By the time Tim had returned to his new quarters in one of the elegant prelatial suites at the North American College on the Gianicolo, slender threads of dawn were streaking the sky. Under his door he found a linen envelope containing a card with the papal seal and a small handwritten note:
His Holiness requests your company for the celebration of Mass at 6:00 A.M. Monday 27 May.
Tim glanced at his watch. There was barely enough time to shave and change.
Yet by a quarter to six he was waiting in the incongruously modernistic papal chapel, fresh and awake thanks to the unfailing combination of caffeine and adrenaline.
A cluster of papal household nuns, all in black except for a single red heart embroidered on the breast of their habits, were already kneeling in prayer.
At precisely five minutes to six, the pontiff strode in, followed by three or four other clerics in various garb. Spying his new archbishop, he smiled and offered his right hand. “Benvenuto, Timoteo.”
Tim was about to kiss the papal ring when His Holiness demurred, “Please, we are about to pray. Before God we are all equals.”
After intoning the Mass, the pontiff beckoned Tim to join him in his velvet-lined elevator. The only other passenger was a priest whom Tim recognized as the papal secretary, Monsignor Kevin Murphy. This freckle-faced, red-haired Dublin boy was known to jog ten miles along the Tiber before anyone else in the Apostolic Palace had put on slippers.
As His Holiness introduced the two young men, he joked, “As you know, Timoteo, I’m here to serve God. But it is Kevin who fixes the agenda. Bear that in mind.”
Tim and the Irishman exchanged smiles as the elevator came to a stop. Its passengers disembarked into an elegant sala whose vaulted, gilt-stuccoed ceilings and artwork made the illuminated panels in the papal chapel seem like Hong Kong plastic. Other high Vatican officials were waiting to join the Holy Father for a working breakfast at the large oval table.
It was easy to distinguish Franz Cardinal von Jakob, for the strapping German stood nearly a foot taller than the other prelates, his height accentuated by the straightness of his posture. Tim took the initiative and introduced himself.
The austere von Jakob responded with the semblance of a smile and a laconic, “Welcome, Your Grace.”
It was not surprising that von Jakob was seated at the Pope’s right hand. Tim was somewhat overwhelmed, however, to discover that he had been placed directly opposite. It was—it seemed to him—as if the pontiff wanted to assess him at close range.
The German wasted no time and immediately began his catechism to determine how acquainted Tim was with the Church’s problems in Brazil.
“Well, I know it’s the biggest Catholic country in the world—and the poorest,” Tim replied nervously. “Some say we should be doing more to help them—including a lot of their own priests.”
“They rant about ‘the triumph of the proletariat,’ ” the Cardinal stated with irritation. “It sounds like something from Das Kapital.”
The pontiff then declared in quiet, measured tones, “I am convinced that the true Armageddon will be between the soldiers of Christ and the dark forces of Marx.”
“The Brazilians are on the verge of rebellion,” von Jakob continued. “The priests stirring up the peasants are encouraged by some of our most charismatic theologians, especially the overesteemed Professor Ernesto Hardt.”
Tim nodded. “I’ve read a few of his articles. He’s certainly a persuasive advocate for reform.”
“ ‘Reform’ is the key word,” the German pronounced. “The man thinks he’s another Martin Luther. We’re most disturbed by the rumor of a book he’s preparing. They say it could be the rallying cry the Brazilians are waiting for.”
A voice at the other end of the table inquired, “I still don’t understand, Franz. Why can’t your office simply order him into penitential silence? This certainly proved successful with his countryman, Leonardo Boff.…”
“No, Hardt’s too dangerous,” von Jakob responded. “Unless we handle him carefully, he’d leave the Church—and God knows how many thousands he’d take with him.” He turned to Tim and asked, “Do you have any idea of the inroads the Protestants are making?”
“It seems more like a tidal wave,” the new archbishop acknowledged. “I’ve read a report estimating that every hour of the day, four hundred Latin American Catholics leave the Faith.”
There were murmurs of distress from all around the table.
Von Jakob continued to address Tim. “It is for this reason that you must persuade Hardt not to publish his book. I needn’t tell you how important this assignment is.”
Timothy had led a sheltered life. Even as far as Church politics was concerned, he was an innocent. But this did not mean that he was without scruples, and the idea of suppressing a book—any book—struck him as morally repugnant.
He wondered if George Cavanagh would have accepted this assignment. And he wondered something else.
“With respect,” he asked, trying to hide his discomfort, “how did you come to choose me?”
“For a diabolical genius like Hardt, we needed a very special envoy. When I called Archbishop Orsino in Washington, he unhesitatingly suggested you.”
“But are you aware that I don’t speak a word of Portuguese?” he asked.
“You are fluent in Latin, Italian, and Spanish,” said the Cardinal, holding up a document that was obviously part of Tim’s dossier.
His Holiness added affably, “I’ve had occasion to learn a few words for my South American journeys. And with no disrespect to our Lusitanian brothers, I found that to speak Portuguese, you merely have to talk Spanish with pebbles in your mouth.”
There was a ripple of appreciative laughter.
“In any case,” von Jakob continued, “my Congregation has expert language tutors whose total immersion technique would be the envy of Berlitz. I have no doubt that in three months you will be speaking Brazilian Portuguese like a native.”
“There is only one problem,” His Holiness added good-humoredly. “You then have to discover what to say.”
On this note, the breakfast was adjourned.
As the princes of the Church dispersed to their several domains, Tim followed Monsignor Murphy to his office, which served as a sentry post for the pontiff’s inner court.
The papal secretary explained that Tim’s linguistic inculcation would consist of three daily four-hour sessions, each with a native Brazilian priest. They would even remain with him during meals, making sure only Portuguese was spoken.
“After that,” Monsignor Murphy joked, “you can relax with some light reading—like the history of Brazil.”
“Thank you, Monsignor,” Tim responded. “But something tells me these language lessons will be less of an ordeal than what comes after.”
The papal secretary hesitated, and then lowering his voice, said, “Your Grace, may I tell you something in confidence—as one Irishman to another?”
“Of course.”
“I think you should know that you’re not the first legate to be sent to Ernesto Hardt.”
“Oh,” Tim replied, “and what happened to my predecessor?”
Murphy’s answer was laconic.
“He never came back.”