The Accidental Pope (51 page)

The Russian diamond merchants, on the other hand, had the backing of their government and the newly empowered Russian Orthodox Church. In the Congo countryside this extended down to the level of actual mining and collection. A different brand of Communism was flourishing this time under a directorate of profit-minded leaders advancing behind their Church among the people. Had Soviet Communists followed this concept instead of atheism, their influence around the world might have prevailed.

*   *   *

There was the usual crowd of news media meeting the pope's entourage, their cameras rolling and flashing. Bill was greeted in French by the minister of the interior.

“Your Holiness, welcome to the Democratic Republic of Congo. Anything we can do to make your visit a pleasant one, please call me. Cardinal Moputu knows how to reach me.” However, each member of the delegation was asked to produce a passport, which was closely scrutinized before being handed back.

“We understand that you wish to visit Kindu in the countryside, where there was once a large Catholic diocese and which is, incidentally, a center for diamond mining and export,” the minister murmured.

Motupu now took the lead. “We are not interested in commerce, Minister. But we would like to see what has happened at some of our larger parishes. During the last two revolutions most of our priests were forced to leave by the rebels. Many disappeared, maybe killed. His Holiness hopes we can restore the Church to its former preeminence here in Congo.”

“I understand you are going to visit with the patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church.” A mocking ivory smile cracked the minister's dark face. “Perhaps he will offer some suggestions on how you can restore the Church here.”

At that moment Tim Shanahan recognized the tall, black-maned figure of Bishop Yussotov coming toward them from behind the group of Congolese functionaries watching the pope's arrival.

“Ah, Timothy,” the Russian bishop greeted him pleasantly. “I have been looking forward to renewing our acquaintanceship. The patriarch has asked me to bring His Holiness and all of you to his residence here. Everybody can have a good discussion about the future.”

Cardinal Bellotti pushed forward. “We have not yet made up our minds that a meeting with the patriarch would be productive.” Then, looking at Motupu, “This excursion has been poorly planned.”

Still smiling and genial, Bishop Yussotov put forth a hand. “Cardinal Bellotti, we are particularly pleased to have you here representing Vatican traditions.”

In spite of himself, Bellotti was pleased. “Bishop Yussotov, I presume? You see we have not decided whether a meeting with the patriarch is in order just yet. We planned to see something of the Congo today, visit one of our remaining parishes…” He paused as a black cleric in the tropical attire of a monsignor came up to them.

Motupu took a step forward and embraced him. “I was worried for a moment there, Monsignor Nabila. I expected you to be out front with the minister when we deplaned.” To the others Motupu explained, “Monsignor Francois Nabila is protecting our faith here in Kinshasa.”

“And fine work he is doing,” Yussotov said heartily, “against great odds.”

At that point Bill Kelly moved forward to take charge. “Monsignor Nabila, may I call you Frank? It's good to meet you.” Then, turning to the Russian, “Bishop, I am pleased to meet you also. I was unable to meet you in Rome, though Monsignor Shanahan gave me an account of what happened.”

“Your Holiness, now that we are all here in this foreign land—neutral territory, you might say—I hope you and the patriarch will come to some agreement on a religious plan for this huge continent which dwarfs even Mother Russia.”

Pope Peter looked about him, saw the array of power lined up, and made a fast decision on his own. “This appears to be the propitious time, Bishop Yussotov. Our agenda didn't quite read this way, but there is no time like the present. I believe Monsignor Nabila has transportation available? If you will lead the way we will follow you to the patriarch.”

Kinshasa seemed calm and well ordered. There was new construction along almost every block as they entered the city from the airport. Motupu, the pope, and Monsignor Nabila sat in the back of an old but serviceable sedan. In the front Tim Shanahan was seated beside the driver; the rest of the Vatican group were in the following car.

“I'll ask Francois to tell you more about our problems,” Motupu suggested.

“Yes. A former Belgian, French-speaking Catholic country. How did we lose it, Frank?” the pope asked.

“Corruption was always considerable, but over the past four or five years, with three dictators in a row, it became so pervasive that only Russians could adapt, and then thrive in the atmosphere.” Nabila laughed dryly. “Cardinal Monassari—‘Patsy,' as he became known to us all—alone understood how to get along with the second and third dictator and with the Russians. He kept our foothold in place. He could, how do you say, ‘operate.'”

The pope turned to Motupu. “Maybe we can use Patsy to help us get reestablished.”

Tim Shanahan laughed. “Old Patsy met with the Mad Monk in Rome.”

“Well, let's see what we can learn from the patriarch.”

“We're almost at his rectory, or whatever they call their quarters,” Nabila said. “I know it only from the outside. Never been inside. I can tell you that there are a large number of people around here that have nothing to do with Church matters.”

Yussotov was waiting outside the large, heavy wooden door of a residence that could have come directly out of nineteenth-century Brussels or Paris. It swung open, and two young men in white suits and clerical collars were standing inside. Yussotov led the pope, Shanahan, Motupu, and Bellotti into the cool, dark wooden interior and to the back of the structure and then paused outside another heavy door. “I will introduce you first, Your Holiness, and then the others.”

They were led into what Bill Kelly characterized as the throne room. When the patriarch stood up from the ornate seat to greet his callers, he looked somehow frail beside the towering Pope Peter II. Beside the patriarch stood a handsome young blond woman dressed in a dark business suit with a thin black cravat circling a lace collar. The patriarch said a few words in Russian, which the young woman translated into a welcome speech in flawless English.

The patriarch did not hold out his hand but rather bowed to the pope, who returned the gesture. The patriarch was well known for his anti-Semitic, anti-Catholic, and anti-American rhetoric from his days as bishop of Leningrad in the old USSR. Even the Russian Synod of Bishops deferred to him for fear of reprisal. The fact that the pope was an American caused the patriarch to be doubly suspicious. The other visitors from Rome were introduced and bowed to the Russian primate, then took seats offered to them by Yussotov. They formed a semicircle around Alexis, who sat down, his comely interpreter standing by his side.

“I am glad we could meet here, in a place foreign to all of us. It is strange that this once Roman Catholic stronghold has passed over to our faith,” Alexis began, pausing for the translation. “Constant civil wars over the past five years leave this country in political strife even now,” he continued. “As it happened, we found a religious void which we have been trying to fill with some help from our Russian government.”

“You have been lucky in that respect,” the pope replied.

“Yes, the old hard-line Communists in our government took too long to realize what we could do to advance our national influence. They thought in terms of revolutionary terror tactics. But atheism cannot win in the long run.” The patriarch sighed as his words were translated.

“We are aware how you established your stronghold after the last Congo revolution,” the pope interjected. “All governments in the area which owe their existence, in part at least, to Communist terror helped the newest regime in Congo. Do you think, as happened in Russia itself five years ago, that all other religions but the Orthodox will be banned?” He paused and fixed the patriarch with a steady stare directly into the eyes. “While it may well be that throwing Protestantism out was a healthy move, you should never have banned Catholicism. After all, you allow Islam its place in Russia.”

“We couldn't afford a holy war in Russia. There are too many Muslims in our country. And when you count the Muslim countries in Africa, well, we would be overrun right here by Islamic fundamentalist fanatics if we banished Islam from Russia.”

“But you have no such fear—here that is—of Christians, Catholic or Protestant, overrunning your establishment?”

After listening to the translation the patriarch smiled smugly and nodded toward his bishop. “As Yussotov negotiated with your people in Rome, why don't we simply agree on territorial imperatives. Leave the Congo to us. Keep your missionaries and clergy from proselytizing the people here. They have already forgotten all their catechisms in the past five years. We will see to the souls of the Congo people as we are doing now. We will keep any creeping Islamic culture out. You fight it in your own way elsewhere in Africa. I understand you want to visit the Congo diamond-producing areas. Why? Why not leave the Congo to us, and we will leave the rest to you? There is no point in a three-way religious war here between Islam, you, and us. Africa is big enough for the three of us if we leave each other alone.”

As the serious young woman made the translation, the pope smiled indulgently at his staff.

“What do you think, Gus?” the pope asked when the translation was complete. “I think we should leave the Congo for the time being. Further exploration of reestablishing ourselves at this moment is useless and may be dangerous.” Pope Peter II was fond of playing the political game after his talk with Ed Kirby.

The interpreter whispered the words in the patriarch's ear. He nodded and his smile broadened. “Good advice, Your Holiness.”

“So we leave Congo's diamonds and oil to the Russian sphere of influence?” Pope Peter half stated, half asked.

“Their state is behind their religion, and at last the state has learned how to fuse both advantages together,” Tim Shanahan declared. “I do not believe that there are many practical Russians who are avowed atheists today.”

“I see you are also practical men.” The patriarch nodded approvingly on hearing the translation. “Tempting though it might be, I would advise our state to go no further than this in Africa. At least not without careful planning. I hope you will do likewise.”

As the interpreter completed her translation, the patriarch's body language signaled that the conference was over except for one more matter. “We have members of our Church who are medical practitioners, doctors even, who work throughout Africa when there are medical emergencies. I understand you met one of our doctors yesterday. Dr. Marija Mainovic?”

Bill Kelly nodded warily, sensing that this was more than a casual question.

“She informed us of your slight accident,” Bishop Yussotov murmured. “We keep in touch several times a day with our people in the field. If you decide to cooperate, you can ask our good doctor not to practice in your areas.”

“We need all the medical help we can get,” the pope replied, glancing down at the red splotch on the back of his right hand where the boy in Rakai had bitten him the day before.

“I can assure you that there will be no more hostility on the part of any of our medical people when they may be working in your areas. I am deeply sorry if in any way our loyal Serbian doctor contributed to your possible exposure to the virus.”

Even before the translation the pope could not fail to notice the irony in the patriarch's tone of voice.

“I regret having contributed to Orthodox distrust of Americans and Europeans of the NATO countries.” The patriarch waited for the translation to be completed. “But the war in Yugoslavia, Serbia, Kosovo, and Albania was a religious and ethnic conflict going back many centuries, and I would be remiss if I did not remind my Eastern Orthodox parishioners of the horrifying atrocities the Muslims, the Turks, committed against us. For instance, impalement, a horrible slow death. These atrocities will always live in our history. The evil monster in your literature, Dracula, is based on a Balkan Christian, Vlad the Impaler, who used to place a hundred Turks at a time on the greasy poles. I am surprised that your American press chose not to inform the American people of the religious divide in the world today and in the past. Much of the division has been religious, not just political or geographic.”

Once again Alexis II waited for the translation and then continued. “No, there is little we can do to remove or neutralize the hatred. I am sorry if we knowingly sent a Serbian doctor with intense grievances against Americans and Europeans, Catholics, who she believes have all but destroyed her country, which, of course”—the patriarch clucked his tongue, waiting for the interpretation of his words “they you—have.”

He stood up from his seat, bowing somberly to the pope, who bowed back, no handshake. Bishop Yussotov led the pope's delegation out of the room and through the hallways to the front door. “You seem to be pretty well ensconced here, Bishop,” Shanahan observed.

“So it would seem.”

“A most attractive interpreter the patriarch has on his staff,” Monsignor Cippolini said, his first observation of the meeting.

Bishop Yussotov grinned crookedly. “Our church does not always believe in celibacy. Which makes it far more pleasant for your African Christian churchmen to join us.” The concept was not lost on the pope, who nodded grudging agreement. He stepped out of the patriarch's rectory and onto the sidewalk of this strangely African and colonial European mixture of a city.

“Is there more you want us to know here in Congo, Gus?” the pope asked as they walked toward their cars.

“There isn't much use going to Kindu if we are not going to challenge the patriarch,” Motupu replied.