XXII. THE ITALIAN CAMPAIGN


I will not hurt a cleric or a monk if unarmed . . . I will not burn houses or destroy them unless there is a knight inside.
—oath of Robert the Pious

Before the epic battle of Rome, we bivouacked at the University of Pisa, alma mater of Galileo and Fermi, then traveled by helicopter to visit sick children in the hospital of Careggi, built on the grounds of Cosimo de’ Medici’s ancient villa near Florence. As Buckaroo busied himself advising resident physicians and even performing a number of surgical procedures himself, the children’s cheerfulness in the face of their torments and personal tragedies both instructed and inspired us, elevating us from our travel fatigue to a higher plane of gratitude. Such are the inspirational effects bestowed by a courageous child upon the selfish skeptic accustomed only to his luxuries and caprices or the physically healthy man who bears a grudge against the world. We in turn did our best to animate patients and staff, contributing photographs, stories, and, hopefully, uplifting happy thoughts, before departing for our papal audience at the Vatican.

But, first, there was to be an unannounced detour to San Galgano Abbey, rumored scene of Abbot Costello’s greatest miracle, where the smell was of scrambled lavender and rosemary and the crisp air of the mountains, and the only sound a shrill fife from somewhere down the road. Here, far from the noisy city and the chaos to come, we found a moment of solace and inspiration . . . a little scented corner, seemingly a thousand miles from paparazzi and assorted panjandrums, klaxons, and choking smoke! And how many flowery festoons, ducks, shimmering pigeons, geese, turkeys, and guinea fowl around us! On our foot tour, I even saw a forlorn wild peacock, latest in a long procession of his species, many of whom (according to our guide) have been memorialized as far back as the Roman emperors; and in yet another moment of quiet epiphany, I witnessed the return of a small flock of sheep and their driver to a farmhouse some might call dreary—its dilapidated straw and earthen walls whitewashed but otherwise barely touched in centuries—yet it was cozy and peaceful, a place for shepherd and his flock to sleep from sunset until dawn behind closed shutters.

Then voices: a Hungarian television crew, a timely reminder that it was time to collect ourselves and return to our purpose, as our own friendly local shepherd pointed out certain details, such as the deserted ruins of the great cathedral and the small chapel where, to our consternation, the knight Galgano Guidotti’s broadsword lamentably was missing from the massive rock. But how had it happened? And who could have passed such a test?

I am not here to judge, although our guide informed us there had been witnesses to the miracle, villagers drawn by the terrifying sounds of wild animals wailing loudly in the night and other evil omens, such as a plague of mosquitoes, snakes, and rats; rabbits laying chicken eggs; birds flying backward, and thunder in a clear sky . . . 

“. . . so that no one could get a wink of sleep. The entire village was in a snit until God heard our agony,” the gravelly-voiced local said, opening his mouth to reveal a small cross placed under his tongue, then going on to relate that after many prayers from the community, a Holy Bible signed by San Galgano appeared in a local barbershop without explanation.

“How cool. But the bestie?” Pecos questioned him. “Wild beasts fighting nei boschi?”

“Or one at war with itself . . . turning their internal conflict outward,” speculated Buckaroo, who we could only assume was speaking in jest.

“Over what . . . ?” I wondered.

“Fear . . . uncertainty. The ever-present human urge for corrective discipline, sometimes called a conscience or a control,” he said.

Our guide, who had lived all his life in Montesiepi, affirmed that numerous neighbors had heard the odd screeches and cries of both a man and a creature definitely not human—something indeed hair raising and terrible—and had come running, armed with pitchforks and shotguns, only to witness the most incredible sight of their lives: what some saw as the luminescent Christ and others recognized at once as the cowled Brother Costello floating in midair, his eyes like fire, illumined by the locals’ camera flashes.

There was also this: next to the levitating monk stood an oddly shaped alien shadow that never left his side. It, too, appeared on multiple videos that capture the entire uncanny sight of the monk, airborne and seemingly panicked, as the holy sword of San Galgano rises magically into his startled grasp, whereupon the monk turns the supernaturally glowing weapon against himself! Before he can fall on the blade, however, he shimmers like the sun and both he and his dark shadow dissolve into a holy flame. Needless to say, any screams from his lips are drowned out by the hysterical reactions of eyewitnesses to the miracle.

“Yes, many people saw him take the sword,” said our guide emphatically. “You can see how part of the stone has crumbled. Then the cathedral bells began to ring, by themselves, for no reason.”

“Bells?” questioned Tommy. “There’s not even a roof on the joint, much less a bell.”

The guide, who was wearing a Saint Anthony pendant, crossed himself and agreed, “Yes, there are no bells, Tommy, and yet they began to ring like crazy, confounding our ears.”

“Did Brother Costello say anything before or after he burst into flames?” Buckaroo wanted to know.

“Only to himself,” reported the guide, “in a voice none could understand.”

“Speaking in tongues . . . or just loco?” pitched in Pecos.

“A kind of baby talk, double talk, like a man arguing with his relatives,” recalled the guide.

As all of this seemed true and yet hopelessly improbable, I traded looks with Buckaroo and the others—Tommy, Pecos, Red Jordan, and Li’l Daughter—all thoroughly flummoxed by the guide’s tale and the inconclusive photographic evidence to support it. Buckaroo meanwhile knelt beside the rock and scraped at a dark bloodstain with his all-purpose Swiss tool, preparing a sample which he put into his miniature gel electrophoresis machine.

“And then the strange cries stopped?” Buckaroo wanted to know.

“No, for some hours after, we heard them like donkey cries or a mad raccoon, until the cardinale arrived. Some of us wished to retrieve the relic; but by then we knew it was a miracle from God, so we were no longer angry, only frightened.”

“Praise God and hallelujah,” commented Pecos.

“The cardinale . . . ? The cardinal?” Buckaroo asked.

“In the village they said he was a cardinal,” said the guide, a chatty pensioner with a sense of humor. “I didn’t see him myself—but I saw his Lamborghini, into which he tried to pull the abbot, who at first consented but then swung the holy sword, with which he chopped the Lamborghini into pieces, while the cardinal yelled like an insane pazzo.”

Our group exchanged looks of amazement over such a tale, which the good fellow now concluded. “Then the abbot fell on his knees and seemed ashamed for what he had done. But then he ran away again, still clutching the sword—some say he rode the sword into the great beyond, others say south toward Rome—and nothing more was said of it except the television people, who think we are all crazy peasants who stole the relic ourselves.”

“Rest assured none of us thinks that,” Buckaroo informed him.

In any case the shepherd merely shrugged, seeming unconcerned about what we thought.

“Life is too short to be sad for long,” he said. “In fact without the sword hanging over us, and all the religious pilgrims who came to see it, the village seems a happier place.”

We again looked at one another but said little—what little there was to say—as we retraced our steps through the once majestic cathedral, now a mere shell, and listened to the wind whistle through the lancet windows above the choir. Could the howling wind have been mistaken for a wild animal’s cry or the devil himself? It seemed doubtful . . . but, then, the whole affair seemed to make little sense. Could some sort of mass hysteria have been at work among these superstitious country folks, as Pecos theorized? Then there were the media, who deemed the whole affair a local hoax designed to garner news coverage and attract more tourists.

Or, in Tommy’s words, “Country people get their kicks in funny ways.”

“Such as a funny prank? A staged event? Fabricated eyewitnesses? Doctored photographs?” I questioned, although we had watched the video evidence ourselves.

“Maybe to cover their tracks with more bullshite,” suggested Pecos. “A relic like that could raise a lot of money for a tiny village on the black market.”

But as Buckaroo said, “I think we’re compelled to take the video and eyewitness testimony at face value, not to mention Baltazar’s wrecked Lamborghini that apparently is still sitting in a farmer’s garage. As for the crazy abbot, it could be that he was going through a particularly nasty schizophrenic episode and needed an out-of-the-way sanctuary for a couple of days, a place for him to battle whatever demons or psychosis—perhaps even another personality—might be afflicting him. Remember the story not long ago about his attempted self-lobotomy in Rome? Clearly, he is a deeply disturbed fellow trying to blot it all out . . . a soul in turmoil, carrying a powerful psychic energy that must terrify him.”

“Like a fart in a ziplock bag, needing a release,” said Tommy.

“Good analogy, Tommy. Your stock is sky high right now,” Buckaroo replied in a matter-of-fact tone, nonetheless prompting Tommy to raise his head and puff out his chest like the cock of the walk . . .

. . . as Buckaroo continued, “A manifestation of an alien consciousness needing release or leading sooner or later to a blowout, as the manifestation flows into another host like a parasite . . .”

“Like an evil spirit,” I said. “Like an exorcism . . . ?”

There . . . I had said it. I will never forget how Buckaroo looked me straight in the eye and spoke with the wisdom of a thousand years. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Reno, though it’s obviously something that doesn’t seem to work within our laws of biology. Under the right conditions, however, an explosion of a certain magnitude might generate sufficient force to convert the manifestation—demon, evil spirit, or any uninvited guest from another dimension—into a high-powered projectile, or plasma . . .”

“That would be some ejaculation,” said Pecos. “So the Abbot might be possessed . . . an exorcism gone horribly wrong that could have opened the door to Whorfin?”

“The explosion at Area 51,” Buckaroo explained, as he studied the preliminary results of his gel electrophoresis test. “I’m almost certain of it. General Wagoneer brought him in to heal the dying Lizardo by divine means, but a violent exorcism resulted, and Whorfin somehow infiltrated Costello . . . which would explain Baltazar’s desperation to get him back in the fold.”

I didn’t quite follow his line of reasoning but asked instead, “What do the DNA markers say?”

He looked at his versatile Go-Phone and replied, “The panel resembles the Lectroid samples sent to us by Blue Blazes Darinka Water Moccasin and Zoyenka Racehorse from Sarajevo, with an important distinction. Human DNA and human digestive tract bacteria are also present, but without access to a centrifuge, I can only confirm the mix is a bloody mess: lots of molybdenum and some kind of weird Planet 10 elements. But let’s not get ahead of the science.”

As Buckaroo noted, the science would have to wait. We all agreed there was nothing for it but to hike back to the chopper, but not before we posed for pictures with the Hungarian film crew and Li’l Daughter rescued a broken locust, which she insisted on taking with us.

“I’ll be your friend,” she said, sheltering the little biblical pest in her hands; and as fecund fields and vineyards and the timeless Apennines unfolded below us, I could not help thinking she had brought aboard a bad omen.


THE HOLY SEE

What obtrudes in my memory of Rome that fateful day? Apart from our famously truncated concert in the great Coliseum and certain other staggering events that I shall recount in the pages that follow, there are the smiles and Roman sunshine that accompanied us wherever we went in the city. Though regrettably confined within a circle of publicists, carabinieri, and the local media—“Buckaroo Banzai e suoi favolosi Hong Kong Cavaliers in concerto, nel Colosseo!!”—we were welcomed, as elsewhere, like uncrowned royalty, and not only of our own time. False modesty aside, we represented something more substantial than born aristocrats: the epic world of heroes and the ideality of man.

If I were less than honest, I would cast us in a simple light and say we were surprised by our spectacular reception in the Italian capital, but the truth is that we were long ago benumbed to such wild elation on the faces of complete strangers. Far from giving us goose flesh, such giddy scenes have exhausted their significance for us. We find our public veneration at best something of an irritant and a perverse paradox, given our espousal of ascetic living, self-sacrifice, and humility. Yet we continue to grope our way, sleepwalking mechanically through press conferences, multilayered paparazzi, and television crews, then on to never-ending soirees and (rarely) juvenile all-night romps worthy of Nero . . . affecting our public roles to the point of parody, albeit purportedly for a good cause: our justice and charity work.

Followers of this series know that we Cavaliers have never been comfortable being called superstars, much less “supernovae”—Mona Peeptoe’s description of us, doubtless referring to the vast amount of explosive energy in our stage shows—yet in truth, like all human beings, we sometimes fall back upon our laurels and play too easily the role of jaded hedonists in a parade of debauchery, rock stars who have come to expect life on the road aboard a two-million-dollar bus and royal treatment from our adoring partisans and the world at large.

Have I exposed myself in public, dear reader? Then let the record reflect that I am no saint, also that I never claimed to be. Ordinarily—given all of the above and the dire situation of our planet at the time under consideration—I would bridle at wasting space on an account of our arrival at the Apostolic Palace and our perfunctory meeting with Pope Innocent, whom Buckaroo had known for more than a decade. Such occasions are for the most part little more than photo opportunities offering trite banter and the usual encomia, but this particular meeting with Pope Innocent in his sitting room merits ample discussion for reasons the reader will readily discern.

“Thank you for the stuffed animal and the cowboy boots and bottle of Banzai Institute handmade mezcal. Oh, and the lovely Japanese porcelain,” the pope told Buckaroo, indicating the tea set laid out before us on an antique coffee table . . . alongside a cheese tray, a tin of English biscuits, and dainty chocolates on filmy lace. “Like you, it has traveled a great distance across the great flat water that sits on the four pillars.”

How oddly wonderful, his quaint beliefs and baroque language, I thought to myself. Was the pope serious, or was this mere playful banter between His Holiness and Buckaroo? I could not be certain, even in light of Buckaroo’s reply.

“We came by silver bird instead of wooden ship, Your Eminence, as God pleased to guide our path by astrolabe . . .”

“Because the world is round. What goes around, comes around,” giggled Pope Innocent.

“Yes, each of us gets what we deserve, our just fruits,” Buckaroo stated. “This is affirmed in Brahmanism and most religions.”

“And what of your religious beliefs, Dr. Banzai?” inquired a horse-faced cardinal nearby who looked up from his phone long enough to absorb our conversation.

“What of them? I consider myself a skeptical Taoist,” Buckaroo informed him.

“But that is an intellectual project, not the one true faith,” the cardinal responded airily.

“Pick your poison,” said Buckaroo . . . 

. . . whereupon the pope, sensing a fracas, cut in to remark, “In my homily just the other day, Buckaroo, I borrowed something you told me during my visit last year to the Vatican Observatory in Arizona . . . how our decision to kick Pluto out of the solar system demonstrated the arrogance of the strong against the weak and the importance of fostering humility, rather than vanity, ignorance, and irrationality. At all costs we must not lose faith in the fact that God wills change, but his will is changeless.”

“And faith matched by deeds is a good sight stronger,” said Buckaroo. “Congratulations on your latest product endorsement deals, Your Holiness. No doubt you’re keeping your accountants up late burning the midnight incense.”

“Yes, let us join hands and give thanks,” replied the pontiff. “You’ll notice that all my television advertisements have hidden meanings.”

“Most certainly. And I’m sure the royalties you earn will be put to good use,” professed Buckaroo, casting a wary eye at the same cardinal I have duly noted.

On this score the pope seemed uncertain and looked to the others in that ornate vaulted room: the Vatican photographer; purple-hooded members of the household staff; a shirtless peg-legged penitent wearing a diamond crucifix pinned to his hairy chest; and of course the aforementioned cardinal, who now spoke.

“The money goes into a special fund, Your Sublimity, to fix up old lighthouses, remember? To serve as navigational beacons for our sovereign’s return,” the latter explained to the quizzical pope before raptly turning his attention to his handheld phone, on whose screen—unless I was mistaken—I glimpsed the face of Brother Jarvis.

“Or come what may. All avenues are open to our Lord,” said Pope Innocent, relaxing and returning to the meandering discussion that continued for several minutes more. While now is not the time to relate the entire train of small talk—as if I could recall it somehow—what follows may convey a sample.

“Even the bathtub will kill you,” Pope Innocent was saying, in response to Buckaroo’s contention that life is precious, chiefly because death does not always signal its approach and hence looms as a possibility anywhere and at any moment.

“Food additives that are nothing but food poisoning, never mind household products,” added Pecos, “many of which interfere with our natural immune systems.”

“Nine out of ten accidents happen at home, which is a good argument for travel,” I said lightheartedly in an attempt to steer the conversation back to the eternal delights of Rome. Just then, however, the cardinal’s phone beeped; and, glancing at it, he made a curious remark that seems all the more significant in retrospect.

“Rome, without an army, is not Rome,” were his words, which led to an awkward silence and an opening for Tommy to say something that literally had been on the tip of his tongue for several seconds.

“This chocolate is incredible,” he remarked, indicating the small wet cube of chocolate on which he had been sucking.

“It’s five hundred years old and quite precious,” the cardinal informed him and, seeing our consternation, went on to tell an astonishing tale. “The conquistador Pizarro sent it as a gift to the Spanish regent King Charles I, who saw fit to share a portion with Pope Clemens Septimus. It is said to come from a long-extinct Indian tribe who engraved their entire history upon it . . . an entire history of a people written on chocolate tablets. You can see something of it by the strange carved symbols in what you are eating . . .”

Tommy at once ceased to savor the chocolate on his brown tongue and laid it carefully on his napkin with these words: “As a famous man once said, ‘Good luck with that, amigo.’ Bad, bad stuff.”

Staring at my own little chunk of chocolate, with my teeth marks still upon it, I myself suddenly felt ill, and gauged a similar effect among the others—a reaction the cardinal appeared to find rather to his liking. With swollen eye bags and a scraggly red beard, he had the look of Torquemada himself. Although he had greeted us with handshakes and the word peace, his immediate use of hand sanitizer and his sullen glare—as well as his biretta in camouflage colors, Roman sandal boots, and giant gold crucifix—helped us understand that here was a man who liked to get to the crux of a problem without getting caught up in niceties; indeed, he made it clear in not so many words that we were trampling his toes, very much intruding upon his private fiefdom.

I say this while having had no special motive at the time to form a strong impression of him or guess his outlook on life, save that he had the puckered face of a red snapper and the unorthodox ability to turn his head all the way around, like an owl. Of course it is possible I only imagined these things, or daydreamt them, just as I saw his mouth pop open to exhale cigarette smoke or catch a housefly. “Cardinal Fat Cat” we named him afterward, for his Rolex, jiggly girth, and short stature. Or as Tommy put it more colorfully, “Ten pounds of shite in a five-pound bag.”

In the meantime, Buckaroo changed the subject. “As if we both don’t know the powerful forces opposed to our work: the World Crime League and their worldwide disinformation machine.”

“Yes, people with an overabundance of self-worth standing in the way of unconditional love,” His Holiness replied, as the cardinal now gestured to the peg-legged fellow—a Pomeranian flagellant, we learned—who, turning to leave, revealed a colorfully tattooed backside highlighted by a zebra’s pattern of fresh, oozing stripes.

“It’s a mean world out there, full of human lice,” the cardinal readily agreed . . .

. . . as the Pomeranian returned seconds later with small plastic bags full of trinkets—bejeweled shoehorns, key chains, and Ace pocket combs, all with the pope’s personal emblem, along with various discount coupons, prayer cards of diverse saints, and souvenir comic books of Pope Innocent’s travels and homilies—which he proceeded to distribute to Buckaroo, Tommy, Pecos, and me.

“In honor of our special relationship,” declared the pope.

“I share the sentiment. Words cannot express my gratitude,” said Buckaroo, leafing through one of the comics. “The Baltimore Catechism, a gift I’ll long remember. How thoughtful, Your Holiness.”

“Yes, the thought that counts,” the pope said and then spouted the television jingle with which we are all familiar: “ ‘A Deluxe shoehorn and an Ace comb, your ace in the hole, like our Lord who took up our infirmity.’ ”

To my eyes, at least, His Holiness appeared overly medicated and burdened by the sins of the world we could only imagine. These days his traditional white cassock sported a garish hodgepodge of corporate logo patches—Aqua Velva, Ace combs, Buster Brown shoes and laces, Champion lip balm, Knights of Malta lube job, and Go Fast sports drink, among others—but the familiar sparkle in his eyes was missing, along with his former youthful vitality and purity of heart. It was as if someone had squeezed him half to sleep and wrung half the life out of him as well, so that throughout our meeting it seemed our conversation was taking place through an unwelcome filter or a buffer, an invisible wall of lies. Or, more likely, he was merely inebriated, as rumors of his drinking habits had reached our ears for some time.

“Tell me all the latest about the world tour, Buckaroo,” he said, summoning a rare bit of real enthusiasm and flashing humorously what I recognized as a plastic Buckaroo Banzai flashlight ring on his right pinkie finger.

After a scant few minutes, the one-legged Pomeranian received a message on his phone, whispered something to the cardinal, and limped out of the room without a single word to us. His hurried withdrawal, I believe—and the cardinal’s open hostility and constant obsession with his enormous Rolex wristwatch—had the effect of accelerating our own departure. Whether this was his modus operandi, and somehow orchestrated with the Pomeranian, was not immediately obvious to me; but a profound undercurrent of tension, palpable danger, and treachery nonetheless emanated from his presence.


THE SINISTER CARDINAL

I have noted already, with regard to General Wagoneer, in what low regard Buckaroo Banzai holds traitors. What can be worse than betrayal from one we trust? Is not even a sickness unto death more bearable than the pain of seeing a trusted intimate turn Judas? What perfidy in nature so pierces the human heart and corrupts its faith like the secret Satan who assumes the role of selfless comrade or faithful servant, yet is alienated from all goodness of heart and human decency? Such a creature is not born of a loving mother; he is made from anomie, like a poisoned apple or a heap of rubbish, whatever word you wish to use: the jealous man who never achieves what he wants in life personally or professionally because he is a defective soul mistakenly allowed into public circulation. Yet rather than fault his own nature or will himself to change, he places the blame elsewhere. Because he has never been wanted as an artist or a lover, he is a man alienated from all but his imaginary victimhood; and this, too, he deems the fault of others. In his distorted world, there is no lack of candidates who sabotage his purpose or whatever glorious enterprise he claims as his own, and he hates them for it. It follows, then, that to invert positions, to embrace a friend or mentor with glib flattery while secretly undermining him, confers the status and meaning the turncoat desperately covets.

Perhaps I stared at the caped cardinal longer than I realized, for Tommy nudged me and whispered, “I don’t blame you. Don’t turn your back on that weasel face.”

When I cautioned for quiet, he muttered under his breath, “Not only that, these guys look like coloring books.”

Here he rolled his eyes toward the pair of uniformed Pontifical Swiss Guards flanking the doorway of the Holy Father’s private apartment, both of them in their traditional gaily striped doublets and loose slops . . . an ensemble topped off by their rakish raspberry berets and enormous Zweihänder swords.

Shifting my attention back to Buckaroo, I heard him say, “Long time in the making, Your Eminence, but the tour is finally happening, thanks to the persistence of our millions of European fans. We hope to see you this afternoon at the Coliseum.”

“Without fail, Buckaroo,” vowed the pontiff. “Excellent medicine, since I’ve been feeling down in the dump.”

“Not ill, I trust . . . ?” queried Buckaroo.

“Not to the point of serious, but perhaps I should talk to someone,” the pope slurred nervously.

“Perhaps the world-renowned healer, the abbot Costello?” Buckaroo inquired slyly. “I’ve heard so much about him. Am I to understand he works miracles and even made off with the sword of San Galgano?”

The pope, utterly puzzled, could not find his voice, but the cardinal allowed this much: “Even I do not fully comprehend the mysterious ways of God, and I am his agent. I mean to say that I am God’s agent on this earth and also blessed to represent the abbot for his many personal appearances without understanding his great gift, a rarity over which he has no control.”

“A mystery man, then,” acknowledged Buckaroo. “Perhaps I shall meet him on another occasion.”

“Almost certainly,” the cardinal declared and abruptly pointed with apparent annoyance at his watch. “His Eminence wishes you could remain, but the truths of this world intrude. He has many appointments and much work to do concerning this evening’s major announcement to the DeMolay cadre . . . and the entire Christian-speaking world.”

“Major announcement . . . ?” inquired Buckaroo.

Baltazar smiled like a crocodile, saying, “He has decided to make public the last portion of the third secret of Fátima. In fact it is a fourth secret and an earth-shattering event, I promise you . . . to be broadcast to a global audience at the conclusion of your concert. Hopefully you will all stay to listen and perhaps learn something.”

“Most definitely,” Buckaroo said. “I’m always keen to be let in on a secret.”

I may have snickered involuntarily at this remark; and for a brief instant the cardinal’s sidewise glance met my own, chilling my blood and reminding me that the cardinal was the type of false character who, at the touch of a switch, could spew hot or cold bullspit from the same tap . . . neither the smartest man in the room nor the strongest, but the most ruthless sort of megalomaniac capable of sticking cutlery into the back of anyone in his path.

With any luck we would bring him to a screeching halt. But just who was this cocksure little cardinal in his fiftieth year, who reminded me of a slick-haired thug and yet seemed so proud of himself that he strutted around the pope’s private apartments with a sense of superior status and utter insolence? I have said that he was a showman and a former circus barker, a man whose chief connection with the world was always money. Why he had become a priest was anyone’s guess, but my own theory was that it enabled him to have sway over others and thus obtain more easily the spoils of life via the power of moral persuasion.

That Pope Innocent was cowed by him was evident to anyone, as was the fact that he had invited us eagerly into his company before something appeared to strain our relationship. This was noticed in the Holy Father’s outward manner when he appeared to slip into a nervous pause (almost a cowed silence) at the first word from the cardinal. It was as if he desperately wished to purge his soul but feared his judge, who was apparently Baltazar and not God. But for what reason? And what to make of this fourth secret of Fátima business?

It seemed we had gained important clues but could only speculate on their significance, by which I mean the cardinal’s intentions. While I am tempted to say I could see through the façade of the cardinal—that is, give him some character development—the best I can offer in this regard is to pass along the rumor that he habitually laughed himself to sleep.

Whatever the unique bond between them, there was something blatantly sinister in the cardinal’s overbearing tone of voice and all-too-obvious manipulation of the Holy Father, a simple carbonaio from the Bergamo Alps who rose from humble beginnings and was said to have wrestled the devil on multiple occasions with his bare hands. What gave the cardinal the right to speak to such a beloved man in such a rude manner? So it was with a sense of weary resignation that Pope Innocent raised his portly frame from his antique chair and insisted, “Let me walk you out, Buckaroo.”