The Confessor

credit for the successes of others and distanced himself from their failures. If he had been a Curial priest instead of a secret policeman, he would have probably been pope by now. Instead, thanks in large measure to the generous patronage of his mentor, Carlo Casagrande, Achille Bartoletti was the director of the Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Democratica, Italy's Intelligence and Democratic Security Service.
    When Casagrande sat down, conversation at surrounding tables carefully resumed.
    "You do make quite an entrance, General."
    "God knows what they were talking about before I arrived. But you can rest assured the conversation will be less stimulating now."
    "There's a lot of red in the room tonight."
    "They're the ones I worry about the most, the Curial prelates who spend their days surrounded by supplicant priests who say nothing but 'Yes, Excellency. Of course, Excellency. Whatever you say, Excellency. "
    "Excellent, Excellency!" Bartoletti chimed in.
    The security chief had taken the liberty of ordering the first bottle of wine. He poured Casagrande a glass. The food at L'Eau Vive was French, and so was the wine list. Bartoletti had selected an excellent Medoc.
    "Is it my imagination, General, or do the natives seem more restless than usual?"
    Casagrande thought: Is it that obvious? Obvious enough so that an outsider like Bartoletti could detect the electric crackle of instability in the air of L'Eau Vive? He decided any attempt to dismiss the question out of hand would be transparently deceptive and therefore a violation of the subtle rules of their relationship.
    "It's that uncertain time of a new papacy," Casagrande said, with a note of judicial neutrality in his voice. "The fisherman's ring has been kissed and homage has been paid. By tradition, he's promised to carry on the mission of his predecessor, but memories of the Pole are fading very quickly. Lucchesi has redecorated the papal apartments on the terzopiano. The natives, as you call them, are wondering what's next."
    "What is next?"
    "The Holy Father has not divulged his plans for the Church to me, Achille."
    "Yes, but you have impeccable sources."
    "I can tell you this: He's isolated himself from the mandarins in the Curia and surrounded himself with trusted hands from Venice. The mandarins of the Curia call them the Council of Ten. Rumors are flying."
    "What sort?"
    "That he's about to launch a program of de-Stalinization to reduce the posthumous influence of the Pole. Major personnel changes in the Secretariat of State and Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith are expected--and that's just the beginning."
    He's also going to make public the darkest secrets in the Vatican Archives, thought Casagrande, though he didn't share this with Achille Bartoletti.
    The Italian security chief leaned forward, eager for more. "He's not going to move on the Holy Trinity of burning issues, is he? Birth control? Celibacy? Women in the priesthood?"
    Casagrande shook his head gravely. "He wouldn't dare. It would be so controversial that the Curia would revolt and his papacy would be doomed. Relevancy is the buzzword of the day in the Apostolic Palace. The Holy Father wants the Church to be relevant in the lives of one billion Catholics around the world, many of whom don't have enough to eat each day. The old guard has never been interested in relevance. To them, a word like 'relevance' sounds like glasnost or perestroika, and that makes them very nervous. The old guard likes obedience. If the Holy Father goes too far, there will be hell to pay."
    "Speak of the devil."
    The room fell silent again. This time Casagrande was not to blame. Looking up, he spotted Cardinal Brindisi making his way toward one of the private rooms at the back of the restaurant. His pale blue eyes barely seemed to acknowledge the murmured greetings of the lesser Curial officials seated around him, but Casagrande knew that Cardinal Brindisi's faultless memory had duly recorded the presence of each one.
    Casagrande and Bartoletti wasted no time ordering. Bartoletti perused the menu as if it were a report from a trusted agent. Casagrande chose the first thing he saw that looked remotely interesting. For the next two hours, over sumptuous portions of food and judicious amounts of wine, they swapped intelligence, rumors, and gossip. It was a monthly ritual, one of the enormous dividends of Casagrande's move to the Vatican twenty years earlier. So high was his standing in Rome