Prince of Peace (41 page)

"If you like," Michael said, though inwardly he recoiled. These bastards always had to have the upper hand. You came to them as a subject or a suppliant, nothing else. Only the wackos caught Spelly's eye. But hell, maybe it was true; maybe Michael was like the alkies and the Casanovas, just another Father Fuck-up, a little younger than usual, and with his problem clothed in Asian intrigue. "Tell him I've just this moment arrived."

Monsignor Dugan nodded and left the room.

A few minutes later he reappeared, crooked a finger at Michael, then turned and led the way through a shadowy corridor to the cardinal's office.

The room was dominated by a large crystal chandelier which filled it with light, and after the gloom elsewhere that surprised Michael. Centered under the fixture was a long Catalonian refectory table with six ornately carved wooden chairs, and on the table were dozens of neatly stacked books and reports. On one wall was a portrait of the late pope, not John, but Pius. On another was the carved wooden crest of Spellman's cartouche, his coat of arms, which featured in elaborate serpentine the tassels of his red hat. On a third wall was a portrait of Spellman's predecessor, Cardinal Hayes; he was a stern-looking man who seemed to be glaring out at his successor's office disapprovingly. Below that painting was a leather wing chair arranged to face the cardinal's desk, which occupied the alcove of the bay window that overlooked Madison Avenue. The curtains were open and additional light poured in from the street, enveloping the cardinal himself who sat at his desk, back to the window, staring at Michael.

He was the sixth archbishop of New York, had occupied the chair since 1939 and had become for Catholics and most other Americans so much the epitome of a Roman Catholic archbishop that it was easy to forget that there had never been one like him before. His round smiling features were so familiar to New Yorkers because he loved to appear in public, at dedications and benefits, neighborhood festivals and civic celebrations. His commitments seemed wide-ranging and his presence to the life of the city seemed freewheeling, but in fact everything he did was calculated for effect. His purpose from the beginning had been to make an impact far beyond the confines of the Church and he did. His great accomplishment as archbishop was a subtle one: he had secured for himself a place of real influence among the power brokers and aristocrats of the nation in a way that no other Catholic prelate ever had, and he, more than any single figure, represented the arrival of the Catholic Church as a political and social force equal to any in America. He could be genial and friendly, but he never forgot his function for the Church, and that was to collect power, as much power as he could, not to aggrandise himself, but to reinforce the position of a community which even as recently as his own youth had been an oppressed, fragile collection of immigrant groups with little in common but their feelings of inferiority and their faith in the Church of Rome. His job had been to slam the door forever on the era when Catholic sensibilities could be ignored or violated or made mock of in this country. And so he had, from his position as archbishop of the greatest city in America, intruded himself into every area of the nation's life, from Cold War strategies as the Military Vicar to standards of popular entertainment as head of the Legion of Decency. Even if his patron, Pius XII, was gone, and even if his simple theology was being called into question by the Vatican Council, and even if, at seventy-five, he had lost a measure of vigor and had, for example, to lean on his chaplains to ascend the stairs of the high altar, he was still a man who knew what he was. He was authority itself. He was the cardinal.

"You know Father Maguire, Your Eminence," Dugan said.

Michael approached the desk as Spellman stood. He was wearing a red-trimmed black cassock with a broad silk sash. His short-cropped white hair framed his zucchetto, the red skull cap which, with its little center tab, Spellman adjusted, an absentminded gesture. When he offered Michael his hand, it was palm down, indicating that he expected, even across the expanse of desk, that the junior priest would kiss his ring. Michael did so gracefully, and he said, "Thank you for seeing me, Your Eminence."

"Father Maguire, are you all right?" Spellman looked at him intently, and Michael was surprised to sense his concern. "You weren't expected home, were you?"

Michael shook his head, but before he could speak Spellman turned to Dugan. "Did you offer him coffee?" He looked at Michael. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, thank you," Michael said, though he didn't remember his last meal.

"Tell me what's been happening," Spellman said intently. "It must be chaos there."

Michael exhaled and felt his body relax into the chair. At last he was here, about to tell his story to the one man who could make it better, make everything better. He felt not only that he'd come home, but that he was with—though there was no personal justification for this feeling—his father. "Your Eminence, it's worse than chaos. For weeks there has been a well-organized, quite deliberate effort to destroy the Buddhists. All of the Buddhists. By now hundreds of monks and priests have been murdered. Thousands are in jail for no offense beyond their religion. And pagodas all over the country, small ones and great ones, have been ransacked and burned."

Spellman was shaking his head sadly. Light glinted off his rimless spectacles, making it seem for an instant that there were tears in his eyes, but not so. He said, "It must have been awful, seeing it up close, as you did."

Michael stared at him, perplexed for a moment until he realized that Spellman thought the trouble here was with his priest; poor Father Maguire, what terrible things he's been through. Michael sat forward. "Your Eminence, it is a religious vendetta. President Diem and his brothers have broken confidence with you. They are abusing the Catholic Faith terribly by conducting such operations in its name. A monk I knew personally was murdered in his sanctuary. His head was cut off."

Spellman continued to shake his head. "Inexcusable," he muttered.

Michael waited for him to say more, but he wasn't going to. "But, Your Eminence, my point is about Diem."
Your
Diem! he almost added.

"The
New York Times
thinks Diem is mad. They get all worked up because our nice pat American distinction between Church and State is not observed in Vietnam. But what about Israel?"

Israel? Michael couldn't comprehend this at all.

Spellman leaned forward. "There are religious groups in violent conflict in Israel too! What does Mr. Sulzberger say about that?"

"But in Vietnam, Your Eminence, we're talking about government violence against its own citizens."

Spellman's eyebrows went up. "Well, the main violence, of course, is against the Communists. It's a war, isn't it? You know what a war is like, Father. You know that better than I. Sometimes there are abuses. Obviously, those soldiers were on a rampage. But what did the Buddhists do to provoke them? A country at war can't have thousands of citizens in the streets trying to bring down the government, can it? We wouldn't have allowed that here during World War Two, I'll tell you."

Michael was stunned. Was Spellman offering a defense of the assault?

Monsignor Dugan appeared at Michael's elbow, surprising him, with a cup of coffee. Michael took it, though he thought the strong, black brew would make him sick. He thanked the monsignor, who withdrew.

After a moment the cardinal sat back, bridged his hands under his chin and asked, "What do you believe about Buddhism anyway, Father?"

"Theologically?"

The cardinal nodded.

Michael was instinctively wary. Was this the question of an Inquisitor? "I believe, as Pope John put it, that they are men of goodwill whose hearts have been imprinted with God's Law."

"But they are, whether culpably or not, prisoners of error." Michael tried to sip the coffee. His hands shook and it spilled.

"Don't you agree?"

"I think that in Vietnam this week they're being treated as worse than that."

"Perhaps with reason, Father. Perhaps reasons you and I are not privy to. What if the Buddhist movement has been infiltrated? What if their leaders are Red sympathizers? What if their pagodas and temples were the sites of cell group meetings? What if they abused their sanctuaries by using them to stir up subversion? What if they are actively trying to bring Diem down so that the Communists can take over?"

Michael suddenly couldn't think of what to say. The gap between their points of view seemed infinite.

"Furthermore, Father, you have jumped to a conclusion that is completely unwarranted and, I might say, unjust."

"I have?"

"By holding Diem and Nhu responsible for this latest crisis. It is not their doing, whatever the justification or lack of it. Neither Diem nor Nhu ordered those troops against the pagodas."

"Your Eminence..." Michael felt as if he was humoring an hallucinator. "...Nhu's personal army did these things. I was there."

Spellman nodded and said calmly, "You've been traveling, Father. There have been developments. Certain of Diem's most trusted generals ordered the raids without authorization, conspirators who hoped to cause an uprising and the overthrow of democracy. Nhu revealed their names yesterday, after they were arrested. The Ngos are as upset about the excesses against civilians as you are."

Michael stared in disbelief. Was Spellman convinced of this fantasy?

"I have been in communication throughout the crisis with the Vietnamese ambassador in Washington."

"That's Madame Nhu's father! You can't believe him!"

Spellman looked sharply at Michael: Don't use the imperative with me, young man. He said, "1 have his word that his government deplores the killings in the sanctuaries and I accept it. So, I gather, do President Kennedy and Secretaries Rusk and McNamara."

Michael saw suddenly what the Ngos were trying for—in one move to eliminate their Buddhist opposition
and
the dissident generals who threatened from within—and he realized that if they pulled it off they would be unstoppable. The
Times
was characterizing the entire family as mad, but this ploy was ingenious. Even at the moment of greatest outrage, they had given their sponsors in America an irresistible reason to stick by them—this "madness" was going to work! It would give them total control of their country. Weather this storm with us, they promised in effect, and
then
we'll unleash our evil genius on the Communists. You will have an invincible bastion—like Israel—in Southeast Asia.

"Your Eminence," Michael said slowly, "I bow to your more intimate knowledge, but, as you know, I have been there for a year and a half, and I feel it is my responsibility to report to you exactly what I have witnessed. Archbishop Thuc has delivered public diatribes on many occasions against the Buddhists. He has said again and again they have no rights. He has encouraged their slaughter. The crisis is a direct result of his fanatical speeches."

"But Archbishop Thuc is talking about the Communists, Father."

Michael nearly came out of his chair. He spilled coffee on the rug. "No, no, he's talking about the Buddhists! About
holy
men and women. About ninety percent of the population. The Ngos are bringing disaster to Vietnam and they must be stopped.
You
must stop them."

Spellman shook his head. "Your experience is valuable to me, Father. And I appreciate getting it firsthand from you. But you don't have the big picture. You're
too
close.
Too
involved. What you don't see is that the Communists are within an inch of taking over Vietnam. It would be their greatest victory since China. And the slaughter, of Catholics certainly, but also of Buddhists, would make what's going on now seem tame. In other words, the big picture suggests that now, more than ever, it is time to support President Diem and I do." He spoke with a finality that was intended to end this conversation, and it did.

Michael sank back into his chair, staring at his coffee.

"You've done a good job in Vietnam, Father. I've had nothing but positive reports. Even though it's been difficult, you can look back on your service there with pride."

Michael looked up sharply. What? Look back?

"And I think your experience will serve us in good stead. We're about to launch a new fund-raising drive called 'The Children's Relief Fund.' It's geared to assist the overburdened orphanages in Vietnam. You know about it." Michael nodded.

"I want you to head it up."

"But that would mean..."

"Coming back here."

"Your Eminence, I'm not ready to come back." Michael had to stifle the alarm he felt. "I can't leave Vietnam now."

"But your purpose is to help the victims of that war, isn't it? This is a chance to do something big for them. For the children, Father. For the orphans. I can sense your conviction, your passion, your concern, and so will the other bishops—so will the Catholic people. Your job will be to quicken the conscience of the entire American Church."

Spellman was right and knew it. Michael Maguire would be irresistible on the subject of what he'd seen in Vietnam. The money would pour in and new orphanages would go up all over that beleaguered country.

And, more to the point, Michael Maguire would be back in the States, in the bosom of the Church, where he belonged. Spellman wouldn't have considered for a second allowing such an angry, righteous young priest back into a situation of such moral and political complexity. But he would forbid and command only as a last resort. He liked his priests to feel honored by their assignments. He preferred their enthusiasm to their resentment. Spellman was nothing if not an inspired manipulator of his own men. "What do you say, Father?"

Michael only stared at him. There was a chamber in his brain in which the cardinal's words had not registered at all. There, images of what he'd seen in Vietnam continued to flash, but like a stark film with no soundtrack. A feeling of utter exhaustion came over him, and he wanted suddenly, irrationally, to lie down on the thick carpet of the cardinal's office. Perhaps then the tranquillity of that place would soothe him. He could close his eyes against everything he'd seen. When had he had such a feeling before? Such longing for peace, for escape, for quiet? He could have his rest if only he did what they wanted.