The Vatican secretariat of state felt it should have the benefit of Killane’s talents. After a year’s training in the Curia office, he went as assistant to the apostolic nuncio in Japan, conducting clandestine arrangements for the protection of millions of Catholics left in Communist China. When the Korean War wrecked those arrangements, Killane was not blamed the way a secular diplomat might have been. He was created a monsignor and appointed assistant to the nuncio to Germany. From there he worked his way up through the levels of the secretariat, consecrated titular bishop of Tagaste and, later, titular bishop of Zeugma. At last, he became first assistant to the secretary of state, the first American that close to control of the church’s foreign policy. The reason, he knew, was that in reality he was so little American. In the past thirty-five years he’d only been home six times. Neither Cardinal Hayes nor any of the other men who exiled their problem to Rome was still alive. He’d spoken half a dozen languages more often than English. His work and life lay in the Vatican.
All that ended with his sudden elevation to the College of Cardinals. His agile mind worked it out quickly enough when the shock was past. The two main contenders for the red biretta were New York bishops who had so skillfully drawn support from the other American cardinals that the appointment of either would offend half the American hierarchy. They’d looked around for an uninvolved American bishop of Irish descent and they’d found John Killane. So, only as a compromise solution, the new cardinal came home.
He took a pocket watch from his cassock, pulled a pair of gold legs from its back and set it in the middle of his desk. The minute ticking of the watch reminded him that his secretary would appear no sooner than thirty seconds and no later than fifty.
His cathedral administrator and secretary, Monsignor Burns, was among those who referred to the cardinal as the Italian. They didn’t let Killane’s name fool them. He was nothing like the honest shepherds who had gone before. Away from the United States, the cardinal had forgotten the fierce Irish Catholic prejudice against their Italian brothers, whom they regarded as subpagans incapable of taking religion seriously. Of the nine American cardinals, eight were Irish and none were Italian. If Saint Peter were Irish, there would be precious few Italians in heaven.
“Good morning, Your Eminence. Sleep well?” Monsignor Burns asked as he entered with the morning mail.
* * *
Roman and Isadore moved slowly through the rush-hour traffic. As usual, the cars on Park Avenue reminded Roman of ants moving through a cemetery. Being in one of them only added to his bad temper.
“The captain pulled your file a week ago, but he’s always doing that,” Isadore told him.
He turned right at Forty-ninth Street and again at Madison. Rockefeller Center swung into view and out behind the spires of St. Patrick’s. Isadore cautiously turned into the courtyard of a Renaissance manor in brownstone. The other cars displayed CLERGY plaques in their rear windows or bumper decals saying SOCIETY FOR THE PROPAGATION OF THE FAITH. Over the main façade were two colorful shields and in gilt ARCHDIOCESE OF NEW YORK.
“I swear I don’t know any more than you do,” Isadore repeated.
A priest who didn’t look old enough to be out of high school emerged from the main building and ran over to the car.
“Are you Mr. Grey?” he asked Isadore. Isadore pointed to Roman. “You’re Mr. Grey. I’m Father Young,” he said a trifle defensively. “Come with me.”
“He goes, too.” Roman pointed back at Isadore.
“Police?” The priest gave Isadore a skeptical examination. “All right, you can come, too, but hurry.”
They got out of the car and Father Young led them across Madison with a maximum of bustling.
“You must refer to him as ‘Your Eminence,’ ” he instructed his flock.
“Refer to whom as ‘Your Eminence’?” Roman asked.
“Cardinal Killane,” the priest responded with adolescent satisfaction.
St. Patrick’s took up nearly the whole block between Fiftieth and Fifty-first streets, but set on each corner on Madison were three-story houses that were imitations of the cathedral in the same white marble, petits fours next to a wedding cake. Father Young opened the front door of the house on Fiftieth Street for the Gypsy’s reluctant foot.
On the foyer walls were portraits of past cardinals and archbishops looking out from their harnesses of red satin and white lace. Young hurried Roman along.
“You’ve got the wrong Grey,” Roman told the priest.
“That’s what they all say,” Isadore whispered.
As they waited outside an office door, Young gave the detective and the Gypsy a last review. If he didn’t have the right Mr. Grey, it was too late now. He brushed a piece of lint from Isadore’s lapel.
“Remember, it’s ‘Your Eminence.’ ”
The door was opened by a priest, and they entered a high-ceilinged room with no more adornment than a crucifix and a picture of the Holy Father. A big man in a business suit sat to the side in one of the room’s throne-back chairs. The man seated behind the desk was in black, with the short red cape of the Prince of the Church.
Father Young introduced them. “Mr. Grey, Your Eminence.”
“We’ve already met,” Roman said.
Young and Isadore were shocked. Killane smiled.
“Thank you, Father, that will be all.”
As Young left he shot Roman a murderous glance for mislaying his only instruction.
“It was John Killigan yesterday,” Roman pointed out when the door had closed.
“Yes, I’m afraid it was,” Killane apologized. “This is my secretary, Monsignor Burns. And Captain Reggel.”
Reggel, the big man sitting down, made a bow from his chair. He had small, dark eyes, heavy cheekbones and white-blond hair. His sharply cut suit revealed an athletic body that had thickened without going to fat.
“This is Detective Sergeant Isadore,” Roman said.
Isadore, who had hoped to go unnoticed, found himself making his own awkward bow.
“Will you have a seat, please?” the cardinal asked.
The detective sat.
“I can tell you’re irritated with all this, Mr. Grey,” the cardinal went on, “and I don’t blame you. But we didn’t come to a decision until last night.”
“Your Eminence has good reasons, I’m sure—”
“Please.” Killane put his hand up. “Before you think about leaving, what do you know about the Holy Crown of Hungary?”
Roman sat down. Isadore noticed him taking more interest in the man called Reggel. The Gypsy’s fingers touched his chin once, the first nervous gesture Isadore ever saw him make.
“I’ve never seen it,” Roman said lightly.
“The Holy Crown is the most important crown jewel in the world,” Burns reprimanded him. “It is also one of the Catholic Church’s most valuable relics. It was sent to Saint Stephen when he became the first Christian king of Hungary in the year 1000 by Pope Sylvester II. Up to that point the Magyar tribes, of which Stephen was leader, were pagan.
“However, at the end of World War Two, when the Russians were approaching Budapest, the Nazi-supported government attempted to send the crown to Switzerland. Fortunately, Hungarian soldiers serving in the Wehrmacht took the crown to Salzburg instead and gave it to the American army. As with the rest of what the Nazis stole, we intended to turn the Holy Crown back to its lawful owner: the Hungarian nation, in this case. Which would have happened if a Communist regime hadn’t taken over. We have held the crown in trust for the Hungarian people in Washington since then.”
“Is that close enough?” Killane asked Roman.
“It sounds good.”
“He likes Gauloises. Did you bring them?” Killane asked the monsignor.
“Yes, of course.”
Burns set a stand-up ashtray beside Roman’s cha
ir and took a baby-blue pack of cigarettes out of his cassock and offered them to him.
“No, thanks, I have my own.”
Killane waited until Roman lit up.
“In Washington until now,” the cardinal continued. “This afternoon it’s being announced”—he took the monsignor’s pack and lit one for himself—“being announced in Washington and Budapest that we’re giving the Holy Crown back. It’ll return in time for the anniversary of Saint Stephen’s death this fall. You know, you don’t look terribly surprised.”
He isn’t, Isadore thought and got his first pleasure out of a confusing morning.
“Well, Your Eminence,” Roman was saying diplomatically, “after meeting a cardinal like yourself, it’s hard to be surprised by anything.”
“You must be wondering what this has to do with you, or us.”
“I am.”
Isadore felt the cardinal’s eyes flick over him once with the cold sweep of a camera.
“As I told you yesterday, your name came up as a consultant. Apparently, some of the jewelry houses and private collectors in the city value your opinion on crown jewelry. And different odds and ends that come into your hands.” He paused. “That’s not the way the police put it, incidentally. You’ll pardon the extent of my inquiries, but they were absolutely essential.”
“I deal mostly in antiques.”
“Of course, but you have the qualifications.”
“For what?”
“You see, it was the American State Department’s idea to whip up enthusiasm for the crown’s return before Congress could get it in its head it was rash appeasement. The department did too good a job, perhaps. One of the congressmen from New York, a Representative Szemely, demanded that Hungarian-Americans have a chance to look at this famous crown. It’s quite an issue with them. To keep Szemely and Congress happy, it’s been decided to display the Holy Crown before its return. It’s true that, once the crown is in Budapest, Americans aren’t likely to get near it again.
“The display was going to be held at the Metropolitan Museum, because, you see, there are more Hungarians here than in Washington. Our friends in Budapest were upset, on the other hand, since a museum display would reduce their national symbol to a feature in a sideshow. The church was none too happy either over the secular treatment of such a sacred relic.”
“St. Patrick’s,” Isadore said.
“Precisely.” Killane gave him a nod of approval. “In our St. Patrick’s. Arriving in a week to be displayed from Monday to Friday in the sanctuary before the high altar. At night it will be taken underneath the sanctuary to the sacristy. And when it arrives we will need someone to examine it and, while it is in our custody, to look after it. I want you to do it for me, Mr. Grey.”
Seeing the request coming for ten minutes didn’t help. Roman still refused to believe it.
“There are hundreds of registered jewelers better suited. I could name you twenty right now.”
“I know their names. There are other qualifications besides being expert on medieval crowns. The man we have must be Catholic. That narrows the field significantly. He must speak fluent Hungarian, as he will be working with a Hungarian expert and there can be no misunderstanding. The field becomes very narrow. And our man must not be identified with any émigré or royalist associations. That, Mr. Grey, narrows the field down to you. You are what is called a compromise solution, and if it makes you feel any better, you have my sympathy. You are the only choice.”
Roman shook his head.
“I can’t believe you spoke to the police for very long, Your Eminence. To be blunt, they would tell you I’d take the crown and run.”
“They had a number of misgivings. But, to be equally blunt, you won’t have the opportunity to abscond with the jewels. The crown will be under police guard all the time. And, frankly, I have some confidence in my judgment.”
The room fell silent until Roman turned to the one man who hadn’t said a word.
“Reggel ur, how do you feel about having a cigany looking after the Holy Crown?”
The Hungarian smiled broadly. His English was faintly slurred.
“Magyars and Gypsies always recognize each other, don’t they?”
“Like Germans and Jews,” Roman agreed.
Reggel’s smile didn’t slip.
“The cardinal has explained the situation,” he said. “I am willing to comply with it, as I will be in charge of security.”
“Captain Reggel is chief of security for the Hungarian mission to the United Nations,” Killane explained.
“I bet he is,” Roman agreed. “Thank you very much for your interest, Your Eminence, but I told you before there was a trip I had to make. I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me.”
Outside in the courtyard, Isadore asked Roman why he couldn’t put off his trip for two weeks.
“Because I might not go, then. And then where would I be?”
Isadore understood the Gypsy meant something worse than New York City.
6
Although New York is called Rommeville by American Gypsies, it has never had a fixed Gypsy community like European cities. Paris police files, for example, trace one family of the Kalderash tribe through 400 years from its first arrival in the Cour des Miracles. Today, surrounded by Algerians and Vietnamese on the Right Bank, the Kalderash continue their venerable trades as coppersmiths and thieves—and the police files continue to swell like a family Bible.
The Spanish police of Granada have a simpler task, since they have no intention of making arrests. Their Gitanos have always lived on the Sacro Monte under the eye of the Alhambra. Unless a tourist is knifed or the Gypsy-hating Guardia Civil finds an excuse to storm the hill, its inhabitants are left strictly alone. Granada’s tourist trade is built on the flamenco music of its Gypsies.
Rommeville is different. Its shape has constantly grown and changed, pushing Gypsy camps from the hills of Harlem to the farms of Brooklyn and Queens. When Rommeville became a megalopolis a new sort of wilderness appeared in its heart, and the Gypsies, ever opportunists, flowed into the vacuum.
Part of the vacuum was an abandoned apartment building off Houston Street in the lower half of Manhattan—abandoned but not vacant, for the Gypsies had moved in.
“Us or the crazy dope addicts,” the Pivli Petulengro told Roman. “We pay the police and they say they’re happy we’re here.”
“We tried some of the condemned buildings in the Bronx,” John Petulengro said. “They were in terrible condition.”
“No better than Europe,” his grandmother agreed. She was called the Pivli, the Widow, because despite a mouthful of gold teeth it was unlikely she’d marry again.
They were in the building’s lobby, a drafty affair of rose marble and broken mirrors. Families of Rom filed past them carrying shopping bags of food and drink. There were two elevators that didn’t work and a side room where tenants once collected their mail and which the Petulengro brothers used for storing hubcaps.
“I am very happy my boys are going with you,” the Pivli told Roman as they moved out of the way of a group of musicians with violins. “You are a Rom of great respect.”
“Thank you,” Roman said gravely. To show embarrassment would have been bad taste. If a Gypsy couldn’t take a compliment, who could?
“They’ll learn a lot from you.”
“I hope so.” He cast a resigned eye on the hubcap collection.
“I just wish I could go.” She sighed like a girl.
The lobby was dominated by a Cadillac parked in the middle of it. Inside the car, chals climbed over the seats and played with a snake’s nest of wires. One of the boys finally matched a wire and a loud honk erupted. Kore squirmed out from under the car. A red welt sat in the middle of the grease on his forehead.
“You have worms for fingers!” he yelled at the boys. “I told you to
wait. Now I’m going to cut your fingers off and feed them to the fish.”
Kore noticed Roman and the Pivli. He touched his forehead and looked at the lack of blood on his finger. Shrugging, he nonchalantly cleaned his ear with the same finger.
“Good boys, actually. I was just joking.”
The boys weren’t so sure. They locked the car doors.
“At least they got you out. I’ve been looking all over for you,” Roman told him.
“I’ve been here all the time.” He gestured to the car. “What do you think?”
Roman made a tour of the Cadillac. When he got back, he shook Kore’s hand again.
“Rom san tu! How did you get this monster of a mobile in here?”
“Drove it in, how else? The boards broke coming up the stairs, though. That made a noise, I’ll tell you! I’ve been fixing the axle ever since, when the chals. . . .” Kore glanced back at the car. It was empty. The boys had used their opportunity to escape.
“It’s ready now?”
“What is this, a restaurant or a lobby?” Kore snarled at a passing musician. “You almost put your fiddle through my window. How can a man get any work done around here? Of course it’s ready,” he added to Roman.
The car had no hood and the huge engine gleamed with polished chrome. Kore hot-wired the battery and the car came to life.