're expected to take certain people with you. Then the means of transportation."

"Complicated."

"Damn right. A small trip, only up into Germany. We could get some of the bugs out and see what comes of it. There'd be the matter of food service and who gets to kiss your ring."

"OK. Let's get with Hilda. I think I'd prefer a castle to say, the Eiffel Tower, or old Big Ben."

"Good choice."

Hilda was a fountain of information about Neuschwanstein Castle.

Justin said the name brought to mind a deli sandwich or a dark German beer.

"In German, it's Schloss Neuschwanstein," Hilda explained. "It sits above the village of Hohenschwangau near Fussen in southwest Bavaria. To the south are the Alpine foothills toward the Austrian border. There are ruins of medieval castles nearby, the names almost unpronounceable as far as you're concerned."

"Tell me why I would want to tour this castle," the Pope questioned.

"Well, as you know, castles are no longer in vogue. They're cold and they're drafty and, with the advent of gunpowder and bombs, they're no longer useful as defensive bastions. This is a modern castle, construction started in1869 under the direction of Mad King Ludwig. It even has flush toilets, quite new at that time."

"This Ludwig, he was crazy?"

"Certainly eccentric, maybe homosexual. He was a friend of Wagner and captivated by his operas. It's a fairy tale castle, somehow connected to Wagner's music. Get this: Ludwig was declared insane before the castle was finished. Three days later he was found floating in waist-deep water in Lake Starnberg. Floating next to him was his psychiatrist.

"Days after that, the castle was opened to the public for a fee and work continued, although the original plan was never completed. Thus far more than sixty million people have visited the castle; in summer there might be six thousand visitors daily. It's been used as film sites. Disney's Cinderella Castle is based on it."

Justin held up his hand. "Information overload. That's enough for me. Into whose lap do I dump the task of planning this trip?"

Sylvia took over to say, "In recent years Cardinal Pio Margeot has been charged with trip planning. I understand he's quite good at it."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

When Justin proposed the trip to Cardinal Margeot, the good cardinal replied, "Rome was not built in a single day."

"By that I assume you mean you'll need some lead time?"

"Correct. This is not a major trip. No air transport is involved. The Germans are excellent at security and most everything else. So we can trust a lot of that to them. They'll be delighted that the Pope will make his first trip outside the Vatican to their castle."

"So this is a good call," the Pope said.

"Totally. I'm guessing the planning will take a month. I'll alert the Germans immediately. What about the Popemobile?"

"I'd rather do without it if that's possible."

"It could be because of German security. But I'll ask them. So I'll keep you updated."

It was amazing. Justin had all these people doing his bidding. It might be difficult giving up this life.

Not even a week went by before Margeot dropped by the office to say, "I'm considering the Hotel Christine, it's about 3.7 kilometers from the castle in Fussen. That's one of the hotels; there are more, but none much closer. So your entourage would have to travel those 3.7 kilometers, and you can bet the road will be lined with well-wishers."

"How about assassins?"

The cardinal averted his eyes and said, "Hopefully not. Of course you did stir up a hornet's nest with this abortion and birth control business. You don't change centuries of practice without some dissent."

"Major dissent," the Pope corrected.

"Yes, major dissent. And there are crackpots out there. Of course the trip will be publicized. There will be local press, TV crews, plus Victor Greene, the New York Times Rome correspondent, plus any other Roman media will tag along. So you'll be in the fishbowl."

"Still, I'd rather not use the Popemobile," Justin said. "That would almost make me a seated duck."

"But it's bulletproof," Margeot pointed out.

"That's the problem," the Pope responded. "Everyone knows it's bulletproof. So only a total idiot would take a shot at it. A smart person would plant a roadside bomb large enough to destroy a battleship. What I'd like is an open touring car. I'll be in the backseat and you can sit next to me."

Margeot actually laughed. "We die together."

"Or we don't die at all. Try to keep the hotel secret for as long as possible. Of course the Germans must know. But if it's sub rosa the crazies won't know what exact route we will take until the last moment. The Germans then will be prepared to keep a sharp lookout on any possible shooting positions."

"This will have little impact on a suicide killer."

"I'm guessing our touring car will be trailed by a carload of German quick-draw gunslingers. It'll be like High Noon without Gary Cooper."

"Our little adventure. So glad you thought to include me. You're assured that I'm going to be thorough."

"Share and share alike is what I say."

"A martyred Pope, the first big step toward sainthood."

"And me so young."

"You are a marvel." the cardinal said, then departed to perfect the travel plan.

Because eating, or dining if you prefer, is an important part of life in the Vatican, Justin had installed his own cook who served both his office staff and his private life, what there was of it. He still kept to the habit of napping after lunch, disguised as prayerful meditation in his chapel. Often he would have the chef prepare a type of take-away he could share with Sylvia late in the day, or during the early morning hours. Sylvia had also adjusted her sleeping habits to that schedule.

Of course having his own chef diminished the chance of someone slipping a deadly cocktail into his food. He had recruited a Brother Boris Shafia from a Monastery in the northwestern U.S. for the job after hearing of his fabulous ability through the Catholic grapevine. Fish, beef and lamb with a hundred twists were his specialties.

Justin had become weary of pasta when he was fed normal Vatican fare. No matter how one sliced it, it was still pasta. There was bricchetti, lumachine, gramigna, anelli rigati, gnocchetti, farfalloni, tripolini, ziti and many more.

Shafia seemed to fit right in. Catholics, wherever they might be, seemed drawn to the Vatican, the throbbing heart of the church. One day, though, he had found him in what seemed intimate conversation with Cardinal Mario Pujalte and he recalled the old cardinal was closely allied with Giovanni Piovanelli.

He questioned Shafia about the topic of their meeting, but the chef said it was just passing the time, talking recipes. Justin saw it as a first move toward bringing his chef into the circle of his rivals. What to do? Simple. Pujalte was given a one-way ticket to Beijing where he could assist his good buddy Giovanni in smoothing relations with that prickly country.

One last hurdle before setting out for Bavaria. Hilda Krieg was eager to visit her native land. At Sylvia's urging she was placed toward the back of the sizeable entourage as a German translator. Her language skills might be valuable if she overheard the odd threat against the Pope.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The day came when the entourage, headed by the Pope, set off by motorcade for the Roma Termini Station, itself an architectural masterpiece, where a train was waiting to carry the party to Zurich, the Swiss city not far from their destination.

Word was out and the streets were lined with people eager to see the young Pope on his first excursion outside the Vatican. He rode in an open touring car seated next to Cardinal Margeot, who was not totally at ease with all the fanfare.

At the station, the carabinieri had turned out to keep the crowds back. Justin walked slowly from the car in a finger-length coat of his own design, wearing trousers as opposed to the traditional skirts, a beanie topped his head. Waving to the crowd, he paused occasionally for photo ops, then entered the station followed by his entourage.

As they entered the station, he asked Margeot, who walked beside him, if he looked the proper Pope.

"Not really," Margeot replied, "there are several garments, some lacy with skirts sweeping the ground, but none of them involve trousers. Not as outer wear anyway."

"Good, I'm breaking new ground."

There were three cars. One isolated the press. A second for the bulk of the entourage, the third for the Pope, Margeot, Father Shafia the chef, Father Poulis, the PR spokesperson, plus three office staffers. The chef was along merely to oversee the meals, not to do any real cooking.

Father Poulis informed the Pope that there was a slight hitch in Zurich, the regional press had gathered to await the train. "They expect some statement and possibly to ask you a question or two."

"They are Swiss?" Justin asked. He was aware Zurich was German speaking, but guessed that Italian and French might also be on hand.

"Yes, there are Swiss print and electronic media, but the bulk of them seem to be from Germany. So I'm told."

Justin could picture himself walking into a mob of reporters and didn't enjoy the vision. "I'm eager to have an exchange with these people. They represent the Catholic community with which I'm attempting to communicate. But we must have some control. Could we get them all on this railway car?"

Poulis thought that one over, attempted to gauge the size of the car and replied with a firm maybe.

"We could clear everyone out but Cardinal Margeot, bring in two guards for security, and invite the newshounds in. That should satisfy them."

"More than enough. Whether you should subject yourself to rough and tumble questioning, I'm not to say."

"Let's do this, George, we set a half-hour time limit. You also will stay and stand nearby. You can call time. Give them their half hour and, if need be, a few minutes more. Is that a plan, or what?"

"It's a plan, Your Holiness. Let's hope for the best."

The miles fell away with the click of the iron on the tracks, and before they knew it they were pulling into the Zurich Hauptbahnhof. Just over a half hour after the train stopped, arrangements had been made and the car filled with reporters, electronic devices and not-so-small camera equipment.

Justin was pleased that each wore a tag with their name and news organization. His eye fell first on a strikingly lovely woman whose tag read AZ Nurnberg, Bavaria.

The first to speak was an older man representing the Abendzeitung of Munich, which was simply a greeting and thanking the Pope for holding a press conference.

Following that there was a TV reporter from ARD Tagesschau, who Justin could hardly see for the lights and the crowd. He got right to the point.

"Some of us have heard that the miracle attributed to you and the German woman was not a miracle at all. But some kind of a stunt."

"I too have heard that," Justin replied. "One thing certain in my mind is that I didn't attend that mass in the Vatican with the purpose of becoming pope. I'm guessing some of you are religious and some are not. Obviously, I'm not a lifetime cleric. So there is a higher purpose to my becoming Pope."

"And what might that be?" This from a reporter from 3Sat, a German TV station.

"If you are religious, you believe in the hand of God. That is, certain miracles. As to the German woman, Hilda, what if she is in truth Joan of Arc come back for a visit, or what if she might be a man in female attire? It really doesn't matter. Her being in that church at that time propelled me to the office I now hold. Thanks to Cardinal John Black, who also may have been touched by the hand of God."

"You mentioned a higher purpose," A reporter from the rear shouted. "What is that purpose?"

"It boils down to the fact that the church is in trouble. We've been losing members, attendance is down. We've grown old and stodgy. So a thirty-two-year-old American presents a new face. I'm trying to go slow, but it requires great patience. I've launched an initiative for women to have a greater role in the church. I've liberalized abortion and birth control. I've sent a high-level delegation to China. There are other things I've done behind the scenes. Some subtle, some not so subtle."

The pretty woman from AZ Nurnberg piped in, "You must be making enemies left and right."

"Enemies and friends. I'm betting that the friends outnumber the enemies. You see, I represent the folks on the other side of the altar, the people in the pews. I think I have a grip on what they're thinking. And if I don't, I'm willing to listen."

"What about this business of not using the Popemobile." It was the pretty woman again.

Justin grinned. "I'm trusting to luck. Anyone who thought I might use the Popemobile would be busy planting a roadside bomb. But who wants to wipe out a nice young Pope like me? I ask you."

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd and someone shouted, "Most parish priests."

Another added, "Every bishop and archbishop."

Father Poulis stepped up and said, "Time. Thank you all. Now it's on to the castle."

"By what route?" someone questioned.

"That's a church mystery," Poulis replied. "Now, please, goodbye."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

There was a crowd when the party left the station, and Justin took his time, posing for pictures, signing a few autographs, smiling and waving, refusing to hold a baby. He was getting superstar treatment and responding like a superstar. He hoped to be the people's Pope.

Because of the devious route, few people turned out along the roadside, although some had guessed correctly. There were only so many roads between Zurich and the castle.

Father Poulis brought it to Justin's attention that the party of press people attached to the caravan were miffed because the press in Zurich had a crack at him, but they didn't.

Cardinal Margeot had told him that the party had taken over a small hotel not far from the castle. The plan was to rest overnight, then the castle the following day. It was to be a two-day outing, one devoted to the exterior, setting, logic, or illogic for the edifice and the order of construction. Interior and appointments would come the second day.

Justin said he would meet the press they had brought along during breakfast the following day. More regional and international press had gathered near the castle. So there had to be a third press conference with everyone welcome.

Victor Greene, who headed the New York Times Rome bureau, seemed to take center stage at the breakfast briefing. His English was perfect, and he had a foot in Rome and a foot in the U.S.

Justin basically went over what he had told the press in Zurich, but Greene pressed for more information on the new Pope's style.

Justin was hoping for just such an opportunity.

"I consider myself a modern-day Martin Luther."

There was almost an audible gasp among the assembled press, all of whom were familiar with church history and Vatican policy. Greene pointed out that Luther had confronted an indulgence salesman, refused to recant his observations and been responsible for the Reformation that produced the Protestant church.

"And much more," Justin acknowledged.

"Yes, he was anti-Semitic," someone called out. "A Jew hater."

"Also true," Justin agreed. "But that came only in his last days when he was in failing health and headed for the graveyard. I don't count that as one of his noble accomplishments. Neither do I count his breaking with the Catholic Church. I am not a firebrand who is going out on my own. My goal is simply to pull or push the church into this century with gentle nudges. All of you know my initiatives thus far. Some say they are radical, but my view is to the contrary."

"What did Luther really accomplish other than splitting the church and giving rise to Protestantism?" Greene asked.

Justin smiled. "Isn't that enough? Everyone needs a little competition. He was a monk, priest and theologian, quite a bright man. He translated the Bible from Latin to German, which had a large impact on the common man. In so doing he influenced its translation into English as the King James Bible. His marriage and subsequent family set an example for Protestant clerics to marry."

Time had slipped by and the press had enough on its plate with the Martin Luther quote. "Thank you, Your Holiness," Greene said, ending the session. Everyone turned to the breakfast bar. Father Shafia visited the omelet station and oversaw the production of one for Justin.

The two-day visit was tiring, but enjoyable. The final day was capped by a banquet in the castle attended by a select number of local and national dignitaries. The food was not heavy and gaseous as some had expected from the German kitchen and the wine was excellent.

Justin noticed that the pretty reporter from the Bavarian press AZ Nurnberg attended the dinner, and seemed to be the only press person present. A pretty girl has entry to many venues, he reasoned. When he looked her way she flashed a brilliant smile of recognition. He immediately imagined himself as both the Pope and a chick magnet. What would Sylvia think? Or what did she think? She was seated toward the back of the room with a table of German nuns.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Justin had been back from the castle tour just under a month and he had caused very little trouble, although the Holy See was keeping its eyes on him. He had simply done Pope things – greeting the crowds in St. Peter's Square, answering mail, granting two or three audiences a week, talking with groups of novitiates, working out, napping in the chapel, and attending midnight sessions with Sylvia, his trusted advisor. She had mapped a plan for his world tour.

Justin was in his office at mid-morning when Cardinal Pio Margeot entered.

"What are you busying yourself with these days," Margeot asked. He seemed in a good mood and carried a sheaf of papers.

"I've been reading up on the life of Martin Luther. Since I compared him to myself I thought I should know something about him."

"Anything startling?"

"Not really. He lived from 1483 into 1546. He was a brilliant and courageous man. I thought it odd that he was born and died in the same town, Eisleben, Germany. You know how people move around so much these days."

"In the old days a peasant would be born and die never venturing more than fifteen or twenty miles from his home." Margeot dropped into a chair. They had become quite good friends and trusted companions. "I've been going over these plans for your global tour. Quite something."

"Yes, not a whole lot of stops. France, Canada, the U.S., Mexico, Australia, China, Russia. Just seven formal situations, plus airports and the odd press conference. Father Poulis is quite excited about."

"I can imagine. He's in his element, plunging ever farther in the public eye."

"Into the breach. Once more into the breach," Justin said. "And you. What are your feelings?"

"I'm finishing up on the arrangements. Some of the events I'd like to plan at the last moment, after the trip is underway. For safety purposes. Of course the stops are laid out, but not the exact timing. Everything is subject to change. Keep the crazies guessing."

"And you can do that en route?" Justin asked.

"You think I should go?"

"Of course. Who else would I want to share a touring car with?"

"America and Mexico, places like that, people carry guns. It might be wise to use the Popemobile."

"People would think I'm frightened. We Catholics, we princes of the church, we go with trumpets and fanfares into the life that awaits us beyond the gates of St. Peter. We look forward to living forever somewhere in the clouds."

Margeot nodded. "Have you ever heard that drinking song, 'In Heaven there is no beer. That is why we drink it here'? I believe it's from the States."

"Definitely. Have you heard from Cardinal Piovanelli?"

"Constantly. He's eager for the trip to begin. Wants to show you the Great Wall, the Summer Palace and the Forbidden City. I take it those are touristy things near or in Beijing."

"I believe so. I've gotten the same message." The news brought a smile to Justin's face. Giovanni thought he might resign shortly after the world tour. Probably he would want to accompany the party back from China. "So," Justin asked, "when do we leave?"

"The French would like us to come in one week. Something about fitting us in between other events at Versailles."

"That's where the event will be?"

"Yes. Chateau de Versailles, made famous by Marie-Antoinette among others. Of course it was the court of the king. In 1783 she had a small hamlet built in a remote area of the grounds so she might escape the boredom of the court."

"Lost her head, I believe," Justin said.

"In more ways than one." The cardinal ran a hand over his forehead and struck a serious pose. "There's just one thing I should tell you. I was seriously injured in a car accident some years ago. During the recovery I got hooked on drugs, so you might say I'm an addict."

"If you're addicted to drugs, I'd say you're an addict. That states the obvious fairly concisely." Justin was curious. " So how do you manage to feed your craving?"

Margeot hesitated for a moment, not certain he should be confiding in this young Pope, but there was no turning back. "In the Vatican it's no problem. Pharmaceutical companies must think we're treating the walking wounded. Even though we are constantly switching companies. Many of the cardinals and others are users. Life can be a bit boring here. Of course there's alcohol."

"When you say 'many,' Pio, how many is 'many?'"

"I've no doubt overstated that. I should have said a few, or some. I'm not saying these good folks are mindless drug addicts. As far as I know there is not one who does not function effectively, not one who is the so-called basket case. These are good men and a handful of women."

"So, why tell me at this juncture?"

"Two things, Your Holiness. One, as Pope you should have a grip on Vatican reality. Two, we plan a fairly extensive trip, which means I'll have to see to an adequate supply of the stuff that keeps me going. I can't go cold turkey; it would take weeks of rehab."

"You want me to enable your habit?"

Margeot shook his head. It had been difficult for him to breach the subject, but he was glad he had. Also, he felt no shame. Getting hooked on drugs was something that came very naturally, and if such a habit could be easily sustained, why bother to fight that good life? "I simply wanted you to be aware of it. Something might happen during the trip, something unforeseen. I thought you should be informed."

Justin was deeply touched. He had gained Margeot's confidence. This man was his true friend. He reached out and clasped his friend's hand for a moment and said, "I understand. And I thank you for sharing the information. I was not elected pope to fight the drug problem in the Vatican. While I do not endorse it, it can be overlooked. And from what you say, the medications, if I can call them that, are being obtained in a legal manner and used, I would hope, sparingly, in an almost wholesome way."

Margeot grinned broadly. "Wholesome? That does shine a new light on the issue. Here in the Vatican many things come from above. If it was God's will that created you as pope, perhaps it is God's will to permit certain individuals to be bolstered by different medications. All things are created for a purpose."

"Well said. Now let us move on to worthier matters. If the French want us to come on such short notice, is that possible?"

"Possible and possibly the best way to go. Too much waiting, too much anticipation, too much time to stir up your enemies, too many nefarious plots to hatch. Yes, if you're in agreement I'll give the signal to move right along."

"Then let the deed be done. I'll see to my wardrobe and jot down a few simple phrases, perhaps a Latin word or two. You have much to oversee, Pio. I relish this low-key Pope's life."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Justin seemed to have mastered the job of pope. He had always been a serious student and had been a leader in several fields – president of his high school junior and senior classes, captain of his college tennis team, salutatorian of his college graduating class. He had been beaten out of valedictorian by a brainy cheerleader who had bedded several faculty members. She emerged from between the sheets with a grace note for her resume.

On the surface he was a serious pope and had gained the respect of many both in and out of the Vatican. Below the surface he was restless and uncertain. The job was huge and involved legions of sensitive individuals. The job had stamped him, molded him like flexible clay and sent him off to the kiln. His core values were solid, but his innovations were still on the table, still to be hammered out on an anvil pushed and pulled by clerics and laymen alike from the hardest of conservatives to the freest thinking liberals.

His mentor, Cardinal Black, had been with him briefly, lavished him with comfort and succor at a time of need. But now he had moved on to the next station. Justin remembered him daily in his prayers and supplications, prayed for his soul and begged him for guidance.

A recurring nightmare haunted Justin's dreams. He did not fear death, but he feared a person in the United States. And now he was returning to that great nation and his conscience compelled him to seek out that individual and hope for the best.

When he had come to France, ostensibly to study the French language and culture, he had no intention of ever returning to the States. He would seek work in Europe or Asia, perhaps with an American company with offices or factories abroad. He had heard there were even opportunities in sub-Sahara Africa. Perhaps Timbuktu would beckon.

To calm his troubled dreams he had considered psychotherapy. But now he was Pope and that was out of the question. So he would turn to the identical thing, built into the Catholic faith, a confessor. And who would confess the Pope? Cardinal Pio Margeot, of course. The man would be by his side during the world tour. And he might be some comfort after Justin faced his devils. Confrontation was the only way out, that much he knew.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The week was half done and Margeot and Father Poulis were wading through a sea of details for the French phase and beyond. Versailles was an ideal spot because of size and isolation from a French population center. The French were not the Germans, yet along with the Swiss guards, they would be up to the job.

Gendarmes had already cleared away a group of Muslim campers near the Versailles gates who had been printing large "Death to the Pope" placards. The reason for their potential protest was not immediately clear. They were jailed for the duration of the visit on trespass charges.

About that time Justin telephoned Margeot and suggested they have a talk when the cardinal had some time to spare.

"The plan is progressing smoothly, everyone knows his task. We can chat."

Justin rose and led the way into his chapel. They were quite alone in the dim light. Free from the cares of the world, free from prying eyes and ears.

"I would like you to be my confessor. Do I address you as father?"

"Me, the confessor to the Pope. I never thought such a thing might happen. Of course you may call me Father, Holy Father."

"Father, I have sinned." The fact was Justin had seldom been to confession before, even when serving as an altar boy. He wasn't aware of the exact routine if there was one. So he continued with the story that had eaten away at him since before coming to Europe.

"When I was young my best friend's name was Phil. His sister's name was Penny. We were often together. I even dated Penny a few times, but we were never serious. It was a matter of going places we both wanted to go. Then came college and jobs.

"Off and on during my twenties I was more or less a professional student. Money was never a problem. My mother died of cancer, my father a suicide, leaving me a trust fund. The money is still piling up today. During my studies I piled up several degrees. Worked as a graduate assistant, then instructor. I never became a full professor."

Margeot nodded and said things like "Go on," during the confession. He failed to see where this was leading, but hoped some heinous crime might not be revealed. What a burden for him to carry if he found the Pope to be a heartless criminal.

"So my thirtieth birthday passed and I was simply drifting along. A college instructor isn't much of a job. I was involved in what I would call a meaningful romance with the woman you now know as Sister Sylvia."

Again, Margeot nodded. He had suspected that was true, but Cardinal Black had pulled that one off as slick as a whistle. To think such a trick could be turned – to approach a young Jewish woman in the States, have her whisked away to a convent, later emerge as a fully digested sister and introduce her to the Vatican in a woman's rights role. One had to hand it to the late cardinal.

"Then one day Phil called. Not unusual, we had kept in touch. But Penny's thirtieth birthday was approaching and nothing would do but the three of us get together for a reunion and celebration. I welcomed such a respite, driving the five hours it took to get to my hometown in southern Indiana and checking into a hotel. We met that night at a large chain restaurant, had a pleasant meal of seafood, a couple of drinks, then headed for a popular night spot."

Justin hesitated. This was the part that seemed to stick in his throat. And he knew this was only the first stage in his recovery.

Margeot said, "Go on, my son."

"Yes, Father. I'll not dwell on the evening, only on the horrid outcome. The three of us had too much to drink. Phil seemed the worse for wear so it was I who took the wheel to drive them home. There was a crash. Phil was killed outright. A back injury resulted in partial paralysis for Penny. I don't know which vertebrae, but she would still be able to use her arms and upper body. I was not hurt."

"That is your confession?" Margeot asked.

"Yes, Father."

"You were spared for a purpose, my Son."

"If there is a purpose for such an event, there is no just God."

"There is justice and injustice in the world. You are the Pope. You have the ability to help millions and you have already launched yourself successfully on that mission. Now what is it you fear most?"

"I fear Penny. I visited her only once and she was partly sedated. Then coward that I am, I fled to France."

"You acted on impulse, my Son. What is it you plan to do now?"

"Confront Penny. Beg forgiveness."

"That would seem to be the wise route to follow. Now, go in peace. The confession is over."

CHAPTER FORTY

The first leg of the world tour went well. The Pope, his entourage and the Roman press flew to Paris where they were joined by the international press. The long drive to Versailles was lined with a few fervent souls who had waited for hours. An exact schedule had not been announced. The Pope waved from the back of the open car, ordered a stop now and then so he could chat with mothers and bless the children.

Once inside the gates of the Chateau a large crowd of ardent Catholics, carefully screened by the Archbishop, Bishop and assorted priests waited with great enthusiasm. Everyone wanted a live glimpse of the young Pope. Some likened the experience to the election of John F. Kennedy as president of the United States years ago.

After a tour, Justin met the expanded press corps and generally went over the same ground he had in the past. He noticed that the pretty young German girl from AZ Nurnberg, Bavaria, was among the print reporters. Once again she caught his eye with a broad suggestive grin. And once again Sister Sylvia, who was toward the rear of the entourage with a group of French nuns, caught the action.

There followed a lavish state dinner with guest speakers, singers and a military band. Justin said a few words in English followed by a Latin phrase, then pleased the crowd with a couple of sentences in French he had rehearsed for hours.

He had learned to eat and drink very little at these affairs, but by the end of the long day he was thoroughly tired and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. Following a breakfast with church dignitaries the following morning, he greeted groups of school children, and then it was off to an airport hotel near Paris to prepare for the morning flight to Canada.

Nothing was scheduled, but his press secretary, Father Poulis, told him Victor Greene, the New York Times Rome reporter had a single question and might he see the Pope.

"It's unusual," Justin said, "and other members of the press would be annoyed, but because we are headed for America, a brief meeting would be in order. And I say brief. I'm one tired cleric."

"I don't think other members of the press will even notice. There's a press room and an open bar, courtesy of the French," Poulis said with a grin.

Greene was admitted by a guard a few minutes later to find Justin slumped in a chair by a window overlooking a courtyard.

"Someone could take a shot at you through that window," he cautioned.

"I'm not going to spend what remains of my life hiding in the shadows. What is your question? I'm very tired."

"My paper has done some research on your past life. There were some indications of leadership, quite a few academic degrees, almost a professional scholar, thanks I suppose to a trust fund. Then graduate assistant and a teaching posts. Little to do with religion. The question is are you up to handling the job?"

The question stirred Justin from his lethargy. He had been handling the job for some long time now and had dodged many pitfalls and gained many friends, plus the usual enemies.

"If I might ask a question, Mr. Greene, how would you like being banned from the Vatican?"

Greene started. "You can't do that."

"I am the Pope, Mr. Greene. Tread lightly or you will find that ban in place. You might even be hounded out of Rome."

"That's ridiculous."

Justin raised his voice. "Get out of this room. The interview is over."

"Just a minute."

"Just nothing." Justin rose from his chair, pointed to the door and shouted, "Out."

Compared to Greene, Justin was in top physical shape and presented a daunting figure. He was tempted to tell Green to join his drunken cronies, but resisted, as the reporter fled the room.

Justin summoned his secretary from the next room and asked him to get Father Poulis on the phone.

When Poulis responded he told him to strip Greene of his tour press credentials.

"Why in the world?" Poulis questioned.

"He asked an insolent question. Nothing to do with the tour or the church. You might want to wait until he's in his room, take a guard or two with you, get the credentials, then tell him to make no attempt to rejoin the tour here or anywhere."

"What if he won't cooperate?"

"Then go to the French police. There are plenty around. Tell them this Greene person may have developed a form of mental instability and should remain in his hotel room until after the Pope's party is in the air."

"Won't this cause quite a flap?"

"No, I don't think so. These press people drink too much, live on the edge. A mental breakdown isn't that uncommon. I'm sure others have noticed signs of instability."

"Perhaps you're right."

"I also told him any more high jinks and he would be banned from the Vatican."

Poulis rolled his eyes in disbelief. The New York Times reporter, banned from the Vatican. But he had reckoned the Pope's easy access for the press might lead to damage control.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The following morning the Pope, in what passed for his official garments, greeted a crowd of well-wishers at the airport, spending more time than his handlers cared for, then was surrounded by the press corps at planeside.

"We heard there was friction with Victor Greene," someone shouted.

"I'm afraid Mr. Greene is what you might call overwrought. The excitement and the hustle bustle may have gotten the better of him. Occasionally a mental flaw will show up under pressure, just as an engine part might break under extreme stress."

"But what triggered the blowup?" another asked.

"Search me. Any questions on another topic?"

It was the pretty girl from Bavaria who came to his rescue. "Holy Father, what did you think of Versailles?"

"Stunning," Justin replied, smiling in her direction. "The Palace of Fountains, the grand vistas, the Hall of Mirrors, positively enchanting. And to think of the history embodied in that uniquely French estate. Ancient history, of course. But in June 1982 the G7 summit hosted by President Mitterrand, all the pomp and ceremony of the Fifth Republic. The French are a robust and wonderful people with a wizard touch for food, wine, hospitality and conversation. Why would anyone bother to live anywhere else?"

He paused for a moment, eyeing the crowd, then with precise timing before another question could be asked said, "Let's get on board, it's off to Ottawa, Canada's capital." Climbing up the stairs he thought of himself as Pope and tour guide. Fortunately, he and his band of clerics were well separated from the press on the giant plane.

Hours later, the plane greased to a smooth landing in Ottawa. The Pope's group exited first and was whisked off by waiting buses to the magnificent Parliament Hill situated on Crown Land on the southern banks of the Ottawa River. The name in French was the original Colline du Parlement.

The legislature was not in session, but an assembly of government officials, clerics and well wishers filled to overflowing the large chamber. The Pope used his studied French for his initial speech, then switched to English and gave his blessing in Latin.

By this time, the day was dwindling and a splendid dinner was planned, preceded by a cocktail party for the select few. Justin showed up during the final minutes of cocktails, shook hands all around, permitted those admirers who wished to kiss his ring, had a glass of red wine, then off to the dinner.

Afterwards a tired, but sated party headed for the airport and the flight to the U.S., touching down in eastern Indiana just before midnight. The drill was to give everyone a free morning after the wearing flight from France, the brisk stopover in Ontario and the late-night flight to the States. The first event was an outdoor appearance in central Indianapolis at one p.m.

Cardinal Margeot had made arrangements for Justin to meet with Penny at ten a.m. in her suburban office. She had given her secretary the day off, and it would be just the two of them, with the cardinal and two security men waiting outside. Oddly enough, she headed a small Catholic Charities office.

Justin was up by eight enjoying a pot of coffee and an "everything" bagel with creamed cheese. The TV was on and the morning news told him Highway 40 was closed by a tanker overturn, with the possibility of toxic leakage, a late-night bar stabbing, wind storms in Oklahoma, three dead in a Seattle drug shooting and gridlock in Washington over the debt ceiling.

He was thinking that it seemed like old times when his press secretary came in from an adjacent room and said, "The managing editor of the New York Times is on the line."

"Really what does he want?"

"You might ask what does he demand. He demands you return Greene's press credentials and let him rejoin the tour and that you apologize for suggesting Greene is mentally unstable."

Justin took a sip of coffee, then a bite of bagel. Finally he said, "Tell him no to the first request and inform him that this is not a perfect world and mental aberrations do exist. Perhaps a certificate from a psychiatrist would be in order."

Father Poulis hesitated. "Will you talk with him?"

"Certainly not. Give him my message."

Poulis was gone several minutes. He returned to say the editor seemed in bad temper. He was sputtering, but seemed to be making veiled threats.

"Is he still on the line?"

"Yes."

"Tell him if he wants to go to war with the Vatican, that's his choice. New York and the nation include many loyal Catholics, some of whom might influence advertising, others who are simply newspaper readers. Word has a way of getting around."

"Should I state that as a threat, Holy Father?"

"Of course not. Who am I to make a threat? Just a simple cleric who happens to head the Catholic Church."

Poulis smiled. "Perhaps we have a teaching moment."

"Perhaps." Justin finished his bagel and nervously thought of the meeting with Penny. Speaking of mental aberrations, he might have one himself when that appointment became real, less than two hours away.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Justin always kept a pair of trousers and a pullover handy. He was dressed in that attire when he, Cardinal Margeot and a guard who doubled as a driver pulled into the parking lot of Penny's building.

"You two might want to get coffee," he suggested.

"I have no money," Margeot said.

The plainclothesman grimaced, but replied, "I have a few bucks." Justin peeled off twenty from his wallet and handed it to the cardinal.

Penny was seated behind her desk when Justin entered. It was more of a table to accommodate her wheelchair. She beamed and said simply, "Justin."

He tried to look properly humble when he said. "I've been dreading this meeting, Penny. But you look wonderful."

"I feel wonderful, more so since you're here. I can hardly believe it. Should I call you Your Holiness, or Holy Father?"

"Please, Justin will do. I fled like a coward after the accident. I stopped to see you. I don't know if you remember. You were partially sedated."

"I remember. It wasn't the happiest time. I understand your feelings totally. But you haven't grasped the whole story. Good things can come from bad. I've prayed for you every day, Justin. Long before I knew you had become Pope."

"You knew about that?"

Penny laughed, she was totally happy. "Of course. I'm somewhat crippled, but I'm not blind. I saw your picture, heard about the act of God. Wow, what a come on."

Justin was feeling better. He asked if he might kiss her.

"Certainly not. But I'd like to kiss your ring. Where is it, anyway?"

"In my pocket."

"Well, put it on."

He did so and extended his hand. Penny held his hand in hers for the longest time, emotional, near tears. Then she kissed his ring. He took it off and handed it to her. "The ring of the Fisherman. You might want a closer look. You can have it if you like."

"Me," she said, recovering her good humor. "Me, have the Pope's ring. No thank you." She turned the heavy gold piece over in her hand, then handed it back. "Sit down, Justin." He pulled a chair near her desk. "You hadn't seen us for some time before that night. Phil had been drinking too much and I had been drifting, an aimless sort of life. I'm not saying Phil's death was a good thing, but it ended a very troubled existence. I hope he's in a better place. He was not a bad person."

It was Justin's turn to become emotional. He almost sobbed out the words, "He was my best friend. You were second best."

"Give me your hand, Justin." They held hands for a moment, then she let his go. "For me the accident was not a tragedy. It opened my eyes to life. The three of us, all Catholics. You and Phil were altar boys together.

"I could see that trust fund wrecking your life. So I got this job with Catholic charities and it transformed me from a, I don't know what, but not a society asset, to what you see now. A happy, fulfilled woman. And you went out and became Pope. My God, Justin. Think of it! That accident caused you to become Pope. And what a Pope, an American Pope. A young Pope with progressive ideas. If you died today you would have accomplished more than the last five popes. It's a dream come true."

"But not the American dream, Penny. The American dream involves a wife, a home, children, pets, summer vacations, back-yard barbecues. Need I go on?"

"What rot you talk. Honestly, Justin. Someone hands you the world and you want the universe. You've become a severely damaged greedy person."

"I know I should count my blessings and I do, Penny. But just give it some thought. There might be a time when I want to say goodbye to the Vatican. Then again, that time may never come."

"Dream on, altar boy. I know you'll have to get back to your group. Big doings today in downtown Naptown. I want to stay in touch. Someday I want to visit you in the Vatican. Can my dream come true, Justin?"

"Of course it can, Penny." He bent and kissed her cheek.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The tour had been to France, Canada and now in the U.S. Ottawa is the Canadian capital, but it is the second largest city in Ontario and the fourth largest in that nation. And the French visit was some miles from Paris. Indianapolis is known mostly for auto racing, and is inhabited, as is the rest of the state, by good folks known as Hoosiers for no rational reason.

So they weren't hitting the major cities, but the tour was going as planned. With the help of the print and electronic press the people were going wild over the new Pope. Next on the agenda was Mexico with a stop in the border city of El Paso, mostly for a day's rest. The pace was designed to be slow and thoughtful. Overnighting in Indianapolis, they flew to El Paso, leaving at mid-morning the following day. Justin stopped to chat and pose for photos at every opportunity. He was reinforcing his image and, in fact, his reality as the people's Pope.

At the El Paso airport the Pope greeted well wishers, and a motor caravan took the party to the nearby Wyndham Hotel and Water Park. The weather was warm and the water park appealed to Justin, but it was a definite no-no for a sitting Pope.

Once again they were not in a major U.S. city. El Paso's population was no more than 600,000, but just across the river, Ciudad Juarez boasts 1.7 million souls, making the metropolitan area the largest bi-national megalopolis in North America. In the past Juarez had been wracked by bloody drug wars that included the horror of beheadings.

Justin was well rested and immediately got down to the papal business that dogged him on a daily basis. Signing documents and letters, making minor decisions, usually following recommendations from cardinals, archbishops and bishops. Never a dull moment.

Sister Sylvia, staying in another section of the hotel, managed to send him a note via Father Poulis. Included was a paper sack that contained a baseball cap, which puzzled Justin until he read the note.

She said the two of them could get away to a restaurant she had read about just across the border. One Mexican-American guard would accompany them to insure no border crossing problems. They would wear street clothes and Justin would don the baseball cap. Justin considered the risk, which was considerable, but finally decided to take the chance. Perhaps he could also be known as the madcap Pope.

He slipped out of the hotel just after dark. The cap was a perfect disguise, totally unexpected. Many members of the press corps, plus tourists and assorted locals, after a drink or two, were frolicking in the Water Park. The three conspirators met in the parking lot and the guard transported them across the river to the Ciudad Juarez hotel district.

The restaurant that Sylvia had read about didn't look like much from the outside, but once inside, the marble, teak and artwork might be termed dazzling. They were seated with alacrity and offered outsized wine lists, prices ranging from just over twenty to two hundred U.S. dollars.

"They seem to have the tourist crowd in mind," Justin said. "But I'm glad to spend a few bucks of my own for a change. That trust fund money simply piles up."

Sylvia smiled broadly. "Maybe you could give some to the church."

"Or better yet, Catholic charities."

When the wine arrived they ordered Aztec soup, a traditional tortilla soup with avocado, cheese, cream and dried chiles. The innovation was that the tomato-and-red-chile base was poured by the waiter over the dry ingredients. At first taste it was like they had died and gone to heaven.

Next came the acclaimed Chichilo Negro, a beef tenderloin topped with Oaxacan mole sauce. The flavor was dark and the heat mild. For desert, Sylvia insisted on Delicia de Chocolate Oaxaqueño, a smart little chocolate cake under a small scoop of ice cream with a side of boiled papaya.

They lingered over a second bottle of wine until Justin suggested they had better go, adding, the drunker we sit here, the longer we get. He looked around for their security who had been sitting at the bar. He guessed he was waiting outside.

The bill paid, they strolled outside, only to be surrounded by four men who hustled them around the corner. "What's this?" Justin asked in surprise, guessing they were added security.

The man who seemed to be in charge said in perfect English, "You are being kidnapped, Señor. Cause no trouble and the two of you will be released unharmed."

"This is a surprise," Sylvia observed. "I thought lawlessness had been tamped down."

"We must make a living in a fragile economy." Again, this from the leader.

By this time they were well around the corner where two cars were waiting. "I assume you're cartel members," Justin said. "The cartels bring in billions each year. Why bother with what would seem petty crimes?" Neither he nor Sylvia had become frightened. They would work their way through this.

"If you know something of the cartels," the leader said, "then you might know the total membership approximates that of the Mexican army. The trickle down of funds can be just that, a trickle. Why aren't you two more frightened?"

"Why should we be?" Sylvia replied. "We're both good Catholics. God will protect us."

"We are all of us Catholics here, some more needy than others."

"Come on, Cisco, we have to get out of here," another gang member said.

"Very well." He directed the two captives into the backseat of the lead car. "Don't, try to escape. A second car will follow." Then he hopped into the front seat and they were off.

"Are you with the Juarez cartel or the Sinaloa?" Justin inquired as they moved along.

"Do not ask such questions. But I am surprised, Señor, that you seem to know much about cartels."

"I read and my memory is good," Justin said. "I've even heard of La Linea, possibly your organization."

"All things are possible, Señor. But for now, let us proceed in silence and you can begin thinking who among your family and friends can come up with a million dollars on short notice."

Sylvia made a gasping noise at the large figure. Justin laughed. "Surely you jest."

"You may not think it such a joke when you are faced with beheading, a quick, but unpleasant way to die."

"If we die, then the ballgame's over, Cisco."

"Yes, the ballgame would be over."

In a whisper he asked Sylvia who recommended the security man. She said it was the hotel concierge.

"Did he know you were with the Pope's party?"

"No. How could he?"

"He must have set us up."

"What are you two whispering about?" Cisco demanded.

"We were just discussing the possibility that you are in league with the hotel concierge and our so-called security person."

"In league?" Cisco asked.

"In cahoots."

"So, what of it?"

"If you don't behead us, there could be repercussions."

"Not to fret. Corruption is the name of the game here, on both sides of the border. You can make charges, or you can swear to this or that and your female friend can back you up. Nothing will come of it. We simply want a little money to support our families. We have no desire to behead you. Think of the blood. Think of the mess."

They arrived at what appeared to be an adobe hacienda , and once inside the two prisoners were told to empty their pockets. In Sylvia's case it was a purse. Justin's pope ring was in his side pocket and he removed it and placed it on the proper finger.

"That's a big gold ring," one the bandits shouted. "Give it to me." Justin removed it and handed it to the man who hefted it and seemed astounded by its size. "This is worth some money."

"I'll say," Justin said. "It is the ring of the fisherman, the ring of St. Peter, the founder of the Catholic church. I suppose you have heard the Pope arrived in El Paso?"

There was general agreement. Justin removed his ball cap. I am the Pope. That is my ring. The lady is Sister Sylvia. We had slipped away from the hotel for a little peace and quiet."

"You aren't the Pope," came a scornful comment from one of the band.

"Have any of you seen the pictures of the Pope on TV, or in the paper?" Justin asked.

Cisco took the ring and examined it closely. He finally said, "St. Peter, the fisherman. I believe this man is the Pope, a very young Pope."

"St. Leo XIV." Sylvia tossed in.

"Oh, my God, we've kidnapped the Pope," one of the younger gang members said. "Maybe we could take him back."

Cisco handed Justin the ring and said, "Accept my apologies, Holy Father. But the alarm may have already been sounded. I'll have to check with a higher authority."

"I understand completely," Justin said. "You have your line of work, I have mine." He and Sylvia took seats at a table.

The young gang member approached and asked, "May I kiss your ring, Holy Father?"

"Of course."

Not much was said until Cisco returned. A couple of bottles of wine were produced along with small glasses.

When Cisco returned, he said, "Our cartel boss, and you are dealing with the Juarez Cartel, would like you to come to his villa, not as a prisoner, but as an honored guest. I told him you are a reasonable man, just as he is. Of course you will be given an opportunity to phone your people in El Paso."

Justin considered the offer for a few moments, and then replied, "That suits my purpose right down to the ground. Sister Sylvia and I will be delighted to accompany you to the villa. Is it far?"

"Just a short flight away."

"Excellent. I'd better call the hotel and tell them I'm going to be the guest of one of the eight cartels. There are eight, aren't there?"

"I believe so, Holy Father."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The time was just after midnight when they arrived at a huge villa set on a large estate. The helicopter set down on a well-lighted pad. Juan Angel Delgado, the Juarez Cartel boss, strode out to meet them as the blades slowed to a halt. Only Cisco and the pilot had accompanied them.

"I am the happiest man to greet you, Holy Father," Juan said, kissing the Pope's ring."

"And I am as pleased as punch to be here. May I call you Juan?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you. Ever since I encountered Cisco outside the restaurant in Juarez, I've been formulating a plan. Are you familiar with how I became Pope?"

"Indeed I am. It was very strange."

"One way or another it seemed to be the hand of God. Since then I've felt at times that I've been guided by an unseen hand." They had walked into the main hall of the isolated mansion. Justin had asked that the helicopter remain until he divulged part of his plan. "Going to the restaurant with Sister Sylvia, then meeting Cisco and his friends after dinner, this seemed to me to be another sign from heaven. I hope you're not cynical."

"Not at all, Your Holiness. Please continue."

"Is there a church nearby where I might say mass?"

"There is a cathedral town not far away. You will find it quite adequate. It would be a great honor for the region to have the Pope say mass."

"Excellent. Not to rush things, but the reason I requested the helicopter to remain is what you might expect. I need some correct papal attire. If you could bring some from the hotel."

"That will not be a problem."

"It would also be welcome if you could deliver one more person. There is a Cardinal Pio Margeot at the hotel. He has been a great help to me."

Juan Delgado was all smiles. A genuine cardinal from the Vatican. This would be the icing on the cake. "Certainly, Cisco can go with the pilot." He turned and asked if Cisco would do such a thing.

"Quite willingly. But I hope I do not have to kidnap this cardinal and steal the clothing."

Justin laughed. "No, a phone call should do the job." He turned to Sylvia. "It might take some doing to get through the hotel operator to Margeot. Are you up to it?"

Sylvia seemed to sigh. "If there is some prospect of sleep after I perform this task, Holy Father."

"Yes, of course," Cisco said. "We Mexicans live in the night." He ordered a guard to direct Sylvia to a telephone.

It took some time to get through to the cardinal. The hotel operator was reluctant to disturb the papal party. It seemed that no one had missed the two kidnapees. Justin was on the phone quite a while outlining the bones of his plan to Pio. Then the two sat down with Cisco for coffee and late-night snacks.

"I cannot solve every problem," Justin said, toying with his coffee cup. "But I try to do a little good where I can. It would be a blessing if you would invite the head of the Sinaloa Cartel and a few of his men to attend the mass we are planning."

Juan was thoughtful, finally saying, "Much blood has been shed. Of course there is greed, anger, thoughts of revenge from both sides. Tit for tat. When thieves fall out. But perhaps this is the time for healing. I will make the approach in your name, in the name of the Pope."

"We can only try it and see what happens. The cardinal tells me it might be possible that some of the press corps traveling with our party might make it to the mass."

Sylvia perked up. "Let's hope that pretty girl from the Bavarian newspaper isn't one of them."

Juan was all ears, sensing some sort of rivalry of the non-celibate sort.

"I suppose we should really get a night's sleep. I'd like to tell you more about my plan at breakfast, Juan. I think it will surprise you."

"If so, it will be a surprise piled on a surprise, wrapped up in a revelation."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Morning came and Justin found himself the only one up except for a maid, who brought his clerical clothing to his room and told him breakfast would be served on the patio. The weather was quite warm. He was pleased that his large papal hat was included in the attire that Margeot had brought along. A pope must be dressed like a pope in order to look like a pope. Without the proper attire most popes would appear to be senile old men in the final stages of some sort of dementia. On the other hand, Justin's youth would deny his hold on such an office.

The maid had inquired what he would like for breakfast. Justin had enjoyed what he called cowboy eggs, a popular Mexican dish by another name. She seemed to understand and went off to order the eggs and fetch a pot of coffee. Of course there was no morning paper in this remote location, although he guessed Juan Delgado had everything he required helicoptered in on a daily basis.

Justin was aware that the Juarez Cartel had suffered at the hands of the Sinaloa Cartel in recent months and years, but it was still a going venture, bringing in millions in drug dollars. The Juarez-El Paso area had at least three established routes from Mexico into the States.

Justin was halfway finished with his eggs and on his second cup of coffee when Juan took a seat at the table, pouring himself coffee and stirring in cream and sugar.

"I see you look more like a pope this morning," Juan said.

"Yes, a bit muted, but still pope-like," Justin agreed. "I'm not one for flashy garments. Maybe the cardinal will appear at the mass in full regalia. Do you have a parish priest?"

"Of course," Juan said. "An Irishman, Father McCoy."

"Fits in exactly with my plan. You see, Ireland has a tradition of young men entering the priesthood, thus it has a surplus of priests. They are sent to the four corners of the Earth. Yet, overall, the church has a shortage of clergy. The reason is obvious, celibacy. The Protestants permit their clergy to marry. They have a surplus. So after the mass I intend to marry Sister Sylvia. I will lead by example."

Juan couldn't believe his ears. He finally said, "This must be some sort of heresy."

"Not in the least. Most of the twelve disciples were married. Popes were married. In the 1400s and 1500s several popes had quite a few children. The history goes on and on. Many popes were sons of other popes, or lesser clergy. It just isn't natural for a man to be celibate. Not a normal man."

"Mightn't the cardinals boot you out of the Vatican?"

"You cannot un-elect a pope. It's a lifetime job. Popes can and have resigned, or very likely been murdered. Cardinal Black, who was my mentor, responsible for my being elected pope, was poisoned. Mexico isn't the only violent place. So I was left in what you might call a vulnerable situation with my right-hand man gone. I think it was meant to frighten me."

"And did it?"

"Yes and no. For some reason I have no fear of death. Don't ask me why. His murder, and it was obviously murder, made me double down. I had been feeling my way, I thought in a thoughtful manner, with his help. With him gone, I took over. I was pope and I put the hammer down. If anyone crossed me they would pay a price."

"So his death was responsible for where you are today, able to conduct world tours, meet your obligations?"

"Yes, and might that be a sign from above? So far I seem to be leading a charmed life. Knock on wood." He rapped on the table. Juan laughed.

During the morning Justin informed Sylvia and Cardinal Margeot of his plans. Startled at first, it was what Sylvia wanted, pope or no pope. She could forget the pretty girl from Bavaria. Margeot was a bit more of a skeptic, but in the end had a fatalistic bent. What would be would be. He was totally aware of the history of the church and the curse of celibacy that haunted the clergy to this day.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The morning of the third day at the villa was the day of the mass. Arrangements had been made with Father McCoy to marry Pope Leo XIV and Sister Sylvia. It was two for one in leading by example, a cleric and a nun. What a tsunami this would send through the Catholic world. Father McCoy would also assist with the mass and had schooled Justin on a few Spanish phrases, certain to delight the crowd.

Jose Carlos Vicente, godfather of the Sinaloa Cartel had agreed to come. Both Vicente and Delgado, the two dons, had worked out the number of security men that would accompany each. Mexico is the largest Spanish-speaking Catholic country in the world, so there was no shortage of the faithful.

The group set off from the Villa with Delgado, Cardinal Margeot, Father McCoy, Sister Sylvia and the Pope being driven ahead of a host of security in a stretch limo. Sylvia was still grousing about being married in a nun's habit. The cardinal had been thoughtful enough to bring it along from El Paso, and Justin had insisted she wear it. This was symbolic.

When they arrived at the cathedral, the large crowd went wild. When the cheering and confetti faded away, a large children's chorus sang "Las Manitas." Then, as if on schedule, the cathedral bells began their joyous toll.

Pope Leo XIV emerged from the car wearing his huge papal hat, made his way slowly through the crowd, touching hands, permitting some to kiss his ring. He was led by church dignitaries into the interior of the cathedral, making his way through the jammed interior to an altar that had been lavishly decked out in his honor. He guessed that a ton of drug money had gone into this operation. Some ardent Catholics wept as he solemnly passed by. His feelings were not that of a young American, but he marched as a continuation of a large string of popes beginning with the fisherman. His place was in that line that stretched out centuries behind him and would continue through eternity long after his death. If he died on this day, he would die as the Pope and take his place among that gallery of pontiffs.

Finally ascending to the altar, he took his seat in a large chair especially made for the occasion. It would forever be known as the Pope's Chair and never be used during a ceremony unless a new pope came on a visit.

It took perhaps twenty minutes for the cavernous interior of the cathedral to settle down. Justin noted a roped off area crowded with print and electronic media, many of them he knew from the tour, but there were fresh faces. He searched out the pretty girl from Bavaria and found her beaming smile. She was also trim and sleek of form, with the aura of a wanton.

Justin nodded to Father McCoy and the high mass began. With that the Pope was in his element. He had been an astute altar boy and had studied every move and gesture made by the priest. And the mass had been in English during his era. He knew his part well and moved with theatrical grace. His homily, which was a combination of religion aimed at the press, the people, the cartels and anyone within earshot, was likely ten minutes too long. He had reminded himself of the adage: the mind can only absorb what the seat can endure.

"There are members of two of the eight Mexican cartels here today, the bosses of those cartels. My hope is by bringing them together at this spiritual event, some good can come of it. The cartels recruit young men just as the army does, just as the church does, but with the promise of riches. That promise often ends in violent death. But I am not here to judge. What if drugs were legalized? Goodbye huge profits. Let us think on it and pray on it. The cartel life is no life at all.

"There are good people everywhere, in and out of the cartels. There are children in and outside this great edifice today. Their small voices were combined in lovely song. What hopes do we have for our children? Let us think on that and pray on that. The hopes are obvious. Prayer is a form of reasoning. We pray to our Father in heaven, but we pray for ourselves. Our lives, our hopes and our dreams come alive in our prayers. Do we pray for great riches, for flashy automobiles, for mansions and fine foods? No. The prayers of the simple person are plain indeed. We pray for a good daily life. For hard work and a wholesome family. For generation after generation of worthy souls."

Justin was trying to pace himself. Translators were working, attempting to keep up with his talk. He spoke not from a prepared speech, but from the heart, sometimes hesitating to choose the proper words. He rambled on for several more minutes focusing on the good daily life theme as opposed to a get rich quick reckless substitute.

Then he came to the final shocker and decided at the last minute to put the horse before the cart. That is he had intended to announce his marriage, then try to justify it. But he decided to lay out the justification.

"I believe as many do that the Catholic Church is the True Church. This is not to put other religions down. Many are spin offs from the True Church. Even the Muslim religion can be traced back to the Universal church. The world is loaded with good people and we must respect those who respect us.

"But the Catholic Church has been plagued by the demon celibacy. That is that our clergy cannot marry. Now it is natural for a man and woman to form a team to face life together. Because of that nature the Catholic Church finds itself with a continuing shortage of clergymen. Young men shun the celibate life. Protestant denominations have a surplus of clergymen. Here with me today is Father McCoy." Justin gestured toward the young priest. "He is a native of Ireland, a splendid country where many young men seek out the priesthood. Thus a surplus of priests who are sent off to many lands.

"He is popular in his own parish, but should we not have courageous young Mexican men doing the work of the Good Shepherd. So what is the history of the church? Most of the twelve apostles were married. Eleven popes have been either sons of popes or other clerics. In the 14th Century women were still being ordained and hearing confessions. In the 15th Century fifty percent of the priests were married.

"Historically, many popes have had legitimate and illegitimate children. Pope Benedict IX resigned in order to marry. This type of thing has gone on and on through the centuries. My point is that this celibacy demon is working to destroy the church. If there is a devil, he is likely behind it." This last statement brought a murmur from the congregation, silent up to this point.

"So I shall act boldly and without fear. I will lead by example, the finest and truest test of leadership. In the next few minutes you will all be witness to Father McCoy uniting me, Pope Leo XIV and Sister Sylvia in holy wedlock."

A general clamor from the congregation that had been sitting almost spellbound for the last few minutes listening to the Pope's discussing the high jinks of past popes and clerics. Now there was a small explosion.

After the noise diminished to a low rumble, Justin nodded to Father McCoy to begin the brief marriage ceremony. It took less than five minutes. Justin and Sylvia, holding hands, their backs to the congregation, Father McCoy reciting the vows, listening for the I do's. The deed was done and with a signal by the priest the church bells began a long toll of celebration.

Still hand in hand, Sister Sylvia and Pope Leo XIV made their way up the aisle to a waiting car, to be whisked back to the villa for what would be a rather subdued wedding night, all parties wondering how world reaction might play out.

The next day they would rejoin the tour in El Paso and Justin would inform Cardinal Giovanni Piovanelli that he had decided to stay on as Pope. He had heard rumors that Giovanni had hinted that Justin might resign. So Cardinal Sphinx had let the cat out of the bag and would pay the price.

###

About the Author

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

His first novel was "Murder on the French Broad," available only in a print edition published in 2010.

Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

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