Cass stood in the marble lobby listening to the sound of her heart. She didn’t know quite how long she’d been there, not moving, and then she heard a distant voice, ever so familiar to her. It was yelling insistently in her ear, shouting at her, screaming, bellowing: All right, girls-let’s put on our big-girl panties and move it!!!
It was the voice of her drill instructor at Fort Jackson. There’s something to be said for basic infantry training, Cass thought as she headed out the door onto the shimmering heat of K Street. Too bad they didn’t issue M-16s in civilian life. She’d have used it.
Gideon Payne, hat in hand, mopped his moist brow-Lord, it was warm-and pressed the doorbell to the attractive redbrick house on Dumbarton Street in Georgetown. A servant dressed in a white jacket opened the door almost immediately.
“Signor Payne! Buon giorno.”
“Buon giorno, and how are you today, Michelangelo?” Gideon loved calling a living human being Michelangelo, even if it was only a butler. The interior was blessedly cool.
“Monsignor is expecting you, signor.”
He led Gideon across the highly polished creaking floor that had in its day absorbed the footfalls of a Supreme Court justice, an ambassador, and various cabinet members of various administrations. It was over 150 years old and had high ceilings and a graceful curving staircase above an eighteenth-century Italian fountain that burbled softly. Lustrous oil paintings with religious themes hung on the walls. In a niche stood a minor but rather good Saint Sebastian by Donatello. Michelangelo opened the twin doors to the study.
Gideon’s host, seated behind a museum-piece rosewood desk, rose and smiled broadly. He was a handsome man in his early fifties, tall and dark, beautifully tanned, graying about the temples, with an athletic build. He was gorgeously accoutred in the raiment of a monsignor of the Roman Catholic Church. Around his neck hung an especially fine silver chain and crucifix that had once adorned the sternum of Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti, future Pope Pius IX and promulgator of the doctrines of the immaculate conception and papal infallibility. A family keepsake.
“Geedeon.”
“Massimo.”
The two men embraced warmly. Gideon’s friendship with Monsignor Montefeltro went back years, but they had really bonded during the affair of the Stomach Madonna.
As a good Southern Baptist, Gideon had been brought up to despise papists and popery. But as a canny Washington operator, he knew the value of coalition building. From his earliest days at SPERM, he had reached out to the Roman Catholic Church to make common cause. They were natural allies in this war. Monsignor Montefeltro had been posted to Washington as its number two, a sort of shadow papal nuncio. The actual papal nuncio was Rudolfo Cardinal Moro-Lusardi, the pope’s ambassador. Massimo reported not to him, but directly to the Vatican. For his part, Massimo Montefeltro viewed American Baptists as (barely) more evolved than swamp creatures; but as a Jesuit-trained diplomat, he was acutely aware of the value of a man like Gideon Payne. The odd thing was that these two dissimilar men actually liked each other.
They recognized in each other a kindred risibility, ecclesiastical equivalents of the famous remark by the skeptic who said he didn’t understand why two psychiatrists, meeting each other on the street, didn’t burst out laughing. It wasn’t that Gideon and Monsignor Montefeltro believed they were part of a joke, but that they were mutually conscious of their own outrageousness: two splendid peacocks in the service of Christ.
They admired each other’s sartorial style. Gideon was fascinated by the Roman Catholic Church’s ecclesiastical garbs and vestments. He had in him a bit of Miniver Cheevy’s yearning for “the medieval grace of iron clothing.” He would listen to Monsignor Montefeltro for hours as he talked in detail about the finer points of stoles, soutanes, phelonions, and cinctures. After a particularly engrossing description of the holy father’s new Lenten chasuble, spun from Persian silkworms and woven with ground Badakshan lapis lazuli, Gideon sighed with wonder and declared, “How very drab by contrast are my own brethren!”
Monsignor Montefeltro smiled and rattled off the names of half a dozen Southern Baptist televangelists whose combined incomes were larger than the gross domestic product of Delaware and who dressed like archangelic pimps. Gideon’s own attire-floppy-rimmed Borsalino, silver-tipped cane, high starched collar, cravat, velvet vest, gold chain, and watch fob-itself suggested a Natchez riverboat gambler who was trying to maintain a low profile while visiting up north and not quite succeeding, on purpose. Both men wore rings on the pinky finger. Gideon was envious of the fact that by protocol, Monsignor Montefeltro was entitled to have his kissed. Gideon meanwhile could offer other portions of himself for the same office.
Monsignor Montefeltro had risen to prominence by courting wealthy American Catholic widows, persuading them that the path to sainthood lay in leaving their (husbands’) fortunes to the church. He had to date brought in a total of over $500 million for Mother Church. In recognition of this service, he received a living allowance that would certainly have given St. Francis of Assisi pause, if not an embolism, and for his base of operations, so to speak, the Georgetown town house, which could not by any means have been called monastic.
“I saw you on the television,” Monsignor Montefeltro said. “You were very good, Geedeon. But that woman! Dio mio.”
“Oh, Massimo, it was a catastrophe,” Gideon said. “An epic catastrophe.” There were few others to whom he would have made such a frank admission.
Montefeltro smiled. “Still, you were very good. At least you didn’t murder her for the cameras.” Montefeltro’s English was actually Oxford level-he was, in fact, fluent in seven languages-but he found it expedient, especially with the widows, to employ a slightly flawed syntax and accent and sometimes forgot to switch back to his normally impeccable English.
Both men laughed.
“Next time, I will. It is that woman that I have come to discuss.”
“Then you must stay for dinner,” said the monsignor, “for I have the feeling that you have very much to relate to me.”
Chapter 19
“Wonderful news,” said the junior senator from the great state of Massachusetts as Cass entered his office. “We lined up two more- Hey, what happened to you? You look like you ran into a tornado.”
Whatever the right metaphor, Cass did look at a minimum out of sorts. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had gotten out of the cab to walk up Capitol Hill to try to clear her head and then burst into tears by the Robert A. Taft Memorial and Carillon, a well-known D.C. locale for emotional outbursts. She had a good sob lasting fifteen minutes, all the time trying to conjure the voice of the drill instructor from basic training to shake her out of it.
“I’m okay,” she announced with defiance. “I’m fine. I am totally…fine.”
“Then why is your chin doing that quivering thing?”
“Because my father,” she said in a voice loud enough to carry into the outer office, “is an asshole.”
Randy said in an even voice, “Well, I rather thought that was established a long time ago.”
She handed him the BlackBerry and commanded, “Scroll.”
“Sweet cakes, you know I hate these damn things. Couldn’t you just tell me in your own wo-”
“Scroll.”
“All right, all right, keep your knickers on.”
He read it, groaned, and tossed the device onto his desk. “At least he’s consistent. What a prick. Sorry, pumpkin. Now look, we got two more votes. They ate up the ‘meta’ business. The smart ones get it right off. The dumb ones, forget it. It really is in that regard representative, the Congress. Remember what Senator Hruska said about-”