“Hell, no!” Paul snapped. “Not when we can’t get the promotional benefits we expected. He’s even implied we’re not going to get hands-on instruction in HTSR when he said he’d be doing his own cellular work. Originally, I thought that was a given. I still want to learn the procedure, though, so when he calls back, mention that that has to be part of the package.”
“I’ll be happy to tell him,” Spencer said. “I’m also going to tell him we want half of the money up front.”
“Tell him we also want special consideration in the future on licensing HTSR.”
“That’s a good idea,” Spencer said. “I’ll see what I can do about essentially renegotiating our deal without upping the cash. I don’t want to scare him off. Meanwhile, how about you taking responsibility for trying to find the identity of the patient? That’s a kind of activity you are better at than I.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as a compliment.”
Paul stood up. “I’ll get Kurt Hermann, our security chief, right on it. He loves this kind of assignment.”
“Tell the dishonorably discharged Green Beret, or whatever the hell he was, to kill as few people as possible. After all this investment and effort, let’s not wear out our welcome on the island.”
Paul laughed. “He’s really very careful and conservative.”
“That’s not my take,” Spencer said. He held up his hands to ward off an argument. “I don’t think the whores on Okinawa he knocked off would call him conservative, and he was a bit heavy-handed up in Massachusetts in our employ, but we’ve been over this. I admit he’s good at what he does, otherwise he wouldn’t still be on the staff. Just humor me and tell him to be discreet! That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll be happy to tell him.” Paul stood up. “But remember, since none of us, including Kurt, can go back to the States, he probably won’t be able to accomplish much until Daniel, his team, and the patient get here.”
“I don’t expect miracles,” Spencer said.
seven
4:45 P.M., Friday, February 22, 2002
The sawtooth spires of the Manhattan skyline were silhouetted against the darkening midwinter sky as the Washington–- New York shuttle descended in its final approach to LaGuardia Airport. The lights of the sprawling, pulsating city sparkled like so many jewels in the gathering gloom. Those of the many suspension bridges appeared like necklaces of illuminated pearls slung between the soaring stanchions. The undulating rows of headlights on the FDR Drive resembled strings of diamonds, while the taillights suggested rubies. A gaily bedecked cruise ship looked like a brooch, as it silently slid into a docking on the Hudson River.
Carol Manning turned from staring out the window at the inspiring scene to glance around the interior of the plane. There was no conversation. Oblivious to the majestic vista, the commuters were all absorbed by their newspapers, work documents, or laptops. Her eyes wandered to the senator seated in her row on the aisle one seat away. Like the other passengers, he was reading. His bulky hands gripped the stack of memoranda concerning the following day’s agenda he’d snatched from Dawn Shackelton as he and Carol had bolted from the office in hopes of catching the three-thirty shuttle flight. They’d made it with seconds to spare.
At Ashley’s insistence, Carol had phoned one of the cardinal’s personal secretaries that morning to set up an impromptu meeting that afternoon. She was instructed to say it concerned an urgent matter but would only take fifteen minutes at most. Father Maloney had said he’d see what he could do since the cardinal’s schedule was full, but he’d called back within the hour to say that the cardinal could see the senator sometime between five-thirty and six-thirty, following a formal reception for a visiting Italian cardinal and before a dinner with the mayor. Carol had said they’d be there.
Under the circumstances of having to run for the plane and worrying about the potential New York City traffic, Carol couldn’t help but be impressed with Ashley’s apparent equanimity. Of course, he had her to do his worrying for him, but had their roles been reversed and she had been facing what he was potentially facing, she would have been inordinately anxious, to the point of finding concentration difficult. But certainly not Ashley! Despite a slight tremor the individual pages of his memoranda were being rapidly scanned and flipped back in swift succession, suggesting his legendary reading speed had not suffered due to his illness or to the events of the previous twenty-four hours.
Carol cleared her throat. “Senator, the more I think about this current affair, the more surprised I am that you haven’t asked my opinion. You ask my opinion about most everything else.”
Ashley turned his head and gazed at Carol over the tops of his heavy-rimmed glasses that had slid down to perch on the very tip of his nose. His broad forehead was wrinkled condescendingly. “Carol, dearest,” he began. “You do not have to tell me your opinion. As I indicated last evening, I am already well aware of it.”
“Then I hope you are aware that I think you will be taking too big a risk with this supposed treatment.”
“I appreciate your solicitousness, no matter what the motivation, but my mind is firm.”
“You’re allowing yourself to be experimented upon. You have no idea what the outcome will be.”
“It may be true that I do not know the outcome for sure, but it is also true that if I were to do nothing in the face of my progressive, otherwise incurable neurological degenerative disease, I know exactly what the outcome would be. My daddy preached that the Good Lord helps those who help themselves. All my life I have been a fighter, and I am surely not going to stop now. I am not going out with a whimper. I will be kicking and screaming like a bagged polecat.”
“What if the cardinal were to tell you what you are planning is inadvisable?”
“Such a response is hardly likely, since I have no intention in the slightest of informing the cardinal of my intentions.”
“Then why are we coming here?” Carol said in a tone that was close to anger. “I was hoping His Eminence could appeal to your better judgment during your discussions.”
“We are not making this pilgrimage to the seat of North American Catholic continental power for counsel but rather merely to arrange for a piece of the Shroud of Turin as a hopeful hedge against the uncertainties of my therapy.”
“But how do you intend to get access to the shroud without explaining why?”
Ashley held up one of his hands like an orator quieting an unruly crowd. “Enough, my dear Carol, lest your presence be more of a burden than assistance.” He shifted his attention back to his papers as the plane headed for landing.
A flush of heat spread across Carol’s face at being summarily dismissed. Such degrading treatment was becoming all too common, as was her associated irritation. Concerned her feelings would be apparent, she faced back out the window.
As the plane moved toward the gate, Carol kept her attention directed outside the aircraft. Up close, New York was no longer jewellike, thanks to a smattering of litter and scattered piles of dirty snow lining the taxiway. As befitted the dark, bleak scene, she fretted about her conflicting emotions and her guilt concerning Ashley’s plan to deal with his infirmity. On the one hand, she was legitimately fearful of its experimental nature, while on the other hand, she thought the therapy might work. Although her initial reaction to Ashley’s diagnosis had been appropriate sympathy, over the course of the year she’d come to see it also as her opportunity. Now the fear of a bad outcome competed equally with the fear of a good one, even though she had trouble admitting it to herself. In some sense, she felt like a Brutus to Ashley’s Caesar.
The transition from the plane to the limo, which Carol had arranged, was effortless. But forty-five minutes later, they were bogged down in a sea of cars on the FDR Drive, whose flow of traffic had come to a halt since they’d passed overhead in the plane.
Aggravated at the delay, Ashley tossed his pages that he’d been studying aside and switched off th
e reading light. The sedan’s interior reverted to darkness. “We are going to miss our window of opportunity,” he growled in a voice devoid of accent.
“I’m sorry,” Carol offered, as if it were her fault.
Miraculously, after five minutes at a dead stop and a number of expletives from Ashley, the traffic began to move once again. “Thank the Good Lord for small favors,” Ashley intoned.
By exiting at Ninety-sixth Street, the driver skillfully used a back route to head downtown and was able to deposit the senator and his aide at the archbishop’s residence on the corner of Madison and Fiftieth Street four minutes before the scheduled meeting interval. The driver was instructed to circle the block, as they planned to be on their way back to the airport within the hour.
Carol had never been to the residence. She eyed the non-imposing three-story, gray-stone, slate-shingled house that huddled in the shadow of the city’s skyscrapers. It rose up from the sidewalk’s edge without a strip of grass to soften its severity. A few prosaic window air conditioners blemished its façade, as did heavy iron bars on the ground floor. The bars gave the building the appearance of a small jail rather than a residence. A glimpse of Belgian lace behind one of the windows was the sole softening touch.
Ashley mounted the stone steps and gave the polished brass bell a pull. They didn’t have to wait long. The heavy door was opened by a tall, gaunt priest with a strikingly Roman nose and red hair cropped short. He was dressed in a priestly black suit with a white clerical collar.
“Good afternoon, Senator.”
“And to you as well, Father Maloney,” Ashley said while entering. “I hope our timing is opportune.”
“Most decidedly,” Father Maloney answered. “I am to deposit you and your aide in His Eminence’s private study. He will be joining you momentarily.”
The study was a spartanly furnished room on the first floor. The decoration was a formal framed photo of Pope John Paul II and a small statue of the Holy Mother carved in pure white Carrara marble. The hardwood floor was without carpet, and Carol’s shoes clicked loudly against the varnished surface. Father Maloney silently withdrew and closed the door behind him.
“Rather austere,” Carol remarked. The only furniture was a small, aged leather couch, a matching leather chair, a priedieu, and a small desk with a straight-backed wooden chair.
“The cardinal would like his visitors to believe he is not interested in the material world,” Ashley said, as he lowered himself into the cracked leather chair. “But I know better.”
Carol sat stiffly on the edge of the couch with her legs tucked to the side. Ashley sat back as if he were visiting a relative. He crossed his legs to reveal a black sock and a patch of pasty white calf.
A moment later, the door reopened and in walked the Most Reverend James Cardinal O’Rourke followed by Father Maloney, who closed the door behind them. The cardinal was dressed in full regalia. Over black pants and white neckband shirt, he wore a black cassock enhanced with cardinal red piping and buttons. Over the cassock was an open, scarlet cape. Cinched around his waist was a broad scarlet sash. On his head was a cardinal-red zucchetto skullcap. Around his neck hung a bejeweled silver cross.
Carol and Ashley rose to their feet. Carol was taken by the spectacle of the cardinal’s sumptuous attire, accentuated by the harshness of the room. But once standing, she realized the powerful prelate was shorter than her own five-foot-six, and next to Ashley, who was by no means tall, he appeared decidedly short and plump. Despite his regal trappings, his benignly smiling face suggested a humble priest with soft, blemish-free turgid skin, shiny red cheeks, and rounded pleasant features. His sharp eyes, however, told a different story and one more consistent with what Carol knew of the powerful prelate. They reflected a formidable and canny intelligence.
“Senator,” the cardinal said, in a voice that matched his projected gentle demeanor. He extended his hand with a limp wrist.
“Your Eminence,” Ashley said, marshaling his most cordial Southern accent. He gave the cardinal’s hand more of a squeeze than a shake, purposefully avoiding kissing the prelate’s ring. “Such a pleasure indeed. Knowing full well the press of your engagements, I am so very appreciative of your finding time to meet with this country boy on such short notice.”
“Oh, hush, Senator,” the cardinal scoffed. “It is a treat, as always, to see you. Please sit down.”
Ashley reclaimed his seat and assumed his previous posture.
Carol flushed anew. Being ignored was as embarrassing as being dismissed. She’d fully expected to be introduced, especially when the cardinal’s eyes darted across her face accompanied by a slight, questioning lift to his eyebrows. She sank back to a sitting position as the cardinal carried over the rough-hewn chair from the small desk. Father Maloney stood silently by the door.
“In deference to our schedules,” Ashley began, “I do believe I should come right to the point.”
Feeling strangely invisible, Carol eyed the two men seated beside her. All at once, she recognized their similarities of character, despite their differences in appearance and beyond their hardworking, demanding natures. Both found blurring the lines between church and state to be to their respective advantage; both were adept at flattery and cultivating personal relationships with whom they could trade favors in their respective arenas; both hid personalities that were tough, calculating, and iron-willed behind their outward personas (the humble priest for the cardinal and the cordial, ingenuous country boy for the senator); and both guarded their authority zealously and were infatuated with the exercise of power.
“It is always best to be direct,” James said. He sat upright with his pudgy hands cupping his zucchetto, which he had removed from his mostly bald head.
Carol had the image of two fencing combatants warily circling.
“It has distressed me to no end to see the Catholic Church so beleaguered,” Ashley continued. “This current sex scandal has taken a toll, particularly with division in her own ranks and an ailing, aged leader in Rome. I have lain awake at night wrestling with a way I might be of service.”
Carol had to keep from rolling her eyes. She knew all too well the senator’s real feelings about the Catholic Church. As a Congregationalist and fundamentalist, he had little regard for any hierarchical religion, and in his mind the Catholic Church was the most hierarchical.
“I appreciate your empathy,” James said, “and I have had similar distress about the U.S. Congress following the tragedy of September eleventh. I too have struggled with how best I could help.”
“Your moral leadership is a constant aid,” Ashley said.
“I would like to do more,” James said.
“My concern for the church is that a relatively few priests with arrested psychosexual development have been able to put the entire philanthropic organization in financial jeopardy. What I would sincerely like to propose for a small favor in return is to introduce legislation to limit tort liability for recognized charities, of which the Catholic Church is a shining example.”
For a few minutes, silence reigned in the room. For the first time, Carol became aware of the ticking of a small clock on the desk as well as the muted sounds of the traffic on Madison Avenue. She watched the cardinal’s face. His expression did not change.
“Such legislation would be a great help in this current crisis,” James said finally.
“As egregious as each individual episode of sexual abuse is for the victim, we should not victimize all those souls dependent on the church for their health, educational, and spiritual needs. As my mama used to say: We should not throw out the baby with the dirty bathwater.”
“What is the chance of such legislation passing?”
“With my full backing, which I certainly would give it, I would estimate it would have a better than even chance. As for the President, I think he would be happy to sign it into law. He is a man of great faith, with a strong belief in the need for religious charities.”
“I’m s
ure the Holy Father would be grateful for your support.”
“I am a servant of the people,” Ashley said. “All races and all religions.”
“You mentioned a small favor,” James said. “Is this something I should know about now?”
“Oh, it is a small thing,” Ashley said. “Something more for my mama’s memory. My mama was Catholic. Did I ever mention that?”
“I don’t think you have,” James said.
Carol was again reminded of the image of two fencers parrying and riposting.
“Catholic as the day is long,” Ashley said. “She was from the old country just outside Dublin and a very religious woman indeed.”
“I assume from your syntax she has gone to her Maker.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Ashley said. He hesitated for a moment, as if choked up. “Quite a few years ago, bless her soul, when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper.”
This was a story Carol knew. One night after a lengthy session of the Senate, she’d gone out to a Capitol Hill bar with the senator. After a number of bourbons, the senator had become particularly loquacious and had told the sad story of his mother. She had died when Ashley was nine as the consequence of a septic backroom abortion that she’d had rather than a tenth child. The irony was that she feared she’d die during childbirth because of complications during the birth of her ninth child. Ashley’s fire-and-brimstone father had been outraged and had told the family and his congregation that the woman had been damned to hell for all eternity.
“Would you want me to say a Mass for her soul?” James questioned.
“That would be very generous,” Ashley said, “but it is not quite what I had in mind. To this day, I can remember sitting on her knee and listening to all the wonderful things she told me about the Catholic Church. And I particularly remember what she told me about the miraculous Shroud of Turin, which she held dear to her heart.”
For the first time, the cardinal’s expression changed. It was a subtle change, but Carol could tell it was definitely of surprise.